HEARTLESS

Chapter One - Matters of the Heart

(Note to readers: we are re-posting the first 8 chapters of this story under the JASTEE writing team. We will publish one chapter each night until all 8 chapters have been re-posted. Chapter 9 will be a NEW chapter - so be on the look-out for it. Thanks to all of our readers - we appreciate your support. Jasmine and Teeheehee1234)

He stood in the large basement of the once imposing Saint Ignatius Catholic Church. The area in which the shabby, but still genteel sanctuary was located had been at one time a prosperous one, and the church had been one of the most important anchors of the once bustling, middle class neighborhood. But over time, the businesses near the church had slowly dried up and the formerly pretty homes had fallen into disrepair. Wealthier residents and merchants had long since moved to the newer, trendier parts of Miami, leaving in their wake an old neighborhood that was sad, broken down, decaying. Now, Saint Ignatius was the only reminder of the neighborhood's affluent past.

Horatio Caine removed his sunglasses and studied his surroundings. Painted on the basement's beige walls in large, cheerful red letters were the words: THE KITCHEN OF HOPE. Underneath in smaller, black script was a bible verse: 'As for me, I will always have hope... Ps. 71:14.'

Hope.

Horatio didn't see what hope there was for many of the room's occupants, filled as it was with men and women who appeared down on their luck. They looked weary and their faces were grim with disappointment. Their shoulders slumped forward with dejection as they waited in line to get the only hot meal they were likely to eat that day. His nose wrinkled at the slight stench of too many sweaty, unbathed bodies in the hot room, and he watched as earnest volunteers spooned mounds of mashed potatoes, slabs of meat loaf with gravy, string beans and hot dinner rolls onto waiting plates.

Inexpensive food, but hot. And nourishing.

Carrying their plates of food, the hungry men and women walked toward the long, scarred wooden tables, and sat down quickly, barely able to restrain themselves from hastily gulping down the food.

A woman of middle age, dressed in a plain, black dress and sensible shoes, and sporting a short black veil with a narrow strip of white around its edging, walked among the tables, pouring iced water and coffee into paper cups for her 'patrons.' Horatio caught her eye and beckoned to her.

The woman called another volunteer over, handed him the water pitcher and coffee pot, and walked to where Horatio was standing. She looked at him quizzically. "Something I can do for you, sir?" she asked, her voice and manner kind, but brisk.

"Yes ma'am," he said, pushing his jacket back from his hip, and displaying his lieutenant's badge. "I'm Lieutenant Caine and I'm with the MDPD's Crime Scene Investigation unit. There was a murder in this neighborhood overnight... my people are investigating."

"Ah, yes. I'd heard... a young woman, correct? Very sad," she replied. "Heart-breaking. Lieutenant, I'm Sister Mary-Martha."

"You run this soup kitchen?"

"I help. Can I ask what this is about?"

"Sister, I have two neighborhood witnesses who say that the last time they saw the victim - Theresa Lopez - was around eight o'clock last evening. She was standing outside the church, speaking to a man that neither witness was familiar with. Whatever had been said upset Ms. Lopez and she turned away from the man. Hours later, her body was found. She been murdered. It was not a pretty sight, Sister... it was brutal."

Horatio closed his eyes for a moment. He'd seen some pretty horrific things in his time as a law enforcement officer, and he was not one to be squeamish... but the sight of that beautiful, young Hispanic woman, left in the alley behind an old abandoned building, made his gorge rise. Someone had opened the girl up and removed her heart. She lay there, her open chest a bloody crater. Suppressing an inner shudder, Horatio looked at the nun who was observing him intently.

"Brutal," she said, her eyes distressed as she repeated Horatio's descriptor. "Yes, I can see the effects of the murder on you, Lieutenant. What can we do to help?"

Horatio pulled from the inside pocket of his jacket an artist's rendering of the man with whom Teresa Lopez had last been seen and handed it to the Sister.

"Do you think this is the man who murdered the girl?" she asked.

"He is a person of interest. We want to find him... talk to him. Does he look familiar to you, Sister? Perhaps he came here for a meal sometimes?"

Sister Mary-Martha studied the drawing. "It is not very clear, is it?"

"No, it isn't," Horatio agreed. It had been dark when the two neighborhood women had spotted the man with Lopez, and they had been standing on the other side of the street. Their recollections about his appearance had been vague, but it was all Horatio had at the moment. "Think hard, Sister... does the drawing remind you of anyone you've seen here, even slightly?"

She continued to study the drawing for several long seconds and then shook her head. Regretfully, she handed the drawing back to Horatio. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. He doesn't look familiar to me at all."

Disappointed, Horatio nodded and started to put the drawing back inside his jacket.

"But," she continued, "you may wish to speak with Catherine... I only help out with the kitchen a few times a week. Catherine is the heart and soul of the organization, and the founder. Would you like to meet her?"

"I would. Can you tell me where I can find her?"

"Right here... she's about to speak." The Sister pointed to a slightly raised platform in the center of the room where a tall, willowy brunette now stood, looking out upon the assemblage. The people had grown talkative as they ate their meal. Horatio heard a female somewhere behind him mutter, "Damned do-gooder."

Catherine's sapphire blue eyes darted about the room, and then looked down at a piece of paper she held in her hands. A lock of her short, dark brown hair fell over one eye, and Horatio watched as she unconsciously swept it back with a flick of her fingers. Something about the gesture touched him; it had a vulnerability to it that seemed at odds with the capable image the youngish woman projected.

Clearing her throat, she began to speak in a strong, musical voice. "Okay, okay, people... can I have your attention, please?"

The murmurings slowly stopped as the diners looked up at the determined woman. In the back of the basement, a gruff voice complained, "First the grub, then the sermon. Always the way... Here it comes."

Horatio saw that Catherine heard the remark, and watched as a smile flitted across her face. "Excuse me... who said that? Oh come on, you don't have to be afraid. Come on... who was it?"

Seated at a table in the very back of the room, a fifty-three year old African American painfully rose to his feet. Horatio could see he had some sort of physical impairment, and he was holding onto the table, as if to take pressure off a hurting body part.

"Hi Charlie," said Catherine grinning, her blue eyes dark with amusement. "I thought it was you. So, tell me - you enjoying the 'grub' tonight, if not the anticipated 'sermon?'"

The man had the grace to look abashed. "You know how it is, Sister Cat... a man's tired, hot, hungry. I was out lookin' for work all damn day - pardon me, ma'am - I mean I was lookin' for work all day. Nothing. Now all I want is a meal and a place to flop for the evenin' - don't want to hear no damned sermon - pardon me, ma'am... I mean, I don't want to hear no sermon."

The man painfully sat down and looked up at Catherine. There were rings of tiredness around his eyes. Watching her closely, Horatio could see the man's weariness touched Catherine.

"I know, Charlie. Look, people, I'll make it brief. I know you're tired and hungry. And I know you're dispirited. It's hard out there on the streets... No jobs to be found. Government programs being discontinued. Crime. Drugs. Seems sometimes that there isn't much hope. Isn't that right?

Dozens of pairs of eyes looked up at her, and several heads began nodding in agreement. "You speakin' the truth there, Sister!" a female voice called out. The heavy-set white woman sitting next to her chimed in, "That's right!"

"Well, I'm not going to let any of you slide into hopelessness. I'm going to be here every day, offering you a hearty meal. That's a promise. And for those of you who need a place to sleep tonight, we've set up some cots in another part of this basement. Now that's temporary, people. We're not running a hotel, but it's a place to sleep for a few days for those of you who need it.

"Now, I know of some work that some of you can do around here - won't pay much, but it just isn't about the money, is it? It's about having pride in yourself. A man... a woman... well, you need to have some sort of work. Everyone needs something to do."

"You think we haven't been looking for work?" demanded an embittered Latino. "There ain't no jobs out there. My wife, my baby - they're living with her parents because I can't find no work!"

Catherine nodded sympathetically. "I do know you've all been searching for some kind of work. I know it isn't easy! I have some contacts - know some people who can help some of you find some temporary work - yard work, repairs, custodial. That sort of thing."

"Temporary ain't no good, Sister Cat. That be B.S. We need real jobs; permanent jobs," called out another voice.

Turning in the caller's direction, she replied, "You take what you can get, and be glad for it. And then we'll work on 'permanent.' The important thing is to do something, to not get discouraged. Everybody needs to feel useful... like they have a purpose. A body needs work - the heart needs a mission. Your mission is to take whatever temporary work you can get, do the best you can... and not give up hope. Maybe some of these jobs will turn into permanent work. The important thing is you're building an employment history... that'll help you when this economy turns around. It puts you a notch up on those just sitting in the streets.

"I believe things are going to change soon. For the better. We're going through some dark times, but I think if we hang on, hang together, if we look out for each other and work together... we can make those good days come sooner. I know this in my heart.

"Let me help... let me help you help yourselves. And then, once you're finally settled, you help the next person. That's how it works."

"Pay it forward, huh?" yelled out Charlie.

"That's right, Charlie. Now, after you've eaten, I'd like to ask the following people to come forward..."

Tilting his head, Horatio studied "Sister Cat." There was something about her that intrigued him, and he wondered what her story was. And whether she really believed the platitudes she was selling to the poor folks surrounding her. She's a nun, he thought; no doubt she does.

Fifteen minutes later, Horatio knocked on the old wooden door of one of the offices inside the church. "Come in," called the musical voice.

When Horatio walked into the room, the woman inside looked up. She had been entering data into a spreadsheet on her laptop. She gazed at the red-haired lieutenant for a moment, and her eyes flashed with interest and something else that was new to her. A friendly grin suddenly appeared on her face and she rose from behind the desk and offered Horatio her hand. "Lieutenant Caine?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am. Thank you for seeing me." He pointed back toward the door behind him. "With all the work you have out there, I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me, Sister."

"Well, Sister Mary-Martha told me about that poor woman's death..."

"Murder," corrected Horatio. Catherine raised her brows. "I like to be precise, Sister."

"I understand. I like to be precise as well, Lieutenant. And, precisely, I'm not a 'sister.'"

Startled and a bit embarrassed, Horatio looked closely at her. The short brown hair, the lack of makeup, the plain black dress - he'd just assumed she was a nun. As if reading his mind, Catherine grinned again.

"Don't look so uncomfortable, Lieutenant. You're not the first to make that mistake."

"I, uh, assumed... the people out there... they, uh, well, they were calling you 'Sister Cat.'"

"Oh that... Well, look back here, Lieutenant," she said, laughing softly. She pointed to a small crate sitting on the floor behind her desk. Within the blanketed crate were four sleeping cats. One was obviously the mother, and three tiny fluff balls rested comfortably against her. Catherine placed her index finger against her lips as if to admonish Horatio to speak softly, and they moved away from the desk.

"I tend to collect stray cats... there are a lot of 'em around here, they're hungry, scared... I feel sorry for them."

Horatio tilted his head slightly, and the hint of a smile touched his lips. "Stray people, too, from what I've just observed."

Embarrassed, a soft, warm blush made its way across her cheeks.

"So," he continued, "if I can't address you as 'Sister," how do I address you?"

"I'm Catherine Kent."

"Okay... Catherine. And your job here is...?"

"My job here is to help. Help these people get back on their feet again... somehow. The church struggles economically, and they do what they can to stay afloat. One thing they do is to rent the basement out to me. I founded the Kitchen of Hope. I've had a good life, Lieutenant. My family has financial means. It's rather like that old Bible verse - 'to whom much is given, much will be expected.' I've been given a lot, Lieutenant."

Horatio nodded, "Paying it forward, Catherine?"

"Something like that. Now, what about you? How can I help you?"

For a brief moment, Horatio was confused. All thoughts of the investigation fled as he looked into Catherine's clear blue eyes. There was something about her that spoke to something inside him, but what was it?

"Lieutenant?" she repeated, her expression puzzled.

TBC