by Kylie Brant
"Pretty soon," she answered vaguely. But it was another two hours before she'd finished with the charting and dictation. And even then she couldn't force herself to head for the parking lot. Instead, she sat down in front of a computer, typing in a name.
Cade Tremaine.
The file unfolded slowly on the screen, and Shae leaned closer, scrolling down as she scanned it quickly before she stopped, paused to read more carefully. Minutes later she logged off, more shaken than she cared to admit.
She didn't know many men who took three bullets to the chest in the line of duty, only to be back on the job two short months later. He'd been dangerously close to death by the time he'd arrived at the hospital, and his recovery must have depended on equal parts luck, science and sheer force of will. Even from the limited time she'd spent with the detective, his tenacity was apparent. She could only assume he'd browbeaten his physician into granting him a release without giving many details of the danger of the job he was returning to. From what she'd witnessed today, it didn't appear as though he'd allowed his condition to slow him down much.
It shouldn't matter. As she made her way to the parking lot, she tried, and failed, to convince herself of that. In all likelihood she'd never see the detective again, and a flicker of relief accompanied the thought. What kind of person, after all, exhibited that kind of dedication to his job? A very determined man. Or a very driven one.
Either way, he seemed like an excellent man to avoid.
At dusk St. Jude's had emptied of the usual tourist tours. In New Orleans cemeteries were notoriously unsafe at night. Row after row of white monuments provided endless hiding places for thieves and muggers waiting to pounce on the unwary. Only foolish or dangerous souls would take a chance and be caught there alone. The woman standing before the narrow gleaming tomb didn't fit either description.
Cade reached her, placed his hands on her shoulders. "Carla." She didn't turn; she must have heard his approach. She covered one of his hands with both of hers.
"We just got the marker up."
"I saw that. It looks good." Silently they both stared at the shiny gold plaque.
Brian Hollister, beloved husband of Carla, father of Benjamin and Richard. Died too young in the line of duty.
"He was a good cop, wasn't he, Cade?"
"The best." There was no doubt in his voice, none in his mind. He'd partnered with Brian since he'd made detective four years ago, was godfather to both his children. He'd spent as much time at the Hollister home as he did at his own apartment. And not a day had passed in the past two months that he didn't feel guilty for being alive while his friend lay lifeless in the family vault.
"I can't tell you what it means to hear you say that." Carla turned to face him, and he saw the toll the recent weeks had taken on her. Always delicate, the Creole beauty looked as though a good wind would tumble her over. There was no sign of her familiar teasing smile, but the haunted look in her dark eyes struck a chord. He saw the same in his own each time he looked in the mirror.
"Have they gotten to you yet, Cade?"
He frowned, not understanding her meaning. "Has who gotten to me?"
"Internal Affairs." The venomous tone sounded foreign to her usually soft voice. "They've been to the house at least three times, most recently yesterday. At first they danced around things, saying how sorry they were about Brian. Then they started asking questions. Had he said where he was going that night, what he was going to be doing? Yesterday they asked if they could go through his things."
Her words seemed to come from a distance. Internal Affairs? Cade tried, and failed, to imagine a positive reason for them to be looking into the shooting. The whole event, as much as he remembered of it, had been laid out in the report he'd dictated to the investigating officers. Then her last sentence registered, and her revelation started to take on an even more ominous light. "What did they want to look through?"
"Brian's case files. They asked whether he kept notes on any ongoing investigations and I said no. You know Brian left work at work."
"What are they looking for?"
She gave a harsh laugh. "Irregularities is the word they used. Like he was a damn accountant or something. When I press for more information, they clam up. But every time they come around, they get pushier, and one of them threatened to get a search warrant."
Although trepidation was circling in his gut, he made an automatic effort to soothe. "Don't worry about it, Carla. It's just I.A. on another wild-goose chase."
She clutched his arm, her fingers biting. "I was a policeman's wife for eight years. I know what I.A.'s all about. Cops hunting other cops. They think Brian was dirty. They're investigating him."
Looking into her liquid dark eyes, he couldn't find it in himself to lie to her. "What are their names?"
"Torley and Morrison. Do you know either of them?"
He shook his head. But then, he wasn't especially well-acquainted with anyone from I.A. Because of their occupation, the cops he knew had a healthy disdain for that department. Ferreting out corruption in the ranks was a noble enough calling, he supposed, but good cops had a way of getting dragged into their investigations, too. And the taint of an I.A. investigation had stalled more than one police officer's career.
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his wallet. It took a moment searching the contents before he found what he was looking for. He took out a card and handed it to her. "I want you to get in touch with someone at this number." She took the card and looked at it. "It's the policemen's-rights committee. Tell them what's been going on and then follow whatever advice they give you."
Her jaw set in an expression that was all too familiar. "I can't call them, Cade. It'd be like admitting there was substance behind I.A.'s interest."
"It's an admission that you need help," he retorted, "and with I.A. sniffing around, for whatever reason, you do. Call them. I'm going to check in tomorrow to make sure you did. Got it?" He waited until she gave him a reluctant nod. "Good." Gathering her close, he patted her back reassuringly. "Don't worry. It'll all turn out to be nothing."
"You won't let them smear his memory, will you?" For the first time her control seemed to waver. He could feel the tremors working through her body. "He was a decent cop. You said so yourself. I don't want my babies growing up thinking otherwise."
The thought of his two dark-eyed godsons had his chest going tight. At three and two, neither of them would recall their father. There would be no memories of ball games and barbecues, or fishing in the bayou. All they'd have, all there was, were pictures and newspaper clippings. And the stories their mother would tell them about their father's bravery. Living up to a hero's legacy could keep the boys on the right track all their lives. And living with a shadow over their name could send them hurtling down the wrong path.
"No." The word was torn from him without his conscious permission as he hugged his dead partner's widow closer. "I won't let them smear Brian."
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
"Shae, you're needed in I.C.U."
Shae looked up as Tim Pearson, the E.R. supervisor, strode into the examining room. "What's going on?"
He shrugged. "All I can tell you is that Martin Reeves called down and said to send you up to room six. We're not too busy right now. I'll take over for you here."
He reached for her clipboard, but Shae was slow to relinquish it. What would Martin Reeves, one of the hospital administrators, want with her? She'd rarely had occasion to even speak to the man, but when she did, it was in his office on the sixth floor, not on the intensive-care ward.
"Is it about one of my patients?"
He tugged lightly at the clipboard, and she released it. "He didn't say. Just asked if I could spare you for a few minutes, but you're using that time up pretty rapidly."
Given the number of times she'd rejected Pearson's invitations to go out together, she wasn't overly concerned with his brusqueness. He wasn't a man to accept rejection grac
efully, but he was professional enough not to let it affect their working together. He was right about one thing—the only way to get her questions answered was to head to I.C.U.
"What do we have here?" Pearson asked.
A small smile tugged at her lips as she made to leave. A much bigger person wouldn't take a modicum of enjoyment from handing this particular case over to the man who had made such a pest of himself for several months before he'd finally given up on her.
But sometimes being small and petty could be so satisfying.
"Patient presented with severe pain due to an obstruction," she said blandly.
Tim's gaze shot up from the clipboard, took in the male patient positioned on his stomach, his hips propped up by several pillows. Next his eyes took in the utensils Shae had gathered, lingered on the set of forceps. His head swiveled to hers, the expression in his handsome face dismayed. "It probably wouldn't hurt if you were a little late upstairs. Just tell them you couldn't get free."
She was already moving away from the cubicle. "I don't think so. It doesn't pay to keep Martin waiting."
The small sense of pleasure she derived at the thought of Pearson's distaste for the task ahead of him had dissipated by the time the elevator doors slid open on the I.C.U. floor. It vanished completely when she stepped into room six and observed its four occupants. Reeves was there, his plastic public-relations smile firmly affixed to his plump face. With his solemn presence and unfailingly smooth tones, he'd always reminded her more of an undertaker than an administrator. A uniformed policeman stood next to the room's bed. But it was the patient in the bed that drew her attention. Jon LeFrenz.
With a thread of apprehension she swung her gaze to the man lounging in the corner. Cade Tremaine. He was again dressed in jeans, wearing a black T-shirt and black running shoes. Today he wore a shoulder holster, along with his shield. He didn't look any more rested than he had three days ago.
Annoyed that she'd made unconscious note of the fact, she stopped in the doorway, addressed Reeves. "You wanted to see me?"
"Dr. O'Riley, Detective Tremaine has asked for our cooperation while he speaks to Mr. LeFrenz. I assured him the hospital would extend him every courtesy."
It would have been difficult to miss the warning in the man's civil tones. Ignoring it, she asked, "Just exactly what courtesy is the detective requesting?"
"Me, Angel Eyes. I'm the one with the request." LeFrenz reached over to press the button that would raise the head of his bed. His other wrist was handcuffed to the railing. "I got no reason to trust Tremaine, but I said if you was in the room, maybe I'd answer a few questions for him." He grinned. Without the oxygen mask and pain twisting his features, it was apparent he was several years older than she'd originally thought. And equally apparent that he was taking great delight in drawing her into the drama between him and the NOPD.
She looked at Reeves. "I'm on duty. I don't have time to baby-sit."
The administrator's smile chilled but didn't disappear. "You can make time." Looking at Tremaine, he said cordially, "Dr. O'Riley is at your disposal, Detective. Please don't keep her too long. The E.R. is slow right now, but that has a way of changing suddenly."
"I appreciate it. If they page her, I'll send her right down."
Nodding, the other man strode from the room.
There was nothing quite so annoying as feeling like a pawn in a situation of someone else's making. Shae made no attempt to keep the irritation from her voice as she asked Tremaine, "Just what is it exactly that I'm here for?"
The detective shoved away from the wall he'd been leaning against, crossed to her side and cupped her elbow. "We can talk outside."
"Hey, where you taking her? Tremaine? Tremaine!" LeFrenz bellowed as Cade inexorably guided her resisting form to the hallway. "She's here because I said so. Bring her back. Now, Tremaine!"
Before they'd taken a dozen steps outside the room, Shae yanked her elbow out of the man's grasp and turned to face him. "Care to tell me what this is all about? I have patients downstairs to tend to."
The detective just gazed at her, his dark-green gaze inscrutable. "You have a patient up here, too."
"LeFrenz isn't my patient anymore. He's Dr. Lyndstrom's." Something about the steady intensity of his regard made her uneasy. Since no man made her nervous, not ever, she decided the reaction had to do with his occupation. Dealing with cops had always raised her stress level.
"I've been in to question him every day since he got out of surgery and he hasn't given me jack. The only thing he has said, more than once, is that he wants to see you." He gave her a mocking smile. "Apparently you made quite an impression on him, Angel Eyes."
She gave an impatient shrug. "And this concerns me how?"
"Jonny hasn't been exactly cooperative up to this point. But he promised that your presence would change that. I thought it was worth a shot to see if he would be any more talkative with you in the room."
Giving an incredulous laugh, she said, "You mean, I'm a bribe? Drop dead, Tremaine." Turning, she walked toward the elevator.
He stepped into her path and she stopped, rather than risking running into him. "I wondered if there was a temper to match that red hair." His mouth quirked. "Now I know." As quickly as the humor flashed into his face, it was gone again. "Are you telling me you can't spare fifteen minutes to help the NOPD?"
She raised a brow. "Appealing to my sense of civic duty? Maybe that would have worked if you'd approached me first, instead of running to Reeves." Even as she said the words, she tasted the lie in them.
Cade shoved his fingertips into the front pockets of his jeans. "Reeves? Oh, you mean the suit. I figured you might need permission to leave the floor for a while. Yeah, okay, so I'm using you. I admit it. But I got a kid dead because of the sh—drugs that LeFrenz sold him. We're not so different, you and me. We both try to keep people alive."
Bitterness twisted through her at his words. Professionally, at least, his words were true enough. But personally … Tremaine would be shocked to discover just how far apart they were.
He moved closer to her, his head tilted intimately toward hers, his voice now low and persuasive. "C'mon, Doc. What's the harm?"
Startled, her gaze jerked to his. He had a smoker's voice, slightly raspy, with more than a hint of the South in it. She'd heard it hard, demanding, expressionless. But she'd never heard it sounding like this. That coaxing tone he'd adopted was pure sex, honey-coated temptation that issued its own beguiling invitation. She imagined there were few women who'd ever stood firm against it.
With new eyes she reassessed him, not as a doctor but as a woman. His long narrow face wasn't conventionally handsome, but it was strong, with its slash of cheekbones, straight nose and sensual lower lip. A lock of his dark-brown hair seemed permanently out of place, usually falling across his forehead. She'd noticed him shoving it away more than once. Coupled with those penetrating jade eyes and rangy build, his physical presence no doubt made it easy for him to persuade women to do just about anything he asked. The slight pallor he still wore would only make him more convincing.
He reached for one of her hands, held it in his as his thumb skated over her knuckles. At the touch, her eyelids lowered, her lips parted.
"Tell me something," she murmured throatily.
Although he hadn't moved, somehow he seemed closer. "Mmm-hmm?"
"Does this little act of yours usually work?" When he went still, she retrieved her hand, angled her chin and looked him squarely in the eye. She saw comprehension register there, followed by a flicker of amusement.
"Yes." There wasn't a hint of apology in his voice.
"Well—" her smile was brittle as she stepped away from him "—I'll have to readjust my estimate of women's intelligence."
He tucked his fingers in his pockets again and rocked back on his heels. "It was the hand holding, wasn't it. Too over the top for you? I was afraid so, but you're a tough one to read."
She didn't know whether to be annoyed or
disarmed by his matter-of-fact admission. It suited her to be annoyed. "Has it ever occurred to you to just be upfront about what you want?"
"Sure, I tried that first. Figured you for a more straightforward approach. When that didn't work, I had to improvise."
Even as she was shaking her head at his blatant confession of manipulation, he was continuing. "You won't be in any danger in there, if that's what you're afraid of. LeFrenz can't get out of the bed, and if he could, the officer and I will be in there with you."
"I'm not afraid of him," she said automatically.
"You should be." His voice was grim. "He may look like a choirboy, but he's got a rap sheet as long as my arm. His juvie record dates back to when he was ten and mugged a homeless woman for her social-security check. He's one of the major drug dealers in the city now."
Despite herself, a chill chased up her spine. The detective was painting a picture of a hardened criminal. But she was painfully aware of the spin law enforcement types could put on people's pasts. She had no doubt that St. Theresa herself would be demonized beyond recognition if an ambitious prosecutor dug into her life.
It was that knowledge, rather than any real sympathy for LeFrenz, that kept her carefully noncommittal. "I don't know what help I'd be in there."
"You'll only be there to pacify LeFrenz." The detective's mouth curled. "The scumbag is being manipulative, but you're the only lever I've got on him. For some reason he's fixated on you. If he gets what he wants, seeing you, he might give up some information in return."
"He didn't seem about to give anything up in the emergency room a few days ago," she pointed out.
He shrugged. "I've got nothing to lose, do I? What do you say?"
Shae stalled by checking her watch. If she walked away as she wanted to, she'd certainly hear about it from the hospital administrator. But it would almost be worth it to avoid the detective.
He made her uneasy. Not nervous, but … on edge. She'd have to be dead not to be aware of the currents of energy that rolled off him. Her femininity might be dormant, but it wasn't dead. She didn't want to get involved in whatever mission drove the man hard enough for him to put his job before his health. She didn't want to get caught up with the police in any capacity.