Downtown Dance

By J. E. Staab

A drive-by shooting at a ritzy café in downtown Pittsburgh has the Pennsylvania Department of Investigation scrambling to find the shooter. Rookie Jordan Bell goes undercover in Pittsburgh’s society scene at an expensive college for the performing arts, where evil lurks behind the spotlight. He finds himself stretched thin as he is pulled deeper into a covert drug investigation with ties to a vast criminal enterprise. Greed, lust, and desperation explode in a stunning climax that has Jordan Bell fighting for the truth - and his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. E. Staab
• Release date: May 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005624170

J. E. Staab

IAN 2021 Book of the Year Award Winner: Southside Gothic - Outstanding First NovelJ. E. Staab was born in Superior, WI, and grew up in St. Louis, MO. She lived for over 30 years in northeast Ohio, a little over an hour from Pittsburgh, and her books are centered on the vibrant city of Pittsburgh and the surrounding areas. She gets character inspiration from not only locals, but also from her extensive travel. Her love of that area of the country, with all of its beauty, personality, and unique culture, shines through her work. She currently resides in Sarasota, Florida.

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Downtown

Dance

J. E. Staab

Copyright 2021 J. E. Staab

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover art by Tyler Spicher and Julie Milliman

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my father, who always encouraged me in anything I tried.

I also dedicate it to my husband Bob and my children, Greg and Cristina,

for their love and support.

Chapter One

Richard Benning pulled into the sweeping drive fronting his Squirrel Hill home and grimaced. His daughter had left her car in the way again; he couldn't get into the garage. He parked his Porsche next to her Toyota Avalon and said into his car speaker, I know, Tony, I know. He's an asshole; you can't expect any different. Hold on, let me switch over to my cellphone.

He made the switch, pulling the call over to his cellphone, shut off the car, and walked up to the front door, still on the phone. Inside, he stopped at a marble table in the foyer to look at the mail. He stood leafing through it with his cellphone trapped between his shoulder and his ear and said, No, the time for negotiations is way past. The deals are already in the works. We gave those guys an opportunity during the last negotiations a whole year ago. We warned them for the last two years. They had their chance to come to the table, and they blew it. It's done, Tony.

He glanced across the tiled foyer past the stairs. He saw his wife pass by the open doorway into the next room, and he gave her a half-wave as he shuffled through the mail. One envelope, hand-lettered with no return address, caught his eye, and he grabbed the ornate letter opener from a drawer in the table and slit it open. He frowned at it and said, Listen, Tony, I gotta go. I'll talk to you later. He grabbed the phone, ended the call, and stared at the piece of paper in his hand.

On it, two typed lines read,

You can't play with lives. There will be consequences.

The Pennsylvania Department of Investigation office was already humming as Jordan Bell strode in and swung his backpack onto his desk. He glanced across the aisle; Mike DeLuca, his partner and team leader, was on the phone, but he gave Jordan a raised eyebrow. Jordan ignored him. He wasn't that late; it was still before eight.

He unlocked his desk, got his laptop out of his pack, and put it in the docking station. He took it home every night, partly because he could decide to get some work done in his spare time, but mostly because on any given day, he might be asked to work from home. He'd acted as an undercover operative in two different assignments his first few weeks. During that time, he'd had to stay away from the PDI office, which was housed in the corner of a yellow brick building that was the home of the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police in downtown Pittsburgh. They had closed one of the cases, but one of them was still ongoing; Jordan was posing as a small-time dealer for a drug boss named Drayvon Carter.

Jordan grabbed his mug, went over to the coffee pot, and poured himself a cup. Most of the other members of the team were already in; Jen Sandberg and Devon Young were hunched over their computer screens, and Milt Walecki was leaning back in a chair, reading a report and sipping his coffee. Jordan took another peek at Jen; she looked good today with her blonde hair down, but then she always did. Through the glass of an enclosed office, Jordan could see John Morrissey, their boss and head of the Pennsylvania Department of Investigation, West Division, on his phone. Marty Beran, the last member of the team, was just walking into the main office and said, Mornin’, Jordan, sending him a flash of white teeth through his beard. Ha, thought Jordan. So, he wasn’t the last one in.

Hey, Bear. You’re in for coffee, he said as he tossed two quarters in the box.

Thanks, man.

As Jordan walked back to his desk, he heard DeLuca’s voice behind him. Don’t get too comfortable. It’s Tuesday.

Jordan stopped and turned to look at him.

DeLuca grinned at his befuddled expression. Gun range, remember? Finish your coffee, and we’ll go.

Yeah, okay, right. Jordan knew why DeLuca was insisting on the gun range. He stifled a sigh and logged on to his computer, taking his time with his coffee.

Roughly an hour later, DeLuca wrapped up what he was doing, and they headed for the indoor range. They took DeLuca’s ride, a black Ford Explorer, and as they pulled out of the lot, Jordan said, So, is this because of what happened on the raid? A little over two weeks prior, in the middle of a drug bust, he and DeLuca had found themselves in the line of fire, and Jordan, to his mortification, had frozen.

DeLuca kept his face expressionless, his eyes on the road. Partly. It has more to do with the fact that you only performed at a marginal level on your entrance exam. You need practice.

Jordan tried to read encouragement in his expression and found none. They were partners, but DeLuca was also his supervisor, and Jordan personally thought that DeLuca tended to ignore the partner side of the relationship. He kept his mouth shut for the rest of the trip.

Inside the shooting range, they set up. As Jordan loaded his Glock, he glanced around the place. The range had decent ventilation, but the faint acrid smell of propellant still hung in the air, and the scent amplified Jordan’s nerves. They both were wearing their hearing protection, which muffled the noise, but Jordan couldn’t help but react as a man started shooting two lanes over. Not a flinch, not really, but a definite pause. Jordan glanced at DeLuca but didn’t think he’d seen it; he was busy running out a target. The target stopped short, at about fifteen feet. Jordan looked at him. That’s too close.

No, it’s not, said DeLuca. Not for starters. I want to watch your mechanics. Don’t worry about the target too much at the moment. Just aim as you normally would.

Jordan assumed his stance and shot. One, two, three. The gun cracked and jumped in his hands, but he held it steady. The shots were all center mass in the human outline target, one a little left, and two precisely in the middle, a little low. Decent shots.

Good, said DeLuca, but for a longer shot, you need to factor in the trajectory. Those shots are in his mid-section. At thirty feet, you would have gotten him dead in the nuts. Jordan flushed, and DeLuca grinned and stepped over to his side. Show me your grip.

Jordan gave him a look but straightened and raised his arms, pointing his Glock at the target. Granted, at twenty-three, he was the youngest on the team by far, and with only two years of service at the NYPD before coming to the PDI, he was the least experienced, but he couldn’t imagine DeLuca walking through basic gun training with any of the rest of them. DeLuca was treating him like a child, and Jordan had no doubt he was making a point.

DeLuca said, First off, you’re way too tight. Relax your grip. Move your right hand up to the top of the grip. Okay, that’s better. Your grip is fundamentally correct; you’re just holding the gun way too tightly. You know how to breathe?

Jordan nodded impassively, trying to mask his discomfort. Unfortunately, he wasn’t entirely sure that DeLuca was buying the show.

Yeah, he said, sounding disinterested. Breathe in, let half of it out, and shoot.

Right, said DeLuca. Break your wrists a little, downward.

But I’m shooting low.

You’re shooting low because you’re too tight. Once you relax your hands, the recoil will lift your gun a little more. If you break your wrists downward, it’ll counteract that effect. Okay, that’s good. Shooting arm straight; now try it again.

Jordan shot three times, pausing slightly between shots, all three centered in the chest area. DeLuca nodded. Much better. Now let’s move that target out.

About forty minutes later, they wrapped it up, Jordan trying to control the flash of relief that passed over his face when DeLuca suggested they stop. He squelched it, but not quickly enough.

They cleaned their guns, and back out in DeLuca’s Ford Explorer, took time to reload. DeLuca said, That was much better. All it takes is some practice. Learn the correct way to do it and practice until you get that muscle and reaction memory. Get your ass over here once a week. You don’t have to stay long; just run over on one of your lunch hours.

Yeah, okay. Thanks for the tips.

DeLuca started the vehicle, and silence fell. They hadn’t had a one-on-one conversation for more than two weeks, Jordan thought, ever since they closed the Goth case.

DeLuca wheeled into traffic and said casually, So, how are you feeling?

Jordan looked at him blankly. Feeling?

How’s the head?

Oh. Jordan had sustained a concussion at the end of the case, coming out on the wrong end of a two-by-four. Fine. No problems.

You could have taken some time off, you know. You probably should have.

Jordan shrugged and looked out of the passenger side window. The fact was, he was not himself still, but he was getting there. The Goth case had been hard on him. His current stint as a small-time dealer was also stressful. Neither case compared to what he had experienced in New York, however. He hid it well, but he knew DeLuca suspected that he was rattled, that he’d been sent to Pittsburgh from the NYPD because of what had gone down there. DeLuca didn’t know for sure because the case was confidential, still ongoing, and under the FBI's jurisdiction. But he suspected.

DeLuca cleared his throat. He kept his eyes on the road, but he had a bland expression on his face that put Jordan on alert. DeLuca said, I, uh, I’ve meant to ask you something. The night I stayed over at your place after your concussion, I went into your bathroom looking for some mouthwash. I didn’t mean to pry, but I couldn’t help but notice that you had prescription meds for anxiety.

Jordan stared at him. You snooped in my medicine cabinet?

It wasn’t a snoop, exactly. It was a stumble – I stumbled onto them. DeLuca shot him a sideways glance. They were from a doctor in New York.

Jordan was about to launch an angry retort, but there was a flash of something in DeLuca’s face that stopped him. Guilt. DeLuca knew he was wrong. Jordan didn’t find himself on the commanding end of a conversation with the man too often and decided to take advantage of it. He kept his voice level, his delivery dry. That’s a heck of a stumble, he said. You stumbled so hard you managed to read what they were and where they were from.

DeLuca scowled, his eyes on the road. I told you, it was an accident.

Right, said Jordan. So that you know, I never took any of them. They gave me a psych evaluation in New York, and I passed it. The doc gave the prescription as a precaution. In fact, I threw them away a couple of weeks ago. Is that what you want to know?

DeLuca shot back, Don’t get so testy. You went through a ton of shit in the last few weeks. There’s nothing wrong with learning to deal with stress or with using meds if you need them. I’m just trying to make sure you’re mentally fit for duty. It’s my job to look out for you and everyone else on the team.

I’m not the one getting testy. So, I’m going to ask again, is this about the raid? He was pushing it, he knew; DeLuca looked furious, and Jordan backed off a little. I’m just trying to figure out what you’re looking for.

Partly.

Jordan’s irritation spiked again. Why couldn’t the man just say what he thought? I already told you, I’m sorry. I screwed up; I admit it. He knew that he didn’t sound sorry, although he’d been truly upset by what had happened, and DeLuca knew it.

I’m not asking for another apology, DeLuca snapped. He opened his mouth and then shook his head and shut it again, and an angry silence descended, both of them staring straight ahead, lips tight.

Anna Regal leaned forward and offered her cheek to her husband, Joseph, as he approached their table. It was a beautiful September day, sunny and balmy, and they had opted for a table outside the restaurant for lunch even though the front windows were open to the air. They were celebrating her birthday at one of her favorite spots. The Bon Chance Café was a preferred hangout for the movers and shakers in Pittsburgh; she could see several society mavens inside at a ladies’ lunch, and the mayor and another man were seated at the table right beside them.

Joseph gave her a quick kiss. I’m sorry I’m late.

It’s fine.

She could see people looking at them. They were a striking pair, and she knew it: relatively young, wealthy, and they wore the trappings of their success very well. She and her husband were co-owners of the Regal Academy, a performing arts college, and the Regal Performing Arts Center. The Regal Center was a daring upstart in the theater world, and after five years, it was flourishing. The productions, featuring primarily students but often professional dancers and actors as well, drew critical acclaim. In Pittsburgh, the Regals were the darlings of the social scene.

At a word behind her, she turned. Anna, said Mayor Osgood, leaning over to give her a buss on the cheek. So good to see you. He stood to shake Joseph’s hand. Joseph, how are things? I’m looking forward to your next show.

Anna was unsure of what Joseph was about to say because just then, the roar of an engine caught her attention. She turned to see a small black car accelerating around the corner and down the street, and a pistol came out of the window. Two sharp cracks sounded, and the diners screamed and ducked under tables. The car screeched back around the corner, careening wildly.

At first, no one moved. Then the mayor stood and looked around at the crowd, some still cowering, some slowly rising. Is everyone all right? A lone security guard, the mayor’s driver, came bustling up the walk to check on him, calling the police as he ran.

Everyone stood and gave themselves a slow once-over; miraculously, no one had been hurt, although Anna swore that she had felt a bullet whiz by her head.

The office was quiet. Jordan had a feeling that the others had picked up on their stony silence as he and DeLuca had walked in, and everyone had their head down. DeLuca was in Morrissey’s office; Jordan could see them talking through the glass windows and saw Morrissey glance his way. So, they were talking about him, and undoubtedly, about his anxiety meds. DeLuca looked out of sorts, but oddly enough, more perturbed than angry.

Morrissey picked up his phone in the middle of the conversation, listening, and his face went serious. He jumped up and grabbed his jacket and said something to DeLuca, and then they both hurried out of the office. As the door flew open, everyone turned.

Morrissey headed out, rushing straight through the bullpen, and everyone looked at DeLuca as he came out of the office. DeLuca said, Someone just took a shot at the mayor at the Bon Chance Café. He wasn’t injured. Drop what you’re doing, and let’s go. He looked at Jordan and said, Bell, you stay here. There might be cameras down there, and we don’t need you on television. Handle the phones.

Jordan nodded impassively, but he knew DeLuca could tell that he was irked because the scowl on DeLuca’s face deepened. He had to be careful; DeLuca was beginning to read his minuscule tells. But it was disappointing. They hadn’t had any action for two weeks; his undercover assignment seemed to be on hold because Carter hadn’t contacted him ever since the big drug bust. He might never call again. And even so, thought Jordan, he got to sit and mind the office because they were afraid his face might show up in the background of a televised news report and his cover would be blown. Or maybe this was just DeLuca’s way of getting back at him, at putting him in his place. To DeLuca, he was still just a rookie.

Chapter Two

The street in front of the café had been shut down, the short block was blockaded on both ends by police cars, and the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police officers were already cordoning off the area, allowing no one out and no one in. Mike DeLuca rode with Jen and Devon, and Marty and Milt went in Milt’s vehicle, and they all parked outside the perimeter and flashed badges at the cops as they headed toward the café. Morrissey was already there, talking with the mayor, another man, and the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police Chief, Winston Goodman. Mike walked up to them, and the others moved in close enough to listen.

The mayor, Jack Osgood, was a decent enough guy, a political animal like anyone in his position, but a strong supporter of business advancement in Pittsburgh, continuing his predecessors' work in transforming the city from a blue-collar steel town into a vibrant, diverse community. Mike liked him personally, and he didn’t care for many politicians.

Osgood nodded at him. He carried a few extra pounds and had a slightly receding hairline but was wearing an impeccable navy blue suit, and his dark hair was perfectly groomed. Mike. Thanks for coming down, as if Mike was meeting them for a social gathering. Osgood continued, I was telling John that we were sitting here at lunch, and a small black car came roaring around the corner. The driver had the window open, and he took two shots as he went past.

The other man, a big blocky guy sporting a crew cut and a cheap gray suit, spoke up. I’m Mr. Osgood’s driver. I was sitting down the block in Mr. Osgood’s vehicle. I saw the guy come down the street – the car was a small older black Camry, with no plates – I looked for them after he went past. The shooter was wearing a black ski mask and a black long-sleeved shirt. It looked like he was the only guy in the car.

Mike said, Are you sure it was a guy?

The mayor and his driver looked at each other. I didn’t get a good enough look, said Osgood.

The driver said, You know, I can’t be sure, but the shooter was tall – they sat up high in the Camry’s seat. Come to think of it, the person looked pretty lean. It could have been a tall woman, I guess. You just don’t automatically think of a woman for something like that. The car zoomed around the corner and was gone.

Chief Goodman spoke up. We’ve got a bulletin out on the vehicle. Every cop in the city is looking for it. He looked back at the café and pointed. We got two bullets – one buried in a chair that was thankfully empty and one in the wall. They went right through the lunch crowd; it was a miracle that no one was hit. We also found two casings out in the street. We kept everyone here for questioning. He glanced at Morrissey. There was still the matter of who would take the lead on this - the PDI or the PBP. With the mayor involved, it was a high-profile case. Morrissey cleared it up quickly.

I talked to the governor on the way here, he said. He’d like us to take this one.

Goodman nodded, Let us know if you need any support. We’ve got our crime techs on the way.

Mike nodded. Good. I’d like to reconstruct the scene as much as possible. I’m going to get everyone seated again, and we’ll go around and get statements.

He stepped up to the crowd, which had broken up into small huddled, murmuring groups, and said, Folks, would you please sit back down at your tables, in the same spots that you were sitting when it happened? My team is going to come around and take statements, and then you’ll be free to go.

The café owner stood by, wringing his hands. I would like to continue serving them if it’s okay, he said.

Mike nodded. Go ahead.

At length, the crowd was sitting, starting to peck again at their lunches, and their hushed murmuring began to increase in volume. As his team began to go around to get names and witness accounts, Mike stood in the street where the shots were taken and looked back at the café. The avenue was broad and one-way, with two driving lanes and parking on each side, and the shooter had been in the near lane. No cars blocked the view of the café; the section of the curb in front of the restaurant was left open for valet service. Mike could see one of the bullet holes, black against a white wall, inside. It was entirely feasible that the shooter had been targeting the mayor. The bullet had passed between two outdoor tables; the mayor had been sitting at one of them, and a striking woman sat at the next table with a well-dressed man. Judging from the bullet hole's position, the bullet had gone right between the woman and the mayor. He walked over and introduced himself to the couple. Mike DeLuca, he said. Pennsylvania Department of Investigation.

The woman smiled; she looked shaken but was composed considering the circumstances, and she held out her hand. Anna Regal. This is my husband, Joseph Regal. She cocked her head. I know you – you were on the national news a couple of weeks ago for the big drug case, am I right?

That was me. I know this is extremely upsetting, but I need to ask a few questions, said Mike. He got their statements on what they had seen; it wasn’t much different than the mayor’s account. Have either of you received any threats lately? Would you have any reason to think that this person was shooting at you?

My God, no, said Regal. I’m CEO of the Regal Performing Arts Center and the Regal Academy, a college for performing arts. There would be no reason for anyone to threaten us. He looked genuinely horrified. We also do philanthropy works in the community – there is nothing that we do that would make someone that angry at us.

None of your recent performances would be upsetting to anyone?

Regal said, We do pride ourselves on being a little edgy; avant-garde, you know. But nothing that would inspire someone to shoot us. No one has even picketed the theater during our most controversial shows. He looked outraged at the thought. It’s art, for God’s sake.

Mike nodded. Okay. He handed Anna his card. If you do think of something, please call me. You’re free to go whenever you’re ready. The Regals nodded and turned back to their lunches, but neither of them picked up a fork. Mike moved over to the mayor’s table, where Osgood was swabbing his forehead. It was a warm day for September, and he’d been out in the sun for a couple of hours. Osgood pulled the handkerchief down quickly and rose. Mike, this is my good friend Richard Benning. He owns Benning Industries here in town. Richard, this is Mike DeLuca, from the Pennsylvania Department of Investigation.

Mike shook Benning’s extended hand. He was a good-looking man in his forties; he had sandy hair dusted with gray at the temples, and a pleasant face, topped by a forehead marked with worry lines. Mike said, Well, unless the shooter missed completely, it appears that he was aiming at these two tables: specifically, your seat, Mr. Mayor -,

Please, call me Jack, interjected Osgood.

Mike acknowledged that with a nod, – or Mrs. Regal’s seat. The bullets appear to have passed right between you. He looked at Benning. You were on the other side of the table, but I should ask, have you been involved in any confrontations recently? Arguments, any threats?

Well, my company has been going through some pretty contentious negotiations with the union lately. I’m moving a large chunk of business over the border to Mexico, I’m afraid. But they’ve known it was coming for two years. I did get one piece of unsigned mail yesterday, but it wasn’t a threat, or if it was, it was a vague one.

What did it say?

It said, ‘You can’t play with lives. There will be consequences.’

Osgood looked at him. That sounds threatening to me.

Benning shrugged. I’ve had stuff like that over the years during union talks. Phone calls in the middle of the night, that kind of thing. Stuff worse than this. It never amounted to anything; it’s just some crackpot trying to intimidate, to influence the negotiations.

Mike said, It bears checking. I’ll have someone come by and pick up that letter for analysis if that’s okay.

Benning said, I’ve got it right here in my briefcase. I didn’t want my wife to see it; she worries. You can take it with you. He pulled his briefcase open, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to Mike.

Mike looked at the mayor. Have you gotten any hate mail lately? Anything threatening?

I get it every day, Osgood said cheerfully. Goes with the territory. Nothing that sticks out; my staff goes through it, but I’ll have my secretary round up the latest.

Another hour later, they had finished taking statements, and the place was clearing out. Forensics had retrieved the bullets and the casings and had taken pictures and measurements. Morrissey pulled the mayor aside, along with Mike, and quietly recommended that Osgood augment his security staff. Unfortunately, Jack, it looks like we can’t rule out that those bullets were meant for you. You should plan on having some extra protection, especially for public events.

Osgood glanced around at the remaining PDI agents. How about you guys? You’ve got a crack team of agents there, and after clearing those two big cases, your slate has to be a little cleaner. To be honest with you, I don’t have a lot of options, other than taking city police off the streets, and that wouldn’t sit too well with the populace; pulling police off to protect my own ass.

Morrissey pursed his lips. Mike could tell he was thinking about the favorable political visibility. I’ll have to run it past the governor, he said. "But I’m sure he would agree, considering what just