Nerves of Steel (9 page)

"Give him a chance.  Besides, you owe me."  Fran leaned over her desk to make eye contact with her Mario Lemeiux bobble-head.  "What do you think, Mario?" she asked, flicking the hockey player's oversized head into a nod.  "Mario agrees."  She slanted her gaze up at Cassie.  "And nobody argues with Mario."

Before Cassie could reply, Gary Krakov bounded from his office.  "Ms. Weaver, I want--"  He stopped to frown at Cassie and the food she'd brought.  "Dr. Hart, I've asked you repeatedly not to bring food into the pharmacy."

"Sorry."  Cassie edged toward the door at an angle that wouldn't intersect with Neil Sinderson's path.  He flashed an amiable smile in her direction that only confused her more.  He was nice looking, friendly—but Cassie just wasn't ready to get involved.  With anyone.

"See you Saturday," Fran called out.  Cassie glared back at her friend, not at all amused.  Fran's laughter rang after her.

Krakov followed her out the door, slamming it shut behind him.  "You can't continue to disrupt my workers or their routines," he said, looking over his glasses at Cassie. 

His thick, unnatural hair was the same color as brown shoe polish.  Combined with his pasty complexion and beady stare, Krakov resembled a zombie extra from a fifties horror flick.  And was just as hard to take seriously. 

"All I did--" she started.

"All you did was to distract Ms. Weaver from her duties.  Not to mention imply that there's a discrepancy in my accounting procedures.  If I wasn't already short-handed, your friend would be out of a job."

"You can't fire her.  She didn't do anything wrong."

"I can and I will if you and she persist in this ridiculous crusade.  There is no fentephex missing from this hospital."

"Then how do you account for my patient or the fact that she overdosed on FX that came from this hospital, from your pharmacy?"

Krakov shot his cuffs and shrugged.  "She must have obtained them from a legitimate source.  There are no drugs missing from my pharmacy.  If you don't cease in your accusations, I'll have no choice but to ask the Executive Committee for disciplinary action.  The medical staff bylaws delineate strict penalties for disruptive physicians.  As, I'm sure, you are well aware."

"How is trying to save kids' lives considered disruptive?" Cassie's molars ground together as she fought to keep her voice civil.

"Anything that interferes with the smooth functioning of my department is disruptive, Dr. Hart."  He emphasized her title with a sneer.  "After all, we are all in the business of saving lives."

Before Cassie could respond, he spun on his heel and returned to the pharmacy, closing the door in her face.

CHAPTER 15

"We're going to need more than that for an arrest," Dimeo, the ADA reminded Drake once he told her about Weaver's theory. 

As if, after ten years on the force, Drake had no idea what the District Attorney needed to make a case stick.  He pulled the cell phone away from his ear and glared at it.  Dimeo's voice continued its tinny lecture on the merits of probable cause.  It was one thing for his friends in Major Crimes to be watching him, he knew their intentions were good, but it was another for this Perry Mason wannabe.  Six months ago, she would have never said something like that to him.

Finally she finished.  He hung up the phone, more determined than ever to nail the actor stealing drugs from Three Rivers.   Hart stomped around the corner, heading toward the stairwell, obviously surprised to see him still there, her face flushed with anger. 

She skidded to a stop, hands on her hips, head raised high, issuing a challenge.  "I suppose you heard about my kid with the Doublecross overdose?"

Drake punched the elevator button.

"What are you going to do about it?"  

The elevator chimed its arrival.  Drake took her by the arm and ushered her inside with him. 

"I thought I'd start with a real breakfast," he told her, immediately embracing the idea.  Hart could join him, tell him more about hospital routines, help him on the case.   It had nothing to do with Hart as a woman, it was all about the case.  Yeah right, that was why his hand was still on her arm.

He dropped the offending hand.  Just needed sleep, then he would be back on his game.  Breakfast, then sleep, that was the ticket.

"Breakfast?  That's not going to help my kids in the ICU."

The elevator doors slammed shut, and it started up with a jerk.  He was surprised to see her face blanch as they moved, a thin sheen of sweat form above her lips.  She was afraid.  Of what? Was she claustrophobic?  He'd heard how she insisted on flying for Jane Doe despite the weather, how they almost crashed on the way back.  But a slow, smelly elevator scared her?

Nice to know she was human after all.  He tried his best to distract her, take her mind off the small cage they were temporarily trapped inside.  "A good breakfast might put you in a better mood.  When was the last time you ate?  I didn't see you take any breaks during your shift--unless you count your
tete a tete
with your ex."

At the mention of Richard King, her cheeks flared once more with streaks of fury.  At least she wasn't scared anymore.  Just good and pissed.

The elevator ground to a halt, and the doors slid open, releasing them.

"Why don't you find someone else to annoy?"  She strode across the lobby toward the main doors.

Drake hustled, got there in time to hold the door open for her.  "I'm sorry.  I promise not to mention King again.  Join me, it's only breakfast."  She looked up at him, suspicion in her eyes.  "C'mon, everyone has to eat."  She hesitated, and he heard her stomach growl.  He swallowed his smile, afraid he might frighten her off.

She nodded her agreement.  They began to walk toward the street.  Dark clouds scudded in the west wind.  "Snow soon." 

Beside him, Hart jammed her hands into her jacket pockets and hunched into the wind.  The leather bomber jacket was much too big for her, practically swallowed her whole.

"Where are we going?" she asked as he led her past the employee parking lot.

The wail of an ambulance sounded in the distance.  Hart's gaze jumped to follow it.  Her body tensed, at full alert, battle ready. 

"The Blarney Stone."  It was difficult to resist the urge to touch her, to draw her focus back to him.  "You know it?  Just a few blocks down, corner of Aiken."

Her shoulders relaxed, and they resumed walking.  "Brick place, pictures of JFK and the Pope?"  He nodded.  "We used to go there when I was a resident.  Didn't know they served breakfast."

"My first partner, Andy Greally, bought it when he retired.  Does the best breakfast in town.  And it's close to the station house."

"Tell me again how eating breakfast is going to help you stop the FX thefts."

Relentless.  And stubborn.  "I called for a court order to release the hospital's work records.  It should be ready by the time we finish.  Then, with the help of your friend's information, we can start looking for our actor."

"That might take days--I've got kids out there taking shit that could kill them!"

Drake stopped and turned toward her, enjoying the play of color crossing her face.  Alizarin crimson with just the faintest hint of Rose Madder.  "That's the best I can do for right now." 

He reached for the brass handle of the Stone's front door.  She bit her lip, and he could see she wasn't satisfied, but she said nothing.  He followed her inside.

The Blarney Stone was quiet.  Two uniformed policemen coming off duty perched at the bar, one foot apiece resting against the brass foot rail as they drank their Guinness.  Drake remembered when he used to be one of their number, the warm stout and whiskey chaser filling the void the night's dramas had carved out, giving him a blissful reprieve from responsibility and memory.

"Hey DJ," Andy Greally called out a greeting from his position behind the bar.  "Where've ya been?  Heard you finally nailed Lester Young.  Straight into his coffin."

Drake strode to the long walnut bar, its surface polished to a mirror finish.  With his cherubic face and ruddy complexion, Andy Greally would have been at home anywhere the Irish  infiltrated the genepool.  But a glance at his sharp eyes that roamed constantly, missing nothing, confirmed that this man hadn't spent his life hoisting pints. 

Cop eyes, Drake had called that look when he was young.  The same all-absorbing gaze his father had had.  Andy had been Drake Sr.'s partner in those days; both men young, trim versions of modern day knights in shining badges.

"Too bad we didn't get anything useful from him before he died."  Drake frowned at the memory of Lester's body convulsing. 

"Way of the world, my lad."  Andy shrugged philosophically.  "Still one less actor on the streets."  He raised an eyebrow at Hart.

"Andy, this is Dr. Cassandra Hart.  She works over at Three River's ER."

"Pleased to meet you, Dr. Hart."  Andy leaned his impressive girth against the bar to reach over and take her hand.

"It's Cassie," she told him, shaking his hand firmly.

"Done.  Now what can I get yunz?"  Andy moved his bulk out from behind the bar and led them to a booth.  "I've got corned beef and home fries ready to go, pierogies with onions, sausage and broiled tomatoes, or I can rustle up some steaks if you want and about any kind of eggs you're in the mood for.  What'll it be?"

"Pierogies sound good to me.  And lots of coffee, please."

"Coffee and dippy eggs here," Drake said, watching Hart hang her coat on the brass hooks at the end of the booth.  She moved with a fluid grace she seemed utterly oblivious to.

Andy nodded.  "I'll have it right out."

Hart was silent, her gaze moving away from Drake to glance around the bar with its collection of police memorabilia.  He allowed the silence to settle into a comfortable length of time, waiting for her attention to return to him.  Finally she gave a nod of approval and looked back.  Her eyes were rimmed with red and dark circles smudged the pale skin below them.

Andy set their coffee in front of them then returned to the bar.  Drake watched him go and saw another uniformed officer join the two already at the bar.  Tony Spanos.  Last person he needed right now. 

He tightened his grip on his paper napkin, wringing it into a choked, twisted coil.  It had been a stupid idea to bring Hart here.  Should have stuck with his original plan to ignore her, stay far away from her.  Drake tried to think of an excuse to leave before Spanos noticed him.  Or worse, noticed Hart.

CHAPTER 16

Cassie wiped her palms on her jeans before raising her cup of coffee and hoped Drake didn't notice.  Although so far, he'd shown himself to be the kind of man who noticed everything. 

"Why does Andy call you DJ?" she asked, searching for a conversational opening.  Fran was right, she did need to get out more.  Aside from work, this was her first prolonged conversation with a man since she'd left Richard.

"Andy used to partner with my father.  Dad's father was Robert Michael Drake, so Dad was technically a Junior."

"But he went by Mickey," she guessed.  This was nice.  Sitting here, talking like normal people.  Drake had surprised her with his invitation, she was certain he'd bring up the incident with Richard.  Instead, he'd been, well, human.

"Right.  And my mother dreaded making me a Third, so to speak, hence my," Drake rolled his eyes, "colorful first name.  But since Dad was already Mickey Drake, I became Drake Junior."

"DJ."

"My dad's been gone seven years now, but no one on the job will call me Mickey, I'll always be Junior to them."  He finished with a tinge of regret.

He tensed when the door opened and a man in uniform entered.  Drake stared past her toward the bar and the other policemen.

"If the FX is being stolen from the floors, why were you in the ER all night?" she asked.

Drake shook off his reverie and turned his attention to her.  The muscles at the corners of his eyes had tightened, she wasn't sure if it was with amusement or skepticism.  "You want the truth?"

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."

His expression grew serious as if he'd just now realized she wasn't making idle conversation.  Were all cops so intense?  Or was it just that Drake needed to control everything, including how much information he shared with a civilian?   

"The surgical floor and the ER are the two places where FX is used in a high volume.  Even though the supply you found didn't come from the ER, we weren't certain it wasn't a source."

"I'm a suspect?  You were there to spy on me?"

The toothy grin he shot her did little to relieve her outrage.  "A civilian waltzes in off the street with a few thousand dollars worth of FX and you think we're not gonna think twice about her?  Come on, Hart.  It's our nature, we're suspicious of everyone.  Most especially anyone who involves themselves in a case like you did."

She looked away, tried to choke down her anger.  The uniformed officers seemed to be staring at her, sharing some secret joke.  Was it at her expense or Drake's? 

"I was only trying to help," she said.  It sounded even weaker said out loud.

The corner of his mouth twitched as he raised a skeptical eyebrow at her.  "No.  You didn't trust us to do our job.  Felt you had to get involved, make sure it was done right."

She hid her dismay by searching the depths of her coffee mug for a reply.  "Trust no one, assume nothing," she muttered.  "That's the first lesson of ER medicine I teach my residents."

He set his coffee cup down, his hand resting alongside hers, almost touching.  "Same with us cops.  But it feels different when you're the one nobody trusts, doesn't it?"

"Yeah.  You're right.  I was naive, thinking I could actually make a difference.  But if you'd seen my Jane Doe--she's just a kid.  I had to do something."

"Don't worry, Hart.  You're clear in my book.  But you need to let me do my job.  I can't if I'm worried about civilians getting caught in the middle."

Their food arrived, and Cassie couldn't resist the aromatic, hearty fare.  She dug in.

"Sorry," she said when she came up for air.  "Occupational hazard, eating fast."  The silence imposed by eating also gave her a chance to subdue her anger, to try to see things his way.  She glanced at Drake's barely touched plate.