by CJ Lyons
Vincent trudged up the steps from Medical Records to his office on Peds. He ignored the water dripping from his coat and shoes on the linoleum, he was so caught up in reading Grace Moran's chart from her admission to the Trauma Service almost five years ago. Medical records had finally found it buried in a stack of records waiting to be scanned into the computer's database.
The trauma surgeon's admission dictation was short and sweet. Grace Moran had been the victim of a vicious assault, brought in with severe lacerations, head injury, blunt force trauma to her chest and abdomen as well as several broken bones. Vincent pushed through the third floor door and walked the ten paces to his office behind the noisy elevator bank as he skimmed the sparse dictation.
Most of it seemed aimed at covering the surgeon's ass in his decision to forestall surgery until a CT scan was completed instead of immediately rushing her to the OR. Explaining that the patient was alert and oriented and insistent on giving her statement to the police prior to anesthesia.
There was no mention of anyone involved in the assault other than her attacker, whose name wasn't listed. Was it her husband? Had she killed him? Or had the housekeeper merely been exaggerating for dramatic effect?
His hand tightened on the doorknob to his office as he thought of Grace fighting off her attacker, holding onto consciousness long enough to speak with the police--he hoped she killed the sonofabitch. Pounded his ass. Or maybe the police had. A little suicide-by-cop would have been too good for the man who'd done this. He recognized the detective's name on the EMS run sheet. Sean Kelly, he'd accompanied Grace in the ambulance to Angels of Mercy.
Vincent shoved open his office door and stepped inside. Then stopped.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked at the sight of Alex and his so-called mother at his desk.
"Look," Alex said, his fingers flying over Vincent's computer keyboard. "If you want to kill the Gorgons, you gotta flame them like this." Sparks showered the screen accompanied by the sound of dying alien invaders. "Hey, Dr. V. How's it going?"
Vincent barely nodded at the boy in the wheelchair. His entire attention was focused on the woman who sat beside Alex, in Vincent's chair.
"I thought you would have left by now, Mrs. D'Angelo," he said in as civil of voice as he could muster. The nerve of the woman, barging in here, touching his things.
"I haven't finished what I came here for," she said, her gaze as serene as only a con artist could fabricate.
"I think maybe you have." He shuffled the thick volume of Grace Moran's chart from one arm to the other. "Alex, it's time for your treatment."
Alex gave him a curious look as Vincent held the door open and gestured for the boy to leave. "Can't she come too?" he asked, reaching for D'Angelo's arm.
Vincent couldn't control his anger. Damn woman, worming her way into a defenseless kid's heart, taking advantage. He crouched down to Alex's height, positioning his body so that he was between Alex and D'Angelo. "I'll send her down later. But hey, I do have some good news for you. I pulled it off, Alex. I've gotten you on the transplant list."
Instead of the excitement Vincent had hoped to see on Alex's face, the boy looked up at him with a blank stare that disintegrated into an expression of dismay.
"Why, Dr. V?" Alex asked in a small voice that was heart-wrenching. "Why'd you do it?"
What really cut Vincent to the bone, more so than even Alex's lack of enthusiasm, was the way Alex snaked his hand free of Vincent's to reach past him to Marie D'Angelo.
"Alex, we talked about this," Vincent tried to ignore the silent tears seeping from Alex's eyes. "It's your best hope. I worked really hard to make this happen, I promised you that I'd take care of you."
To his chagrin, D'Angelo took control of the situation. She stepped around Vincent to bend over and embrace Alex. "It's okay, sweetie. Go on back to your room. Vincent and I need to talk."
Alex nodded. She released him. Alex pulled away and, never making eye contact with Vincent, rolled out the door. He blew his breath out between clenched teeth and stood. Pivoting, he slammed the door shut and wheeled on the woman who had poisoned Alex against him.
"What the hell do you want?" he demanded. "What gives you the right to interfere with my patient? We both know you're not his mother! You're just a blood-sucking leech working a gimmick. And it's Dr. Emberek to you."
She took his abuse, her expression never changing. Why not? He was sure her husband or boyfriend or man of the hour had done worse than yell at her. Worse than her lack of reaction was the insolent stare she aimed in his direction. He threw the thick chart to his desktop where it landed with a heavy thud like a fist striking flesh.
She didn't even flinch. Which only made him more furious.
"He doesn't want a transplant," she said in that siren-soft voice of hers. "He wants a DNR order. He wants to die in peace."
"He's a kid. He can't make that decision."
"Why not? It's his life."
"He has no idea what life is. The possibilities, the future that lies ahead of him. I'm not letting him sacrifice all that because some crazy woman has twisted his mind. I'm his doctor, I know what's best for him."
"Do you? Do you really?" Now there was some heat in her voice. Vincent was surprised to find himself taking a half-step back. "Or do you just know what's best for you? You can't stand the thought of him dying because it means you failed."
"I think it's time for you to leave now. Do I need to call security?" He yanked the door open.
She shot him a glare, but took the hint and strode through the door. Then she paused on the threshold. "The ethics committee meets tomorrow morning, doesn't it?"
Vincent went rigid. How the hell did she know that? Then he remembered the meetings were posted on a sign outside the cafeteria. "Don't even think about it. If I ever see you near one of my patients again, I'll have you arrested for trespassing. Thrown out on your ass."
To his amazement, she actually had the audacity to throw her head back and laugh. Her laughter bubbled through her, under other circumstances it would have been like music in the small, stark room.
"Throw me out? I'd like to see you try, Vincent. Believe me, I would leave this place if I could."
With that cryptic statement, she strode down the hall. Vincent gave the door a good shove, slamming it shut behind her.
CHAPTER 16
Friends of Friends
Sean Kelly was a six-four ex-linebacker with a nose that had been broken more times than he could count. His most remarkable possession was a pair of vivid hazel green eyes, inherited from his father. Otherwise, he looked like any other lumbering black man comfortable with his size and body who happened to be a cop.
Not just any kind of cop. Sean was one of a rare breed--he investigated crimes against children. The stuff of nightmares. He'd come to the Juvenile Unit from Major Crimes, a step backwards, career-wise. But the hours were better, the pay and benefits the same, and most days he got to go home in time to coach his daughter's soccer team.
Sean twisted his gold Rose Bowl ring around his right ring finger as he re-read his notes on the Silvestri case. He hated going to court. Not because he didn't know his stuff cold, but because the lawyers would find ways to twist his words with their double negatives and "could it be possible" traps. And then the ADA would screw up on redirect and not ask the questions Sean needed asked in order to straighten everything back out.
It was all a fucking game to them, he thought, his fingers brushing over the etched lion's head on the side of the ring. There should have been a national championship ring to go with it, but thanks to Nebraska, Penn State's undefeated season hadn't been good enough.
JoePa had polished what Sean's father had begun. Unfortunately, every man had to make his own way and his own mistakes before realizing how right those old guys were. A few years with the Cowboys, living the high life, then living with regrets after a torn Achilles ended his pro career, had done that for Sean. The man who returned to his hometown wi
th a degree in criminal justice and a few dollars in the bank had been hungry for a change, for the chance to make his ex-coach and his dead father proud.
And right now it was his job to make sure the actor who had repeatedly raped his stepdaughter over the past three years didn't walk. He'd told Anita Silvestri that he'd do everything he could, had assured her that even though she was only twelve that the jury would listen to her and all she had to do was tell the truth, had done everything short of promise her that the world wasn't as bad as she thought it was and that some days the good guys won and justice prevailed.
In other words, he'd bullshitted the scared girl whose mother had denounced her as a "slut" in court yesterday. Sean sighed, the words in his notebook blurring in front of him. He was only thirty-six, but days like today he felt way too old for this crap.
A shadow crossed his desk and he looked up. Doc Emberek, what was he doing here? the detective wondered as he got to his feet and greeted the physician.
"Sean, do you have a few minutes?" Emberek slid into the seat across from Sean. It was a welcome change from the angry or grieving parents who usually sat there.
"Is this about a case?" Sean was going to Disney with the family next week, his partner was on rotation for any new cases.
"Not a new one. There's patient at Three Rivers, a woman--" Emberek paused, seemed uncertain of himself.
Sean considered that. They'd worked together on several abuse cases and the doctor had always struck him as confident, cocky even--reminded Sean of himself back when he was single. Their time at Penn State had overlapped, and although they hadn't known each other back then, being fellow Nittany Lions had provided an instant bond.
"A woman? Not a kid?" Sean asked, wondering where Emberek was heading with all this.
"No. She has a brain tumor and she's gone AWOL."
"From the hospital? You talk to the guys out at Zone 5, that's the precinct Angels of Mercy is in."
Emberek shook his head. "No. I thought maybe you could help me. It's kind of a delicate matter."
No shit. Patient going missing from a hospital--might be grounds for some jackass lawyer to sue everyone in sight. "No friends or family to file a missing persons report?"
Emberek shook his head, obviously frustrated with the way the conversation was going. "You don't understand. This woman lives alone for the past four years, never leaves her house, she's agoraphobic. Has been ever since her husband was murdered and she was assaulted. I found the EMS run report--you accompanied her to the hospital. I was hoping you might remember something that would give us a hint where she might go."
"Sure, what was the name?"
"Patient's name is Grace Moran, her husband was--"
"Jimmy Moran," Sean finished for him. He hadn't thought about the Moran case in years, but the details were immediately clear and present. Sean had hated that case. It was all so senseless. Not even anything like drugs or money or booze to blame it on.
At least he'd closed the Moran case. Even if the perp wasn't locked up like he should be. Damn lawyers and head-shrinkers had seen to that.
"Grace Moran is your patient? She has a brain tumor? Is it serious?" Stupid question, when was a brain tumor not serious? Still, he couldn't believe it was happening to Grace Moran of all people.
"She'll die if she doesn't get the surgery," Emberek told him. His voice broke a bit, as if he and Moran were involved in more than a doctor-patient relationship. Sean glanced at the physician. Emberek wore the expression of a teenager in love.
"How do you know Moran? Was she a patient of yours?"
Emberek shook his head. "I've never met her." He explained about the neurosurgery presentation, about his interview with Moran's housekeeper, Ingrid, how he'd tracked down Moran's only other admission at Angels of Mercy.
"So you don't know anything about how Jimmy Moran died?"
"It happened before I moved here. The housekeeper said he was murdered. Did Grace--did she kill him? Is that why she became a prisoner in her own house?"
Grace, Emberek had said. Christ the kid had it bad.
Talk about crazy--Emberek had never even met the woman. Still, he cared enough to try to help her. Sounded like Moran could use all the help she could get.
Sean cleared his throat, remembering the night of the murder, his first interview with Moran. His gaze caught on his bulletin board. Photos of smiling children were plastered over it, layered on top of each other, most without a happy ending, either missing or dead.
Sean got to his feet and grabbed his jacket. He needed some fresh air before court and he didn't want to talk about the Moran case here.
Not in front of the children.
The clatter of a woman's heels on linoleum intruded into Lukas' awareness. He blinked, the ceiling tiles above him returning to focus. Grace? Had she come back to free him?
He'd been dreaming of their first meeting. The way her fingers, so small, yet so strong, gently palpated the bones of his hand, then eased his pain by crafting a splint that fit perfectly, protecting his bruised and injured hand in layers of fiberglass and warm, soft felt.
Those blue eyes of hers, the curl of her lips as she smiled and listened to his lies about breaking his hand while working on his black belt in Karate, trying to smash concrete blocks. Ah, and her smell. That enticing combination of pure feminine mystery mixed with the vanilla of her shampoo and the cinnamon of the donut she'd recently eaten. Sheer ambrosia.
"You will release my son, immediately!" came the shrill tones of a woman's voice from outside his door.
He closed his eyes once more. Not Grace. His mother.
Fourteen years she'd ignored him. Who knew gaining her attention was as simple as drowning his father?
Not that Renee Redding or anyone else living knew that Lukas had been with his father in the pool that sultry July day. They all thought Earl had drunk too much, flipped his floating lounge chair and drowned on his own. No one had been upset enough to challenge the obvious verdict of accidental death.
Especially not Lukas. After his father died, his mother moved her base of operations home, was with him most of the time, even sometimes came to him at night when he cried out with the night terrors that had plagued him all his life.
Curled up beside her, her arms wrapped around him, he'd inhale her scent of Chanel Number Five and Plumeria moisturizer and he would drift off to sleep. Like a baby.
"I said, remove those restraints. Now!"
"Mrs. Redding." Another woman's voice. Dr. Eve--the one person who actually listened to Lukas and cared about what he said, what he felt. "Your son tried to attack me last night with no provocation. I can't--"
"You can and you will. I will not have you treating my son this way."
Lukas inhaled. The odors of Cuban cigars, men's aftershave, single malt Scotch, and sex all mixed with his mother's scent. Ahh. She'd been with the Senator, the Chairman of the Finance Reform Committee.
Since she'd temporarily lost Lukas's services four years ago, she'd returned to more traditional forms of coercion and information seeking, but with nowhere near the success rate he had given her.
Must have hopped the first shuttle from DC when she heard, not even bothered to stop at her Georgetown apartment to change. After all, a mother's love for her son's welfare took priority over politics.
Especially when that son had discovered the weakness in the Senator's campaign strategy and had the secret locked away in his brain. A brain that was rather blurry right now.
"Have you found this Moran woman yet?" his mother continued.
Eve's sharp intake of breath whistled through the air. Lukas held still, his eyes closed, his breathing regular as if he were in a deep sleep. "Not here. He doesn't know."
"Just untie him and we'll talk."
Soft hands, the scent of jasmine, the rustle of silk approached. The click of a key, the ratcheting of the leather restraints being undone, the sheepskin beneath them carefully peeled away from his wrists and ankles.
&
nbsp; Eve had given in to his mother's demands, freed him. But he smelled her fear, felt the slight tremor in her exquisitely manicured fingers. Why was she so frightened of him? There had to be a reason, but his foggy brain wouldn't focus.
Then he remembered. He sat bolt upright, his vision blurring with black spots, his head spinning. Eve jumped back, the color draining from her face.
"Where is she?" he demanded, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Where's Grace? Why are you hiding her from me?"
His mother put her hands on her hips, marring the lines of her Donna Karan power-crimson wool suit. Her lips tightened into thin lines of disappointment. Lukas swallowed hard, his mouth felt like cotton after the drugs, and looked at the floor.
"Why?" he repeated in a softer voice.
"I'm not hiding her from you, Lukas," Eve said.
"Of course not, honey," Renee chimed in, her voice bright and chipper. A middle-aged Holly Golightly who just happened to wield the power to decide the next presidential election, that was his mother. "No one would do that to you."
"She's here--or she was." He looked up at his mother, pleading for her understanding. Might as well pray for a miracle. "Last night. She was here."
A kaleidoscope of contradictory images collided in his brain. Grace, her face ravaged, covered in blood, the drunk driver, his eyes wide with fear as Lukas choked the life from him, Lukas's own screams of rage as he raised his hand--holding a chair leg? No, no, he cradled Grace's body against his. Held her as she died--hadn't he?
"I know she was," he said. Renee's lips blanched and frown lines appeared across her brow. "I'm not crazy." The last came out sounding like a question and he knew that he sounded anything but sane. How could Grace have been here, in the ECU of all places? Especially when she'd been dead and buried for four long years.