Nerves of Steel

by CJ Lyons

  "Oh yeah, right." Kwon made a quick note. "It never occurred to you that your ex might be working with Trautman, might be involved with Weaver's death? Maybe Trautman's as well?"

  Hart shifted, dragging the chair a few inches back across the floor, away from both Drake and Kwon. "Well, yes. That too."

  "So there you are, in a small office, no one around but you and your drug-using-ex, who just might have helped kill your best friend, and you gave him coffee?" Kwon arched her eyebrow in disbelief.

  "I didn't give him coffee," Hart snapped. "He took my cup and drank from it."

  "So you were about to ask your husband if he helped to kill your best friend, but couldn't because someone else happened to slip poison into the cup he was drinking from? Is that how it happened?"

  "No, of course not. I don't know how that Double Cross got into my cup. I was just trying to--" she stopped short.

  Drake found himself leaning forward, anxious to catch every word.

  "Trying to what?" Kwon asked. Hart remained silent. Kwon took a different tack. "How did you know it was Double Cross in the coffee? We're not even sure yet."

  "His symptoms were the same as a patient I had the other night."

  "How did that patient do?"

  "He's brain dead."

  "Guess your husband is lucky he's only in a coma, huh? Too bad Trautman and Weaver weren't as lucky after you tried to help them."

  "You don't understand. You weren't there that night, watching Fran die, helpless to do anything, knowing that it was all because of you--" she stopped herself. Drake watched her choke back her frustration and grief. After a deep breath she went on. "I had to try."

  Kwon seemed skeptical, but let it pass. "Why do you think anyone would want to kill either you or your husband?"

  "I don't know." The words emerged in a heavy tone as if Kwon had dragged them from Hart by force. They sank into a lengthening silence. Sweat gathered on Hart's upper lip. Her gaze kept darting to the door as if she were considering making a break for freedom.

  She never once looked to Drake for help. Not that he could offer much if she did. He shoved his fists into his pockets, kept his face impassive.

  Kwon spoke again. "Awfully convenient, don't you think? That the one person other than Trautman who might be able to tell us anything is poisoned after drinking from your cup."

  Hart started to open her mouth to protest, but the detective was already on a different track. "How did it feel watching your best friend die? I'm told you were holding her wound shut with your hands, tried to stop the bleeding."

  Hart gagged and looked away. "There was nothing I could do. It was a mortal wound," she said, teeth clenched. Drake watched her dig her feet into the floor, ready to propel herself from the chair, from the room, and knew she was close to breaking.

  He shuffled forward a half step, ready, wanting to stop this. But a jerk of Kwon's head stopped him and he held his ground. Reminded himself that finding the truth was the best way to help Hart. If only Hart would tell them the truth.

  "Right." Kwon said, as if she'd forgotten this point. "I only ask because I understand you cut open your husband's neck. At about the same spot where Weaver was shot. Seems like a suitable revenge if he did kill your friend over drugs: first poison him, then slice him open." The detective flung these statements at her so nonchalantly that Hart blinked in surprise.

  "I'm a doctor," she told Kwon in a voice choked with fury. "I save lives, I don't take them."

  Kwon gave Hart a syrupy smile. "Surely you can do better than that."

  Drake winced. Did Hart have any idea how guilty she looked? She was acting just like any other perp.

  Hart's glare had no effect on Kwon, other than to widen her smile. Moving in for the kill. "You see, you might have just made your first mistake by poisoning your husband. Trautman already gave us his statement--last night, in fact. Told us about how he caught you stealing FX and he blackmailed you into letting him in on the deal. If I were you, I'd start looking for a good lawyer. Oh, but I forgot," Kwon sat up straight, a look of sympathy pasted on her face, "your brother-in-law, the great and powerful Alan King, probably won't be in a mood to save the woman who just put his brother in a coma, will he?"

  Hart's mouth opened then snapped shut again. After returning Kwon's stare for a long moment, she gathered her dignity like a moth-eaten shawl and scraped her chair back as she stood. "I've told you all I can, Detective. Please call me if you have more questions."

  "I think you can count on that, Doctor." Kwon flashed a triumphant smile over her shoulder at Drake.

  Hart caught their exchange and for the first time she made eye contact with Drake. Her wounded expression made him feel ashamed, forced him to take a half-step back until he was against the wall.

  She stalked across the room, toward the door he stood beside. Her face flushed with anger once more, giving her pale complexion a radiant glow. He remembered the colors that had enchanted him last night as they flowed over her skin, the light in her eyes after they made love. Those large, dark eyes looked up at him, just as they had last night, but now they were filled with pain and regret.

  "I hope you found the show entertaining." She stood toe to toe with him, didn't give an inch.

  Drake was silent, not trusting his voice. Sweat pooled at the small of his back, and he felt the ghost of her fingers dancing over that same sensitive area of flesh.

  "I am free to go, aren't I, Detective?" she asked him. He nodded.

  Her eyes blazed with indignation. He opened the door for her. She passed over the threshold, turning so that her back was to him, and marched down the corridor, back rigid, head high. And all he could do was watch her leave.

  Kwon joined him at the door. "She's not a very good liar, is she?"

  Drake grimaced and shook his head.

  "Too bad it's all circumstantial. Not enough probable cause to bring her in. Yet," Kwon continued in a heartless tone. He knew she had purposely goaded Hart, trying to prove to him that Hart was guilty.

  No matter what he believed about Hart being innocent of trying to kill her ex and Trautman, she'd definitely been lying about something. He was going to have to find out what. And who wanted to kill her--and why.

  CHAPTER 55

  Cassie barely made it to the safety of the stairwell before she collapsed. Her chest was heaving, straining to pull enough oxygen into her body, her lips and hands were numb as waves of nausea crashed over her. Sitting on a concrete step, she hung her head between her knees, placed a palm against the cold cement block wall to steady her, and surrendered to the panic attack.

  What had Drake said that first night? That together they could exorcize demons? Her vision blackened to a shadowy haze as her body shook, out of her control. If only it was that easy.

  Slowly, by painful degrees, feeling returned to her. First a tantalizing tingling, then spasms of pain as her cramped muscles released their death grip. She raised her head, black spots still danced in her vision, but she could see again. And breathe. And think.

  But when she tried to focus, to come up with strategy, all she saw was Drake's face, watching her as he allowed Kwon accuse her of murder. He thought she was lying.

  Of course she was, but it was to protect him. Cassie ignored the tremors that still shook her as she hauled herself up onto her feet. She needed to get back to her life, to her world--where she was in control. Let the police take care of the rest.

  And Drake?

  The answer eluded her as she climbed the steps, one at a time in slow motion as if it was the summit of Everest that awaited her instead of the ICU three floors above. By the time she entered the unit, she felt reasonably in control of her body and mind. Enough to allow her to ignore the questioning looks from the nurses and staff she passed as she walked to the chart rack. Richard's chart was gone, probably with the group of neurologists gathered around his bedside.

  She was reading Jane Doe's when a nurse rushed up to her. "Dr. Hart, I was just going to page y
ou. Your patient's family wants to talk with you."

  Cassie looked up at that, her pulse revving with excitement. "Jane Doe's family is here?"

  The nurse frowned and shook her head. "Oh no, not her. The Winstons. Their plane was delayed in London, they just got in a few hours ago. They asked for you specifically." She glanced over her shoulder at the closed curtains around Brian's bed. "I think they didn't want to believe the neurologists. Someone told them you were the one who saved him in the ER, and," she shrugged apologetically, "I think they're hoping you'll give them better news."

  "How is he doing?"

  "They did a perfusion scan this morning and an apnea test." The nurse handed her Brian's chart. "Both showed no brain activity."

  Cassie flipped through the chart to verify the test results. The neurologists had officially declared Brian Winston brain dead, had documented their discussions with the family regarding withdrawing life support and possible organ donation.

  She looked up at the nurse who gave her a look of condolence. It was the hardest part of her job, being helpless to offer anything, not even hope for a patient or their family. Thankfully, it wasn't a situation that arose very often down in the ER.

  The price of getting involved, she told herself as she walked over to Brian's bedspace and pulled back the privacy curtain. "Mr. and Mrs. Winston?"

  Brian's parents stood at the head of the bed, but neither paid any attention to their son. They were engaged in a fierce argument conducted in hoarse whispers. The mother, a tall brunette with stylish short hair, large diamond and topaz earrings and a larger diamond pendant, had her fingers wrapped around the bedrail, shaking it as she accused her husband.

  "It's all your fault," she was saying, her voice the sharp hiss of a viper. "You never spent any time with him, always too busy with your work, your clients--"

  Mr. Winston stood several inches over his wife. He wore a form-fitting silk polo and sharply creased slacks. The Rolex on his wrist sparkled, reflecting the multi-colored tracings from Brian's monitors like Christmas lights. "You never complained before--not as long as my long hours gave you time for your Pilates and paid for your mindfulness coach and shopping sprees. Where were you? You're supposed to be his mother!"

  Cassie coughed to catch their attention. "I'm Dr. Hart," she said as they both turned to her. "I took care of Brian," she directed her gaze on the comatose teen, hoping they would as well, "when he came into the ER."

  "Doctor," Mrs. Winston said, "we heard how you saved our son. They want us to decide, to decide--"

  "They say he's already gone," Mr. Winston put in bluntly. "I can't accept that. We wanted a second opinion. From someone who doesn't just see him as a chance to bring in more cash through organ transplants."

  Cassie forced herself not to react at his condemnation of her colleagues. Tried to blame it on their anger and guilt--all part of the grieving process. She wondered if they realized that they'd already distanced themselves from Brian. Neither used his name or touched him. Instead they took a step back when she reached for Brian's arm to stroke it. His skin was warm, his pulse strong, although she knew the boy was already dead. Still, it helped to her to focus on what was really important here.

  And for once, it wasn't her patient. Instead, she needed to help his family accept the worst thing that could happen to any parent: their child dying before them, as they watched, helpless.

  Once he was able to break free of Kwon's watchful eyes, Drake went AWOL, searching for Hart. Finally he found her at the first place he should have looked, back where everything had begun, with her patient, Jane Doe.

  He stood inside the ICU doors, watching her sit with the teenager. Hart was combing the girl's freshly shampooed hair, murmuring to her in a quiet voice when he approached. He saw that her other patient, the Winston kid, was gone, his bedspace empty.

  "I thought someone should stay with her," she said without looking up at him or pausing in her efforts. "Since I have nothing better to do." Now she turned her head to glare at him. "Unless you're here to arrest me?"

  Drake shoved his hands into his coat pockets, shook his head. "No." He caught movement at the far end of the room and recognized Richard King lying in a bed. "How's King doing?"

  "I heard a nurse saying he might have had a stroke, but I haven't been over to see for myself. Didn't want anyone to misinterpret my actions." Her voice was flinty.

  Before Drake could respond, the doors slid open, and a tall, blond man rushed in.

  "Where is he?" he demanded to the room at large as if everyone present should immediately attend to his needs. His gaze circled the room, lit on Hart, and blazed with fury.

  Drake recognized Alan King from previous encounters in the courtroom. The older King looked a lot like his younger brother, except Alan's eyes were darker and, instead of Richard King's smooth poise, Alan's demeanor was one of constant urgency.

  Alan King strode toward Hart, hands fisted in front of him. "You bitch. What the hell do you think you're doing here?"

  Drake stepped between Hart and the agitated attorney, but she brushed past him to face King on her own.

  "Not here," she said and left the ICU, King hurrying after. Drake followed, watching from the doorway as she led King down the hall to a quiet corner beside the vending machines. Alan King's fury seemed to grow now that he had Hart alone, his voice was loud enough that Drake caught his part of the conversation effortlessly.

  "How dare you come anywhere near him after what you've done!" King shouted. "I'll have you up on charges, get a restraining order. You'll never work in this city again when I'm done with you."

  Drake debated joining them but Hart seemed to be doing fine on her own. He watched as she spoke quietly, saw the attorney's posture change, not quite relax--he doubted Alan King ever relaxed--but soften. He was impressed. Given Hart's quick temper, he expected her to lash back at Alan's unfounded accusations. Of course, she had long experience in dealing with the King family, maybe that was why she seemed to have more patience with her ex than she did with Drake.

  Then he saw Alan King's hand land on Hart's shoulder, stay there despite her glare and movement to shake it off. The same possessive attitude Richard King had. Could Hart have been involved with both brothers? He watched her face darken with disgust and thought not. She glanced in his direction, and Drake took his cue, glad to be able to do something to help.

  "Dr. Hart," he said in an official voice. "I need more information about your patient." He insinuated himself between them, giving Hart room to maneuver away from King.

  King looked at Drake straight on for the first time. "Do I know you?"

  "Detective Drake. We've met in court. The last time was when you got Lester Young off on a technicality after he emptied a TEC-9 at me and hit a van full of kids."

  Alan King pursed his lips, then smiled. "Right. Good old Lester. How's he doing, anyway?"

  "He's dead." Drake didn't add that Lester died of the same drug that Richard King was now fighting. That seemed too cruel, even for a lawyer like King.

  King shrugged as if the loss of a client was meaningless. As long as the bill was paid. Then his eyes cut back to Hart who stood at Drake's side. King reached out a hand, touched her cheek in a casual movement and backed away again.

  "We're not done here, Cassandra." He spun on his heel and returned to the ICU.

  Drake watched him go, wishing he had just one good reason--he could understand Kwon and Dimeo's fascination with implicating the King family in something dirty.

  "Nice guy," he muttered.

  "Alan? He's the worst of the bunch."

  He looked down to see Hart wiping at the skin where King's fingers had touched her.

  "Of course I didn't know that until after the wedding. Alan wouldn't think twice about casually walking into our bedroom, especially if he knew Richard wasn't there. Kept trying to corner me at family gatherings, too."

  He raised an eyebrow, and she rolled her eyes at him. "Don't even go there. I might hav
e been blind enough to fall for Richard's charm, but there's no way in hell I'd let that slime anywhere near me."

  "Glad to hear it." Then he remembered why he had come. "Is there some place we can talk?"

  "There are empty call rooms down here."

  She led him down a narrow back hallway and into a small cave of a room furnished with a single bed, no headboard, a scarred bedside table with a ragged lamp and phone on it, and a single wooden chair. There were no windows, no mirrors, but there was an adjoining room with a toilet and a sink. Drake looked around. Most prison cells were larger. How many hundreds of nights had Hart spent in rooms just like this one?

  He thought about her claustrophobia as she closed the door behind them. But she seemed totally at ease and in control here in a familiar environment, despite the confinement.

  She sat on the bed, its plastic mattress cover rustling under her weight. The linens covering the bed had been starched and pressed so many times that they smelled charred.

  "I'm sorry about what I said before, about Pamela," she started, pulling her knees up to her chest. "That was wrong."

  "Lying to Kwon wasn't exactly a smart move either," he told her. "One thing about us cops, we hate being lied to." He spun the lone chair around and straddled it, facing her.

  "That makes two of us. You told me I wasn't under suspicion. There's no way Kwon made up that crazy theory on the spur of the moment."

  "I told you that you were clear in my book. The Task Force has been looking at you and King since the day you came to see Miller."

  "The day I came to help you? Talk about no good deed going unpunished." She leaned back, blew out her breath. "I almost wish I never--Fran would still be alive, Richard--none of this would have happened."

  "We wouldn't have happened," he reminded her, reaching across the space between them to take her hand in his, softly stroking the scar at the base of her thumb. "Do you regret that?"

  She tilted her head, looked at him square on. "No. But you might. When I tell you the truth."