Nerves of Steel (13 page)

"I know.  Practically reamed me a new one for suggesting there could be anything wrong in the way he ran his pharmacy."

"Sounds like Krakov.  Could he have had anything to do with," she faltered, "this."

"I wish I knew."  His voice was throaty, raw.  He cleared his throat.  "Anyone else you can think of who might be involved?"

A faint sheen appeared on her upper lip and she raised a single finger to her mouth as if telling herself to hush.  Her head bobbed in a nod, but she said, "No.  I don't think so."

"How about your husband?"

Her head jerked up at that.  "Ex-husband," she corrected him firmly.  "The man I saw, it wasn't Richard."

Didn't exactly answer his question, but he allowed it to pass.  Maybe later.  After he had a chance to see what Kwon found out from her interview with King.  There were too many coincidences piling up, all pointing to someone with intimate knowledge of Three Rivers Medical Center.  "What did Weaver mean by only a part of the problem?  Did she mean other drugs were taken?" 

Kwon had said it would be tomorrow before they could get the work schedules, compare them to Weaver's data.  Maybe they should be looking at other narcotics, testing to see if they were substitutes as well. 

"Or did she mean that more than one person was involved?"  He tilted his chair back, steepling his fingers, and continued, "This morning Weaver said she found at least two hundred pills that had been stolen."  He looked to Hart for confirmation.

"Right."

"But this hospital goes through five hundred pills a day, give or take.  And our guy only got two hundred in a month?  Makes me think of someone with sporadic opportunity, like a resident or orderly or nurse."

"Or physician assistant or maintenance man or ward clerk.  Do you have any idea how many people that would be?"

"I'm beginning to get the picture.  Thing is, it's hit and miss.  Our guy seems much more organized, systematic."

"Our guy?"

"My guy.  I've been tracking down leads on a major source of the FX.  This guy, my guy, has a network extending over into Ohio and as far south as Morgantown, West Virginia."

"Is that who the task force is tracking?"

Drake brought his chair down and shook his head.  "Miller thinks I'm cracked.  Thinks I've fabricated one superdealer out of a lot of little fish.  Not a single person I've spoken to has seen him up close.  He's very methodic, cagey."  More he learned about Richard King, the more it looked like the surgeon could be a good fit for the part. 

"That's why you're so interested in Jane Doe."

"I figure if she was close enough to wrangle some real FX from him, she probably knows who he is or at least can give me a good description.  But if it's some kid just sneaking a pill here or there--"  He shrugged.  "Maybe Miller's right, I'm getting too involved in this case." 

What was he doing, telling her all that?  Hart was a suspect.  Drake fixed his gaze on her, she was still far too pale.  The image of her kneeling over her friend's body haunted him.  The silence lengthened as he tried to convince himself that she was still a suspect.  He rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes and blew his breath out before acknowledging the truth.

Hart wasn't a suspect.  Not anymore.  Not for him.

"When was the last time you got any sleep?" she asked, jarring him back to reality. 

"You mean like a full night?"  He suppressed the urge to yawn at the mere mention of sleep and kept his face impassive. He was still a cop on the job.  Nothing could change that.  "Can't remember.  You ready to get started?"  He turned on the recorder.

He led Hart through the events of the evening.  Not that she needed much leading.  She was clear, concise and didn't seem prone to either self-doubt or hyperbole, two traits that perennially plagued witnesses.  She'd be great on the stand.  Voice clear as crystal, those large brown eyes, open face that revealed honest emotion.  A prosecutor's dream.

If he ever got this actor to trial, that was.

Remembering Hart in the shower, covered in blood, his hand below the table drew into a tight fist and pounded against his thigh.  Suddenly getting the job done right had never seemed so important. 

He rubbed his chin, frowned at the stubble of growth there.  What would Hart say if he told her that lately she was the main reason for his lack of sleep?  After the task force briefing, he'd gone home to toss and turn until memories of her face finally drove him from his bed.  He had done several quick-fire sketches in charcoal, then a more leisurely study in pastels.  That one almost captured her elusive luminescence that compelled him, drew him like Icarus to the sun. 

Finally he'd fallen asleep in the battered recliner in his studio.  For the first time in months he had not been chased from slumber by visions of Pamela.  Instead he dreamt of Hart, tactile dreams where her body came alive beneath his touch, vibrant colors swirling around them as they embraced.

Exactly what you'd want to tell a witness who just watched her friend die.  That she's the new star of the investigating officer's erotic fantasies. 

Wouldn't Miller love that?  The Commander wasn't very sympathetic after Drake returned from his suspension last summer.  She'd made it clear that if he didn't start getting results from his work on the task force that she would reassign him.

To motorpool duty if she had her way.  In Siberia if she could figure out how to extend her jurisdiction that far. 

Hart's eyes closed as she described Weaver's death.  She reverted to medical jargon, distancing herself from the victim, but still he saw her pain.  Nuances of emotion played off the planes of her face.  Excellent bone structure.  What kind of ethnic blend had combined to form those high cheekbones, deep-set almond shaped eyes, rich, full lips and that hair--he could bury himself and get lost for days in those rich, dark curls.

She opened her eyes and he startled.  When had he moved so close to her?  Drake carefully rolled his chair away from hers.  He wanted to touch her, comfort her, but he couldn't.  He shouldn't.

"So you never saw his face?" he asked, not because he thought she was holding out on him, but to break the uneasy silence that had settled over the room.

"No.  I can't even be certain if it was a man."  Her eyes flashed for a moment, and he watched the muscles of her jaw clench.  "I think it was.  The voice sounded masculine."  She turned the full weight of her gaze on him.  "What are you going to do next?"

Drake cleared his throat, surprised by the intensity behind the question.  He shut the recorder off, stood and held her jacket out for her.  "I'm going to take you home."

She slid out of her chair and turned toward him, ignoring the waiting coat.  Her cheeks flushed with color that spread down her neck and chest.  He couldn't help but notice she wore nothing under her karate uniform. 

"When is Fran's autopsy?"

Uh oh.  He could see where this was headed.  "You're not going."

She glared at him, stood toe to toe, head tilted back to meet his eyes.  Why was it he was the one who felt intimidated into looking away first?  He could pick her up with one hand.  Then he remembered how she'd used his own bulk against him last night and decided maybe he wouldn't try.  She didn't wear a belt on her karate top, but she definitely was no novice.

"I signed her death certificate.  As physician of record, I have a right to be there."   Her words emerged in a flat, clinical tone as if she was telling him to take two aspirin and call her in the morning.

Ah, there was a picture he didn't need right now.  Hart in the morning, hair tousled, face relaxed in sleep.  Drake's fingers curled, itching with an urge to sketch the image that flashed in his mind. 

He looked down at Hart and realized that somehow his hand had risen to rest on her shoulder.  It was a nice shoulder, well-rounded with firm muscles, but it belonged to a witness and definitely was off limits. 

"You don't have to go," he heard himself telling her, forcing himself to remain professional when every instinct in him wanted to gather her into his arms, to tell her everything would be all right, to comfort and protect her.  "I'll see to it that you get a copy of the protocol."

She shook her head, curls bouncing against her shoulder.  If he opened his fingers the slightest bit, he could have slid the silky strands between them. 

"No, I have to be there." 

"Why would you want to see your friend carved up like that?"  Her eyes widened at his words, but he saw resolution there.  And fear.  Now he knew what she needed from the autopsy.  "There was nothing you could have done.  She would have died even if you had been right there when he shot her."

Hart shrugged his hand away, grabbed her jacket and slid into it herself.  "You can't be sure.  I was there and I'm not sure.  But one way or the other, I need to know." 

CHAPTER 23

Cassie was silent as Drake led her to his car.  A '68 Mustang convertible, candy apple red with a black top and interior.  She slid into the low-slung passenger seat and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering while he turned the heat up as high as it would go.  The car fit him.  So masculine, so independent. 
Don't need nobody
, it seemed to sing as it glided out of the parking lot.  She almost smiled when it fish-tailed on a patch of black ice while taking the turn onto Penn.  The Mustang might be a classic muscle car, but not the most sensible for the streets of Pittsburgh.  Especially in winter.

"We should have taken my car."

"I'll take you back for it if you'll change your mind about going."   He turned away from the road to look at her.  Cassie saw the movement but kept her face forward and said nothing.  "All right, it was worth a try."

They drove in silence through the Strip District.  Drake pulled into the small lot behind the newly relocated coroner's offices on Penn Avenue.  A small, wooden sign along the curb revealed the address but no hint as to what the anonymous, bunker-like building contained: the morgue and a level three bio-lab.  The squat, narrow concrete building was punctuated with deeply recessed windows that seemed designed to block more sunlight than they would admit.  Not that there was much of a view.  Across the street was a four-story windowless warehouse and a vacant lot. 

Cassie missed the old medical examiner's building with its soaring sandstone facade, as intricately carved as a gothic cathedral.  Its solemn atmosphere seemed suitable, granting its unwilling denizens the respect they deserved.   

Drake let the engine idle.  He turned to face her.  "You don't have to do this."

"Yes.  I do."  She pushed open her door and slid from the car before he could say anything else.  Icy rain blew into her face, dripped inside her coat and down her chest.  The pressure behind her eyes grew, keeping time with the rain beating against the Mustang's soft-top.  She steeled her shoulders and stepped through the puddles leading to the side entrance, the only one open after official business hours.  

Whenever she lost a patient and there was an autopsy, Cassie would try to attend.  They were her patients, she was responsible for their care to the end. Tonight, she was just hoping to make it through the procedure without falling apart.

The night watchman looked up at them.  Drake waved his credentials, and they both signed in.  The guard frowned at Cassie's appearance, then shrugged and went back to his
Sports Illustrated
.

Their footsteps echoed through the empty tiled corridor.  They passed the subdued, beige on beige family waiting area, then turned down the rear hallway that was restricted to authorized personnel.  Here the smell of Ozmium--the vanilla scented disinfectant that smelled of anything but vanilla--clouded the air, burning Cassie's throat and nose.

The door to the staff lounge stood open, a metal sign over the microwave instructing visitors to please not feed the animals.  As they passed dark administration offices and approached the exam rooms, the decor changed to white tile everywhere: floor and walls, gleaming in the overhead fluorescent lights.  The only relief from the absolute stark whiteness was the occasional black scuff mark left by gurneys skidding on the tile.  Everything seemed brighter, harsher, brittle as if it might break at any moment.  As if she might break.

Drake took her elbow and steered her toward the autopsy viewing area across the hallway.  There, from behind a glass wall, they could see and hear everything.  Cassie allowed herself to be led.  She would not be scrubbing in to observe more intimately, not tonight.

Fran's body had already been processed for trace evidence and now lay on a steel table with a sink at one end.  The diener was preparing the equipment: electronic scales, camera, Stryker saw, scalpels, and other dissection tools. 

Cassie flattened a palm against the window.  She held her breath, waiting in vain for Fran's chest to expand.  Cassie exhaled, a long shushing sound, a pressure valve releasing the constriction in her chest.

Drake took her by the shoulders and turned her away from the viewing window.  She barely registered his touch, she was so numb.  He held her like that, his eyes boring into hers as if searching for life.  His hands were warm, threatened to thaw the protective barrier that encased her.  She shrugged free of his touch, surprised when he hesitated, his fingers tightening instead of relinquishing her. 

"I'm fine," she told him, her voice creating a jarring echo in the tiny space, making her wince.  His hands hovered for a moment before he jammed them into his jacket pockets.

The outer door opened and a figure dressed in scrubs entered.  Cassie was relieved to see Isaiah Steward, her favorite deputy medical examiner.  Isaiah, a slightly built black man in his thirties, moved to greet them. 

"Cassie," he said in his deep baritone, "I'm so sorry about your loss."  And she knew he meant it.  "We'll take good care of your friend."

He took her hand and she allowed him to grasp it for a long moment.  "Isaiah," she started.  The syllables emerged in a choked croak.  She tried again.  "I need to know--" her voice faltered once more.  Isaiah nodded his understanding.