Sleight of Hand

by CJ Lyons

  Cassie was happy to be wrong, that meant that Charlie was in no danger. But something still didn't feel right.

  Adeena shook her head, her braids jangling in impatience. "Isn't it about time that you concentrated your energy on what's really important?"

  "Like what?" Her work had always been the center of her life.

  "Like Drake. You finally found a man who truly cares for you. Are you going to let all that just slip away?"

  "It was so much easier when Richard and I met," Cassie muttered, remembering the dazzling way Richard had romanced her. Their first date he'd hired a boat to take them on a moonlight cruise along the Monongahela. They'd danced all night. She'd almost forgotten that. Sometimes it was so easy to forget that there ever had been any good times with Richard.

  Adeena scoffed. "That was lust, not love. You have to work hard for the real thing."

  That coaxed a reluctant smile from Cassie. "Now you sound like Rosa."

  "Your grandmother was a very wise woman, so I'll take that as a compliment."

  "Anyway, I'm not in love with Drake. I just don't want things to end like this..." She trailed off, her conflicting emotions confusing her. How would she know love, anyway? Maybe Drake was right to want to go slow.

  "Were you worried about Virginia's treatment of Charlie when you first met her in the ER?" Adeena asked. Cassie looked up in surprise. "You weren't, were you? I know you. Things start to go badly with Drake, so what do you do? Find the first lost child that needs help, a cause you can throw your energies into, anything easier than dealing with Drake."

  She stared at the linoleum, reluctant to admit that Adeena might be right.

  "Go home. Get some rest. You look like you need it. I'll keep an eye on Charlie, let Sterling know you only had his best interests at heart." Adeena pushed open the door leading back to the ICU corridor.

  Cassie continued down the steps and paused at the door leading to the ER. Usually she'd give her boss, Ed Castro, a heads up when she upset someone like Sterling. But Ed was in Washington, trying to raise funding for a community clinic that he was setting up in Drake's building in East Liberty.

  The building was the former home of the Liberty Times newspaper back when the Pittsburgh neighborhood had rivaled Harlem during the jazz age. Drake was slowly rehabbing the sorely neglected building and had given Ed the space for free, but Ed still needed a large chunk of change before he could start.

  She stopped, her hand frozen against the doorway. Ed was meeting with a bunch of politicians during his trip to DC. One of them was the senator from western Pennsylvania, George Ulrich.

  Had to be a coincidence. It couldn't be the same family, could it? Ulrich wasn't that uncommon of a name. There was also a lawyer in Richard's brother's firm named Ulrich. Cassie went through the door, oblivious to the chaos swirling through the ER as she made her way to the woman's locker room. Had her impetuousness endangered the clinic, a life-long dream of Ed Castro's?

  The sunshine ambushed her when she emerged outside. April had just arrived, and Pittsburgh was celebrating with a glorious succession of mild, sun-filled days. Cassie turned her face to the sun, squinting at her guardian angel beside the entrance. She'd hoped she'd be having a celebration dinner with Drake. Peace and quiet, a little wine, a little conversation–about something more important than the weather or baseball.

  That wasn't happening anytime soon. She blew her breath out in exasperation. If she hadn't over-reacted, misinterpreted his words earlier, she could be with him right now, his arms wrapped around her, sharing their strength...

  Standing around never solved anything, she thought, mimicking Gram Rosa, and started down Penn Avenue.

  A few blocks away, between Three Rivers Medical Center and the precinct house Drake worked out of, was the Blarney Stone, a bar owned by Drake's first partner. Andy Greally was tending bar himself when she entered.

  "Why, it's the good Dr. Hart." He guided her to a bar stool with a jovial smile. "It's nice to see you again. You doing all right?"

  "Fine, thanks," she replied, gratified by his warm greeting. She hadn't been here since the shooting and wasn't certain how Drake's comrades would accept her presence. Her gaze darted around the brightly lit space with its dark oak and brass trimmings.

  "DJ's not here," Andy told her. Drake had joined the force while his father was still working and so was known throughout the police bureau as Drake Junior or DJ. "But Tony Spanos is in the back room playing pool." He leaned across the bar toward her. "Don't go leaving on his account. I'd throw that bum out before I'd let a pretty girl like yourself leave." He patted her hand. "Now, what can I get you?"

  Cassie debated leaving anyway. Spanos was a uniformed cop who'd made a pass at her, and she'd let her temper get the best of her. Unfortunately, she'd also humiliated Spanos in front of other police officers and made an enemy of the man.

  "That's all right, I'm good," she told Andy.

  "Well then, if you're not drinking, you have to try my new recipe." He moved his bulk into the kitchen before she could demur. A minute later, he returned with a plate of heavenly smelling meat garnished with fresh asparagus.

  She sniffed in appreciation. In the excitement of her first day back at work, she'd forgotten to eat lunch. The rumbling in her stomach decided for her as he placed the plate in front of her with a flourish.

  "Spring lamb with fennel and rosemary. My cousin's wife in Killarney mailed me the recipe last week."

  She took a first succulent bite. Andy nodded with a smile as she rolled her eyes in appreciation.

  "Now, you want to tell me why I've the pleasure of your company this fine evening?" he asked when she came up for air. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Everything all right with DJ?"

  Trust Andy to get right to the point. She shrugged. "The psychiatrist said he could return to desk duty." She hoped she wasn't revealing any confidences.

  He nodded. "Jimmy Dolan told me when he was in earlier." Jimmy was Drake's partner on the Major Crimes Squad. "Said Miller would have DJ cleaning out the fridge–guess she's still pissed."

  Commander Sarah Miller led the Major Crimes Squad and had not been pleased two months ago when she learned about Drake's involvement with Cassie, a witness in a homicide case.

  "Clean out the fridge?" Cassie asked.

  "Cold case files. You know, ones that have stumped everyone, but no one has the heart to bury them. They're stored in a closet at the House, and every once in a while someone gets assigned the thankless job of going through them, looking for any new leads."

  "But if they're older cases, isn't it more likely that you have less information as witnesses forget or move on?"

  "Sometimes with new technology like DNA testing, you catch a break. And," he brightened, "once the shrink clears DJ to return to active duty he can get back on the streets where he belongs."

  "He's good, isn't he?"

  "Of course. I trained him, didn't I? He's the best I've seen," he went on, "when his head's in the game. Got a mind like a freaking camera–remembers everything. The way he reads a crime scene, it's like he sees something different than the rest of us."

  She nodded. Drake's painting was like that. He seemed to see beyond the superficial to what lay beneath. "He'd be on the streets now if it weren't for him getting shot–because of me."

  "You're good for him," Andy assured her.

  "I just don't know how to–what to–" she stammered, unable to finish. She couldn't believe she was discussing her private life here in a public bar. "What does he want? I feel like I've done something wrong and I don't know what."

  Andy cleared her dishes and swiped at the bar with a wet rag as he thought. "DJ's never been easy. Sometimes you just have to give him time to come to his senses." Cassie nodded, that was the same advice Adeena had given her. Then Andy looked up and grinned. "But don't give him too long to sulk," he went on. "Sometimes what the kid needs most is a swift kick in the butt."

  "Thanks, Andy." She placed a ten-dollar
bill on the bar. Andy pushed it back at her.

  "You know your money's no good here."

  She slid off the stool, refusing to argue with him. He took the bill and dropped it in a large jar with the words Children's Coalition emblazoned on it. Cassie froze, looking at the photo below the words. Virginia Ulrich, smiling as she cradled Charlie in her arms.

  "Do you know Virginia Ulrich?" She gestured to the jar brimming with contributions.

  "Sure. Her husband, Paul, grew up near here. I remember when his father ran his first campaign for City Councilman. George's gone a long way, a Senator now. It's sad about his grandkids being so sick. Just breaks my heart every time Virginia comes around."

  Cassie nodded absently as he spoke, her focus on the photo. Virginia smiled for the camera, her hair perfectly coiffed, makeup in place, the image of the loving mother. But Charlie stared out at the camera, lunging, as if desperate to escape his mother's arms.

  "Your money's going for a good cause," Andy assured her. She looked at the photo again. Surely Charlie was only squirming like a normal toddler?

  What if he wasn't? Cassie felt like she was sinking, mired in quicksand that was closing fast over her head. What if everyone was wrong about Virginia Ulrich?

  CHAPTER 5

  "Hey pardner, how's it going?" Jimmy Dolan called out as Drake entered the squad room on the fourth floor of the Zone Seven station house the next morning. "Good to have you back."

  Drake winced at his partner's bonhomie. Because of him, Miller had both of them working cold case files, obviously not trusting Drake to go it alone. By rights Jimmy should be pissed as hell for being taken off the streets and forced into babysitting duty.

  Instead, Jimmy wrapped his beefy ex-marine's hand around a dusty homicide binder and handed it to him. "This is the one we should be working."

  "You've already gone through them?" Drake had expected to take at least a day combing the files, seeing which cases had any viable leads worth following.

  "Didn't have to. I've been wanting another crack at this one for a long time."

  Drake opened the murder book. The seam of a manila envelope had worn through, and crime scene photos spilled out. He spread them over his desk.

  Jimmy leaned back in his seat, hands behind his head. "Me and your dad worked that one, nine years ago now, right before he made sergeant."

  Drake nodded, his attention riveted by stark black and white photos of the body of a young child. A girl, maybe four or five, garroted and left on a muddy patch of grass. She wore a pale flannel nightgown bordered with ruffles and lace.

  "Sofia Frantz. We kept coming back to her over and over, but we never got anywhere with it. Your dad thought it was the work of a serial, tried to tie it in with several other murders, but got nowhere."

  "You try VICAP?" Drake asked, his eyes raking quickly over the photos, absorbing every detail. The FBI violent crimes database was supposed to pick up on patterns left behind by signature killers. He turned to the next photo, a more distant view of the crime scene, and was surprised to see that the muddy lawn was actually a playground.

  "Yeah, more than once. But they couldn't find any pattern either. Want to see the others?" Jimmy slid a stack of photos across the desk. "Two girls, one boy and one woman. The oldest goes back eleven years, the most recent four years ago."

  He looked up at that. His father had died seven years ago, so Jimmy must have continued working the case afterwards.

  Jimmy read his thoughts and nodded. "This one's a ball buster. Might want to think twice before you dive in."

  Too late. Drake sorted through the photos, taking the crime scenes one by one. Frantz was the second, nine years ago now. Two years before her was an older boy, Adam Cleary, six, found in identical circumstances but this time in the front of the Phipps' Conservatory, a well-traveled and well-lit area that attracted crowds of school tours and tourists every day.

  "All in public places?" he asked without looking up from the boy's bloated face. Cleary was in his pajamas also.

  "All but the woman, Regina Eades"

  "Guy probably lives in the city proper, comfortable with the roads, knows how to get in and out of potentially congested areas fast." Drake continued cataloguing the carnage, turning to the next victim. A woman in her early thirties, killed fourteen months after Frantz. Nothing for four years, then another girl, Tanya Kent. This one was African American and the youngest so far, just a toddler. Body found in the playground at the Highland Park reservoir, just like Frantz's.

  "You sure about the woman?" he asked Jimmy. "She's not in her night clothes like the children are. And crossing races, sexes and ages–not typical for a signature killer. The long delay before the last bothers me too. What cooled him off? Unless he was picked up for something else."

  "Your father decided on the first three based on the scenes and the autopsies. I'm not certain about the woman. She was the only one restrained, taken near her work, and killed right away. He might have been wrong about her," Jimmy said this last as if it was a remote possibility.

  "She's the only one large enough to pose any threat." Drake shuffled the photos as if they were poker cards. Placed side by side, the children's crime scenes appeared almost identical. An unholy flush. He had to agree with his father, something seemed to link them, they felt like they belonged to the same actor. "No leads?"

  "Nothing that panned out. What'd you say we take a crack at them?"

  "I'm in."

  "All right then, grab that fancy camera of yours and let's go."

  They spent the morning on a tour of the crime scenes. Drake took his time. One good thing about cold cases, no one was breathing down your neck, forcing results.

  There were three sites used to dump the four bodies. Part of the signature, or just convenient? The first was Adam Cleary's, age six, found dead in the lawn in front of the Phipps Conservatory. Jimmy drove, edging the unmarked white Intrepid into an empty spot between the two traffic lanes in an island of parking spaces reserved for conservatory volunteers.

  A jogger passed them on the crest of the hill opposite, following one of the many paths in Schenley park. Two elderly women sat on one of the benches that lined the stone wall while an Asian couple maneuvered, vying for the best possible photo of the sprawling Victorian edifice of metal and glass.

  Drake had always loved the conservatory–so many colors and textures, light bending in a dozen delightful ways as it reflected through the multitude of glass panels and onto glistening leaves of plants from all over the world. To him the Phipps was an oasis of quiet, muted footsteps, hidden alcoves revealing exotic treasures of silken orchids, tangled vines, colors that challenged his imagination.

  His mother brought him here often, bemused by his fascination. Drake Sr. hadn't been as impressed by his son's passion for color and texture. He insisted on dragging Drake across the bridge to the Carnegie natural history museum with its dinosaurs. Or better yet, to a Pirate's game where he would pin Drake between himself and the railing, positioning them to catch a fly ball.

  Jimmy slammed the car door shut and Drake blinked, remembering the crack of a bat connecting, the surge of the crowd around him, everyone scrambling for the ball hurtling in their direction.

  He stepped out of the car, crossing the street without looking, hypnotized by the memory of reaching out, almost toppling over the rail in his quest to catch the ball just as his father had taught him. But at the last moment the missile racing directly at his face had proven too much and he had shied away. The ball landed with a hard slap of leather against flesh in his father's outstretched hand.

  Not even the roar of the crowd could drown out the look of disappointment as Drake Sr. dropped the ball into his son's forgotten mitt.

  "Right here," Jimmy said, pulling him back to the present. "These bushes and stuff weren't here back then," he added after consulting the crime scene photos. "I didn't work it originally, your father brought me here after we partnered up. We came back whenever things got slow and
we had time to work it again, but–" He shrugged, obviously embarrassed by his and Drake Sr.'s failure.

  Drake stepped back, observing Adam Cleary's final resting place. It was now a nicely mulched plot curving from the curb to the front entrance. Rhododendrons with glossy leaves lined the route, interspersed with budding azaleas, holly and low growing juniper. An exotic appearing tree that appeared out of harmony with the rest of the landscaping stood in the center of the plot. Right where Cleary's body laid, Drake realized after glancing at his father's sketch of the crime scene.

  He stepped into the mulch, taking care not to disturb the plants anymore than necessary and leaned forward to read a small, brass plaque at the base of the tree.

  "Beloved son, never forgotten," he read aloud.

  "Kid was dumped here," Jimmy said. "We never did find the actual killing ground–not for any of them except the woman, Eades."

  "Who found him?" Drake asked as he picked his way through the shrubs back out to the paved path.

  Jimmy nodded to the park across the street. "Jogger–not even light out yet. Worked over in Bellefield Towers and was jogging into work. He checked out. Didn't see anything, just stopped to tie his shoe and saw a kid's pajamas. Took another step and saw there was a kid still in them, lost his breakfast, then called us."

  "Eleven years," Drake muttered as they headed back to the car. He turned around one more time, marveling at how much seemed unchanged from the Phipps of his childhood. But, for Adam Cleary and his family, everything had changed. "Helluva long time."

  "Yep," Jimmy said, leaning across the roof of the Intrepid, his gaze fixed on the graceful curves of the conservatory. "Might help if we could figure out why here. And why he never came back after the first one."

  Drake frowned and opened the car door. "After this long, we might never learn anything."

  <><><>

  Situated in the basement of the main building, the medical records department was about as close to the Underworld as you could get at Three Rivers Medical Center. Even the morgue was upstairs with the pathology labs.