Courting Death (3 page)

Relieved, I watched him whisk the couple away into a room next to the parlor. Then I turned my sights on Sam. I placed a hand on his chest and shoved him—hard—into the chapel.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I planted my fists on my hips. “I know you’ve never let anything stop you in pursuit of a case, but this really transcends the bounds of all decency.”

Sam leaned against the bench seat. “They didn’t tell you about the first baby, did they, Red? I could have bowled you over with a feather you were so stunned.”

No, and I was going to have a little chat with them tomorrow about my continued representation. Defending someone accused of a crime was hard enough, but when that person lied or omitted certain facts, it made the job even more difficult, sometimes impossible. To believe in what I did, I needed to trust my clients.

It was the only way I could transition from prosecuting hard-core felons to representing the accused.

Having already lost a child was an important fact that I was certain hadn’t slipped my client’s mind. If she didn’t trust me with the truth our relationship was going to be over in a heartbeat.

But I wasn’t about to clue Sam in on how upset I was.

“Don’t try to sidetrack me.” I folded my arms.

“Still running scared, Red?”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at you. Just because you lost the Archer conviction on a technicality, you turned tail and ran from being a prosecutor.”

Hanging in the air were the unspoken words
and me,
and I could see the glint of resentment in his eyes.

I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw muscles hurt. I was not going to rehash the past. I had neither the willpower nor the control to endure opening old wounds at this point in my life. I could only focus on the here and now.

On taking one day at a time.

I lifted my chin. “What part of ‘I’m burnt out’ don’t you understand? I’d had enough as a prosecutor. It was time to move on.”

My days as a public servant had meant living day and night with graphic crime scenes of the endless array of death. Images that had become constant nightmares. I’d believed I could power my way through the stress. My solution to job pressure had been to work harder.

It had only taken the blow of my mother’s illness to split me wide open and cost me that one horrible mistake. A mistake that might take me the rest of my life to atone for.

Sam snorted. “You call representing a baby killer moving on? Seems to me you’ve gone Dumpster diving.”

“Claire Whitman didn’t kill her baby.”

A person should never underestimate Sam Bowie and his lazy Texan drawl. He struck faster than a rattler. Before I could evade him, he closed the short distance between us and gripped my upper arms. A shiver of awareness that had nothing to do with fear raced along my spine.

Through the layers of the wool gabardine suit and silk blouse I wore, I could feel every nuance of Sam’s hands—the breadth of their span, the blunt cut of his nails, even the rasp of calluses. The heat of his touch still excited me. Damn, even my nipples hardened in reaction. However, the sense of protection I’d once experienced when he held me was gone. He gave me a slight shake.

“Use that famous prosecutorial intellect and think for a minute. Two SIDS deaths in less than five years?”

“So?” I shot back. “That’s not an automatic indictment.”

I’d been boning up on the internet about sudden infant death syndrome. In England it was called “cot death.” No matter the name, the unexplained death of a healthy infant almost always cast a pall of suspicion upon the parents.

Suddenly, I became aware our bodies had drifted closer together until all I had to do was put my arms around him… We had always been such a good fit.

You’re adversaries now, remember? He wants to put your client away for life.

“Let go.” I gave a sideways twist to my shoulders.

Dark satisfaction glinted in his eyes. He released me but not before letting his hands glide down my arms, leaving a trail of tingling flesh in their path.

Needing the distance, I took a step back before once again meeting his intense gaze. “There was a study in Great Britain and at least one British family a year suffers a double cot death.”

“Statistics aren’t going to cover the fact that the Whitmans have had a troubled marriage from the get-go.”

No… If true, those circumstances sure wouldn’t help.

In the criminal cases I’d studied, the most common reasons why a father committed filicide boiled down to an act of revenge or jealously against the mother, while a mother who killed her children often suffered from postpartum depression. After a series of famous cases, a medical specialty called reproductive psychiatry had sprung up. I’d already jotted down the names of possible experts to call.

Several countries had enacted legislation to allow mental disturbance due to birth as a possible defense against a charge of infanticide. However, no such law was on the books in Florida. I would have to deal with the old insanity defense if things started to look bad for Claire.

“You’ve got nothing until the medical examiner’s report is in, so back off. When you’ve got something other than gossip, call me.”

“Two healthy children, both dead within a year of birth. A troubled marriage. Even if the examiner’s results are inconclusive, I’ve got enough to bring your client in.”

I counted to ten for patience. One reason why Sam was such a good cop was his bull-headed determination. “Even if your theory is true, then what my client needs is treatment, not jail.”

“That’s between you and the prosecutor. My job is to investigate and charge her if she deliberately suffocated that baby.”

I winced at his blunt assessment. Through the chapel door, I heard yelling. We both made for the door, but I reached it first. In the hallway I determined the direction of the disturbance and raced, Sam on my heels, into the viewing room.

With horror I saw the lid on the tiny casket had been opened. With the strength of the crazed, Claire reached for the body, fighting off the people grabbing at her. For a moment she rested her hand on the child’s chest. I thought she meant to pick up the baby, but instead she appeared taken aback, shaking her head and perhaps coming to her senses. I pushed through the crowd, trying to reach Claire before Sam did.

“Sweetheart, please. No.” Brian tried to draw his wife back, but she pushed him away. She reached out again, this time ripping the front of the pink frilly dress. Her primal scream of horror and rage filled the room.

“Where’s my baby’s heart?”

My frustration vented itself through the loud click of my high heels against the hospital’s linoleum floor as I marched toward the nursing station on the first floor.

At nine that morning, armed with a medical release signed by both Whitmans for good measure, I had presented myself at the records department. The pinnacle of hospital bureaucracy. After letting me simmer for over an hour, the clerk had informed me that baby Rebecca’s chart wasn’t there.

The only other logical location was the neonatal nursing station. Strange, as it had been several days since Rebecca had been rushed to the hospital, but nothing would surprise me about the marvels of hospital records keeping.

I didn’t know if anything would ever shock me again, not after seeing that
Y-
shaped surgical scar across the baby’s torso last night. I’d thought I’d seen it all, but nothing had prepared me for the sight of that tragic Frankenstein corpse.

Brian Whitman had finally caught his hysterical wife up in his arms and carried her out. I pushed the lid shut as Sam called for a patrol unit. A white-faced Colin Depp had ushered out all the mourners. Then standing in the viewing room, almost wringing his hands, he swore up and down the baby had come to the home in that condition. He’d assumed the baby’s surgical scar was why the Whitmans elected a closed casket service.

I didn’t get home until almost midnight and, after apologizing profusely to Kate who had stayed with my mother, spent a sleepless night tossing and turning, the image of Rebecca’s mutilated body haunting me. Up at dawn, by seven I had paid a visit to the fire rescue team who had transported her to the hospital and confirmed that they had resuscitated the infant but her vital signs had been extremely weak when she arrived at Oceanview Medical Center. I was in no mood for a bureaucratic two-step.

A pinched-face, middle-aged woman dressed in a floral nurse’s uniform stood behind the counter, flipping through charts.

“Excuse me.”

“Be with you in a sec, honey.” The woman didn’t even bother to look up.

I sighed and slapped the medical release on the counter. I wasn’t about to spend one more minute in this chilled antiseptic-laden atmosphere than I had to.

“I’m Nicole Sterling. I have a signed parental release for the records of Rebecca Whitman, a five-month-old girl brought in several days ago.”

“Records department is on four.”

“I’ve already been there. They didn’t have the records. They said to check here.”

The nurse rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath about clerical screw-ups. “What was the name?”

“Rebecca Whitman. Parents, Claire and Brian.”

She moved to another section and shuffled through the folders.

“Well, well, well. Aren’t you the early bird?”

Bracing myself, I slowly turned. Sam flashed a smile as he approached. Dressed in black slacks and tan sports jacket, he earned an appreciative glance from a nurse scurrying by.

“Looks like I’ve already caught a worm.” I mimicked his drawl, earning a snort from the nurse inside the station.

“Love to spar with you, Red, but I’m here on official police business.”

Sam stepped up to the counter. Even though his hip pressed against me, I stood my ground. I had been here first, he could wait.

“I’m here on business as well.”

His brow raised a fraction. “Ambulance chasing, Counselor?”

I clasped my hands primly on the countertop. It was either that or throttle him. “Sticks and stones, Detective? How juvenile. Next you’ll be flashing your badge to show what a big man you are.”

“Why, thank you for the suggestion.” He opened his jacket to reveal the badge clipped to his belt. He peered at the nametag on the nurse who sat, her precious charts forgotten, watching us with a bemused expression.

“Nurse Craddock?” She grunted and resumed thumbing through the files. “I’m Detective Bowie. I have a few questions.”

“You’ll have to wait, Detective. I’m looking for a chart for this woman here.”

I gave him a smug smile.

Sam lounged against the counter and eyed her. “Judges handing out search warrants to attorneys nowadays?”

“No, I have written authorization from the parents.”

His eyes narrowed. He straightened, all business, all cop. “Why are you here for the records? Are your clients afraid of what they may contain?”

My attorney instincts reared up and my neck muscles tensed. “What evidence do you have about Rebecca’s death that you’re not telling me?”

“I asked first, and I’m the cop.”

The best defense could be an offensive strike. “I represent Mrs. Whitman and have a right to know what your department is doing to follow up on the mutilation of her baby.”

“Oh, so you’re the one.”

“I’m the one what?”

“The hysterical woman who called the captain this morning before he even had his second cup of coffee.”

“I was not hysterical.” My head began to throb. “I simply questioned him.”

“Sounded to me more like you told the captain exactly what he could do with certain body parts. I’m glad I’m not the only male to be on the receiving end of one of your lectures.”

“Would you two take your argument home?” The nurse interrupted us. “You’re disturbing the patients.”

“We’re not together.”

“No way.”

Sam and I glared at each other and then swung to look at the nurse, who held up her hands. “Sorry. The way you two were squabbling, I thought you were married. Can you come back tomorrow? I need to look for the chart later.”

That didn’t sound right. “Is it missing?” I asked.

Irritation pinched Nurse Craddock’s face. “No, I just can’t locate it at the moment. We’re getting ready for the shift change, and I have other things to do. You might want to check back with records. They’re always misplacing things.”

“I’ll wait.” I was determined.

“You can’t do that.”

“Oh, yes I can—”

Sam motioned me to be quiet. “Ma’am, I don’t think you realize the situation.”

“I understand I have patients to check.”

“I’m investigating the possible desecration of the body of a baby who died here.”

Nurse Craddock opened and closed her mouth several times. “Desecrated? Are you talking about little Becca?” Her face paled.

“I reckon I am. I’m investigating the mutilation of that baby’s body and Ms. Sterling here represents her parents.”

Alarm flashed in the nurse’s eyes. “You’ll have to speak to the hospital administrator. I can’t help you.”

“And where would I find him?”

“Her. Dr. Cruz’s office is on the fourth floor.”

“Fine. Thank you.” Sam turned, curled his hand around my elbow and tugged.

“Wait a minute. I’m not going anywhere until the chart’s located.”

His fingers tightened like a steel cuff. “Red, for once in your life, don’t argue. You’re coming with me.”

“But—”

“The chart will be found. Move.”

I took in the determined look on his face, snatched up the medical release, jammed it in my bag and moved.

My cooperation only lasted to the elevator bank. I dug in my heels, twisting my arm. “Back off.”

He let me go. “Go back to your office, Red, and cool down.” He punched the elevator button.

“Not so fast.” I slapped a palm against his chest. “What was that ‘yes, ma’am, no ma’am’ routine with the nurse? You’re never that polite.”

His nostrils flared. “Hmm. You still smell of gardenias on a warm night.”

My cheeks heated. If the aggravating man thought a careless compliment would make me melt…

He reached out and touched a tendril that had escaped my ruthlessly sleeked-back ponytail. The callused pads of his fingers brushed against my cheek. My stomach executed a slight flutter.

“Your hair always reminds me of copper silk.”

I jerked back. “Stop that.”

He let his hand drop only to take mine. The contact of bare skin against bare skin played havoc with my already tense system, but Sam merely lounged against the wall.

“Let go!”

An elevator door opened and he waved at the disgruntled passengers. The door closed.

I quit struggling. “Sam, please be serious. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Rebecca’s body was mutilated and her chart is missing.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll find it if I have to tear the hospital apart.” He rubbed his thumb across the soft inner
V
of flesh between my thumb and forefinger, causing my breath to back up.

Damn, why was I still reacting to his touch? To mask my discomfort, I went on the attack. “Why are you here? I asked your captain to keep me apprised of every development in the case.”

“You were once in this line of business, you know the drill. However, if you’re that anxious, you could ride around in my back pocket.”

“Keep it up, Bowie, and I’ll take you up on your offer.”

“You always did like my cute butt.”

“Would you please be professional?” This time I gave a good yank and he released my hand. I punched both the Up and Down buttons. When Sam raised a brow, I shrugged. “Whichever one gets here first.”

I glanced at the floor directory. The listing for the chief pathologist gave me pause. As the department that last handled the body, perhaps its report never made it to the chart. I gave Sam a nonchalant look. “What’s your next step?”

“Back to the office for a search warrant.”

“Even though it’s probably a waste of time, I’ll go see the administrator and call you if I learn anything.”
Not.

“Sure you will, Red.”

Two doors whooshed open, the cars going in opposite directions. “Here you go.” Sam gestured to the one going up. “See you around.” He disappeared into the down elevator.

The moment the doors shut, I pushed the button for the basement and grinned when the arrow light switched directions.

Seconds later, I stepped out on the lowest basement level into the bowels of the hospital and halted. There stood Sam, one hand braced on his hip.

“The administrator not in?”

“I thought you were heading back to the station.” I tapped my foot against the worn puke-green linoleum. His gaze dropped to the hem of my skirt and lower, and I ceased tapping.

He grinned. “It looks like we both figured out the hospital’s pathologist may still have his report, so why don’t we go together?”

A shop sign flipped to Closed hung on the bank of doors leading to the morgue. I paused. “Does that mean an examination’s in progress or does the doctor have a warped sense of humor?”

“As in ‘open’ stands for autopsy?” Sam considered the sign and then pushed on the door handle.

As we entered an abbreviated hallway, I noticed a board with slash marks on it. “He keeps a scoreboard.” I spotted an office door with a nameplate and opened it to a blast of music. Coldplay reverberated from a neon green media player nestled in its docking stand. Bright modern art posters covered the walls and—I took a second look through the window in the connecting door to the morgue—one on the ceiling above the gleaming autopsy table.

Doctor Hassenfeld sat pecking at a computer, his desk buried under piles of folders. He glanced up, his broad grin causing his walrus mustache to quiver. “Damn, you folks figured out the sign, huh?”

Sam flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Bowie and this is—”

“A vision of loveliness to grace this oasis of death,” Dr. Hassenfeld murmured as he rose, took the hand I had extended and kissed the back of it, his mustache tickling me.

With a half laugh, I managed to extricate my hand. “I’m attorney Nicole Sterling.”

“What a shame.” The doctor shook his head. “Such a beautiful woman to be a blood-sucker. But any victims here are already dead, Counselor.”

“Ha, ha.”

Amusement danced in his eyes. “What’s the difference between a lawyer and a vampire?”

I sighed. Trust him to pick a ghoulish lawyer joke. “A vampire only sucks blood at night.”

“Uh, Doc,” Sam interrupted. “If we could get down to business…”

“Monkey business?” The doctor leered at me.

Enough was enough. “No, about a patient who died here.”

“Must have had the hospital food. It kills me every day.”

“Doctor Hassenfeld. Please, this is serious. My clients’ baby died here, suspected SIDS death.”

“Or suffocation,” Sam added coolly.

“Claire’s baby? Sad case.” He leaned against his desk and folded his arms.

“You know her?”

“Of course. She’s a paramedic—damn fine one too—and our paths have crossed on occasion.”

I glanced at the artwork. Dr. Hassenfeld smiled. “Are you wondering what a guy like me is doing in a place like this?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“I was a cardiovascular surgeon until I had a stroke a few years ago. Couldn’t operate on the living anymore so I switched to the dead. Not as glamorous or well-paying, but I get no complaints if my hands shake.”

I didn’t know what I would do if I couldn’t be an attorney anymore. The idea didn’t bear thinking about. I kept my tone neutral. “Makes sense to me.”

“Besides the pay’s decent and I need the money to pay my ex-wife who is hell-bent on siphoning off all my assets.” He spread his hands in a ‘what can you do’ movement. “So why are you here about the Whitman baby?”

Sam intervened. “Somewhere between the hospital and the funeral home, someone removed her heart, liver and kidneys.”

I shot him a startled glance. The medical examiner must have made quick work last night. Claire had only noted the depression suggesting the heart had been removed. I didn’t look forward to telling her other organs had been taken.

The doctor sagged in surprise. “What?”

“Also her chart’s missing,” I added.

Sam sidled up to me and said in a low voice, “Give you a point to fixate on and you’ll stick to it to the ends of the earth.”

I opened my mouth to retort, but the doctor shook his head. “Naw, the chart will show up. Those things go missing all the time.”

Sam gestured at the body storage cubicle in the other room. “The baby came to you intact?”

“And she left the same way. With
all
her internal organs.” Hassenfeld frowned.

“You’re an expert, Doc,” Sam said. “What do you think could have happened to the organs?”