"Doc Cass, Doc Cass!" A shout accompanied by pounding footsteps came from the alleyway between the vacant warehouses across the street.
Tagger emerged from the shadows, panting, clutching his side as he ran across the street and into the parking lot. The eleven-year-old wore ragged jeans two sizes too big, sneakers decorated in a rainbow of color, a torn Steelers T-shirt, and his ever-present black ball cap. "Come quick," he said, grabbing onto her hand. "She's having a baby. Come on, now."
"Who's having a baby? Where?" she asked, extracting her hand from his. She moved to her car a few feet away and grabbed her daypack from the trunk.
He jerked his head. "Over in the Spookhouse. You know, the burnt one, where the Rippers hang out, get high."
"What were you doing in Ripper territory?" Tammy asked. Tagger's brother had been the leader of the Garfield Gangstas, archrivals to the Ruby Avenue Rippers.
He gave a rebellious one shouldered shrug. "Just doing my art, s'all."
"Show me," Cassie said, spinning away from the Center. "Tammy, call the paramedics."
"You're not going over there," Tammy protested.
"Don't worry," Tagger said, tugging Cassie's hand. "I'm with her."
"Wait for Tony, at least."
"He can meet us there." Cassie and Tagger sprinted across the cul-de-sac and between the buildings, a short cut over to Ruby Avenue, two blocks away.
"Hurry," Tagger cried out, yanking on her hand as she stumbled over torn up pavement. "She's dying in there!"
CHAPTER 4
"Tell me what happened." Drake took the seat beside the victim at the small table in the interview room of the Major Crimes Squad.
She pushed her long, straight hair from her eyes and looked up at him. Then she started to cry.
Aw hell. He hated it when they cried.
"It's okay. Just take your time." He looked around for the box of tissues. Missing in action. Damn it, where was Jimmy when he needed him?
She found her own Kleenex and was blowing her nose when Drake's partner, Jimmy Dolan, entered the room balancing three coffees between his large hands. Jimmy set a cup before the victim, then gave Drake one. Drake rolled his eyes as Jimmy took two packets of sugar and carefully stirred them into the victim's coffee.
"Two sugars, right, Ms. Burns?" Jimmy said soothingly. The victim nodded her thanks. Her name was Monica Burns. She was twenty-four and scared to death.
"I'm sorry," she sniffed. "It just hit me, that man—he was in my house while I slept, anything could have happened—"
"Yes ma'am," Drake tried to sound sympathetic. It was hard though, especially since Burns kept whipping her hair back and looking at him, like she expected more from him. Some miracle CSI magic like on TV. But he just couldn't muster the energy to do more than be annoyed. Not today.
The only reason Robbery dropped the case onto Drake and Jimmy was Burns had complained about their handling of her case and requested Jimmy. So the powers-that-be tapped Major Crimes to play diplomats. Still made it a dump. The lady said only a few pieces of inexpensive jewelry were taken. But the value of what was stolen seldom mattered if you were the victim.
He could deal with all of this a hell of lot better if it wasn't the hottest day of the year and if the air conditioning was working properly and if there was a snowball's chance in hell they were ever gonna solve this case. The boys at Robbery knew that when they gave it to them—which really made him just so happy to be sitting here with this crying lady in a room the size of a closet with sweat pouring from him.
But Mr. Niceguy, Jimmy, ate it up. Enjoyed Drake's torment. If Drake's hands were large enough to fit around Jimmy's former-Marine bull neck, he'd throttle him right here and now, witness and paperwork notwithstanding.
Jimmy sat down across from Drake and smiled as he sipped his coffee. "You feeling better, Ms. Burns?"
"Yes, thank you." She answered Jimmy, but her eyes stayed on Drake. Large doe eyes in a pale face, hair a shade of blonde not quite found in nature.
"Why don't you tell us what happened," Jimmy continued.
"I don't know where to start—" Her eyes darted around the room, looking for a means of escape.
They all got that look sooner or later, Drake had noticed during his five years as a detective. No one liked telling their story to the cops—not the victims, not the witnesses, and certainly not the criminals. Today he heartily sympathized with Monica Burns. He too wanted for this to be over with so that he could get out of this room, out of the station house, out of this city.
"Start at the beginning," Drake prompted her. "When did you first notice the items were missing?"
Burns shook her long hair out of her face again. Drake wondered how hot and heavy all that hair must feel on a day like this. The heat didn't seem to bother Burns, in fact she was dressed in a black T-shirt and black jeans. If you passed her in the street you would take her for a starving artist with her pale complexion and hollow cheeks.
"When did I notice them missing? This morning," she answered.
Come on lady. Don't make me work for this. "And did you notice anything unusual last night?"
She hesitated then shook her head no. Drake cut his eyes at Jimmy and passed the ball to his partner.
"What kind of security do you have?" Jimmy asked.
"It's a house converted to apartments. There's a lock on the main doors and one on my door. But, with the heat–"
"You've been keeping the entrance doors open," Jimmy supplied. It was a common practice in the older buildings that lacked central air. She nodded. "And your own door, was that locked last night?"
Drake was continually amazed by how many urbanites forgot something so simple as turning their dead bolt. These were the same people who often decried the police for their inability to protect the public.
"I'm sorry, I just can't remember. I might have forgotten it. I know I didn't put the chain on because I never do." She said the last as if they should reward her for her excellent memory.
Drake had enough. This wasn't getting them anywhere. "Thanks a lot, Ms. Burns. Listen, why don't you work on making us a list of what was stolen. Try to be as detailed as possible." He motioned to Jimmy, and they went out into the hallway, leaving their victim to puzzle over the paperwork.
"Jeez, what a dump," Drake sighed when they were back at their desks.
"DJ, will you just chill out?" Jimmy said. Most cops called Drake DJ–or Drake Junior—since he'd joined the force while his father was still alive and on the job. "What's going on with you today? I know you're anxious to get out of here, but—"
"It's this heat, I can't stand it."
"Yeah, I don't remember it being this hot last July—" Jimmy paused and looked at Drake. "It was this time last year that Pamela killed herself, wasn't it?"
"I'm fine," Drake snapped at his partner.
Another of the detectives, Janet Kwon, handed a stack of case files to Jimmy. "He PMSing or what?" She gestured at Drake.
"Just in dire need of a vacation," Jimmy answered as Drake snatched the files from his partner.
"But I'll settle for a weekend off if everybody gets off of my back. Shit, are these all of the BE's and burglaries from the zone?" Drake leafed through the case files.
"That's just the last thirty days," Kwon supplied helpfully. Drake groaned. "What's so special about this weekend, anyway? You have something planned?"
"He's taking Hart to the Lake. With the family." Jimmy propped himself on the edge of Drake's desk.
Kwon whistled. "Sounds like lover boy's getting serious about this one."
"Yeah," Jimmy replied, reaching over to lift a framed photo of Hart from the desk. "First time I've ever seen him bring a picture of a girlfriend in here." They both turned to stare at Drake as if he were a zoo specimen.
"You two want to move this coffee klatch somewhere besides my desk?" Drake asked, snatching the photo from Jimmy. It was taken after Hart passed her brown belt test last month. She was dressed in a white
gi
, dark hair matted with sweat but her smile was wide and her eyes flashed her triumph at the camera. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm trying to work here."
"Well, excuse the hell out of me," Kwon said. "I was going to offer to go through those files, but—"
"Thanks Janet." Drake shoved the files back at her before she could say anything more.
"Why don't we get Ms. Burns to sign her statement? Then we can go check out her building."
That suited Drake. "Let's put this baby to rest for the weekend and pick it up again on Monday. It's not like there'll be anything happening over the weekend, not on a dump case like this one."
CHAPTER 5
The Spookhouse, as Tagger called it, was a three-story half-burned derelict yellow-brick apartment building that had been on the city's demolition list for several years. The Stackhouse Apartments' fire had polarized the city, almost started a race riot. Seven people lost their lives, five of them young children. Residents blamed the City for not enforcing housing code violations, the fire department for not responding fast enough, and the police for blocking civilian efforts to rescue the trapped children.
Few mentioned the Garfield Gangstas, the Black Gangster Disciple Gang that had cordoned off the area with abandoned vehicles to block emergency response units and who began the fire in retaliation for the drive-by shooting of one of their members. Fewer still mentioned the Ruby Avenue Rippers whose turf included the Stackhouse and whose members raced from the fire, abandoning their families to the inferno.
Cassie pulled up short before they exited the cover of the alley, pulling at Tagger's shirt collar to halt him. Across the street was the Stackhouse. Its windows boarded over, covered by gang graffiti, its front door totally gone, giving it the appearance of a gape-toothed jack-o-lantern. Beyond the front entrance lay an impenetrable darkness.
What pregnant woman in her right mind would pick that building to crawl inside to have her child? Cassie shuddered and turned her attention to the group of young men milling in the alleyway beside the building, tossing coins against the wall, hip-hop music reverberating from the brick walls.
Ripper territory. She glanced down at Tagger. He was wearing a black ball cap with the GG's insignia. She yanked it off, shoved it into her pack.
"Hey! That's my pride, you don't mess with that." He gave her a squinty look as if he were a whole lot meaner than she knew he was.
"Right now your only job is to get that girl safely out of there. Don't give me any grief or I'll find your auntie and tell her you've been playing wannabee with the Gangstas."
He huffed, squared off his shoulders. "Don't you diss my boys. My brother died a G."
"Yeah, at the ripe old age of eighteen. Let's try to beat his record, okay?"
She didn't wait for the pre-teen's answer. She grabbed his arm and pulled him along the empty storefronts until they were out of sight of the alley. No obvious watchers, but she knew they were there, somewhere. A white woman with a black kid would stand out. Sooner or later, the Rippers would know she and Tagger had come calling.
If they caught him and he started mouthing off about the Gangstas...
"Go back to the Center," she told him. "Tell Tammy to call the ambulance again."
"No. You'll never find her in there. Not without me, you won't." He hauled her across the street and up the steps to the Stackhouse's front entrance. "Don't worry none about the Rippers," he said once they were inside what used to be the foyer, waiting as she grabbed a Maglite from her pack. "They're all a bunch of punks."
Out of the mouth of babes. She only hoped Tagger never learned how deadly punks could be. Then she remembered his older brother and knew he already had.
Gloom engulfed them in a claustrophobic embrace. Tagger gripped her wrist as she flicked the flashlight on. The narrow beam illuminated an alien landscape, reflecting off garish fluorescent graffiti, the gleam of crack pipes, and abandoned bottles of cheap booze and forty-cans. That was all she could see before the charred remains of furniture and drywall swallowed the beam of light whole.
She shuffled her feet over used condoms and other debris. The stench of urine, vomit, sex, and rotten food mingled with the wet, stifling smell of burnt plastic and decaying wood. Each breath brought with it a new and unwanted odor. Cassie waved her hand before her face as if she could brush away the stench clinging to her like cobwebs.
"This way," Tagger said, moving past a half-charred sofa dumped in the foyer like it was a dentist's office waiting room. He ducked his head under a fallen piece of drywall.
Her foot crunched down on a child's plastic doll. Not singed by fire, relatively new. As if this burned out crack den was their playground. The realization pricked at the back of her eyes. Tagger's unique graffiti splattered over the walls, psychedelic sunflowers and neon star-filled skies reminiscent of Van Gogh, a bright ray of hope in an otherwise godforsaken cavern of despair.
He led her through a maze of charred timbers, walking through the walls of the apartments, stepping over melted baby toys, appliances and unidentifiable objects, grazing against fried wiring and broken pipes that gleamed in the dark like goblin's teeth and barked her shins when she wasn't careful.
"The hallway's blocked, ceiling collapsed," he answered her unasked question. "Whole other side of the building is lots worse than this—couldn't make it more than a few steps over there."
Cassie had somehow gotten used to the stench and bizarre sights, was even able to ignore the sensation that the walls and ceiling were about to fall in on her, squeeze all the air from her body, abandon her in the blackness. Then she saw where Tagger led next.
"C'mon," he urged when she stopped. "She's down here."
Oh no, no, no.
She shook her head, words failing her as her breath caught in her throat. He couldn't be serious. No way.