Face to Face

by CJ Lyons

  "Is that bad?"

  "Yes, it's very serious."

  "What are all these?" He touched the tangle of monitor leads with the muzzle of his gun, the purple wires looking stark against the black of the pistol.

  "They monitor the electrical impulses of her heart. And this," she gestured to the tiny white cuff wrapped around Jane's thigh, "monitors her blood pressure."

  He hesitated then nodded, his decision made. "Take it all off. Now."

  "But—"

  "I said now." He pointed the gun at Cassie's heart. Beyond them, at the nurses' station, Jimmy stood at the door, ready to use the nurse's keycard to come inside.

  Cassie just needed to distract the kid long enough. "Okay, okay. Whatever you say."

  She took the pulse ox lead off first, knowing the monitor would alarm and give Jimmy a distraction.

  A second later the monitor screeched. The boy jumped back. Jimmy slid through the door.

  The boy raised his gun at the monitor. "Turn it off."

  Cassie reached up to the monitor, putting her body between the boy and Baby Jane. She silenced the monitor but didn't shift her body, still using it as a shield.

  "Drop it." Jimmy's voice sliced through the air.

  Cassie dared to look over her shoulder to see Jimmy hold his gun at the back of the kid's skull while using his free hand to pull the boy back away from Baby Jane.

  The boy let out a few choice expletives, but dropped his gun into Jimmy's waiting hand. Jimmy put the gun in his coat pocket and then twisted the boy's wrist, forcing him face down to the floor.

  "Put your other hand out to your side," he ordered as he holstered his own gun and brought out a pair of handcuffs.

  A few moments later, the boy was cuffed and searched, and hospital security guards swarmed over him. Jimmy stood and turned to Cassie. "The baby okay?"

  She nodded, the aftermath of adrenalin making her mouth too dry to talk. Swallowed and tried again. "She's fine. Thanks to you."

  "Thank Drake. He's the one who sent me."

  CHAPTER 22

  Drake parked the Mustang in front of Burns' apartment. He couldn't believe he was doing this, but Jimmy already had his hands full, he couldn't ask him to take time to clean up a mess Drake created.

  If only he'd done more to discourage Burns yesterday. She had all the markings of a cop groupie, and after Pamela, Drake was an expert on the kind of woman who needed to play the role of damsel in distress to his shining blue knight. He wanted no part of that.

  Especially not when someone was after Hart. She was all he could think of—or wanted to think of. Was he wrong to send her away even if he only did it to keep her safe? It sure as hell felt wrong. Leaving Hart had left a taste of char in his mouth as if everything bringing joy to his world had burned to ashes.

  He barely had the energy to heave out a sigh of frustration. It was this heat; it sucked the life from you.

  The front door of Burns' building stood wide open as it had earlier. The woman was obviously a slow learner.

  She waited for him on the landing. Her hair was pulled back into a loose, tousled knot and she looked even younger than before. Younger and more vulnerable.

  As he drew closer he noticed she was shivering despite the heat. "I thought I told you to lock the doors and wait with a neighbor."

  "It's Saturday night. No one else is home. And I did lock the doors." She did a double take, looked past him down the stairs. "How did you get in without buzzing?"

  "Front door was wide open."

  Her mouth formed a small oh of dismay but no sounds came. He moved past her, into the apartment. "Tell me what happened."

  "It's like I said on the phone. I was at the Giant Eagle and this guy, he was watching me, then I saw him again, and I didn't know what to do, so I ran home and called you." Her words emerged in a breathless gasp.

  "What did he look like?" Drake asked when she paused for air.

  "Normal. I don't know." She closed her eyes, concentrating. "Brown hair, or dark blonde. My age. I don't know how tall." Her eyes popped open. "I've seen him before, I know I have. I can't think where. Oh my God. How long has he been following me?"

  "What happened after you got home?"

  "I locked the door, just like you said. But when I went into the bathroom—" She latched onto his arm, fingernails digging in, and he didn't have the heart to disengage her. Kid was scared stiff. Together they walked into the bedroom and he could see why. Smeared on the dresser mirror in ragged red lipstick were the words: Never Forget.

  "What does it mean?" she asked, her grip on him tightening. "I've never hurt anyone in my life. What doesn't he want me to forget? Why me? What does he want from me?" Her voice raised to an unpleasant shriek as panic overwhelmed her.

  Drake sat her down on the bed. She collapsed like a rag doll, sobbing incoherently. He returned to the scene of the crime.

  Never Forget. His stalker's mantra.

  Conflicting scenarios swirled through Drake's mind. If the stalker was Spanos, the ex-cop could have gotten someone to pull Drake's case files and tracked down Burns. But Spanos had been at the Liberty Center all day. No way he could have done this.

  Had his stalker followed him yesterday and decided Burns made an easy target? Maybe Drake enraged him by leaving the city last night, triggering the attacks on Hart and Burns. Were innocent women now being pulled into the bastard's sick game because Drake refused to play?

  Then he thought of something. Maybe not so innocent women. At least one of them.

  "How did you get my number?" he asked Burns.

  She wiped tears from her eyes and looked up at him. "It's on your card. You said to call you day or night."

  He could have sworn he'd given her a regular card without his private number. "Where's the card?"

  She frowned, stood and moved on unsteady legs to the living room. "Right here." She pointed to where a business card rested beside the phone. "Did I do something wrong? Why are you so upset?"

  Drake ignored her, grabbing the austere white Pittsburgh Police Bureau card. He turned it over. There, in his own handwriting was printed his private number.

  He blew his breath out. Damn it, he was losing it. He never gave his private number out—not after Pamela, at any rate. He didn't even remember writing it on the back of the card. How could he forget that?

  Five nights with no sleep and days filled with worry. He was definitely off his game. Which meant the stalker was winning. "Get your things together. I need to get you out of here."

  "Why? Do you think he's coming back? Am I in danger?" Her eyes grew wide and the trembling returned.

  Drake wasted no time on reassurances; he had no idea what the answers to her questions were. Instead he took her arm and led her back into the bedroom.

  "Is there someone you could stay with?" he asked.

  "No. I'm new here, haven't had time to meet anyone yet." She gave a harsh, tight laugh. "Except you and Detective Dolan, of course."

  "Pack some clothes. I know a place where you'll be safe."

  <><><>

  The Blarney Stone was crowded despite the fact it was not air-conditioned. Saturday evening in a hot Pittsburgh summer and everyone wanted a beer.

  Thankfully, Andy Greally had an empty apartment above the bar and was willing to loan it to Burns for a few days. No place safer than upstairs from a bunch of cops, Drake reasoned. Secretly he hoped she might also find someone else to lean on instead of him.

  While Burns settled in, he dialed Hart's cell. No answer. Right, it was in her Subaru, probably destroyed. He tried Jimmy.

  "Dolan."

  "Just me, checking in."

  "Was she crying wolf?"

  "No. I wish she had been." Drake told Jimmy about what happened at Burns' apartment.

  "Think she could be involved? Or did we lead the stalker to her?"

  "I don't know." Drake dragged his fingers through his hair. "I was even wondering if she could maybe be Pamela's sister."

  "I h
ad LAPD fax me a DMV photo. They don't look anything alike. Elizabeth Reynolds is five-six, weighs one-sixty, brown hair, brown eyes."

  One theory blown. Burns was about that tall but couldn't weigh more than one-fifteen, had green eyes and blonde hair. "I'm stashing her at the Stone for the duration."

  "Good move. You were right about the Rippers."

  "What happened?"

  "They sent a kid to the hospital. Guess they figured he'd get through security and up to the nursery easier. He wanted the baby."

  "Shit. Was Hart there?" Drake prayed not.

  "She's fine. Talked the kid down. Kept him from doing anything until I got here and took him down." Jimmy's nonchalant tone only increased Drake's frustration. Drake knew damn well how volatile a situation like that could be.

  Helplessness tore at Drake's gut. Hart was in danger and all he could do was make it worse. "Where's she now?"

  "I took her home and had patrol increase their presence on her street. She's locked up tight."

  "But too easy to find."

  "I offered to stay, but I got another call out. Besides, you know Hart—"

  "Stubborn." Drake glanced around the crowd of off-duty cops. Laughing, enjoying watching the Buccs fight to hold onto a lead, not a care in the world. He used to be like them.

  Before Pamela.

  Never Forget. As if he could.

  "She'll be fine," Jimmy said. "You're the one I'm worried about."

  Maybe the best thing for everyone, especially Hart, would be to let the stalker catch him. Anything to end this. "Don't. Just keep Hart safe."

  "You know I will."

  "Thanks, Jimmy." Drake hung up, approached the bartender, Kenny, and ordered a shot of Jack Daniels and a beer.

  He ignored Kenny's look of surprise and drank the shot in one quick gulp. It had been a long time since he'd had anything stronger than beer, not since last July and Pamela, but the sensuous warm feeling it left in its wake was the caress of a familiar lover.

  "Another," he ordered.

  Kenny poured the shot but held out his hand palm up before handing it to Drake. "You know the rules. Besides, you're out of practice."

  Drake dumped his car keys into Kenny's palm. He poured the JD into the frosty mug of beer.

  Carrying the beer, enjoying the cold heaviness of the mug in his hand, he wandered into the back room. There was a pool table and several old-fashioned pinball machines; Andy Greally refused to allow video machines into his establishment.

  Burns came through the rear door. She'd changed into a skimpy black dress that made every man's eyes go wide with appreciation. She ignored them all, approaching Drake, offering him a cue stick.

  "Wanna play?" she asked.

  Drake took a long swallow from his beer then nodded, reaching out for the pool cue. What the hell? If he was going to make it easy for the stalker to find him, this would be the best place. Besides, he could keep an eye on Burns.

  "Why don't you rack the balls?" she told him.

  Drake set his beer on the counter and leaned his pool stick against the table. He quickly gathered the balls and was leaning over the table to position them when he felt her hand brush against his buttocks. He turned and looked at her but she was smiling and chalking her cue stick, leaning against the counter. He stood up and drank his beer as she broke and started shooting.

  "I'll take stripes," she announced, leaning into her shot.

  He couldn't help but think the same thing as every man in the room: How far would that dress inch up and what was she wearing underneath? He watched, fascinated, as she curled her fingers around the stick without gouging herself on her bright red talons. It was as if by changing her clothes, she'd changed into an entirely different woman.

  "Could you help me with this shot?" she asked, leaning precariously far over the table.

  Drake gulped the remainder of his beer and joined her. She gestured to her hair. "Just hold my hair up, will you? It keeps falling into my face."

  He gathered the long silken threads into his hand and gently held it up off of her neck. She moved closer to him and curled one leg around the back of his, her foot stroking his calf. He caught his breath and realized her position gave him an excellent view of her ample cleavage. A view that answered the question as to what she was wearing under the dress: nothing that he could see.

  She drew her arm back and shot, missing the ball she was aiming for. She stood, entirely too close for comfort, her body pressed against his.

  "You can let go now," she said, and he let her hair fall from his hand. He held his hand awkwardly away from her, hovering over her shoulder, then backed away. The clinging victim had vanished, replaced by a woman used to bidding men to do her pleasure.

  Which one was an act? Memories of Pamela buzzed through his brain, confusing him more than the alcohol had. Pamela had as many personalities as she did outfits: drama queen one minute, soft-spoken schoolgirl the next.

  Burns pivoted, now so close he could see the clumps of mascara deposited on the tips of her eyelashes. "Your turn," she whispered, her breath stirring the tiny hairs on his neck.

  "I need a drink," he said, not realizing at first he'd said it out loud.

  "Here, have mine." She took a step away from him and suddenly he could breathe again. She handed him a tall glass containing a tea-colored drink.

  He took it, his hand slipping on the sweaty glass and drank it in quick gulps. The liquor burned on its way down but it was a good burning, a match to the heat beginning to ignite elsewhere.

  Drake handed her the glass, empty except for a few ice cubes, and she smiled. "My, you were thirsty," she said, tilting the glass and placing one of the ice cubes into her mouth to suck on.

  Reminding him of Hart. What the hell was he doing here?

  "I'll buy you another." Drake's head buzzed and he felt like his feet weren't quite touching the ground. Jeezit, he was out of practice. Alcohol never affected him like this. He picked up his empty beer mug and took her glass.

  "Don't be long," she pouted as he went out to the bar.

  "Here you go, Kenny," Drake told the barman as he handed over the empty glasses. "Another of whatever the lady was drinking and club soda for me." It'd been a mistake to start drinking again—especially with Burns.

  "Long Island iced tea coming up," Kenny said, placing the club soda in front of Drake. Drake drank it, hoping to dilute the effects of the alcohol in his system, his eyes on Burns as she bent over the jukebox, selecting a tune.

  Why was it that all he could think of was Pamela?

  "Hey, killer," came a sarcastic voice behind Drake.

  Spanos came up beside him and whistled when Burns waved at Drake. "Now that's a fine piece of ass," he said in appreciation. "Did you visit Pamela's grave today? I see you're real broken up over the anniversary of her death."

  "Why don't you just shut the hell up?" Drake forced the words through clenched jaws as he grabbed Burns' drink.

  Spanos shoved Drake against the bar, splashing the Long Island iced tea down Drake's shirt. "You almost got Hart killed today, and now you're here trying to get into another woman's pants. No wonder Hart keeps coming to me for comfort. Did she tell you how I made her scream this morning?"

  Drake pushed the ex-cop away. "You don't talk about Hart. You don't mention her name. Hear me?"

  "You're a drunken piece of shit, Drake. Not my fault you can't get it up long enough to please your woman."

  "Not so drunk I can't take you if you don't back off," Drake told him in a level voice, fighting to keep control.

  "Let's see." Spanos stood up tall, chest expanded in challenge. Just like a freakin' gorilla, Drake thought. "Out back."

  Spanos led the way to the alley behind the bar. The heat and humidity had turned the narrow space into a stench oven stinking of vomit, urine, and rotting food. Drake's stomach gave a heave and he tasted bile in the back of his mouth. This was not a good idea, the last sober remnant of his mind informed him before it fled for the hills.


  The ex-cop threw the first punch, a slow motion roadhouse that Drake ducked easily.

  Drake didn't have Spanos' reach or muscle mass, so he made up for it with sheer passion. Letting all the pent up rage and frustration that had built over the past week boil to the surface, he lunged at Spanos, breaking under the ex-cop's guard to head-butt him in the belly. Spanos went down, taking several trashcans with him.

  As Drake straightened, Spanos grabbed his ankle and brought him down as well. Spanos jumped up, landed a kick to Drake's ribs that connected a little better than Drake would have liked. He heaved his weight against Spanos leg, grabbing the other one as well, and Spanos was back down. Drake rolled on top of him, hauled off, and planted a right hook to the Spanos' jaw that hurt like a sonofabitch but felt oh so good.

  It wasn't a knock-out punch, but it got Spanos' attention. The rush of anger and adrenalin sent the alcohol spiking through Drake's blood and he sent a left into Spanos' gut. Then he hesitated.

  Hart. She'd hate this. Hate him for it.

  But Spanos deserved it. On so many levels. Drake pulled his elbow back for the finishing blow.

  Spanos raised his hands in surrender. The blood haze filling Drake's head almost blinded him but he managed to check his motion before striking the ex-cop. Heaving in a ragged breath, Drake climbed off Spanos.

  "You're not worth it."

  Sucking blood from his knuckles, Drake staggered down the alley. He'd done his job; Burns was safe for the night. He patted his pockets. No car keys. But he found the ring box that had been in there since this morning. Then he began humming. Don't need no cars, don't need no keys.

  He knew exactly what he did need and it was only a short walk away.

  Hart. She was all he needed.

  <><><>

  Drake walked to Hart's house on Gettysburg Street. He hesitated at the door—should he ring the bell? That seemed too impersonal, so he compromised by knocking briefly before letting himself inside and re-setting the alarm code, leaning forward so his nose was an inch from the keypad as he stabbed the tiny buttons.