Nerves of Steel

by CJ Lyons

  She sat down at her desk and began to sort her mail, a mindless activity that kept her thoughts away from Trautman's death. Or the fact that Richard was probably behind it. After all, who had more to gain?

  Could Richard also be behind Fran's death? Had he fallen that far? The man she knew, the man she'd once loved had been narcissistic, volatile--but not a stone-cold killer.

  Big question was, what could she do about it? Without forcing him to use the tape against Drake? She had no evidence, only a gut-twisting suspicion. Was that enough to convince Richard to trade her the tape for her silence?

  Her name sounded on the overhead intercom, asking her to report to the nurses' station. Why hadn't Richard called her extension directly? The nurses' station was empty except for the bored looking clerk.

  "Did you page me?" she asked.

  "No, not me," he answered, turning the volume down on the AlterBridge blaring from his iPod.

  "Then who did?"

  "No one here. It was the hospital operator. Why don't you ask her?"

  Ed Castro was on duty and the ER was quiet, she saw no reason for Ed or anyone else to page her. Maybe Drake or one of his counterparts, looking for more information on Trautman's code? If so, they could come find her in person. She went back to her office.

  Richard sat at her desk, feet propped up, drinking her coffee. "Hey, Ella." He swiveled around to greet her. "How can you drink this shit?"

  The inferior grade of coffee didn't stop him from finishing the cup.

  "I've got to talk to you." She forced herself not to smile at his black eye. Her work. Despite the small room, their close proximity or the fact that the man before her might be a killer, she felt no fear, none of the overwhelming sense of claustrophobia Richard usually elicited in her. Instead, she felt calm, confident. It was a pleasant change. "Do you know who killed Fran?"

  "I told your friend Drake that you were coming back to me." He riffled through her mail. "He didn't seem too happy about it." He looked up with a wide grin.

  "Drake has nothing to do with this. This is between you and me. I have no intention of coming back to you, not now, not ever. I notified the Medical Board that you're using again."

  He tossed her mail back onto her desk and set her coffee cup down on her mouse pad. "I know. And the test came back clean. And they always will."

  "How are you faking your drug tests?" He didn't answer, merely smiled widely, his gaze smug. She tried another tact. "If you give me the video, I'll keep quiet about how you injected insulin into Trautman's antibiotic bag."

  "Good try, Ella. But you can't fool me. You've got nothing." He reached a hand out to stroke her arm possessively. "Just remember. No one touches my wife and gets away with it. No one--not even a cop."

  It took all her strength not to flinch or jerk away from his touch. It'd only make things worse--for Drake. She was silent, taking care not to provoke him further. He moved closer to her. He ground his teeth together, something he did only when very emotional.

  "I told you, Ella. You're mine." His tongue darted out to lick his dry lips, then he grabbed her by the elbows, drawing her near. She easily broke free of his grasp. His palms left sweaty stains on her sleeves.

  He was sweating all over. She reached out and touched his flushed face. "You're burning up."

  He lurched back against the desk. "Can't breathe," his words emerged in a gasp as he collapsed to the floor.

  Cassie stared at him for a blank second. She should be kneeling at his side, opening his airway, checking his pulse, getting him help. Instead, she was frozen in place, mesmerized by a bead of sweat slipping down his forehead, falling into his unseeing eye. He lay helpless at her feet, he could even be dying and for one brief moment the thought gave her a sense of elation, of freedom.

  Her next breath brought her crashing back to earth with a heavy sense of guilt. She couldn't let him die. Conquering her primitive impulses, she ran out the door to the nurses' station.

  "Call a code," she called to the charge nurse. "Get the cart down to my office. Now!" She raced back to Richard. His breathing stopped and convulsions began to wrack his body.

  Ed Castro and a team of nurses arrived to help. They wrestled Richard's body onto a gurney and wheeled him down to the trauma room. Richard's jaws were locked together, making it next to impossible to force any air through to his lungs.

  "I'm going to cric him," Cassie told the team, reaching for the equipment needed to insert an airway directly through his neck and into his trachea. She hoped it worked better on Richard than it had on the homeless boy last night.

  "What's going on?" Ed asked as he started an IV.

  "Temp's 105.6," a nurse announced. "Pulse ox dropping, heart rate 240, BP 210 over 150."

  Cassie looked up from her position at Richard's head and met Ed's eyes. If they couldn't stabilize Richard soon they would lose him. She remembered her patient from the other night, Brian, her first Double Cross overdose. He had similar symptoms, but his had developed much more slowly. So had the boy's last night.

  "Push Valium and pentobarbital," she told Ed.

  "Won't do any good if you can't get that airway."

  "I know." She was counting the seconds that Richard was deprived of oxygen. Brian had never been hypoxic, and his brain had still been fried by the potent drug combination.

  She looked down at her ex-husband. She'd once loved the man. No matter how he had deteriorated, she didn't want to see him suffer. How could he have been so foolish, taking drugs here at work? What if this had happened when he was in the middle of surgery?

  Splashing betadine on his neck, she felt for the delicate membrane of tissue and inserted the scalpel blade until she had incised a tract into the trachea. She slid the tube in and began to force air through it, hoping she wasn't too late.

  "I'm in."

  "Pulse ox coming up," a nurse informed them. The other medications took effect, and the seizure stopped. Richard now lay in a coma, but one produced by the powerful barbiturates they had given to relax his body.

  "Pentobarbital coma." Ed nodded in satisfaction as their patient's vitals began to drift back to normal. "Haven't used that since I was a resident back in the dark ages. Good thinking, Cassie."

  "I used it the other night on a similar overdose." She didn't want to dwell on the ultimate outcome of that patient. Right now two parents were sitting at their son's bedside, waiting for the strength to turn off the machines keeping him alive.

  "He wasn't down long. He'll be all right."

  Cassie said nothing. The pessimism in Ed's voice said it all.

  CHAPTER 53

  They were wheeling Richard out of the trauma room when Drake arrived. "What the hell happened?" he asked Cassie in a tone that made her stop short. "Do I have to lock you up to keep you out of trouble?"

  "Not here." She led the way down to her office. Drake followed her inside.

  "Richard came to see me," she started. "He collapsed from an overdose of the new FX/MDMA drug."

  Drake frowned at that, his eyes narrowed. "King came to see you?"

  "Yes. I asked him to." She hesitated. "We had some things to get straightened out."

  "So you're not reconciling with him?"

  "Of course not." She glanced up at him, saw his face go from stony to relaxed. "You never really thought--"

  "How did I know what to think? You weren't talking this morning."

  "I'm sorry. I needed time to think."

  "Why were you in Trautman's room when he died?" His gaze locked onto hers with an intensity that made her squirm and look away.

  "I think Richard's been getting drugs from Trautman." It was the truth, just not all of it. "Something that isn't showing up in his urine tox screens. That's one of the things I wanted to talk to Richard about, but he collapsed before--" She stopped. Something was wrong. Things weren't adding up.

  "Before what? He didn't hurt you, did he?"

  Cassie shook her head, her gaze darting around the small room.

/>   "Right before--Richard was drinking out of my coffee cup." She reached out a hand for the ceramic mug, then drew back as if it was a viper.

  Drake moved past her and examined the cup without touching it. "There's some kind of chalky residue in the bottom. A lot of it--" He looked at her appraisingly. "You're about half King's size. If you drank the same amount--"

  "I'd probably be dead."

  She sank back against the desk, her head reeling. Someone was trying to kill her. The same someone who had killed Fran?

  Drake reached out to her, his fingers stroking the worry lines at the corner of her eye. "Let me get someone to secure this place, then I'll take you out of here."

  "No."

  "No what? You're not going to stay here. Don't you get it? This actor is after you. I'll take you down to the House, get your statement, and we'll figure this all out. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

  "I'm not going anywhere with you," she told him in a flat voice. Everyone who got near to her, they were all in danger.

  He stared at her, at first with concern, then with a frown. "You're trying to protect me, aren't you?" She said nothing. "I'm the cop, remember? I don't need your protection, if anything did happen, I can take care of myself."

  "So can I."

  "We are not having this conversation." He took her by the elbow, steered her toward the door.

  Cassie twisted free from his grasp. "Don't try to handle me, Drake."

  He sighed, ran his fingers through his hair. "I know you feel responsible for what happened to Richard--"

  "It was my cup, damn it. Of course I'm responsible!"

  "No, you're not!" His voice echoed off the cement block walls of the tiny office space. "You didn't put the fucking poison there! Just like you didn't shoot Weaver. And I'm damned certain you didn't kill Trautman."

  "I'm the one who got Fran involved in all this. If I'd just minded my own business--"

  "A lot of innocent kids might have been killed by FX overdoses."

  Now who was playing God? "You don't know anything about it!"

  "I know you take responsibility for everything that happens around you because you need to be in control!"

  They were squared off, only inches separating them, forcing Cassie to tilt her head up to meet his glare.

  "Guess what," he went on, in a low, relentless tone, " you're not in control--too fucking bad, welcome to the human race. What makes you think that you're better than the rest of us, anyway?"

  "At least I don't get drunk and go whoring around!" Cassie clamped a hand over her mouth. Watched as he sucked in his breath, his entire body shrinking away from her as if she had slapped him.

  The door opened and both of them jumped. Kwon stood there, a twisted smile curling her lips.

  "Am I interrupting?"

  CHAPTER 54

  Drake froze. His face, his body, he swore even his heart stopped beating for a few moments until he recovered. He backed away from Hart, regaining breathing room and his composure, and joined Kwon in the hall.

  "We need to secure the scene," he said to Kwon. "Richard King was poisoned by Double Cross placed in Hart's coffee cup."

  Kwon clicked her tongue at that, her eyes narrowing as she stared at Hart. "Why am I not surprised to hear that?" She jerked her head at Hart. "Let's take this elsewhere, Doctor, shall we?"

  Hart followed Kwon, her eyes on the floor, shoulders hunched as she walked past Drake. As if she was afraid he'd touch her, hurt her as much as her words had wounded him. Maybe six months wasn't long enough, after all.

  Kwon gave him a look of supreme disappointment as she opened the door to the break room and ushered Hart inside.

  After Drake summoned one of the uniforms from upstairs to secure Hart's office, he joined them. Hart sat at the narrow table, palms flat against it, leaning forward, her face flushed in anger. Kwon lounged in her chair, sipping from a cup of coffee as if it was cream and she was a particularly satisfied cat.

  She flicked her gaze over to Drake. He took a position in the corner of the room, out of direct eyeshot of either woman.

  "Dr. Hart was just explaining how she came to be at," she ticked off her fingers as if counting, "five crime scenes in less than two days." She swiveled to face Hart once more. "No, excuse me. It's six crime scenes--if you count your original encounter with Jane Doe."

  Kwon set her cup down and licked her upper lip. "Finding all that FX--knowing it could possibly lead back to you, that's what started it, isn't it, Hart? I understand. You were scared, felt trapped. You had to take action, to protect yourself."

  Hart's face tightened into a scowl as the crimson that flushed her face crept down her neck. Her hands curled into fists. She pushed her chair back. Kwon remained seated, gazed placidly up at her.

  "Sit down, Hart." Her voice cut through the silence like a gunshot.

  Drake stepped forward, ready to intervene. But he didn't have to. Hart shook herself, gave Kwon a quick nod of acknowledgment as if she was keeping score and settled herself back into the chair.

  "Let's start from the beginning," Kwon said, her voice smooth, unruffled. "Tell me about Weaver and the shooter. What did you see and hear?"

  He watched grief crash down over Hart's features. She took a breath, kept her eyes fixed on Kwon's. "It was raining very hard, and it was dark. I pulled a security guard outside with me. There was a shot. I saw a person running away. I think it was a man, wearing dark clothes, a hood or hat over his head. I didn't see his face."

  "Could it have been Trautman?"

  "No. He was much thinner, shorter. Trautman is what, six four or so?"

  "Was," Kwon reminded her. "The guard told us the man he saw was tall and stocky like Trautman."

  Hart looked up in surprise. "He's wrong. The killer was lean, not stocky at all. And definitely under six feet."

  "Conveniently rules out your husband as well." Kwon nodded as if she expected no less. "Want to tell me why you went out to the West End Bridge last night?"

  "We had another overdose patient come in, and one of his friends recognized my Jane Doe. Said she'd seen her with some homeless kids near the West End Bridge."

  "So you went down there to identify your patient?" Kwon's voice had a trace of skepticism. "Not because Trautman asked you to meet him there?"

  Hart's expression was one of confusion. "Of course not."

  "You and Trautman, you'd had dealings in the past?"

  "He worked orthopedics, so he was in and out of the ER. You know, taking patients up to the OR, helping the ortho guys with fracture reductions and casts."

  Kwon nodded her understanding. "That was your only interaction with Trautman prior to last night?"

  "Yes."

  Drake released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. She was telling the truth--her face was open, eyes clear of deception. Trautman had lied about her involvement. But Hart's word alone wasn't good enough, especially not with Trautman dead. Not to mention the circumstances of his death.

  "What about your husband? I believe he's an orthopedic surgeon."

  "Ex-husband," Hart replied. "You'd have to ask him." Her lips clamped shut as she remembered why that was impossible. Kwon merely raised an eyebrow at Hart's lapse.

  "When he's better," she added, lamely.

  "You mean out of his coma?" Kwon said with a bland inflection.

  "Yes."

  "I understand Dr. King recently returned from drug rehabilitation. Could Trautman have been dealing him drugs?"

  "It's possible. I had my suspicions Richard was using again, his behavior has been erratic since his return. But he told me all his drug tests have been negative, and the hospital certainly wouldn't let him near patients if there were any suspicion that he might be impaired."

  "You two must still be close for you to be defending him."

  Hart bristled. "We're not close. I'm not defending him, I'm just telling you what little I know." She shifted in her chair, her gaze darting to the closed door, one han
d pressed against her chest as if she needed air.

  "Of course," Kwon agreed placidly. "Tell me about Trautman. He had a gun, didn't he? Why didn't he just shoot you?"

  Drake was glad it had been six-four, two hundred-fifty pound Trautman out on that bridge with Hart instead of the slender Kwon. Kwon was entirely too rational, too logical about the most effective way to orchestrate Hart's demise.

  "He put it in his pocket when he slapped me," Hart said, her fists clenching against the tabletop. "I kneed him in the groin and tried to run away, but he grabbed me and picked me up-" She broke off, looked down at her hands as she opened and closed them.

  Drake remembered the terror that had gripped him when he'd seen Trautman throw her over the railing and his gut roiled. He cleared his throat, a verbal nudge for Kwon to move on. She raised her index finger in acknowledgment.

  "Why did you go see Trautman today? I'm sure after the events of last night you weren't a welcome visitor."

  Hart hesitated. "I needed, I wanted to know if he knew who killed Fran."

  That earned her a raised eyebrow. "You expected the man who you may have blinded for life, a man that you say tried to kill you and was a ruthless drug dealer, to confess to being an accessory to murder? Surely, you're not that naive?"

  Hart was silent, her blush creeping up her neck once more. Kwon continued, "You called your husband, asked him to meet you. Why?"

  "He wanted to reconcile, and I needed to make it clear to him that was impossible," Hart said, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on Kwon's, shoulders hunched once more as if trying to block Drake out. He caught a glimpse of her foot tapping below the table. Another lie. Was she protecting King? Or herself?

  "Why? He's rich, handsome, a good doctor, seems like a catch to me." Kwon leaned forward, just girls here, shooting the breeze.

  Color suffused Hart's face now. She touched one finger to her lips before answering. "I told you, I had suspicions that Richard was using drugs again."