Face to Face

by CJ Lyons

  Drake hated the thought of Hart having to face those IA assholes. Not to mention the fun the gossips at the House would have dissecting his sex life.

  "But the brass won't be satisfied until they have Steward's final results. Another witness besides Hart would help. Not to mention the rumors you may have hired someone–"

  "To kill a woman I had never laid eyes on before yesterday?" Drake scoffed.

  "Relax. I think it was Spanos who started that one. Let the Keystone Cops have fun tracking down rumors."

  They pulled into Jimmy's garage. Drake held Hennessy while Jimmy carefully emptied his Glock, checking the chamber twice. He locked the gun in the safe high above his tool bench. With six-year-old twins on the loose, he took no chances.

  "Webster's set a meeting for tomorrow morning," Jimmy told him, placing the full clip into the glove compartment of his car and locking it as well. "Said they'd call you when they needed you."

  Drake shot a glance over at his partner but Jimmy wasn't looking. That hurt, like he was an outsider. Or worse, a victim. But Drake had no shield, no gun, no standing whatsoever in this case.

  He was worse than an outsider. He was an outcast.

  With these thoughts, Drake trudged inside Jimmy's house, diligently wiping his feet clean of the soot and ashes before moving in to take position on the family room sofa bed Denise had made up for him.

  <><><>

  Ed's wife Natalie had the guest room ready when they arrived, along with the good news about Hennessey.

  "How's Tagger?" Cassie asked as she and Natalie rummaged through Natalie's closet for spare clothes to replace the tattered and singed tank top and shorts. Unfortunately, Natalie was barely four-eleven, so the best they came up with was an old T-shirt of Ed's to use as a nightshirt.

  "He's good. Finding his comfort zone." Natalie sighed and opened dresser drawers in her quest to dress Cassie.

  The real challenge would be tomorrow morning. Cassie was due in court at eight, leaving no time for shopping. Natalie improvised an outfit from a pair of Ed's scrubs with a drawstring waistband and rolled up cuffs, a smock top that looked more like a cropped top on Cassie, and, since Natalie's feet were also smaller than Cassie's, a pair of Ed's sandals with the straps pulled as tight as the Velcro would allow.

  "But your hair…" Natalie brushed her hands over Cassie's long, dark curls. The slight touch left a cascade of burnt hair fluttering down to the carpet. "I'm so sorry."

  Cassie couldn't bear sympathy. Not when it'd be so easy to slide down the path to self-pity. "Don't be. Just get me a pair of scissors and I'll take care of it after I wash up." She stifled a yawn.

  "Let's get you to bed."

  Cassie soaked for a long time in the guest bath. Her entire body was raw and bruised, but although patches of skin were lobster red and a few blisters had popped up, none of the burns were serious. The worst pain came from the multiple lacerations and abrasions from flying debris. Too shallow to bother with band-aids, too many to count, she tried her best to ignore them.

  All in all, she would not recommend the experience, she thought as she tried to wash the sour smell of smoke from her hair and ended up breaking off large clumps.

  She slipped into the cotton robe Natalie lent her and sat in front of the bedroom mirror, trying to decide where to cut her hair so that it wouldn't make her look like a freak.

  "What happened?" Tagger's whisper came from the doorway. The boy looked less gaunt but just as scared as when they'd been in the alley, gunshots flying. Was that just two days ago?

  "This is why they tell you not to play with matches," she joked. He frowned, his face twisting in distrust.

  "Athena okay?" He shuffled in to stand beside her, his hand without the cast lifting lengths of hair and appraising it.

  "I saw her this morning and she was doing fine." Not as fine as she'd be if she'd let Cassie take her somewhere, but she wasn't about to tell Tagger that. "The Gangstas are still looking for her. They say she killed your brother."

  He straightened. "That's a lie. She didn't kill Rodney."

  "Do you know who did?"

  He nodded.

  "Tagger, it's important. Why are the Rippers and GGs after Athena?"

  He blew his breath out. "She said not to tell. Said they might hurt Baby Jane."

  "You can tell me. I'll make sure nothing happens to Baby Jane."

  Silence as he studied his cast as if it held the answers. "She and Rodney were in love. Rodney was trying to save her."

  That's what Athena had said. "Is Rodney Baby Jane's father?"

  He shook his head. "Lucien, head of the Rippers is. He's Athena's uncle."

  That explained a lot. Baby Jane's DNA would prove incest if Athena disclosed the sexual assault. Lucien probably sent that young Ripper to take the baby. To him, Jane was merely evidence. "Lucien had Rodney killed?"

  Tagger's eyes sparked. "Did it himself. Rodney was going to take Athena away but Lucien caught them, shot them both. Athena got away, so he made it look like she killed Rodney."

  "That way the Gangstas would be looking for her, want to kill her."

  "Yeah. And then he told the Rippers that she stole the money when it was really him, so now they're after her, too."

  Wow. And Cassie thought she had problems. Damnit, she should have found a way to get Athena off the streets. "Why doesn't she run away? Why was she camped out in the Rippers' territory?"

  "I heard them talking. Rodney stole Lucien's phone and there was a movie on there. Lucien and Athena." Tagger made a face. "Rodney hid it somewhere in the Stackhouse, but he died before he told Athena where."

  "So she keeps going back to find it."

  "Figures it's the only way anyone would believe her."

  It wasn't. But there was no reason for Athena to believe the system might work in her favor. Cassie gave Tagger a hug, wishing Athena was there as well.

  "Want to help me cut my hair?"

  Tagger nodded and supervised as she cut the tangled curls. The end result was pretty awful, but better than shedding chunks of burnt hair every time she moved. Finally she got Tagger to go back to his bed and she was able to slip between the cool, clean sheets herself.

  She woke several times during the night, propelled from sleep by the smell of burning flesh and the searing pain of flames devouring her. Each time she woke she found new injuries and would fight to find a comfortable position.

  As the pink streaks of dawn crept through the large windows, she finally rolled onto her belly and slept, one arm fitfully flailing at her side, searching in vain for Drake.

  CHAPTER 28

  Drake woke with a heavy weight on his chest. "Move it Hennessy," he mumbled, attempting to roll over. His tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth and seemed to be coated with fur.

  The weight shifted and giggled. Drake opened one eye in time to see a handful of damp Cheerios arch over his head and land on the oversized sweatpants Jimmy lent him. More giggles ensued.

  A tow headed six-year-old bounced on his chest, smiling in delight. "Uncle Drake's up!" she called out.

  Drake cringed. Uncle Drake was definitely not up. Uncle Drake was down, down, down in a deep pit that echoed with the noise of Bridget's voice.

  If Bridget was sitting on his chest, the thought slowly penetrated into the quagmire of Drake's brain, then Colton couldn't be far. Drake opened both eyes and rolled them back as far as he could.

  There was the second of the twins, the pelter of stale breakfast cereal. Drake kept both eyes opened. A purple dinosaur danced on the TV across from him. He growled deep in his throat and let the noise rumble up. This produced more giggles of delight as Drake sat up and shouted, "I'm going to get you!"

  Both twins scampered out of reach, giving Drake a chance to sit up straight. His back protested as did his neck and shoulders. Got to find someone with a real spare bed, he thought.

  Then he smelled the sweat and smoke emanating from his clothes piled beside the couch. Hart. She'd lost more than a
bed. She'd lost everything.

  And he'd almost lost her.

  Drake ran his fingers through his hair, trying to garner the courage to open his eyes again. Monica Burns was dead, Hart was God knew where. How was he going to fix all this?

  "Go outside and play. Leave DJ alone, you two." Denise's voice and the smell of coffee accompanying it brought Drake back to his senses.

  Four feet pounded past, their noise sending shock waves through Drake's bruised brain. He gingerly opened his eyes again.

  "Coffee, toast, and three Advil." Denise set the offerings onto the end table and took the chair beside him. "I seem to recall that was the hangover recipe you preferred."

  She had the mother's tone of disappointment and scorn down pat, Drake thought, buying time by gulping down the ibuprofen.

  "It's not what you think," he told her, his voice emerging as a rusty creak.

  "Right." She didn't sound convinced. "I put some of Jimmy's clothes in the bathroom for you. Just a T-shirt and some running shorts. Unless you want to go around holding up your pants all day, you'll have to wash these," she kicked the pile of filthy clothes with her foot.

  "I'd rather burn them," Drake told her.

  "The mall opens soon, you can always buy new." She took a sip of her own coffee and looked at him appraisingly. "I'd appreciate it if you don't get Jimmy mixed up in whatever you've done this time."

  Drake set his coffee down. "Denise, believe me. I haven't done anything–"

  He stopped when her glance edged down to his liquor soaked shirt. "All right, I'm guilty. I had a few drinks too many and played a game of pool with a pretty girl. Maybe I flirted a little–believe me I was tempted to do more, but I didn't. I went back to Hart's and told her everything. I even—" He ignored the buzzing in his head as he bent over and fumbled with his slacks. Damn it, he couldn't have lost it. Then his fingers closed on the tiny velvet box.

  He gave the box to Denise. "I wanted to ask Hart to marry me."

  The enormity of what he had lost in the last forty-eight hours hit him. For a second he craved a drink, but he forced that thought aside.

  Denise looked at him with skepticism as she opened the box, then her eyes widened. "You're serious, aren't you?"

  "Of course, that was before she found a girl murdered with my gun and her house was fire bombed." He shrugged and took the box back. He didn't have anywhere to put it, so he just held onto it, his sweat slicking the velvet.

  "DJ, I'm sorry," Denise told him. "When Jimmy told me you were in a jam–"

  "You thought of Pamela," Drake finished for her.

  She nodded.

  "Can't say I blame you." He looked at the toast, but his stomach rebelled against the thought of food.

  Denise got to her feet and picked up their cups. "Go take a shower. Leave your dirty clothes and I'll wash them." She dangled the rancid polo shirt by one finger. "Well, your pants anyway. You can always wear one of Jimmy's shirts, it'll just be baggy."

  "Thanks, Denise. Where is Jimmy?"

  She looked at him, puzzled. "At work. Of course."

  Then it really hit Drake. It was Monday morning and he had nowhere to go. No badge, no gun, no job.

  And no Hart.

  <><><>

  Natalie lent Cassie her car and she made it to the courthouse just in time. Except for the fact she had no photo ID to show the guard as she went through the metal detector, so he had to call Lisa Dimeo, the assistant DA in charge of the Mary Eamon case, down to escort her to Judge Flory's courtroom.

  "What on earth are you wearing?" Lisa Dimeo, asked. "You can't go into court looking like that!"

  Ronald Brickner and his family passed through the security entrance and stood staring at her. At first he frowned, as if surprised to see her—or maybe surprised by how different she looked than the last time they'd met. But then he smiled. A quirky smile that made his eyes glint and made her want to take a shower as if he'd contaminated her. His mother gave his elbow a sharp tug and they both turned their backs on her, heading towards the elevators.

  Cassie's silence gave Lisa further time to scrutinize her. "My God, what happened?" her tone had softened a bit, but not much.

  "Someone firebombed my house last night."

  At first Lisa looked at Cassie as if she had suggested the dog ate her homework. Then she glared at Brickner. They took the stairs up to the second floor courtroom.

  "You don't think it could have been Brickner, do you?" she asked. She seemed eager to add witness tampering to the charges against the child killer.

  Cassie shrugged. She hadn't thought of Brickner. It could be. It could also be the Rippers, the Gangstas, Drake's stalker, or someone hired by Alan King. Or maybe there was someone else out there with a grudge against her. She wouldn't rule it out. "I don't know who did it. The police are investigating."

  Lisa gave Cassie another appraising glance. Cassie felt ridiculous beside the tall willowy blonde in her tailored suit and three inch heels. Appearing before Judge Flory looking like Bozo the clown on a bad hair day would only mean more unwanted attention.

  "Don't worry," Lisa assured her after taking a second look. "We can use this to our advantage." She reached up and pulled off the ball cap Cassie had used to cover her mangled hair. "That's better."

  Cassie sincerely doubted it, but she followed Lisa into the courtroom. Since this was a pretrial motion hearing, the courtroom was empty except for the essential personnel, lawyers, Brickner and his mother and wife, and Cassie.

  Then she saw who sat beside Brickner at the defense table. Alan King. Smirking at her like she was the prize at the bottom of a cereal box.

  She plopped into her seat, unable to stop staring at him. He'd said he'd be seeing her today. She should have realized he'd meant it as a threat.

  After Judge Flory dispensed with some preliminaries he nodded to Lisa. "I'll hear Dr. Hart now."

  Cassie stood up. She was always nervous about testifying. She hated the double and triple negatives the lawyers used, trying to trip you and twist what you were saying.

  Today was worse than usual. Rivulets of sweat made the cotton top cling to her like a clammy second skin and the lesser-burned parts of her body all itched simultaneously.

  She squirmed her way onto the witness stand, gave her particulars to the court reporter. Judge Flory hadn't noticed her yet; he and his secretary were discussing a scheduling conflict. After Lisa approached Cassie, he turned his attention to the witness stand.

  And stared. His face grew red and his mouth dropped open. Lisa began to ask Cassie her first question but the judge interrupted her. "Dr. Hart," he snapped. "Have you ever testified in a court of law before?" his tone was one of admonishment.

  Cassie turned in her seat to look at him. "Yes sir," she said, feeling her face heat with an embarrassed flush. She looked over at the defense table and saw Brickner and King both shaking with restrained laughter.

  "Is this what you would consider proper deportment for such grave proceedings? Your appearance is deplorable. Did we interrupt your week at the beach," he asked sarcastically, "if so, the court sincerely apologizes."

  "I apologize your honor," she said meekly.

  "I could cite you for contempt," he told her.

  Cassie looked to Lisa for help. The ADA saw her cue. "Your honor, Dr. Hart was the victim of a serious crime last night. Her house was set on fire by an unknown party and she barely escaped with her life."

  Judge Flory straightened at that and regarded Cassie once more, still with no sympathy. "Is that true, Dr. Hart?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Have the police any idea who may have started this fire?"

  "No sir. At least not that they've told me."

  "Your honor may recall hearing about Dr. Hart's car being destroyed by automatic gunfire two days ago."

  The judge nodded. "That was you?"

  "Yes sir," Cassie replied.

  "In light of these threats against our witness' life, the state asks Mr. Brickner's bond be re
voked immediately. We would also request a continuance–"

  Alan leapt to his feet, objecting to Lisa's "unwarranted curtailing of his client's freedoms" and a legal brawl ensued.

  Cassie watched the verbal jousting but didn’t really care. Her entire body alternated between itching and throbbing pain, her eyelids sagged with the strain of staying awake, and her head was pounding.

  She just wanted this all to be over with one way or the other. Just let her tell Mary's story, the facts would speak for themselves.

  But the lawyers kept squabbling. Judge Flory leaned back, enjoying the legal antics, rewarding points to first Lisa then Alan as if this was about keeping score and not a little girl's murder.

  Cassie took the opportunity to reach under her pant leg and scratch at a particularly bothersome patch of peeling skin. Ahh. Then there was silence and everyone was looking at her again. She edged her fingers back from under her pant leg and tried to look alert.

  Lisa Dimeo led her through her credentials and the events surrounding Mary's care in the ER with efficient, well thought out questions. Several times Cassie noted the district attorney hesitated as if waiting for objections from the defense which never materialized. Lisa cast several quick glances at the defense table but did not break her smooth rhythm as she drew the evidence of Ronald Brickner's confession from Cassie.

  "Thank you, Dr. Hart," she concluded. "No further questions."

  Cassie straightened in her seat, preparing for the defense's cross-examination. She watched as Alan ignored the stacks of paperwork in front of him and instead kept his gaze fixed on hers. And she realized what his tactics were. By not objecting to her testimony he reduced the horror of Mary's death to a cold recitation of facts, depersonalized her from a little girl to a gory list of medical facts.

  Now all he had to do was destroy the credibility of the witness who presented those facts.

  He sauntered over to the lectern and adjusted the microphone. "Good morning, Dr. Hart," he began in his melodious speech. "My name is Alan King. I'd like to thank you for coming here this morning."

  It was a move Cassie had seen before when she testified. Force a potential hostile witness to be grateful for the opportunity to have her character shredded in public.