Heart Stealers

by Patricia McLinn

  “Who?”

  “DeFazio and Battaglia.”

  Mitch looked at the woman next to him. She watched him expectantly, and again, he wanted to protect her. Especially from this. “What happened?”

  “There was some kind of altercation at Pepper’s. We’re still trying to get to the bottom of it.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Clicking off the phone, he said to Cassie, “DeFazio and Battaglia were just picked up for fighting at Pepper’s.”

  Her face drained of color, and she gripped the bottle with both hands.

  Mitch set down his beer. “I’ve got to go.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “You can’t stop me, Captain.” Her voice was steely and her eyes challenged him.

  He picked up the gauntlet. “I can stop you from seeing him.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “It’s the rules, Cassie.”

  Slowly, she put down her beer, removed his jacket from her shoulders and stuffed it into his hands. “Screw the rules, Captain,” she snapped. “I’ll see you at the station.”

  Chapter Four

  The two interview rooms at Bayview Heights Police Department were particularly drab with their gray walls, absence of windows, straight chairs and hardwood furniture. Right now, Joe DeFazio was slumped over one of the tables, pillowing his head on his arms.

  “Sit up,” Mitch snapped. Towering above the boy, he struggled to keep his temper intact.

  DeFazio lifted his head sluggishly. Glassy-eyed, he moistened his lips. “Can I have some water?” His words were slurred.

  “As soon as you tell me how much you used.”

  “Didn’t do nothin’ illegal.”

  Mitch glanced over at the ten aerosol cans of whipped cream on the shelf behind the boy. They’d been recovered from the alley behind Pepper’s.

  “How much did you use?” Mitch enunciated each word. All ten canisters were empty of gases but full of cream.

  “Dunno what you mean.” DeFazio’s head drooped toward his arms again.

  “I said, sit up,” Mitch barked. “I know you didn’t inhale all the gas in those canisters or you’d be dead. But how many did you use?”

  DeFazio stared at him vacantly.

  Remembering the hurt in Cassie’s eyes, knowing she was waiting in the small outer area for this punk—and Battaglia, who was cooling his heels in the other interview room—Mitch reached over and yanked DeFazio up by the collar. If he didn’t already know the boy had been doing inhalants, the distinct gaseous smell wafting from his jacket would have confirmed it. “You stupid punk. Do you have any idea how dangerous inhalants are?” Mitch angled his head to the row of cans commonly called whippets. One of the newer drugs to hit the suburbs, inhalants were becoming more and more prevalent because of their availability.

  “They said it was just some dumb gas,” DeFazio argued.

  “Let me tell you what it really is, tough guy.” He let go of the boy, who sank groggily onto the chair. “The vapors enter your bloodstream faster than any other drug because they bypass your liver. That means you get a double dose. They depress all your major organs. If you’re lucky, you just get irritated eyes and severe headaches. If you’re unlucky, you could end up with permanent brain damage.” Mitch leaned over, bracing his arms on the table. “But want to know the worst-case scenario? Last year, I saw three boys die from inhaling aerosol fumes. They drank vodka beforehand. Two bagged the gas—used it with their heads covered by a plastic bag so they’d get a bigger rush. They suffocated. The other one was surprised by the cops, and the sudden adrenaline flow combined with the depressant caused cardiac arrest.” Mitch forced himself to straighten and beat back the image of the young hollow faces that still haunted him. “They were all thirteen.”

  DeFazio’s eyes closed.

  “Oh, hell, why am I even—”

  A knock on the door cut off his comment. One of the other police officers poked his head in. “Mitch, DeFazio’s father is here. He’s raising hell in the waiting area.”

  Where Cassie is. “Bring him in here,” Mitch said.

  In minutes, a larger version of the kid who was slumped before Mitch stalked into the room. Dressed in battered jeans, a hunting jacket and thick army boots, the guy was slightly overweight and red-faced. He was breathing heavily.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” the elder DeFazio asked.

  “Your kid is stoned,” Mitch said.

  “He been drinkin’?”

  “No, he’s been doing drugs.”

  “My kid ain’t no druggie.”

  Patiently, Mitch explained the abuse of inhalants to the man.

  “You gotta be kiddin’ me. You arrested him because he’s been sniffin’ somethin’? Shit, I did that with airplane glue when I was his age. Ain’t no harm in it.”

  “We didn’t arrest him. But there is harm in it. Even though he didn’t inhale all these cans alone, he still endangered himself.” Parental acceptance of kids’ habits was the biggest factor in the rise of adolescent drug use.

  “You didn’t arrest him? Then why’s he here?”

  “He got into a fight playing pool at Pepper’s. I think it’s because he was high.”

  “Sniffin’ stuff ain’t illegal.”

  “No, but it’s deadly.”

  DeFazio turned to his kid and shook his arm roughly. “Get up. We’re gettin’ out of here.” He looked at Mitch. “Next time you pick on my kid, I’m gonna charge you with harassment. They got lawyers now who’ll take a case for a piece of the action. My brother-in-law told me.”

  “Get out of here,” Mitch said, white-knuckling the table. “Before you have something more to charge me with.”

  After the DeFazios left, Mitch took several deep breaths then left the first interview room and headed for the next. Inside it, he found Battaglia standing erect, studying the Wanted posters on the wall.

  “You could be one of those guys some day, Battaglia.”

  The boy spun around. In stark contrast to DeFazio, Battaglia’s eyes were clear, though they were burning with anger. His coordination when Mitch surprised him had been normal.

  Slamming the door, Mitch said, “Well, did you just have a smaller dose than DeFazio or are you too smart to mess with the newest drug of choice?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Insolently, the boy slipped his hands into his jeans pockets and leaned against the wall.

  Mitch felt his insides knot at the intentionally smug posture. “Do you know your English teacher is here?” he said unkindly.

  Johnny straightened. “Cassie?” Then his face flushed and his hands came out of his pockets and curled into angry fists at his sides. “You son of a bitch. Why’d you call her?”

  “I didn’t. She was with me when I was notified about the fight.”

  Shock widened Johnny’s eyes. He glanced at the clock behind Mitch. “Why was she with you at seven o’clock at night?”

  Mitch attacked, sensing the advantage he’d gotten with that bit of news. “Why do you put her through this?”

  Johnny’s eyes changed. A look of profound remorse muddied the clear, almost black of his irises. The boy said nothing, just stared at Mitch. The forced-air central heating started up, and a muted phone rang somewhere in an outer office.

  “Sit down, Battaglia,” Mitch said, breaking the charged silence.

  The boy’s posture became even stiffer.

  “I said, sit down.”

  Johnny kicked out a straight chair, circled it around, then straddled it.

  “Your friends were there.”

  Again, the sullen quiet.

  “We were told your buddies from the city paid Pepper’s a visit.”

  “So what?” Johnny finally said.

  “Your pals give the inhalants to DeFazio?”

  With faked nonchalance, Johnny examined his fingernails. “What’re inhalants?”

  Switching tacti
cs, Mitch said, “I understand you want to be a doctor.”

  Johnny’s head snapped up. “Who told you that?”

  Again ignoring his question, Mitch went on, “You know physically what can happen when you use these things?”

  Pride reared its ugly head in the boy. “I’m not stupid. That shit fries your brains.”

  “Then how come you let your pals give it to DeFazio?”

  Silence again, but a flicker of unease crossed the kid’s face and his shoulders sagged in guilt.

  “Let me tell you something, Battaglia. I’m not going to let your gang buddies recruit anyone from Bayview Heights. It might be too late for you, but you’re it, kid. If I see any evidence of gang activity—colors, paraphernalia, hand signals—at the high school, take you down so fast, you won’t have time to blink.” Mitch sighed and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Now, get out of here.” Then he surprised himself by adding, “And try to reassure Ms. Smith you were clean tonight.”

  Opening the door, Mitch preceded Johnny out and stalked to his office, carefully avoiding the waiting area, where he knew that soft gray eyes would stare at him accusingly and slender shoulders were about to take on more of the world’s problems.

  * * *

  Johnny watched the wipers make a slow descent to the bottom of the windshield as Cassie shut off the engine and turned toward him. Then he focused on the bumper sticker she’d stuck on the dash. Be Someone Special. Be a Teacher. He was trying to avoid her eyes. He knew what he’d see there—the same disappointment and hurt he’d glimpsed as she whisked him out of the police station and into her car without a word and driven to his seedy apartment complex.

  “Want to tell me what happened?”

  Tugging the nylon collar of his jacket up around his neck, Johnny stared ahead. When he didn’t answer, she waited. “I was playing pool with DeFazio at Pepper’s,” he finally said. “Zorro came in about six, looking for me.”

  “Oh, Johnny.” Cassie’s disillusioned tone matched the look he’d seen earlier.

  “I didn’t plan it, Cassie.”

  “You’ve got to break off with them for good. One foot in the gang, one foot out, isn’t going to cut it much longer.”

  Johnny remembered the six months he’d dropped out of school. “You don’t understand, Cassie.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “They’re my family.”

  “No, they’re not. They’re a bunch of selfish, brutal punks.”

  Which is why I haven’t officially gone back. “What’s going on with you and Lansing?” he asked.

  “We were talking about the gang.”

  “Look, I’m not a real member anymore. When me and my mother moved out here, I left the gang. I see Zorro now because he’s been my buddy since day one. I won’t abandon him.”

  Cassie sighed. “You think they’ve let you go, but they haven’t. They’re trying to suck you back in, and Zorro will go to any lengths to get to you.” She hesitated, then added, “I know.”

  “He never bothered you after that first time, did he?” Johnny remembered how Zorro had paid Cassie a visit when he realized he was losing Johnny because of her influence. Johnny had found out and had beaten the shit out of Zorro. Then they’d talked. Zorro convinced Johnny he was sorry and wouldn’t do it again.

  “No, he didn’t. But I see what he’s doing to get you back. My guess is he’ll go after DeFazio now.”

  Lansing’s words echoed in Johnny’s head. I’m not going to let your buddies recruit anyone from Bayview Heights. “What’s going on with you and Lansing?” Johnny repeated his question.

  He couldn’t see her clearly in the dim light of the car, but he could feel her tension. “What do you mean?”

  “He said you were with him tonight when he got called about the fight.”

  Cassie cleared her throat. “We were at the same party.”

  “Party?”

  “A teacher get-together at Zoe’s.”

  “Oh, sounds like fun.” Johnny’s sarcasm lightened the mood. “I hope Bosco wasn’t there, at least.”

  “Bosco doesn’t socialize.”

  Johnny studied her. “You should have somebody in your life, Cassie. Just not Lansing.”

  “My social life isn’t the issue here. Your future is.”

  God, he hated it when she pulled the teacher routine on him. “Oh, excuse me. I forget. You’re the teacher, I’m the kid.” He reached for the door handle. She grabbed his arm. Her grip was firm, but it wasn’t what held him back. Her emotional pull on him always kept him from fleeing from her.

  “Johnny.”

  He waited.

  “I am your teacher, and I have a right to guide you, to try to help you.”

  Staring ahead, he willed himself not to be grateful that she felt responsible for him. Not to count on it.

  “But I care about you as a person, too. As your friend. You know how much you mean to me.”

  He slumped against the front seat, feeling like he was ten again.

  “Please,” she begged. “Don’t shut me out. I can’t bear the thought of you going back to the gang.”

  In spite of his resolve, the words tumbled out of Johnny’s mouth. “I feel good at school. It’s the only place I feel good anymore after losing my job at the hospital. Lansing took that away and now he’s taking school away.” He willed back the moisture from his eyes and turned to look at her. Her face was drawn tight with worry. “And tonight made me think maybe he could take you away, too. You know, turn you against me. All I’d have left then is Zorro and the Blisters.”

  She reached over and hugged him. It was a sisterly gesture, one she did infrequently, but it felt so good he wanted to lean into it. For a minute, he did.

  “I won’t let anyone turn me against you, Johnny. I promise. But I’m afraid you’ll let the gang turn you against me. And everything else that’s good in your life.”

  He drew strength from her closeness, then pulled back. “That won’t happen.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay. Go get some sleep.”

  He looked at her, cursing the fact that he needed her—wanted her—to help him.

  And thanking God that she, at least, was there for him.

  * * *

  Cassie lay back against the cast iron of the old claw-footed tub and submerged her head under the water. Soothing heat took away the January chill. Surfacing, she slicked back her hair and closed her eyes. What a night. First, all that stuff with Lansing. Then Johnny.

  Shivering at the thought that the Blisters had come to Pepper’s, she reached for the hot water faucet in an attempt to escape the icy fear that gripped her at the thought of the gang on Johnny’s turf.

  Needing diversion, she tried to clear her mind and think about school. It didn’t work. Instead, she saw Mitch Lansing’s green eyes, full of wary need as he confided in her at Zoe’s party. She felt again the rough touch of his hand when he tucked her hair behind her ear, the weight of his jacket on her shoulders, the smell of him enveloping her.

  “Damn,” she muttered, and dunked her head back under. It didn’t stop the images. She still felt that helpless reaction of her body to his maleness.

  Maybe it was a good thing he’d pulled his Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde routine when the call came from the station. He had an effect on her that she hadn’t expected and therefore hadn’t resisted strongly enough. It wasn’t all physical, either, though that was a good part of it.

  The ringing phone interrupted her reflection. She wouldn’t answer it. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. The machine could pick it up. Despite her lecture to herself, she climbed out of the tub, grabbed a thick towel from the rack and a terry robe from the hook on the back of the door and padded to her bedroom without drying off. She wrapped her hair in the towel on the way and hastily donned the robe, then she picked up the receiver.

  “Cassie? This is Seth.”

  He’d heard already. “Hi. Who called you?”r />
  “Hal Stonehouse. He didn’t have all the details, though. What happened?”

  Closing her eyes, she repeated the story to her principal.

  “Hal said they weren’t arrested.”

  “That’s right. The fight was provoked by the townies that they beat at pool. Apparently, the cops hauled in the kids because they were underage and because he suspected some drug abuse.”

  “Were they using?”

  “Johnny wasn’t. I didn’t get to see DeFazio. Why don’t you call Lansing, since you were so hot on having him work in our building.” She regretted her words almost immediately. “I’m sorry, Seth. I didn’t mean to attack you. This thing with Lansing has been tough.”

  “I know, Cass. I wish I could make it better.”

  She chuckled. “You used to say that to me when I was in your class.”

  He laughed.

  “You do, you know.”

  “I do what?”

  “Make it better.”

  “Yeah, well, only you can cooperate with Captain Lansing to make it really better.”

  “Oh, Seth. I don’t know. After tonight.” Especially after tonight.

  “Try.” He hesitated, and she knew what was coming. He rarely asked for anything. “I want you to try, as a favor to me.”

  “You’re so transparent sometimes,” she said with long-standing affection. The doorbell rang. “Listen, someone’s at the door. I’ve got to answer it.”

  “Cassie?”

  “All right. I’ll try harder with Lansing.”

  “Thanks. And check to see who’s at the door before you open it.”

  “Yes, Mr. T. I’ll see you Monday.”

  As she headed downstairs, Cassie thought it was probably Zoe spontaneously visiting her. She did that once in a while, and Cassie was grateful for the company.

  But through the peephole she saw massive shoulders encased in dark wool. And the unmistakable frame of Mitch Lansing.

  Opening the door, she shivered with the blast of frigid air.

  Her physical discomfort diluted her surprise. “What do you want?”

  He scanned her from head to toe, his eyes turning as dark as the forest at midnight. “I want to talk to you. Let me in before you freeze to death.”

  She was about to object to his peremptory tone when she remembered her promise to Seth just minutes ago. She said nothing until he was inside and the door was closed. To get a grip on her irritation, she excused herself to dress and flew up the stairs. As she donned an old mismatched sweatshirt and pants, she tried to quell her reaction to having him in her house.