Nerves of Steel (18 page)

Cassie began to approach them, then froze.  Drake, accompanied by a slim Oriental woman who was obviously another detective, entered behind the Weavers.  He wore a gray tweed sports coat over a pale blue shirt and jeans along with his trademark red high tops.

Damn, she should have realized he was going to be here.  What would she say to him?  Should never have run away this morning, should've found the courage to stay and talk things over face to face.

But when face to face with Drake, talking was the last thing on Cassie's mind. 

Drake stared at her as if she were a total stranger, his expression blank with indifference.  Cassie felt her face color.  Fool.  Just because he had a pretty line of pillow talk didn't mean last night meant anything to him.  Maybe Adeena was right about him.

Neil approached with the Weavers.  "This is Dr. Cassandra Hart," he told the bereaved parents.  "She was a good friend of Fran's."

Mr. Weaver grabbed Cassie's hand and pumped it, while his wife dabbed a tear-stained tissue to her eyes.  "Thank you.  We heard you risked your life to help Fran."

"Detective Drake told us how you tried to save her," Mrs. Weaver said, the words smothered by tears.  "I can't tell you how much that means to us."

"We just don't understand," Mr. Weaver said.  "Fran would never hurt anyone.  Why would anyone--" He couldn't finish, his face twisting in grief.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more," she said.  Damn Drake, he had no right to make her out to be any kind of a hero in this.  These people deserved to know the truth.  "I'm afraid I'm the one who asked Fran--you see, someone was stealing drugs," she faltered.  How could she explain to them that she'd gotten their daughter killed?

"Yes, the police told us how Fran was helping them," Mrs. Weaver said.  "She was such a good girl, so conscientious."

The Weavers seemed oblivious to Cassie's attempt to claim responsibility.  She opened her mouth to try again, but Gary Krakov joined them, awkwardly inserting himself into their circle.

"Do the police have any idea who's behind this?" he asked instead of offering condolences.  Cassie wanted to shake the self-centered prick, but restrained herself. 

Mr. Weaver hung his head and shook it.  "No.  They said Fran had some information, but never had a chance to tell anyone."

"We're certain Detective Kwon and Detective Drake will find out," his wife added, looking over to where Drake and his partner were helping Adeena clear Fran's personal items into a carton.  "It's just so hard to believe she's actually gone," she finished, tears overwhelming her once more.

Fran's father wrapped his arms around his wife, guiding her to a seat Krakov hastily cleared for them.  Cassie wondered if he even noticed that it was Fran's chair he offered to her mother.  Mr. Weaver knelt beside his wife, his fingers intertwined with hers, ignoring the tears sliding down his own face. 

Cassie's breath escaped her, left her feeling hollow inside.  She closed her eyes against the sight of the grieving parents but that only invited Fran's image.  Her throat burned, it was hard to swallow.

A man's hand touched her elbow.  She opened her eyes again, grateful for Drake's support.  But it wasn't Drake.  It was Neil Sinderson.  The pharmacist patted her hand again.  His skin felt dry, cool. 

"Are you all right?" he asked in a solicitous tone.  "Do you need something?"

Yes.  But it wasn't anything Neil could provide.  Her gaze speared across the room, caught Drake as he bent over, rescuing Fran's Mario Lemeiux bobble-head from where it had fallen behind the desk.  The sight of the small, cartoonish hockey figure stabbed through her.  Whenever Fran was trying to talk Cassie into something, she'd ask Mario's opinion, then flick his head to nod in agreement.  No one argued with Mario. 

Drake balanced the statue in the palm of his hand, his gaze cutting over to Cassie.  She sniffed.  Was it only yesterday that the three of them had been gathered around Fran's desk?  She met Drake's eyes and for a fleeting instance thought she saw them tighten in concern.  It was over too quick for her to be certain she hadn't imagined it, replaced by a blank look that slid past her to the Weavers, then back to Adeena as he turned and placed the bobble-head in the box. 

Something Krakov said renewed Mrs. Weaver's crying.  Her sobbing grew in intensity, the high-pitched keening drilling into Cassie's bones. 

She slipped away from Neil's grasp and broke for the door, the weight of her grief making her stumble.

Drake hadn't counted on Hart being at the pharmacy.  He wanted to find a way to talk to her in private, but between Kwon's eagle eye and Adeena Coleman's icy stare, it wasn't happening.  Kwon he could understand, she had heard about his taking Hart to the post mortem last night, but every time he looked up Coleman was glaring at him like he was the one responsible for Weaver's death.

He ducked under the desk, escaping both women's scrutiny, and retrieved Weaver's Mario Lemeiux mascot.  When he straightened back up, he caught Hart's gaze.  She stood rigid, hands balled into tight fists, her lips pressed so tightly that all color had been blanched from them.  One look at him, and she turned and fled. 

Nice to know he hadn't lost his touch with the women, he thought as he tucked the box lids under each other.

He grabbed the box, took a step to follow Hart, but Kwon intercepted him.  "I'll take it," she said, lifting the box from his arms and walking it over to Weaver's grieving parents.

Leaving him empty-handed and with no good excuse to leave and track down Hart.  Adeena Coleman tapped his arm, motioned him into the pharmacy director's empty office.  "Could I have a word, Detective?"

He shrugged and followed her.  He'd never gotten along with the social worker.  She was often overly protective of the victims she tried to help, hampering his efforts to interview them.  Once she'd even complained that he was insensitive, had harassed a witness. 
Jeezit
.  Like a victim was gonna feel better knowing the perp was still running loose instead of talking to Drake?

Coleman closed the door behind them, crossing her arms over her ample chest.  "Do you get some kind of kick out of using your authority to seduce vulnerable women?"

Drake straightened at that.  "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I know what happened last night," she continued in a low voice.  "How could you?  You knew how vulnerable Cassie was.  She'd just watched her best friend die, for Godsake.  You took advantage--"

"I don't know what Hart told you," he began, "but she knew exactly what she was doing."

Coleman glared at him.  "Right.  I'm certain you did everything according to regulations."

Not even close.  "Is she--is Dr. Hart--making a complaint?"  

"Maybe.  Maybe you'd better be certain not to do anything more to hurt her.  Or anything stupid, Detective."

Drake balled his fists and turned away, stalking back into the pharmacy without another word.

CHAPTER 31

Cassie raced through the Annex tunnel, up the stairs back to the ER, back to where she could take a moment to regain control.  She fled inside an empty trauma room, left the lights off, and leaned against the welcome warmth of the steel cabinet that heated blankets. 

Choking on her tears, she lay her cheek against the warm metal, its rhythmic thrumming a heartbeat echoing through her.  Pull it together.  She couldn't do this, not now, not here.  Her fingers clawed at the unyielding metal, desperate to regain her control. 

Footsteps sounded, and the door opened.  The room lights snapped on.  She jerked up, fearing it was one of her colleagues, and saw Drake standing before her.

Last person she needed right now.  "Go away."  He didn't move. 

"This isn't a game," he said, his face unreadable except for the slight narrowing of his eyes.    "You're an adult, why blame me when you can't make up your mind about what you want?"

"That's not true," she protested.  "I know exactly what I want.  I'm just mature enough to get my priorities straight.  Solving Fran's murder takes precedence over anything I want.  I'm not going to do anything to jeopardize the investigation, Detective."

"Really?"  He arched an eyebrow at her, his face more stony than ever.  "You think getting me kicked off the case is in the best interest of the investigation?" 

He unclenched his hands and ran them through his hair.  "Look," he lowered his voice, "I'm good at what I do, Hart.  Damned good.  Getting me suspended won't help find your friend's killer."

She frowned.  "What are you talking about?"

"Your complaint about last night.  Adeena Coleman, she told me--"

"That I was going to file a complaint?"

"Practically implied that I raped you."  He dropped his gaze to the floor before looking back up at her, his eyes now filled with concern.  "That's not really how you feel about what happened, is it?   That's not why you ran away this morning?"

No, of course not.  How could he think--how could he think anything when she hadn't stopped to discuss it with him?  "I was worried how it might affect Fran's case.  And," she sighed, "I was ashamed about jumping into bed with you when Fran--ashamed about feeling so good, about wanting more."

She leaned back, angled her head to meet his eyes.  He blinked and his face relaxed, lost its stony resolve.  One corner of his mouth rose in a hesitant smile.  She felt her own lips respond in kind.  Adeena was wrong about Drake.  She had to be.

He crossed the distance between them, placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned forward until their foreheads touched. 

"I wanted more, too."  He lowered his mouth to hers.

The kiss was long and deep.  Cassie kept her eyes open, watched his darken with emotion, changing from indigo to a deep violet.  She slipped her hands inside his jacket, her fingers sliding over the smooth broadcloth of his shirt.  His grip on her tightened when she found the sensitive area at the small of his back.  She felt his hips rock against hers, and his hands moved down to her waist.  Heat flushed her entire body and it had little to do with the blanket warmer she leaned against.

"DJ, we've got to--"  A woman's voice cut through their passion. 

Drake straightened, snatching his hands away.  Behind him, Cassie saw the oriental woman who had accompanied him earlier standing in the doorway.  She spotted several white-coated figures just beyond.  The woman's hands were on her hips, her face pinched in irritation.  Drake stepped back from Cassie. 

"We're late."  She shot a disapproving glare at Cassie, turned on her heel, and closed the door behind her.

"I've got to go," Drake murmured, stroking Cassie's cheekbone with his finger.  His touch left a tingle in its wake that made Cassie shiver. 

"But I'll be back," he promised.

The door closed behind him.  Her hand rose to touch her face, shadowing his caress.  Then she yanked it down, shoved it into the pocket of her jeans.  She and Drake didn't exist, couldn't exist, she told herself firmly.  Not until Fran's killer was caught.  The fact that last night had meant as much to him as it did to her didn't change that.

Nothing could.

She turned the lights back off as she left the room.  Unable to face the Weavers again, she turned toward the nurses' station and the hall leading out to the employee entrance.  Then she froze.

Lounging against the wall, a smirk creasing his face, was Richard.

CHAPTER 32

What had he seen?  Or heard?  Enough--more than enough from the look on his face.  Richard waited for her to come to him, his gaze never leaving her face.

"That's a nice way to mourn your friend," he said.  "Want to try it with me next?"  He reached out to snag her waist, but she easily side-stepped, batted his hand away.

"Out of my way, Richard."

He looked down at his hand—his left one.  A familiar gold band encircled his ring finger.  "Ella.  Please.  I know you're in pain.  Won't you let me help?"

He sounded genuinely concerned—but the only person Richard cared about helping was himself.  It had taken her years to figure that out.  She might be a slow learner, but she wasn't about to make the same mistake twice.  "You can help by leaving me alone."

She stepped forward but he blocked her path, his eyebrows lowered into a glower.

"Richard, what do you want?"

"Already told you.  I want my wife back." 

"Not gonna happen."

There was a breath of silence, like the moment between lightning and thunder.  His face changed from concerned and caring to murderous.

"You'd rather screw the guy who mops the floor than me?"  His eyes glittered with an unnatural light, and the twitching had returned.  "I don't think so.  You're playing games with me, Ella.  And I'm tired of it."

He yanked her toward him.  Cassie resisted, enough to pull him off balance, then she twisted free of his grasp.  She backed away from him.  "Stay away from me, Richard.  Next time you touch me, I'm calling the police."

His laughter chased her down the hall.

"What the hell was that all about?"  Kwon slid into the driver's seat of the Intrepid and turned the ignition on.  "Tell me you aren't screwing the main suspect in my case, DJ."

"Our case," Drake reminded her.  "And she's a witness, not a suspect."

"Everyone's a suspect, and you know it.  Hart's off limits."

"It was just a kiss."

"A kiss?  You two were dry humping like a pair of horny teenagers."

"Look, it was nothing, forget it."

Kwon backed out of the parking space.  "Didn't you learn anything last summer?"

Drake sat in silence.

"I know that if Jimmy Dolan was here, he'd slap you on the back, turn this into some kind of testosterone-ridden male bonding moment.  But I'm not Dolan and I'm not going to cover your ass while you do something stupid and fuck up my case.  Is that clear?"  She pulled into traffic, cutting off a Fed-Ex van.

"Crystal clear."

Later, Drake left Kwon and Dimeo clucking over an out of state arrest record on another subject from their short list.  He snagged one of the few Intrepids that had a working heater and drove back to Three Rivers.