Nerves of Steel

by CJ Lyons

  "They almost killed my patient. And could have gotten me and my team killed as well." Cassie explained about her Jane Doe and their harrowing helicopter ride. "How did a girl living on the street get a hold of this much FX? And why doesn't it show up as missing in your inventory?"

  Fran twirled a strand of blond hair with her pinky. If she was really agitated, she would gnaw on it like a school girl; if she wanted to flirt with a guy at a bar, she'd tug on it while batting her eyelashes. Cassie wished her own rambunctious hair could be half as useful as Fran's.

  "ER, outpatient pharmacy, and same day surgery have a different lot number." Fran's fingers resumed their race across the keys. She was clearly unhappy with what she was finding.

  An image of Jane Doe's frozen body lost in the dark waters of the Ohio flashed through Cassie's mind. "You're saying someone on one of the inpatient units stole these?"

  "No, I'm not. We don't even know--" The door opened, and a trim, thirty-something man with round wire-rimmed glasses and an engaging smile pushed a cart inside. Fran looked up to greet the newcomer, the warmth returning to her face. "Neil, how are you? Neil Sinderson, this is Cassandra Hart, she's one of our ER docs."

  "Nice to meet you," he said, taking Cassie's hand and shaking it with a firm grip, his smile widening as he looked her straight in the eyes.

  "Neil runs the MedMark service," Fran told Cassie.

  "MedMark?"

  "Most of the HMO's subscribe to it," Neil explained. "We provide all their patients' medications while they're in the hospital."

  "Neil's a lifesaver," Fran said. "He even found a stock of amphotericin for us when there was a nationwide shortage."

  "All part of the service," Neil said with a self-deprecating shrug. He glanced at his watch. "I've got some Level Two narcotics here." He gestured to a locked metal box welded to the cart. "You want to tell Gary?"

  "I'll get him for you." Fran left her seat to go to the pharmacy director's office.

  "You carry narcotics also?" Cassie asked.

  "Sure, whatever the doctor orders."

  He rolled his cart down to the counter where the inpatient drugs were sorted by nursing unit. Cassie watched as he efficiently began to dispense his merchandise. Maybe it wasn't someone inside the hospital responsible for the FX thefts and Jane Doe's overdose.

  "Do you carry FX, then?"

  Neil turned around and smiled at her again. He had a skier's tan with pale rims where his goggles would fit and an athletic build. "No, sorry. Fentephex is shipped directly from the manufacturer to the distribution site, no middle man."

  So much for that theory, she thought as Fran returned.

  Gary Krakov, the pharmacy director, popped out of his office like Alice's White Rabbit, his red bow tie centered precisely, the cuffs of his white shirt pressed and starched. He frowned at Cassie, one finger stabbing his glasses up against the bridge of his nose.

  "Dr. Hart, despite these temporary facilities," he intoned, "may I remind you that we are still running a pharmacy here." Krakov glared at her mud-splattered Vasque boots, her equally stained navy blue Nomex flight suit and leather jacket. Then he turned his gaze on Fran. "I'm certain you have more important things to do than hosting a coffee klatch, Ms. Weaver."

  Cassie slid from the desk to confront the prickly pharmacist. "Fran is helping me find--"

  Fran pinched her arm, and Cassie broke off. "Find a dosing protocol for patients with antibiotic resistant organisms," Fran finished, pulling a stack of order sheets overtop the bag of FX.

  "She can find that in the pharmacology database just like every other physician in the hospital," Krakov said. "There's no need to waste your time."

  "You're absolutely right, Mr. Krakov." Fran took the director's arm and walked him over to where Neil Sinderson waited. "Neil just needs you for a moment to sign in these narcotics."

  Fran returned to her desk, clearing the screen with the FX information before Krakov could see it. "Are you trying to get me fired? Fentephex is a controlled substance. If he saw that much laying out in the open instead of under lock and key, he'd go nuts."

  She slid the bag containing Jane Doe's drugs back across the desk with the tip of her pen as if it was contaminated.

  "I need to find out who stole these, how Jane Doe got them," Cassie protested, shoving the bag into her coat pocket.

  "I told you, all of our stock is accounted for. If there is any fentephex missing, it's police business," Fran said in a low voice. "You should let them deal with it."

  "Easy for you to say. You're not the one who has to face the families of the patients I've lost." Cassie's voice rose enough to draw Neil Sinderson's gaze her way as he and Krakov stood at the narcotics safe in the far corner.

  "I can't violate patient confidentiality, and you know it."

  "I'm not asking you to. Just see if there's any way to track down exactly where this FX was stolen from."

  "You don't even know if it was stolen. Besides, Mr. Krakov will fire me if he finds out."

  Cassie waved her hand, dismissing Krakov and setting Fran's Mario Lemieux bobble-head nodding. "Inventory control is part of your job. That's all I'm asking, that you track some missing inventory. You'll just be doing your job. No worries."

  Fran's eyebrows lowered into a frown. "Right. Unless Mr. Krakov catches me doing it on his time."

  "You want to come up to the ICU and tell that to my Jane Doe?" Cassie flattened her palm against the desk, leaning forward to meet her friend's eyes with an imploring gaze. It was hitting below the belt, but she didn't care. Not if there was more FX out on the street, coming from her own hospital.

  Fran blew her breath out, glanced over her shoulder at Krakov, and nodded. "Anyone ever tell you that you don't play by the rules?"

  "All the time--drives the charge nurses crazy." For the first time since that morning, the tension hunching her shoulders eased. "Thanks, Fran, I appreciate it. You could be saving lives here."

  "And losing my job."

  Fran was over-reacting. Even Krakov would admit that stopping the FX thefts was more important than following hospital protocol. She squeezed Fran's shoulder and gave her an encouraging smile. "If you get in trouble, just blame me."

  "Don't worry. I will."

  CHAPTER 5

  Cassie left Fran working on the FX mystery. After returning to the ER's locker room, she changed into the jeans and Shakerknit sweater she'd worn to work the night before. She touched the bag of drugs in her coat pocket and scowled. It was a macabre equation. Twenty-seven pills of pure FX. Equaled how many dead kids? She had no idea.

  She yawned and tucked her hair behind her ears. Thought about simply turning the drugs into a charge nurse and going home to bed.

  No. It didn't matter how tired she was, didn't matter what the rules were, all that mattered was stopping more FX from making it onto the streets and killing more kids. The best way to make certain the police gave the FX thefts at Three Rivers top priority was to speak to them in person.

  The police substation was less than a mile from the medical center, housed in a squat brick cube of a building that brought back memories of her grade school. It was sandwiched by St. Andrew's Episcopal Church on one side and a Methodist one on the other. Perched higher up the hill stood Our Lady of Sorrows, its stained glass a flickering light of hope in the gray morning mist.

  Who was protecting whom? Cassie wondered, skirting oil slicked puddles as she crossed the parking lot. Across the street sat a McDonald's, that other bastion of American worship.

  Inside, the desk sergeant escorted her to a glass-walled waiting area on the third floor, closing the door behind her, muffling the noises coming from the squad room beyond.

  A tall man in jeans and a grimy Rolling Stones' T-shirt sprawled across a vinyl couch peppered with cigarette burns. His feet hung off the couch cushions. Water dripping from his red canvas hightops had formed a sooty puddle on the floor. One arm was flung up to cover his eyes, and a sheaf of unruly black hair cascaded ove
r the arm of the couch. A gold hoop hung from his left ear, winking in the flickering fluorescent light, giving him the appearance of a Barbary Coast pirate.

  The tiny room was sweltering, a tropical fish bowl for humans. As she slid out of her jacket, Cassie wrinkled her nose against the smell of urine, sweat, stale cigarettes, and day old Chinese food. Her slumbering roommate appeared oblivious to both the heat and the stench. She watched him for a moment, noting the regular rise and fall of his chest. At least he wasn't dead.

  Maybe he was a witness or informant. Her hand went to the plastic visitor's badge the desk sergeant had given her. The man wore no identification. A drunk left to sleep it off?

  There was no place to sit except for the couch, but there was a vending machine. Coffee, just what she needed. She fumbled in her jeans pocket for change.

  "Make mine black, extra sugar." A sleep-choked voice came from the sofa.

  Cassie glanced over her shoulder in surprise. The man's arm was now behind his head, his eyes still closed. "Excuse me?"

  At the sound of her voice, one of his eyes popped open, drifted for a moment, then lit on her like a beacon in a storm. He blinked twice, his lips curling into a smile that might have been charming if they weren't shut up in a glass sauna and if he didn't look and smell like a refugee from a third-world insurrection.

  "I said extra sugar, sweetheart." He sat up, looking at her expectantly as he yawned without bothering to cover his mouth. "Please."

  Several detectives worked in the squad room beyond the window. She eyed her companion once more, not liking the way he looked at her. His gaze was that of a cat searching for a weakness in the canary's defenses.

  "Mister, I've had a really lousy night," she said, pushing up her sleeves and shifting her weight to the balls of her feet. "I don't need any grief from you. I'm not your waitress or your sweetheart, all right?"

  "Sure, honey, whatever you say."

  She stepped to the machine, dropped her coins into the slot and jabbed the button for her coffee. Sweat gathered between her breasts, but she took her time, refusing to let him see how nervous he made her.

  She turned back, glad to have even a lukewarm cup of coffee in her hand as a potential weapon. He watched her with surprisingly blue eyes, inclining his head slightly as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  He yawned again and raked his fingers through his hair. "I don't suppose it would make a difference if I said pretty please? I'll bet my night was worst than yours."

  She doubted it. But his voice was raspy with fatigue and haggard circles shadowed his eyes. She sighed. "Here, take it. You look like you need it more than I do."

  She handed him the paper cup. His knuckles were scraped and grease stained. Maybe a car thief?

  "You're a life saver." He took a sip of the hot coffee and closed his eyes in rapture. Then he patted the seat beside him on the couch. "Sit."

  She might have been tempted if he hadn't flashed her a lecherous grin. Con artist was probably more like it. "No thanks, I'm fine."

  "Suit yourself." He finished the coffee in one large gulp and crumpled the cup, aiming it at the trashcan beside the door. He missed, and it joined the pile of take-out cartons on the floor.

  Stifling her own yawn, she ran her fingers over the coins left in her pocket, shifting her jacket to her other arm as she pulled them out to count. The bag of FX fell from her coat pocket, tumbling to the floor before she could catch it.

  Her derelict companion had faster reflexes than she would have guessed. He snatched the bag from the mud-colored linoleum and scrutinized the small pills inside.

  "Give me that." She reached for the bag but he closed his fist around it. Damn, how would she explain this to the police? Gee, I brought you all this evidence, but some homeless wino took it? She planted herself in front of him and held out a hand, backing up her confrontational stance with a glare guaranteed to make med students jump. Too bad the pirate before her was no med student. "Give it to me, now."

  His eyes narrowed in an expression resembling a scheming Wiley Coyote. "Looks like you brought enough to share."

  "It's not mine."

  "Whose is it? Where'd you get your hands on this much FX? It looks to be the real deal--worth a couple thou on the street."

  "How would you know? Have you seen this much FX before?"

  He gave a low chuckle. "Only in my dreams. Darlin', you've hit the motherlode. If you know where to get your hands on more, you and me, we could really shake things up. Know what I mean? So where'd you get it?"

  "I told you, it's not mine. Now, give it back." She reached her hand out to him once more. He gazed upon the FX with covetous eyes, then sighed and dropped it into her palm. Cassie crammed the bag into her jeans pocket.

  "Sweetheart, if you only knew what you just passed up," he said, stretching his arms above his head, his T-shirt shifting to give Cassie a glimpse of well defined abdominal muscles and a thin v of dark hair that vanished beneath the snap of his jeans.

  She turned away. His image was a shadowy reflection in the filthy glass wall, but she could see enough to keep an eye on him.

  He rubbed the stubble on his face. "Guess I'd better go," he said to her back, rising to his feet. "Thanks for the coffee. I'll be seeing you." He sent another smile her way, this one more predatory than grateful, and left.

  Watching him saunter through the squad room, no one paying him any attention at all, she wondered who he was. Mr. Invisible Man. Should she tell someone he was leaving? Let one of the detectives know?

  Cassie took the seat he had vacated, the vinyl still warm. She had more important problems than a vagrant wandering loose among armed cops.

  Drake edged into the shadows of the narrow hallway that led to the washrooms and janitor's closet. He pulled his cell phone from his back pocket, his gaze never leaving the dark-haired woman in the waiting area. His Fair Lady of Caffeine.

  "Kwon."

  "It's me," he said, watching as the woman sat down then bounced back up again a moment later. Jeezit, how guilty could she look? "What would you say if I told you I found someone with more FX in their pocket than we've seized in two weeks?"

  "What? Hold on, Miller's here, I'm putting you on speaker." He fidgeted, his body rocking as the caffeine surged into his veins. There was a click of static, followed by Commander Sarah Miller's voice.

  "Is this a joke, Drake?"

  "No, ma'am. Not unless someone's playing it on me. I was crashing in the third floor waiting room when Whitman brought this woman in. She dropped a small bag and I swear it has at least two dozen FX pills in it. Looks like the real deal, too."

  "What did you do?"

  "I played along, in case she'd spill anything useful. Didn't want to force her hand, lose a chance to see what's going on." Drake squirmed to get a better view of his Lady as she began to pace, her thick hair whipping against her shoulders with every staccato step. For the first time in months, images cascaded through his mind in rich, vibrant hues of color and light. "She didn't give me anything. But she has bruises on her arms, some look pretty fresh. I'll bet she's here to drop the dime on someone."

  "Whitman just told Kwon that her name is Hart and she asked to see someone on the FX taskforce. You stay out of sight. I'm on my way."

  He dropped the phone into his pocket and waited. One by one, each of the detectives in the bullpen received a call. Within a few minutes the area was clear of civilians and the other cops had positioned themselves at strategic sites. The clipped sound of Miller's footsteps reverberated down the stairs across from Drake, announcing her arrival.

  Hart seemed oblivious. Whoever she was, she sure was an amateur. She took two steps to the door, hand reaching out as if she were about to leave, then spun and resumed pacing, a ferocious scowl tightening her features. He hadn't seen any track marks, but FX that pure you could snort. Although she didn't seem like a user—most junkies wouldn't be so generous, even if it was only coffee. Instead, her agitation reminded him of his own restles
sness last night. Anticipation of action, more like a caged tigress than a scared rabbit.

  Kwon appeared behind Miller, her Glock drawn. She'd even put her Kevlar back on. As Miller approached the door to the waiting room, every cop in the place had a hand on their weapon. Every cop except Drake.

  His service piece was upstairs locked in his desk at Major Crimes. He still had his backup Baby Glock in an ankle holster, but he made no move toward it. Instead he was fascinated by the way his palms were tingling, his fingers itching. As if they'd been numb, dead to touch for months, and were finally coming to life.

  Drake shoved the thought aside, forcing himself to focus on what was happening in the glass walled room. He blew his breath out, surprised that he'd been holding it. Afraid that this feeling might vanish.

  The fluorescent lights glared off Miller's shiny blonde hair, styled into a sleek bob. Her posture would have drawn compliments from any drill sergeant. Even the pinstripes in her slate gray suit stood at attention. She marched into the waiting room. The direct approach. Typical. The Commander was intent on climbing the Pittsburgh Police Bureau's career ladder in record time and breaking the FX case would be a major step on her path.

  "I'm Commander Sarah Miller, in charge of the FX Task Force. I understand you have some information for us."

  CHAPTER 6

  Drake stayed in the shadows, out of sight, as Miller and Kwon escorted Hart through the bullpen and into Miller's office. Hart emerged twenty minutes later, her face and neck flushed with scarlet plumes of anger, head erect as she looked straight ahead and bolted down the stairs. He waited until he was sure she was gone and joined Kwon and Miller in the Commander's office.

  "So, what's her story?" he asked, ignoring Miller's look of distaste at his disheveled appearance.

  "Her name is Cassandra Hart." Miller drummed her Mont Blanc against the pristine surface of her bleached oak desk. Drake found himself only half-listening, his attention focused on stray motes of dust caught in the air, sparkling ever so slightly as a narrow beam of sun forced its way through the clouds. Winking at a private joke. "She's a physician at Three River's ER."