Nerves of Steel (36 page)

"I tripped," she answered the detective's unasked question. 

"Right.  When you got your bloody nose."

"That's right."  Cassie kept her eyes level with the detective's, but knew Kwon didn't believe her.

"Wanna tell us what's in the hamper?" 

The dog was pawing at her dirty laundry, his handler holding his lead tight.  "Nothing," she told them.  "Just dirty clothes."

Kwon nodded to Spanos who began piece by piece exhuming Cassie's laundry.  Spanos glanced over at Cassie with a leer that made her face flush.  Out came dirty socks and underwear, clothes from work, a Kempo gi, sweaters and jeans.  The last set the dog to barking again.

"Nothing in the pockets," his handler said after searching them.  The jeans were the only item the dog seemed to care about.

"Those are the ones I wore to the precinct house," Cassie remembered.  "I had the FX in my pocket, it was wrapped in two plastic bags.  Could he still smell it?"

The dog's handler nodded, praised his co-worker for his efforts.  Kwon looked disgusted.  "That's it?"

"Only thing in the whole house he alerted to.  Rest of the place is clean."

Cassie wanted to pet the dog, tell it what a good boy it was, but refrained.  Kwon and her men kept going, leafing through every book and piece of paper--which in the house of a history professor and his daughter, both voracious readers, was a herculean task in its own right--taking her computer, financial records and poking their heads into every nook and cranny from basement to attic.  The only thing remotely controversial was Rosa's ancient Luger, broken down and wrapped in oilcloth in a trunk in the attic.  There were no bullets for it, and it wasn't the same caliber as the gun that killed Fran, but Kwon included it in her haul anyway.

Finally, at almost four in the morning, the disgruntled detective signed a receipt and explained to Cassie the procedure to retrieve her belongings if they weren't needed as evidence.  Cassie watched as the policemen packed up their cars and left.

She closed the door and locked it, then leaned against the thick oak, surveying her home.  Nothing looked familiar, it was as if she'd been dropped into some alternative dimension where chaos reigned.  Sighing, she picked her way across the debris, found a cushion that fit the chair by the fire and shoved it into place, happy to have one thing appearing semi-normal.  She turned the fire on.  She hadn't eaten anything since lunch, but she was too upset to be hungry. 

She stalked through the first floor of the house, her anger driving her, until she came up short in front of the buffet.  A seldom touched bottle of Glen Morangie, her father's favorite, sat there, beckoning.  It was usually kept below, behind the cabinet door, out of sight.

Why not? 

She found the glasses stacked on the counter top beside a copy of Nietzsche.  Cassie poured a few fingers of the single malt, watching the amber fluid slip down the side of the glass.  The first swallow jolted through her--it had been a long time.  Somehow, after Richard, turning to drink for comfort had not seemed appealing.

But this liquid fire that smoothed her ruffled temper felt so good.  Another swallow, and her toes began to tingle.  She carried it back to her one inhabitable chair.  Maybe she should dilute it?  Cassie smiled.  Paddy Hart would be rolling in his grave at the thought of his granddaughter spoiling whiskey that way--even if it was Scotch and not good Irish.

It was nice to think of Paddy with his Irish lilt and constant smell of moist soil and pipe tobacco.  He'd grown up in Clifden, a seaside village northwest of Galway.  Paddy despised the Brits but hated the Nazi's more after his sister, Brigid, died on the
Athenia
.  He tried to join the Royal Navy determined to avenge her but had been assigned to the merchant fleet.  Then, after he met Rosa, he left the sea behind to journey to a new land with new hopes and dreams.

She used to spend summers at their small farm in St. Augustine before Paddy died and Rosa moved in with Cassie and her father.  She remembered nights spent under the stars, laying on Rosa's quilt, listening to Paddy spin his tales about the home country, about the war.  Her favorite had been the story of the first time Paddy and Rosa met.

"We was slinking along the coast of France, trying to avoid the Krauts and their bloody U-boats when it came.  The siren sounded but 'fore you could do more than topple from your bunk, a Godawful shudder tore through the ship.  Many's a boy who wet his pants, I can tell you that, gal."

"What happened?" Cassie asked, her fingers twisting a length of grass into a knot. 

"That U-boat cap'n, he knew his business.  Busted our lovely ship like your Gram guts a chicken.  And their timing couldn't have been worse.  It was a cold, blustery night, so cold that there was ice hanging from the rigging.  A storm were raging, twenty foot seas, wind from the Northwest wailing like a banshee.  We all tumbled into that godforsaken inferno of water certain we were breathing our last. 

"Imagine eighteen men packed into a wee wooden boat being spun and tossed about like a whirligig," he continued, his hands weaving through the air, describing the raging ocean.  "No lights or Jerry'd see us--as it was that bastard Kraut got two of our boats before he abandoned the rest of us to our fate.   Men were howling, cursing, weeping and praying as that storm spat its fury at us."  He took a puff on his pipe and shook his head.  "God was pissed but good that night.  I reckon he was already tired of this war and the pointless killing. 

"We had no motor and lost most our oars when we launched.  There was a bit of canvas, but no way to raise a sail--as it was, I thought the tiller would wrench my arm off.

"There was no choice but head for the coast and hope the Vichy treated their prisoners better than Jerry.  Captain Cavendish sent an SOS, but we knew rescue weren't coming.  Any other ship close enough would be a sitting duck for the U-boat and her cursed skipper.  So we'd given up hope, thinking only that life in a prison was better than a certain death at sea.  Although there were still some who argued the point, mind you.  Myself, I was ready to take my chances with the sea, would have if the currents and wind had been fair.  But God and nature seemed bound and determined to send us into the coast whether we liked it or not."

"But Gram, when did Gram come?" She bounced up and down with excitement.

"Patience child, patience.  I swear you're just like Rosa, neither one of you can sit still worth a damn.  Even if it means risking your fool life.  And thank God for it, I say. 

"Your gram had already escaped the Nazis once.  They killed her entire family, so she made her way into France and joined the Resistance.  She's a sneaky one, your gram, you wouldn't believe the hell her group raised.  Chaos and calamity for the Vichy and their Kraut friends.  Anyway, she heard our SOS.  Knowing that them lazy Vichy coast watchers would be snug in their cottages drinking and playing cards, she rounded up every boat she and her mates could lay hands to and set out into the storm.

"Now, ya know Rosa can't swim--is terrified of water in fact.  See, when your gram were a wee one, her own grandmother predicted she would die in the water.  So's all her life she'd been cautioned from it.  But that night, she rode out in one of the long boats, braving nature's fury without a thought to her own safety or comfort.  She helped to find and haul in nine o' my mates 'fore they could drown or make it into enemy hands.  The seas were churning all about them, threatening to swamp the boat.  Waves higher than that barn there pounding them. 

"But Rosa, she spotted one more poor soul floundering in the icy water.  Her boat started to make its way toward him when he went under.  Lost--the black ocean swallowed him whole!"  Paddy's voice rose, and Cassie shuddered in anticipation.  He paused and looked down on her.

"And do ya know what happened next?" 

Cassie bobbed her head, hanging on every word. 

"Well, I'll tell ya.  There's that poor sailor boy, struggling for his last breath, fighting the sea with all's that in him and losing.  And he knows it, too.  Knows that he's good as done for.  Then--" He took another puff of his pipe.  "Then Rosa leapt out of her boat.  Dove headfirst into the churning waters and swam to him.  She moved through the water like a Selkie Queen returning home.  And she found that sailor boy.  Kept him afloat until they could haul 'em both aboard the rescue boat."

"And that was you, wasn't it?" She squeezed his hand.  She knew the story by heart, but couldn't resist asking. 

"Aye, that was me.  More'n half dead I was.  Icicles in me marrow, I was dreaming of heaven and what'd I be saying to St. Peter by way of greeting.  Then I come to, me head cradled in Rosa's lap.  I opened my eyes, saw her and told her she was an angel straight from heaven.  I knew it must be true, 'cause who else could have pulled me back all the way from St. Peter's gates?  So I asked her right then and there to marry me."

"And she said yes," she finished with a smirk.  Paddy looked down at her with an indulgent smile and ruffled her hair with his calloused fingers.

"She did not.  But that's another story."  He looked up at the stars and gauged the time.  "One that we've not the time for tonight.  So off to bed with you now."

Cassie got to her feet and brushed the grass from Rosa's quilt.  She started toward the house and turned back to where Paddy still sat, stoking his pipe. 

"Am I really like her, Granda?  Could I ever be brave and bold like Gram Rosa?" she asked in a soft whisper as if the words were too frightening to be said out loud.

"Aye child," he assured her.  "You can and you will.  Now to bed."

Cassie raised the glass of whiskey and sighed.  To hell with ghosts.  Just for one day, one short day, she wanted to live her own life, not the life they'd want her to live.

Another sip of the single malt and suddenly that actually seemed possible.

The cat, reassured by the restored quiet, came out from its hiding place under the sofa and jumped into her lap, settling in for a nap.  Cassie grabbed Rosa's shawl from the floor and decided that sleep wasn't a bad idea at all.

CHAPTER 59

Drake was crashed on the couch in the third floor lounge when Kwon found him the next morning.  She jostled his arm until he opened his eyes.  As he sat up and stretched, she fed quarters into the vending machine and returned with coffee for each of them.

"King?" Drake asked, fearful the man had died, hammering another nail into the circumstantial case Kwon was building against Hart.

"No."  Kwon sipped her coffee, looking down on him from across the room.  Drake remembered it was only a few days ago that Hart had first stood there, a very similar look of appraisal on her face.  "Miller wants to see you.  She's pretty steamed. What did you do now, DJ?"

He shrugged.  Miller could wait until he finished his coffee.  "Find anything at Hart's?"

"You know damn well we didn't.  She's too smart to keep anything incriminating."

"Or too innocent."

"Maybe," she allowed.

Drake swallowed the last dregs of coffee, crumpled the cup and aimed it at the trashcan.  It missed, spinning to the floor beside the can.  He scooped it up, deposited it on his way out the door.  Time to face the music.

"Detective Drake, I believe you know Mr. King," Miller's voice was frosty as she made the introductions.

Drake ran his fingers through his hair.  Alan King, sporting Armani, looking well pressed and well rested, did not extend his hand.  Instead he fastened the latch on an expensive snakeskin briefcase, stood and nodded to Miller. 

"You have our terms.  We look forward to hearing from you, Commander Miller."  The attorney shook Miller's hand briskly and glared at Drake before leaving.

Drake took the seat King had vacated and crossed his legs.  "What was that all about?"  He decided to pretend ignorance until he knew exactly what was going on. 

Miller remained standing, stared at him with a caustic gaze.  "I don't recall inviting you to sit down, Detective."

Drake got to his feet.  Fast.  Miller was known throughout the House as a disciplinarian, but usually not with her detectives.  He stood at attention, silent, waiting for her invitation to speak.

"I assume you noticed the injuries to Dr. King?" she asked.  He nodded.  "Apparently they occurred prior to his overdose.  His brother is claiming that they were inflicted by you.  He's willing to forego any criminal charges if you tender your resignation by close of the working day."

Drake stared at her, stunned.  "I didn't--" 

Miller cut him off before he could finish.  "According to King, a medical student witnessed part of the assault.  I advise you to obtain counsel before you say anything, Detective.  These are serious charges."

He caught his breath.  Was this what Alan King and Hart had been talking about in the stairwell last night?  "What exactly are the charges, Commander?" 

"He says Dr. King found you with his wife, Dr. Hart, and he brought this as proof."  Miller slid the security video across the desk.  Drake didn't reach for it.  "Apparently Dr. King went to," she checked her notes for a verbatim quote, "reconcile with his wife, found you there, you threatened him and brandished your weapon at him."

Drake sank into the chair, ignored Miller's withering look. 

"Then, apparently you confronted him at his place of work.  King described you to his brother as extremely agitated.  Stated that you slammed him against a wall and physically assaulted him."

The rat bastard.
  King knew that it would be Drake's word against his.   After all, who would believe the truth?  Anyone seeing six-one King standing beside Hart would be hard pressed to believe that she could be capable of causing such damage.  And that damned student wouldn't help any. 

Clever rat bastard
, Drake amended.  He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to think of a way out of this.

To his surprise, Miller moved to close the door before resuming her seat. 

"Want to tell me what really happened?" she asked, her voice actually approximating human.