BETRAYED
"Betrayed", rated PG. Peter Caine investigates the murders of several young women. He soon realizes that each of these victims had known her killer. Their final moments of betrayal force Peter to face his own demons.
Featuring: Peter Caine, Kwai Chang Caine, Paul Blaisdell, Chief Strenlich, Nicky Elder, Kermit Griffin, Jody Powell, Kelly Blake, Terry (the bartender), newswoman Sandra Mason, and Mary Margaret Skalany.
Setting: This story takes place during the second season of "KF:TLC" - just before the episode "Temple".
Length: approximately 15 pages, divided into 10 chapters.
PRELUDE
___________________The young blonde left Riverside University Library hugging a heavy stack of books. One more night of research and she'd be ready to write that term paper, she thought. She cut through a narrow side road, a path she traveled several times each day from her apartment to the college. She'd traveled it late at night many times also, but tonight she felt uneasy. She slowed, stopped, and looked into the darkness around her.
Just my imagination, she told herself, and continued walking. Her heart beat faster. Her palms began to sweat. This is silly, she thought. Yeah, it probably wasn't wise to walk alone at night. Every once in awhile she'd hear about a rape on campus, but most campus violence was date rape, not random. Then she remembered the young women who had been murdered over the past two months. But that was in the city, she reassured herself, not on campus. The university was a world all to itself- a haven for youth. The city was different.
At that moment she heard a noise; at least she thought she did. She quickened her pace almost to a run, glanced behind her, then felt pain as her body collided against something hard. "Oh, thank God, it's you!" she said to the person standing before her. "You scared me half to death."
In the morning, a trash collector would find her. Her neck slashed.
1
__________________________________"Yes, Commissioner. I understand." Paul Blaisdell hunched over his desk, rested his right elbow, and rubbed his aching temples with his free hand. He was feeling the pressure even before this phone call. "Yes, I read the headlines this morning." He opened the folded newspaper on his desk. YOUNG WOMAN SLAIN, FIFTH VICTIM OF SERIAL KILLER. The Captain sighed. He only half listened to the ranting that blared through the phone's receiver. INVESTIGATION STALLED, INSIDE SOURCES SAY. He'd put this decision off, hoping Nichols would make a breakthrough soon. It always created bad blood when the lead detective was dismissed from a high profile case and replaced. This time the bad blood would surely flow twice as deep, because he could think of only one homicide detective who could pull Nichol's case out of the toilet… Peter Caine.
The squad room of the 101st precinct was busy, as usual. Several telephones went unanswered. Detectives typed rigorously before computer screens. Uniformed police officers herded a collection of hookers to be booked. The working girls were not going peaceably.
The door labeled "Captain P. Blaisdell" opened. "Anybody seen Peter?" the Captain asked the room.
"He's following a lead on the Davis murder," a hefty man with a military crew cut said. "He's been gone about an hour."
"Tell him I want to see him when he gets back, Chief," The Captain's eyes narrowed on the profile of a balding, middle aged man staring at a computer screen. "Detective Nichols, may I see you in my office, please?" The Captain allowed the man to enter, then shut the door behind them.
Chief Strenlich continued to stare even after the blinds to the Captain's office closed tight. It didn't take a genius to figure out which way the wind was blowing. Strenlich made a mental note: make sure Nichols' files on the serial killings get to Peter's desk without delay. He could imagine a disgruntled Nichols "inadvertently" striking the delete key. Back to square one.
2
_________________________________Peter Caine spread several murder scene photos across his bed. He'd known this was going to be a late night. Tying up loose ends on the Davis murder- there ought to be enough evidence to get a warrant for the killer's arrest tomorrow- and being made the detective of record on the serial killer case, meant several more days… and nights running on empty.
"This isn't going to make you very popular with the older rank and file, Peter, but you're the best homicide detective I have," Paul had said when he assigned Nichols' case to Peter that afternoon.
"You really are going to have to stop playing favorites, Paul," Peter replied sarcastically, "before it kills me. You'd think people could stop murdering one another long enough to give a guy one good night's rest."
Paul hesitated. To make sure that he had his foster son's full attention, he moved close and looked intently into the young man's hazel eyes,
"I want this case solved, Peter, yesterday."
Peter sighed and took another swallow of caffeine. "And they say I'm impatient!" He'd spent the last four hours studying Nichols' files on the serial killings, and he'd probably spend a couple more studying these photographs.
"No wonder you have nightmares, my son."
Peter jumped and grabbed his chest. "God, Pop, don't sneak up on me like that!"
Kwai Chang Caine shrugged, then smiled. Anyone who didn't know better would think that the man in his early fifties was a homeless vagabond. His clothes were tan rags. He wore sandals on his feet. And his graying hair reached his shoulders.
"I know. I know." Peter's voice took on mock solemnness, "Do you hear the grasshopper at your feet?" He placed a balled fist into the palm of his hand and bowed. "You're the Shaolin priest, Pop. I'm just a cop…an overworked one….at least knock occasionally, okay?"
Caine shrugged again. "If you wish."
"I wish," Peter echoed.
"I have not seen you in quite some time, Peter. I was concerned."
"It's the peak murder season, Pop." Caine glared disapprovingly. "Dad." Peter smiled. "I haven't had time for anyone but corpses and killers."
"Stimulating company, I am sure."
Peter laughed. He liked his father's dry sense of humor. When they were first reunited, Peter thought, fifteen years of wandering seemed to have stolen that. It felt good to hear it back. Peter hoped that he was the reason it had returned.
"Look, P-Dad, It's good to see you, … but I've got to get back to work. There's a killer out there, and I've got to stop him before he kills again."
Caine walked closer and looked at the pictures scattered over his son's bed. He winced and quickly looked away. "One who kills so brutally, who preys upon the young, the beautiful, this is one who savors the venom of power. He kills to control."
Peter looked down at the pictures, then up at his father. "Not again. Not if I can help it."
Caine nodded. "I will leave you to your work, my son."
"Bye, Pop." Peter focused again on the pictures. Yes, this killer had been brutal, but quick. There were no signs of a struggle. Either the victims each knew her killer, or he was just so big and strong they couldn't resist him…or both. Nicky Elder, the coroner, had said that the angle at which the knife slit through the necks of the girls was sharp and upward, indicating a very tall man. "Five young women," Peter spoke to the air, "all early to mid twenties, all blonde, all beautiful. One a college student, one a hairdresser, one a singer, two waitresses. They didn't know each other." Peter shook his head. So, what was the link? How did the killer know them? Was he just a predator, hunting a physical type?
There was a knock at the door.
Peter rose and entered the hallway. "Pop?" When he opened the door, a young woman wearing a tight black dress and holding a bottle of wine stood before him.
"Definitely not," the pretty brunette teased.
"Kelly."
"All work and no play…tsk, tsk, tsk."
"I know, Kelly, and no one would rather play more than I would, " he started to reconsider what he was about to say, "but…but I've still got a lot of work to do, and I'm dog tired. If I'm going to do anything, it's straight to bed."
"My thoughts exactly!" Kelly grabbed the handsome man by the collar and pulled him toward the bedroom.
"No, Kelly, really. I've got to get some sleep. I've been awake for 36 hours straight!"
Kelly unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor, revealing a beautiful, nude, curved body.
"What's another hour or two?" The detective unbuttoned his shirt. I'm easy, he thought.
During the night, Peter began to toss and turn in his sleep. Kelly slept soundly next to him. She'd grown so accustomed to his restlessness, that he rarely woke her anymore.
The same, familiar nightmares tortured Peter's mind: Master Dow at the temple, his eyes full of hate whenever he observed the two Caines. The fire- his father had turned away from his cries, hadn't he? Master Ping Hi sat with twelve year old Peter at his father's grave, "There is nothing either of us can do," the old one told him. "You must accept your destiny."
"Lies," the young man cried out. "All lies."
He saw himself as a boy, asleep at the temple. "It's those you trust who betray you," screamed the dragons beneath his bed.
"No!" The man tossed onto his back; his long, muscular body glistened. "No! Father!"
Then new images invaded his dreams. A pretty, young blonde. He knew her, didn't he? "Oh, thank God, it's you!" she said. "You scared me half to death!" Another girl, another blonde, but this one he didn't know. "Will you come home with me? Serenade me through the night?" she smiled, but her pretty, dimpled smile contorted into a look of disbelief, of terror, and then she screamed. Peter saw her kick, punch, and gouge at her attacker. Something metal flew through the air. A few seconds later the girl lay still, blood swirling in pools down her body. "No!" Peter screamed and sat up in his bed. His brown hair was saturated in sweat. His pulse beat loudly in his ears. Kelly moaned and turned over, never fully waking. "No." Peter said again, this time in a whisper.
3
________________________________It was not yet sunrise, but the flurry of uniformed police officers, detectives, and forensic assistants could see the object of their work well enough. Crime scene tape had already been set in place, as well as ample security to keep the media frenzy now accumulating far from the body. They wouldn't be able to get pictures even with the best telephoto lens money could buy.
The media murmuring began. "Is this another victim of the serial killer?" Sandra Mason from channel 3 news shouted at Captain Paul Blaisdell as he walked too close to the media assortment. "The public has a right to know, Captain," she continued when the tall, sixty-ish man wearing the gray suit- the man whose authoritative aura commanded respect- ignored her. He was giving the uniformed officers orders regarding media and crowd control.
"Is it true that the investigation to date has offered no tangible leads?" The Captain returned to the corpse without giving Sandra Mason the slightest recognition; although, he had clearly heard her. He thought of the media as pit bulls, waiting to sink their teeth in your rear until they drew blood. They were always a hindrance to police work.
A navy Stealth squealed to a halt just behind the onlookers. Peter Caine, dressed in a pair of jeans, a white tee shirt, and a blue jean jacket, stepped out and pushed his way through the crowd to Officer Potts, "keeper of the gate."
"Detective Caine! Why were you assigned to the serial murder case? Is it because the investigation up to now has made little progress?" Sandra rushed toward the detective even as she spouted the questions- microphone in hand, a cameraman close at her heels. Sandra prided herself on being the best. She had her own informants, and it hadn't taken long for a bitter Nichols to voice his anger and resentment. Cops were predictable. Most hung out at The Agripa Club after hours. A few drinks and Nichols' mouth was loose as a goose, full of insults for "Blaisdell's boy".
"Blaisdell will do anything to make his golden boy shine," Nichols had complained. "It doesn't matter who he has to step on either. I do all the legwork…" Nichols took another swig of comfort. "Then Blaisdell pulls me off the case and brings in the brat to steal all the glory." The handful of cops who listened to Nichol's story nodded sympathetically and voiced their own gripes.
If the truth were told, however, each man would confess that he felt threatened by the young, hot shot cop. Peter Caine's record- the stories that had become legendary from being so often shared- made their own feelings of inadequacy rise to the surface. Many men fear failure, but few wanted to face those demons. Kwai Chang Caine had sensed this many times. Most men preferred to project their hostility onto others rather than to embrace the truth.
"Are you any closer to naming a suspect, Detective?" The newswoman and her entourage blocked Peter. "Why won't the police talk to the media, sir? What do they have to hide?"
"Nothing." Peter's tone revealed his aggravation at having been cornered. "We simply are not prepared to reveal facts at this time that could hamper our investigation. If you'll excuse me, I have work to do." Potts grabbed Sandra Mason by the arm and gently pulled her out of Peter's path.
"Any identification, Chief?' Paul Blaisdell asked.
"Yeah. Name's Melissa Jensen, twenty-four year old accountant. She also sang at this nightclub." The Chief looked at the business card, "Shenanigans. I have Skalany contacting next of kin."
"Any idea how long she's been dead?" Captain Blaisdell addressed the man kneeling over the corpse.
"I can't say with any certainty, Captain, until I've done a full autopsy."
"Give me your best guess."
"From the condition of the body, temperature, rigor mortis, I'd say between six to eight hours."
"Sometime between 1100 and 1300 hours," the Captain looked at the office buildings that enclosed the parking lot. "It's unlikely there were any witnesses that late at night." He redirected his attention to Chief Stenlich.
"But have these offices checked out. Maybe someone was burning the midnight oil."
All three men saw Peter Caine walking toward them the same instant.
"Glad you could make it, Detective. Hope we didn't interfere with your beauty sleep," Strenlich said and tapped his watch.
The young man scanned the crime scene. "What's that shiny thing?"
The three men followed his point to some bloody grass a few feet from the girl's body.
Coroner Nicky Elder pushed away the grass with a gloved hand and pulled out something gold. "It's a class ring. Huh, I thought we swept this area clean."
Blaisdell looked at his foster son and shook his head. How does he do that? He wondered.
Elder, a man in his early thirties tried to examine the ring, but it was covered with too much blood. Not that acquiring blood samples was a problem; the scene provided plenty, but you never knew what other trace evidence might be present. It was a man's ring and might belong to the killer. "Look, Pete, I'll examine this at the lab and get back to you, okay?"
Peter simply nodded and crouched next to the victim. She was the girl in his nightmare. He was becoming more Shaolin by the day. That realization both pleased and scared the hell out of him. "Who is she?"
Paul Blaisdell placed his hand on Peter's shoulder. "Melissa Jensen, an accountant."
Peter stood and ran his hand through his hair. "Looks like she put up quite a fight." He indicated the vast area scattered in blood with a sweep of his hand. "Take special care of her fingernails, Nick."
"Yeah." The blond man directed his assistants to remove the body. "She scratched him. I guarantee you not all of this blood is hers."
4
________________________________After Peter was finished at the crime scene, he spent the rest of the day interviewing friends and coworkers of the Jensen girl. They all expressed shock. Some cried. No one at the accounting agency had seen her since five, yesterday afternoon. "Melissa always left her car in the parking lot and walked to Shenanigans," they told him. "The club was a couple blocks away. After sitting all day, she looked forward to the fresh air and exercise." Peter also learned how Melissa had been able to make killing her such a challenge. "Mel was a martial arts student," one friend told him. "She was taking classes from some priest in Chinatown. I don't remember his name though."
Peter's mouth gaped. "That's all right. I'm sure I can find him."
The last person to see Melissa alive was the bartender at the club where she worked. Peter laughed. "Terry, you sure do get around."
"I like to mix things up a bit, Pete. Meet different kinds of people."
"Like Melissa Jensen?"
"She was a sweet lady. I can't imagine why anyone would want to hurt her."
"Well, someone sure did." Peter sat on a barstool. "Did you see anyone leave with her last night?"
"No. Well, it was closing time. Everyone was leaving."
"Could you give me the names of everybody who worked here last night, Terry?"
"Sure, Peter. No problem."
"Did she spend last night talking to anyone in particular?"
"Hmmm, not that I remember. It was like every night. She cut up with the band and a few regulars."
"Good. Give me their names too."
5
_________________________________Peter leaned against the elevator wall. Man, was he bushed. The elevator stopped on every other floor. Darn kids. Peter smiled. Something I would have done. His last stop before he headed home had been the county coroner's office. Melissa's neck was slashed, just like the others, but he already knew that. The class ring didn't name a school. It had been custom made. Was it a high school or a college ring? The date placed the killer between 28 and 32 years old. There was an emerald stone in the center. On one side was the date, on the other a musical scale.
Finally, the elevator stopped on the 14th floor. When Peter inserted his apartment key, the door swung opened. Peter reached for his gun and held it close to his chest. Several lights were on. He kicked open his bedroom door and dashed inside, keeping his back to the wall. His dresser drawers were out, his belongings strewn all over the room. Peter checked the bathroom. There, too, he found drawers and cabinets open. The exact moment that Peter sensed his presence, the intruder slapped the gun out of his hand and bolted.
Peter tore after him. He grabbed the guy by the shoulder as he entered the hallway. The intruder turned and threw a punch, which Peter blocked and exchanged for one of his own in the man's gut.
Peter hadn't realized that there was more than one intruder until a vase crashed over his head. He saw black and fell to the floor. The first man kicked Peter in the side, drew back and swung to do it again, but his foot was forced upward, and the middle-aged man found himself flat on his back instead. The other man swung at Kwai Chang Caine, only to have the pain rush over his own body as Caine kicked him over the couch. Peter stood, holding his side. The middle-aged man with the high tech shoes had also just stood. Peter spun and kicked him in the face. Now, both intruders lay unconscious.
"Pop, what are you doing here? Nope," he slashed his hand through the air as if canceling the thought. "Never mind. Perfect timing, Dad, as always."
Peter turned the unconscious man onto his back and pulled off the hose that had distorted his face. It was Detective Ben Nichols. "What?"
"I believe it is called…sour grapes?" Kwai Chang Caine offered.
"You mean because I'm stealing his thunder on the serial murder case?"
Kwai Chang nodded.
Peter checked the other man. This guy he didn't know- probably a friend of Nichols. "Were they just trashing my apartment, or were they looking for something?" Peter asked.
Kwai Chang Caine shrugged. "I do not know."
Peter's cop instincts told him that they were looking for something.
"I'm sure glad you showed up, Pop. I'm fond of my ribs."
"I sensed you needed…back up. Anyway, That is not the only reason why I am here. There is something more important."
"More important than keeping me out of intensive care?" Peter's hands rested on his hips.
Caine smiled. "You would have survived."
"Great," Peter responded sarcastically.
A few moments of silence passed as the two men stared at each other.
"So?" Peter rolled circles in the air with his hand to indicate impatience.
"Ah. I believe that you are investigating the murder of one of my students, Melissa Jensen."
"Yes," Peter's tone softened. "I'm sorry, Dad. If it's any consolation, she put up one helluva fight. We've got enough forensic evidence to put the creep away…once we catch him, that is. You don't happen to know where I could find him, do you?"
"I do not." Caine replied. "Is that not your job?"
Peter laughed. "Yes. But with your superman Shaolin skills, I thought maybe you could save me the trouble."
Caine gave Peter a reproving look. "I can not."
Peter stepped over Nichols and shut the front door, then he returned to the living room and sat on the sofa. Caine followed. "I've got age, build. I know that the killer's into music. …I know that he was a close friend of the victims."
"How do you know that?" Caine asked. He sensed a disturbance in his son's spirit.
"Instinct."
"Ah." Caine knew that there was more but decided to drop the subject for now. His son would confide in him when he was ready.
"I've got a list of the people who were close to Melissa at the club the night she was killed. Kermit took pity on me and offered to run the names through the computer tonight. I don't think Kermit sleeps anyhow… I know that Melissa inflicted enough grief to leave the killer several scratches and bruises to remember her. … Jody is re-interviewing family and friends of the other victims." Peter turned his head toward Nichols, who still laid unconscious, and yelled, "Since Nichols here did such a lousy job of it the first time! … That about covers it so far, Dad. We haven't found a link yet, but tomorrow's another day."
"May I … ride with you tomorrow as you search for this predator?" Kwai Chang asked. "I feel …responsible. Melissa was my student."
"You couldn't have known what was going to happen, Pop."
"I should have."
Several moments of silence passed. "Sure, Dad, tomorrow. Just you and me."
His father smiled. "I would be honored."
6
_________________________________Peter had been relieved; there were no nightmares that night. He was also relieved the next morning to learn that there had been no more serial murders. "Melissa Jensen gave that jerk more than he bargained. He's probably off licking his wounds," Peter told Detective Kermit Griffin.
"Like all mad dogs," Kermit said, still tapping on his computer keyboard.
"Yeah, well, this guy's more like Cujo*." Peter sat on the edge of Kermit's desk.
"Here, this is it!" Kermit tilted the screen to give Peter a better look. "This is murder candidate number one."
"Daryl Kendell," Peter read "29 years old. Graduated from Boldridge University, Bachelor of Arts degree in music. Arrested for breaking and entering, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer, and possession of cocaine. Mmmm, could be our boy."
Kermit took off his green sunglasses, removed a smudge by rubbing it with Peter's blue tee shirt, and placed the glasses back on his nose. Peter watched with an 'I can't believe you just did that' expression.
"Could be," Kermit finally said. He tapped a few more keys and pointed at the screen. "Here's murder candidate number two. Michael Andrews, age 32. Enrolled, but didn't graduate from the University of Arts and Sciences. Arrested for assault on a co-ed, one Miss Caroline Morton. Charges were dropped, and Mr. Andrews got the heck out of Dodge shortly thereafter."
"No other arrests?" Peter asked.
"None that can still tell tales."
Peter understood Kermit's meaning. Juvenile records were often sealed. A kid could have been a little Charlie Manson, but once he reached twenty-one, the record was wiped clean. Maybe Andrews was straight. Or maybe he just got better at not getting caught.
"Okay, Kermit. Thanks. I'll focus on these guys and see what turns up."
"Any time, kid."
Peter turned to see Ben Nichols walk through the squad room. He looked terrible. Paul Blaisdell's voice boomed, "Detective Nichols, in my office, now."
Peter wished he could stay and hear the walls rattle, but there was work to do, crime to fight. He almost felt sorry for Nichols. He'd been on the receiving end of his foster father's wrath many times. Of course Peter had been an adolescent most of those times. He remembered once when Paul had grounded him and taken his car keys away. "For how long?" The sixteen-year-old Peter had whined. "Until you're 30!" The exasperated man barked. It's a good thing Paul couldn't make that one stick. He'd still be hoofing it, the Shaolin way. But Nichols was not a kid. His career was in jeopardy.
"Peter!" Detective Jody Powell, a young woman with wavy blonde hair that complimented her curvy figure, rushed up to the tall, young man. She was half out of breath. "I talked to the college girl's mother. Apparently the girl was seeing an older man, a musician, and her parents didn't approve."
"Did you get a name?" Peter asked impatiently as Jody took off her coat and draped it over her chair.
"Yeah. She didn't know his last name, but she was fairly sure that his first name is Mike."
"Let's go!" Peter ordered over his shoulder as he sprinted out of the room.
Jody rolled her eyes, grabbed her coat, and ran to catch up with him. "Do you think you could slow it down to a canter on occasion, Peter?"
7
_______________________________Michael Andrews was not at his apartment, a run down flat over a small bar and grill. No one the two detectives talked to had seen him.
"Let's see if we've got enough for a search warrant," Peter told his partner.
"I doubt it, Peter," Jody said. "All we have so far is suspicion. We're going to need something more solid before we can do a search."
Peter slammed his hand on top of the Stealth. He knew she was right. Procedure often frustrated him. It wasted precious time, but it had to be followed, most of the time. Peter grinned. "We could do an unofficial search. Maybe get a clue where Andrews has gone?"
"Peter!" Jody gave him a look of resolve that lasted about 10 seconds before it dissolved into compliance. "How are we going to get in, huh? Unless you've got some Shaolin trick your Dad showed ya."
Horror spread across Peter's face, "My dad! I forgot, my dad!"
"Huh?"
"I was suppose to pick him up this morning. He was going to ride with me. The Jensen girl was his student."
"Oh." Jody smiled, but her gaze fixed past Peter's shoulder.
Peter didn't notice. "I'm surprised he hasn't shown up right…"
"Behind you?" Kwai Chang Caine finished.
"Pop!" Peter turned to face his father.
"I gather something came up?" Caine asked.
"Our suspect lives here." Peter indicated the flat. "No one's seen him today, and I want to get in and check if he left any indication where's he's gone."
"I see," Kwai Chang said. "Follow me." He motioned the young detectives to follow with a point and curl of his index finger.
The three walked up a set of wooden, creaky stairs to Andrew's apartment. Kwai Chang Caine placed one hand on the door handle and the thumb of his other hand over the lock.
"This is breaking and entering," Jody complained.
"Not breaking," Peter argued.
"Just entering," Kwai Chang said as the lock turned, and Caine opened the door.
"You gotta teach me how to do that, Pop!"
They entered the musty apartment. It was hardly neat. Newspapers laid over the couch and floor. Dirty dishes lay on a table by the couch, and clothes littered the whole room.
"Don't touch anything," Peter admonished.
"Don't worry!" Jody responded, obviously disgusted by the filth.
Peter walked toward the only other room, a bedroom. If Andrews was the serial killer something here would incriminate him, Peter knew it. Crimes of passion rarely left the trail that premeditated murder did. Real cold-blooded killers liked to fixate on their deeds in a safe place. When Peter entered the bedroom, he had his answer. Ten portraits were pinned to the wall above Andrews' bed. Peter recognized six of them. "Jody!"
Jody ran into the bedroom, but stopped short when she realized why her partner had called her. "Oh, my God!"
The pictures were arranged in the order Andrews had killed them.
Peter unpinned the seventh portrait. "This is his next victim," Peter announced. He felt the panic rise in his stomach. "We have to find her first."
8
_______________________________Paul Blaisdell put an all points bulletin out on Michael Jason Andrews. He also circulated the picture of the unidentified young blonde Peter had given him to several of his best detectives. Paul was slightly ticked at Peter for his breach of procedure, but the reprimand was weak and brief.
"We've got to find him," Peter told the Captain. "Or her."
"Okay." Captain Blaisdell motioned that the meeting was over. "Get moving," He rubbed Peter's shoulder gently when he started for the door.
It was getting late. Peter drove through the city streets, "waiting to get inspired", as his first partner Eppy would say. Kwai Chang Caine sat next to his son and watched him silently.
"What?" Peter demanded.
"I am simply observing your tension, my son. What will you do now?"
Peter raised one shoulder. "I don't know yet. Drive until something occurs to me." His father nodded.
Just then Peter realized that he was approaching Shenanigans, the bar where Melissa Jensen had last been seen alive. "Let's stop here."
The two Caines saw the familiar face and walked up to the bar. "What'll it be, fellows?" Terry asked.
"Whatever's light for me and…water," Peter answered. "Terry, have you seen Michael Andrews lately?"
"No, Pete. He plays a lot of different places: clubs, parties, colleges, high schools, park benches." Terry smiled. "You know how it is? Most musicians are hardly on the road to easy money."
Peter pulled a folded paper from his jacket pocket. "Have you ever seen this girl before?"
Terry took the photocopy from Peter's hand. "Yeah, sure. I think her name's Amber…something."
Peter's eyes widened. "Where? Where do you know her?"
"Um, that new club near the precinct, Chandler's. She's a waitress there. You ought to try that place out, Pete."
"Thanks, Terry. You got a phone I can use?"
Terry pulled a telephone out from under the bar, and Peter dialed the 101st precinct. "Chief! I've got a line on the girl…name's Amber. She's a waitress at Chandler's, the bar at the corner of Maple." Peter paused a few moments while Strenlich gave instructions. "Sure. I'll meet them there."
"Aw, thank-you, Terry." Peter said again. "Thank you." He hung up the phone and turned to leave.
"May I be considered…back-up?" Kwai Chang asked.
"Sure, Pop. Couldn't think of anyone I'd like better. Let's roll."
9
_______________________________Strenlich, Jody, and Skalany had beaten the Caines to Chandler's.
"She just left, Pete," Strenlich said as Peter approached them at the bar.
"Where?"
"No body seems to know. It was the end of her shift."
"Where does she live?" Peter asked impatiently.
"Appleton Heights, 1006 Appleton Drive," Jody said as she joined the group.
"Let's go!" Peter snapped. The other cops trailed after him.
The Stealth stopped in front of a high rise apartment complex, much like the one where Peter lived. Jody and Skalany pulled up behind him. "What floor?" Peter yelled.
"10th," Jody answered as she stepped out of the car and slammed the door.
Peter pressed the accelerator and raced up the Height's parking complex.
A gate appeared, and the Stealth squealed to a halt. Peter flashed his badge at the security guard. "Caine. 101st. On which deck would someone who lives on the 10th park?"
"Parking deck E." The guard opened the gate, and the Stealth roared upward until it reached deck E.
Peter and Caine walked away from the Stealth. Both noticed the quiet. No one else was in sight. Peter checked his watch. It was almost 1 a.m. A scream pierced the silence, and Peter ran- his gun drawn.
Peter ran up on Michael Andrews; the big man's arm squeezed Amber against his chest. His other hand covered her mouth. Then Peter saw the knife.
"All right, Andrews," Peter cautioned. He held up his hand. "It's over. Let the girl go."
Andrews put the knife to Amber's throat, and the girl let out a muffled scream. "Stop right there or I'll cut her! I'll cut her! Put down your gun, slowly."
Peter hesitated. He saw the terror on Amber's face and the determination and panic on Andrews'. The young detective complied, slowly placing his gun on the pavement. He showed the killer his empty hands. "See, I'm harmless. Let's talk this over, Mike."
"Talk what over?" The killer laughed. Andrews pulled the girl with him as he passed Peter, keeping his sights on the detective. "Don't move a muscle, or I'll kill you both," Andrews warned. He made the mistake of pointing the knife at Peter, removing Amber from immediate risk. Peter spun and kicked the knife out of Andrews' hand. The girl fell to the pavement and then half crawled away, screaming.
Peter kicked Andrews again, in the chest, but the big man only stumbled back a couple feet. He came back, pushing Peter hard against the concrete wall. Peter hit his head, disoriented long enough for Michael Andrews to grab his knife off the floor and swing back to stab Peter. Kwai Chang Caine, who seemed to come from nowhere, took Andrews' offending arm and held it firm while pinching Andrews' neck. The big man crumpled to the floor.
"Way to go, Pop," Peter said. "You gotta teach me how to do that."
Strenlich and the other cops ran into the parking deck to witness
Amber sobbing in a corner, Andrews unconscious on the pavement, and Kwai Chang Caine playfully punch his son across the chin.
10 CONCLUSION
_______________________________"Pop, ya here?"
Kwai Chang Caine continued to play his flute. Of course Peter knew that he was here. That greeting had become as automatic for Peter as "hello" whenever he entered his father's flat.
"Hi." Peter walked onto the balcony and stood next to the elder Caine. "Did you see our names in the paper? And we made the TV news all day."
Kwai Chang looked his son in the eye and shrugged one shoulder.
"Nice," Peter commented on his father's music. "Michael Andrews won't be playing anything but the blues for the next 125 years or until the ants are crawling on his grave, whichever comes first."
Caine stopped playing the flute and looked sharply at his son.
"What?"
Caine said nothing.
Peter decided to change the subject. "Paul suspended Ben Nichols. And not just for messing with me either. He'd been falling down on the job; there's no reason six girls should be dead. Nichols failed to check all the leads. The first thing he should have done is investigate any guys the victims had been dating."
"It is unfortunate," the pain could be heard in Caine's voice. "Melissa was a beautiful young woman. Her spirit soared."
"Yeah. Well, it's over," Peter said.
Caine nodded.
"Paul says that Nichols and his pal were looking for drugs or information in my apartment- something they could use to incriminate me."
Kwai Chang studied his son.
"It's pretty bad when you can't even trust another cop," Peter said and lowered his head.
"That is not the only thing that troubles you," Caine said matter-of-factly.
"No. No, it's not." Peter looked up at his father. He bit his lower lip, then asked, "Do you … do you ever find it hard to trust people? I mean, Master Dow was once your friend, like a brother, you said. He destroyed our temple. He tried to kill you, tried to kill both of us. And Master Ping Hi, he lied. He told each of us that the other one was dead, even taking us to empty graves. He was responsible for the fifteen years we were separated. We were alone, and we didn't have to be. How do you trust anyone after that?"
Tears brimmed Caine's eyes. "If you do not trust others, they will not trust you. Anyway, there are both good and evil in everyone. One must learn to control the latter, so that it does not overcome the good."
Peter shook his head. This answer obviously didn't satisfy him. He bit his lower lip again.
Caine touched Peter's chin and turned his head until Peter had to look his father in the eyes. "There is something else…something else that troubles you?"
Peter blinked back the tears and pulled away from his father's grasp. "Some other time." He sniffed. "I've got to get back to the precinct. Strenlich was piling a ton of paperwork on my desk when I left. I'll see you tomorrow, all right? We can do dinner. How 'bout that new place on the corner of Maple, Chandler's?"
Kwai Chang nodded. "It looked like an improvement over your usual watering hole."
"Bye, Pop."
Kwai Chang Caine listened to his son's footsteps until they disappeared. He sighed, slowly releasing some of the pain. "When you are ready, my son."