Bayview Heights Trilogy (7 page)

“You don’t like me much, do you,” he finally
said.

She shook her head. “It’s not that. We’re
just very different.”

Still facing away from her, he said, “Yes, we
are. Then we had that problem with Johnny.” She just nodded. “And I
know you don’t like cops.”

“How do you know that?”

His grin was wry. “You’re a pretty easy book
to read, Ms. Smith.” She smiled. “Why?”

Distracted by his sexy stare, she asked, “Why
what?”

“Why don’t you like cops?”

To Cassie’s surprise, the words just spilled
out. “When I was eleven, I got caught by a cop for shoplifting a
candy bar from Miller’s Groceries. At thirteen, I was nabbed by one
for spray-painting graffiti on the outside of the middle school. A
patrolman picked me up drunk on the reservoir once when I was
fifteen. And a year later, I was found with marijuana at school in
a surprise search conducted by the local officials.”

He was so still, it was eerie. His eyes
studied her face. “That’s not all of it, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“All those cops were just doing their jobs.
You’re a fair person. Something else happened with the police
force, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t anything traumatic. But there are
bad cops out there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.” She
looked up at him, his chiseled features standing out against the
backdrop of the bay. “Can I ask
you
something?”

“You can ask.”

“I get the impression you don’t really want
to be working with my class. Why are you?”

Mitch shifted uneasily. This woman knew how
to keep him off balance. It was bad enough that she’d felt good in
his hands when he’d given her his jacket, that she looked utterly
lovely with her hair peeking out of her braid and her gray-blue
eyes shining. Then she’d shared a confidence that she could have
kept to herself. Now she was asking him to share his feelings—why
he was working with kids. “Because I owe Hal Stonehouse. I was sick
of the city, and when he asked me to come out here, I came on a
lateral transfer.”

“You agreed to work in the school?”

“No, I thought I’d be doing other things. Do
you remember when the young police officer got caught in a random
drive-by shooting?”

“Yes.”

“He was the one assigned to do this job. Hal
felt responsible for what happened to Gifford. Then when there was
no one to fill this position, I agreed to do it.” He turned to face
her, not sure why he was sharing so much. Maybe because she had.
The twilight from outside was filtering into the dim room,
softening her features. He didn’t see the angles today. Just the
curves. The feminine curves that were too well outlined in that
damn red T-shirt and those jeans that made her legs look a mile
long.

“You don’t enjoy working with the kids,
though, do you, Captain?”

He looked down at her. When she’d turned, a
lock of hair had fallen on her cheek. He raised his hand to tuck it
behind her ear. He said, “My name’s Mitch.”

“What?” Cassie had gone very still.

“My name is Mitch,” he repeated. “Say it.
Just once.” His voice, usually so controlled and somewhat harsh,
sounded like a stranger’s—soft, in-bed coaxing.

“Mitch.”

He didn’t take his hand away. Instead, he
rested it briefly on her neck. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it
Cassandra?”

Her eyes widened at his use of her full name.
This close, he could see a few freckles on the bridge of her nose.
It gave her an unexpected vulnerability again. Some primitive male
instinct yearned to protect her. Because Mitch knew the raw danger
of those instincts, he removed his hand and turned away.

She said nothing for a minute, then asked
again, “The kids, Mitch. Why don’t you like working with them?”

He thought of Som Choumpa. She reminded him
of the Vietnamese civilians he’d encountered. Damn, he didn’t want
to remember this. He’d been pretty successful at keeping the war
memories at bay. But tonight he recalled too much. Vietnam—a
beautiful country. A deadly one. He remembered vividly both sides
of it. The earthy smell of the lush jungle, as well as the stench
of burning flesh. And—for the first time in his life—he wished he
could share his memories with someone. With someone who understood
pain and loss and helplessness. He glanced over at Cassie Smith,
standing there wrapped up in his jacket, invitation and something
else in her sultry eyes. Did she know those grim, lonely feelings
that ambushed you when you least expected them?

“Excuse me,” Zoe said from behind them. She
held a cordless phone in her hand. “It’s for you, Mitch. It’s the
department.”

Glad for the reprieve, Mitch took the phone
from Zoe. “Lansing.”

“Mitch, it’s Hal. We’ve got a couple of your
kids down here.”

“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.”

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 tactics, 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.