Sleight of Hand (36 page)

Drake sank into his chair, grinding his palms into his eyes.  God, he was so tired.  "But you ran out–after you promised you'd stay with my mother.  You left her."

"Nellie asked me to leave," Cassie said.  "After she saw the press conference and talked to Virginia Ulrich.  I guess she got an earful from Sterling as well because she knew about my impending suspension and Richard's accusations that I used drugs."

"That's crazy!" He looked up at that.  "I could have told her not to trust anything King said."

"You could have, but you weren't there."

"No, I wasn't."  He reached for her hand.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't know about the suspension."

She bit her lower lip, then shrugged aside her problems.  "Please don't ask Judge Flory to reverse Charlie's protective custody order."

"What are you talking about?" Now he finally understood the anger that drove her here tonight. "Who told you that?"

"Adeena–she heard it from Virginia Ulrich," she said with a wry twist to her mouth.  

"We both need to check our sources better."  He tugged on her hand, and she moved onto his lap.  "I'm sorry I ever doubted you," he told her, encircling her with his arms.  "Will you forgive me?"

She leaned her head against his shoulder.  "Only if you forgive me.  Sometimes I don't think before I act–or put my foot in my mouth."

He kissed the top of her head.  "That's what I love most about you, Hart.  You're never predictable."

She twisted in his lap so that he could kiss her more thoroughly.  "Guess what I'm going to do next," she murmured as her fingers began to undo the buttons on his shirt.

Shivers of heat followed her fingers as they grazed over his skin.  Her touch electrified him as she approached the sensitive area at his lower back.  Her mouth moved from his down to his throat, her body humming with sexual tension.

Drake felt his own body respond and desperately wanted to give in to her unspoken demands.  But he remembered how things had ended last time and the pleasure he felt at her touch was suddenly clouded by the red haze of fear.

He caught his breath, pushing the fear back, holding it at bay as he straightened, dropping his hands from her body.  She looked up, puzzled.

"I'm sorry," he said, and it was the truth.  "I can't–not now."  His gaze darted past her to the table laden with its tales of murder.

Hart sat up, sliding from his lap but taking his hand in hers.  "It's my fault.  You said you had work.  I should have realized that anything important enough to keep you from Muriel's side–"

"I think there's a killer out there getting ready to strike again," he said, his voice flat as he slipped his hand from her too-warm grasp and re-buttoned his shirt.

"Tell me about your case.  You've listened enough about mine."

He looked up at that.  He'd never talked about his cases to any of the women he'd been involved with before.  But Hart was different–as he was constantly learning.  

Drake hesitated, then took her hand once more, and walked her through the original murders. "And now there's this kid, Nate, I think he might be next."

"Why?  After four years, the killer may not even still be around here."

"It's the dog," he said.  "Cleary and Frantz both had pets that went missing several weeks prior to the murders. Eades and Kent didn't have any pets, but Kent's mother did mention a dead bird left on their stoop."  He shook his head, it sounded so thin when spoken out loud.  It was really just a feeling–an instinct.  

Hart had risked everything on her instincts about Charlie Ulrich.  Could he do less with another boy's life at stake?

He watched as she re-examined the photos of each of the victims with their families, the light revealing new hollows beneath her cheekbones.  She'd lost weight, hadn't been taking care of herself.  He frowned.  Wasn't that his job?  Or at least he wanted it to be–more than a job, a full time commitment.  

"So all the victims with pets that were easily accessible lost them?  Is there anyway to see if there have been other reports of animals killed?"

"There's no other links of family pets killed in association with murder victims."

She shook her head.  "Not with victims.  The deaths of the animals is a warning, it's designed to instill fear, to intimidate."

"Threatening the family pet would be good way to intimidate a kid," he allowed, still unsure where she was going.  

Hart shuffled the photos back and forth, then added the family photo of the Trevasians.  He didn't think she knew where she was going either, but the frown of concentration that lined her face told him she was on the track of something.  

"You think he's stalking these kids?  He plays with them, terrorizing them, then kills them–and moves on to the next?"

Her hand became slick with sweat and began to tremble.  The photos slipped away from her, fluttering to the table top.

"What is it?" he asked, pulling her to him, away from the table and its gruesome visages.

"It's not the victims," she mumbled.  She drew in a ragged breath and took a step back, looking up at him.  "Does Nate have a sibling?"

"His sister, Katie Jean.  Why?"

She didn't answer but turned back to the photos, reaching for his felt tip marker.  "These are your victims, right?" She circled the faces of the dead children, Regina Eades and Nate.  

"Yes."  It was sad to see those faces, bright with smiles, distilled down to a single black circle.

"Wrong.  These are your victims."  She tapped the photos indicating Sofia's brother, Adam Cleary's brother, Regina Eades' son, and Tanya Kent's brother.  Then, finally Nate Trevasian.

"Shit," Drake breathed out the expletive.  Why hadn't he seen it before?  He'd been so blind, stupidly blind.  The boys were all about the same age, all in third grade, probably all in the same sporting leagues, cub scouts, after school clubs.

"He used the murdered victims to ensure their silence," he said, remembering Nate's refusal to speak after his dog went missing.  "There's probably a dozen more kids that he never escalated to this degree of violence, kids who he could keep quiet with less drastic measures."  

It all made sense now.  Like that moment of clarity when a painting came together.  It wasn't the killing that drove this actor, the killing was only a means to protect himself.  

It explained why the victims had nothing in common–different ages, different sexes.  The actor had merely chosen the most easily controlled person closest to his victim.

His prey.  Drake was looking for a sexual predator, not a signature killer.

He looked up at Cassie and raised her hand to his lips.  "Thank you," he said.  "I think you may have just saved Katie Jean's life."  He pulled her close for one too-brief moment, burying his face in her hair, inhaling enough of her scent to strengthen him until he was able to return to her.

"I guess you have work to do," she said when they parted.

"Thanks to you I know where to start," he told her, grabbing his phone.  It was late, he'd have to call the shrink at home.  He searched through his coat pockets for the card White had given him and dialed the number of the answering service.  

"This is Detective Drake," he told the woman who answered.  "I need to speak to Dr. White immediately.  Yes, I'll hold."

A surge of energy filled him, the weight of his fatigue and worry dropping away.  Hart blew him a kiss and started to leave.  He looked up and put a hand over the phone.  "Look after my mom, will you?"

"Of course."

"I love you," he called, as she disappeared down the steps, his voice echoing through the high-ceilinged room and down the staircase, following her.  He felt a little light-headed as he realized that not only were the words the truth, but also that it was the first time he'd said them aloud. 

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Drake met Jimmy at the doctor's office.  White opened a conference room for their use, and they spread the murder books and photos over the table.  Drake quickly walked them through Hart's theory of the crimes.  As he spoke, everything seemed to fall into focus.  Before he had finished, the doctor was nodding in agreement and Jimmy was diving into the murder books, dredging up the original family interviews.

"We've been asking the wrong questions all along," Jimmy said.  "No wonder we never got anywhere."

"It's incredible that anyone ever linked the deaths in the first place," White replied.

"That was my dad's doing," Drake told him.

"But it's your persistence that will lead to the killer.  I would focus on a man, probably white, who is in a position of authority over the boys."

"A teacher?  Priest?  Coach?" 

The shrink pursed his lips.  "Priest, maybe.  The degree of coercion fits."

"They weren't all Catholic.  And the boys lived in different parts of the city, how would he have access to all of them?" Jimmy argued.  "The same with a teacher.  They all went to different schools."

"The Cleary boy killed himself," Drake said, "and Frantz died in a car accident."

"I would guess that you'd find that was a single car accident," the shrink put in.  "Probably suicide as well."

"Mitchell Eades is in jail, refuses to talk to us or anyone.  He tried to kill himself as well."

"What were the charges?"

"Gross sexual imposition, sexual assault on a minor," Jimmy supplied.  

"Typical for a kid with a history of abuse who doesn't learn how to deal with his own feelings of rage and humiliation," White said.

"Not to mention the guilt at getting your mother killed," Drake added.  The image of Muriel sprawled on the sidewalk shot through his mind.  He was so lucky she was going to be all right.  How would an eight-year-old kid deal with the knowledge that his mother was murdered because of him?  No wonder Eades had turned into a head case.

"That leaves Kent, and we haven't been able to track him down.  Parents are divorced, the father has custody.  I'll give the sister a call, see if she has a current number."  Jimmy reached for the phone.

Drake turned back to the psychiatrist.  "Our next victim is Nate Trevasian–and he isn't talking.  To anyone."

"Elective mutism.  Very difficult defense mechanism to overcome.  But when it is, the subject tends to not hold back.  If you can get him to talk, he'll tell you everything."

Drake frowned at that.  "Do you think our actor knows that?  Otherwise why escalate the reign of terror by killing the dog in such a brutal fashion?  Nate had already clammed up after the dog went missing."  

He thought about it.  If what the doctor said was true, maybe the killer wouldn't stick with his old methods of intimidation.  Maybe he'd go after Nate, silence him for good.  

"Our guy must have some kind of psychological training to know about elective mutism," Drake said.  "A guidance counselor, maybe?"

"Different schools," the shrink pointed out.  "Were any of the boys in private counseling–maybe they shared the same therapist?"

Drake held up his hand, thinking as he rustled through the notebooks strewn about the table.  Jimmy hung up the phone and shook his head.  "No answer."  He looked at his partner.  "What'cha got, kid?"

"Nate's father said he'd been placed on medication for hyperactivity a few months ago.  Don't you need to see a doctor for that?"

"A medical doctor and usually a school psychologist," White supplied.

"Check the family doctors, pediatricians–any of them in common?"

Jimmy began turning pages in the thick binders.  "I got one South Hills Peds, one goes to Forbes."

"Frantz used a family practice doc and Kent the clinic at Children's.  Damn, thought I was on to something."

"How many school psychologists are there?" Jimmy asked.  "Maybe they can help us."

"Actually," Dr. White put in, "I think the elementary school psychologist travels throughout the district.  In fact, I remember meeting the man at one of the local APA dinners."

The two detectives looked up at that.  "He travels–even to the private schools?" Drake asked.

"Oh yes, there's no way the school district could afford to base one at every school."  The shrink was leafing through a membership directory labeled: American Psychological Association, Allegheny County Chapter.  "Here he is," he turned the book so that they could see.

"Darin Mendelsohn," Jimmy read.  "PhD from SUNY Rochester, specialty elementary school psychology, currently employed by Pittsburgh school district."

"Damn, that's him," Drake said, the pieces falling into place.  "He's been treating Nate since he stopped talking.  The sonofabitch actually called and talked with Nate's mom this morning.  Told her to tell Nate he hoped he was feeling better–and that's when the kid froze up."  

He stared at the black and white photo of a killer.  Mendelsohn's features blurred into the background, he was so goddamned average that you had to look twice to notice him at all.  Brown hair, brown eyes, weak chin, smooth, unlined face–no hint at all of the monster that lay beneath.

"Hold up," Jimmy cautioned.  "Let me call Miller and the DA, make sure there's no problems with us bringing this guy in."

"We have to do it tonight," Drake insisted.  "If we have to subpoena school records or any garbage like that, we'll spook him for sure."

"It'd help if we could get the Trevasian kid to open up."  Jimmy raised an eyebrow at White.

"Bring him tomorrow," the doctor replied.  "I'll arrange to have a colleague who specializes in children here."

"Thanks, doc."  Jimmy returned to the phone.  Drake paced the length of the conference table, anxious to get to work and nail Mendelsohn.

"Detective Drake," White said.  "Could we speak in private for a moment?"

Drake looked up at that.  He cut his eyes to Jimmy who was laying out the case for Miller, then shrugged, following White down the hall to his office.

"You can't arrest Mendelsohn if you're still on inactive duty, can you?" White said, settling himself in his chair.

Drake stiffened, he hadn't thought that far ahead.  "That's all right, Jimmy can take the collar."  But damn, he wanted to be the one to take Mendelsohn down.  Not for himself.  For his father, for Nate Trevasian and his family.