Sleight of Hand (27 page)

Once he'd accused her of caring too much, risking too much to help a patient.  He remembered the angry set of her jaw as she stared up at him then, the slight arch of her eyebrows and the angry splotches of crimson that had blossomed on her cheeks as she had defended herself.  

I'm just doing what needs to be done, she'd told him.

He wished she was here now, caring for his mother with that same fierce possessiveness.  

He turned to take the chair the nurse was offering him and saw her.  She was huddled over a chart, Muriel's he assumed, half hidden by the drapes gathered around the other side of the bed.

Hart's teeth worried at her lower lip in that gesture that he found so endearing.  Finally, she nodded her head in satisfaction, flipping a page.  Drake allowed himself to relax as the look of concern faded from her face.   He took his mother's hand in his, surprised and relieved at its warmth.

"Everything's going to be all right," he whispered to Muriel's still form.

Drake watched as Hart closed the chart, saw her hesitate.  "Hart," he called softly.  She turned to face him.  A mere six feet separated them, but it felt like an ocean of desolation.

Then she stepped toward him, stopping on the opposite side of the bed, Muriel's body between them.  She raised Muriel's other hand, her fingers automatically going to the pulse at the wrist.

"Everything looks good," she told him.  He watched her stroke Muriel's arm in a soothing motion, as if the unconscious woman could feel it.  "There won't be any news until tomorrow after the CT scan.  You might want to go home, get some rest while you can."

He shook his head.  "My aunt and uncle are on their way from Cleveland.  I'll wait until they get here."

She nodded.

"I'm sorry about yelling at you earlier," he said.  She shrugged, her attention focused on Muriel, almost as if she didn't hear him.  He dug in his pocket for her keys.  "Here," he handed them across the bed to her.  "Spanos locked your place for you."

"Thanks."  

Her fingers brushed his before closing over the keys.  He wanted to take her hand, hold it, hold her.  But Muriel was between them.  

"I guess I'll go home and get cleaned up," she said after a long moment of silence.  She looked down at Muriel's face, then back up, meeting his eyes for the first time.  "Would it be all right if I came back?  Sat with her a while?"

"Yes, of course."  Another awkward moment of silence.  He cleared his throat.  "Jimmy's here.  He can take you home, make certain everything's okay."

She looked up at that.  A shadow of fear crossed her face, quickly chased away by a flush of anger.  She clenched her jaw–he knew that look, all too well.  

"Don't worry about me," she said, releasing Muriel's hand and turning away.

Drake watched her negotiate the maze of equipment and personnel that spanned the ICU.  

"I can't help it," he whispered as the doors swished shut behind her.

<><><>

"I don't care if they were having dinner with the president," Cassie told Jimmy as he drove her back to her house.  "Maybe they hired someone."

"A US Senator or one of his family members just happened to have the connections to hire a hit man?" he said, doubt evident in his voice.  "It's not that easy in real life.  What about Morris?  He'd be more likely to have cohorts who could do his dirty work for him."

"If Morris wanted to hurt me, he'd do it in person."  And take his time about it, she thought with a shudder, remembering the crazed look in the crack addict's eyes as the succinylcholine took effect.

Jimmy grunted his agreement.  He pulled up in front of her house.  

"I'll get working on it," he assured her.  "You going back?  Want me to wait for you?"  His unspoken question was clear: was she going back to Drake?  

"I'm just going to get cleaned up, then I'll take my car back."

He escorted her up to the front door.  She waited there as he quickly scoured the house for any signs of intruders.  Cassie couldn't believe that someone actually wanted to kill her.  Maybe tonight's events had been more designed to frighten and intimidate her.  After all, wouldn't that further Virginia Ulrich's cause more?  To have Cassie drop her allegations, maybe even resign in disgrace.

Jimmy returned.  "All clear," he told her.  He surprised her with a quick kiss on the cheek.  "Take care now.  I'd better get to work sorting all this out."

Cassie watched him go, one hand on her cheek where he'd kissed her.  At least one cop was on her side.

But what to do about the other?

<><><>

The nurses kicked Drake out after half an hour.  Denise waited in the family room, leafing through a year-old
Newsweek
.  "How is she?" she asked when he sank into the chair across from her.

"Stable," he quoted the nurse.  "I think I hate that word.  What the hell does stable mean when she's anything but?  She could stay in a coma, she might need more surgery, she could wake up like Richard King did–missing bits and pieces of her memory and God knows what else!"

Denise moved to perch on the arm of the chair.  "It's going to be all right." 

He frowned.  Coming from her, the assurances didn't mean very much.  He wished Hart was here with him.  She'd know the right questions to ask the doctors and nurses, how to interpret their jargon–she would tell him the truth instead of pointless platitudes.

"I can't believe Hart got you into this," Denise went on.  "I swear that woman can cause more trouble without even trying–"

"Don't," he snapped, jumping to his feet and moving to the window.  "Don't blame her.  It's my fault.  I froze out there."

"What could you have done?  You're still on inactive duty.  You don't even have your gun."

And that was the point, wasn't it?  Drake stared into the night.  The angel glowed in the light of a spotlight aimed up at her face.  Please God, don't let anything bad happen to her, he prayed for both his mother and Hart.

"I believe Hart," he said, the words coming slowly, but they felt right, felt true.  For the first time that evening the knot between his shoulder blades began to loosen.

Denise opened her mouth, then closed it again, staring at him.  Finally she nodded.  "She couldn't do better."  

He saw her smile, and he frowned.  What the hell was she so happy about?  

"All right, then.  Charlie Ulrich's mother is trying to hurt him.  What do we do now?"

Her sudden change of mind surprised him.  Then he realized her choice of pronouns and had to smile himself.  Hart, like it or not, wasn't going to fight this battle alone.  

He returned to sit across from her, knees brushing the coffee table between them as he outlined strategy.  "Jimmy's looking into anyone who could have been involved with tonight.  But we have to think of a way to convince Children and Youth to place Charlie into protective custody until we can get this all straightened out one way or the other."

"Can't a police officer take a child into custody if he thinks he's at risk?"

Drake shook his head.  "Not unless the danger is clear and imminent.  We need someone to put pressure on Children and Youth."  He thought for a moment.  "I think I know just the people."

"Who?"

"How about a Pulitzer prize winning journalist and her husband, the former managing editor of the Cleveland
Plain Dealer
?" 

"Your Aunt Nellie?"

"And Uncle Jake.  They should be here soon.  They both have friends at the
Post- Gazette. 
And there's nothing the bureaucrats at Children and Youth would hate more than to be the object of media scrutiny."

Scott Thayer took his sweet time to answer the phone, knowing who was on the other end.  A little suspense was good for the soul, he told himself.  

"It's me.  Did you take care of everything?" Virginia's words were clipped, impatient.

"Of course."  Wasn't that what he did?  Solve everyone else's problems for them.  "But Hart–"

"I heard.  That's all right, I'm sure she learned her lesson.  And better yet, it seems like this has alienated her from Drake.  From the way he was yelling at her, I doubt he'll be rushing to help her anytime soon."

"Do you still want Richard King at the Executive Committee in the morning?  Would it be overkill?  Hart's career was already in shambles.  But King's testimony against her would be the final nail in the coffin."  

She made a humming noise as she thought.  He could almost see her hand stroking the handset, imagined her touching him.  "Yes.  Tell him to be there bright and early."

"Don't worry.  He's looking forward to it.  Thinks he has a shot at getting Hart back if she loses everything.  Thinks she'll be desperate enough to come running back to him."  He thought of the former surgeon whose fashion accessories now consisted of drool bibs instead of Italian silk ties and smiled.  Hard to imagine Virginia had ever seen anything in Richard King.  But she was his now–and his alone.

"They deserve each other," she said in a frosty tone.

There was a long pause.  "I miss you," he finally said.  "When can I see you again?"

"Not until this is all over and Hart is taken care of."

"Everything's all right with the baby?"  Even after all these months, he still felt a rush at the thought of her carrying his baby.  Their little girl might start out with Paul Ulrich's name and all the money and prestige that went with it, but it wouldn't be long before he and Virginia and their baby would be together forever.  He just had to be patient.

Be patient and watch for the right opportunity.  Two things Scott excelled at.

CHAPTER 22

Cassie stripped free of the remainder of the gauze bandages Ed Castro had encased her legs in.  They made her feel like a victim.  And she refused to play that role.  Not after what it had cost her to leave Richard.  Never again.  

She took a warm shower, wincing as the jets of water beat against her battered skin and scalp.  Gingerly, she washed mud and street grime from her hair, careful to avoid the laceration with its staples.  She stepped from the shower, grabbing a towel, and tried to convince herself that the damage didn't appear as bad as the mirror reflected.

Long sleeves and jeans covered the worst of it.  She left her hair down–pulling it back hurt too much, besides it would do what it damned well pleased, anyway.  

Her fingers brushed against the St. Jude medallion sitting on her dresser.  A shiver raced over her as she remembered Sheila Kaminsky's warning.  Silly superstition, what good could a cheap nickel medal do?  But she put it back on, tucking it under the shirt.  And felt better wearing it.

She sat on her bed, tying her Reeboks.  Damn, she was sore already–would be worse in the morning.  She ran her hand over Rosa's quilt and thought for a moment.

Then she smiled and bundled the heavy collection of velvet and silks into her arms.  It was the least she could do for Muriel.  And who knew?  It might help.

At least it would make Cassie feel better knowing that Rosa's quilt guarded Muriel from further harm.  Just as good–no, better–than the St. Jude medallion she wore.  Because she knew Rosa's quilt had magic, it had saved Rosa's life.  

<><><>

Drake looked up as the waiting room door was flung open.  A striking woman with black hair and fierce dark eyes rushed in.  

"What happened?  Is she all right?"  Muriel's older sister, Eleanor DeAngelo Steadman, wasn't one to mince words.

"She's fine, Nellie," Drake assured her, getting to his feet and embracing his aunt.  

She still smelled of Jean Nate.  He remembered the fragrance from summers spent at their house on the shore of Lake Erie.  Nellie may have won the Pulitzer, not once but twice, but she'd won his heart at an early age with her ability to bait a hook and almost effortlessly pull bluegills from the Lake.  It seemed like magic to a four year old.  Then, when Drake was older, Nellie had given him his first sailing lessons on an old Snark, Uncle Jake looking on from his lawn chair while he'd proofed galleys.

Nellie gave him a peck on the cheek, holding him at arms' length, scrutinizing his face, as if doubting his words.  Then she nodded.  An older man, taller than Drake, but with thinning hair and a slight build came in behind her.

"She's going to be all right, Jacob," Nellie told him, taking his hand.

Jacob Steadman nodded, and his face relaxed into a smile.  Drake looked at the two of them.  They'd gotten older, he realized with a pang.  When had that happened?  Suddenly there were glints of silver in his aunt's dark hair, fashioned as always into a French knot.  And Jacob's blonde hair, usually cut short, allowing pink sunburned scalp to peak through, was almost gone, replaced by leathery skin mottled with brown splotches.  

"They say only one visitor at a time," he told them.  "Don't expect much.  She's being kept under heavy sedation.  They've hooked her up to a ventilator because they want to control her breathing, and her face looks pretty swollen and beat up.  The surgeon says this is all very normal," he reassured them, repeating the spiel the nurses had given him.

Nellie blanched as she gripped Jacob's hand tighter.  This was the woman who had single handedly brought down the Cleveland Mafia when it tried to take over the local unions?  Drake wondered. All his life he'd heard stories about Nellie's fearlessness: her tangle with the KKK in the early sixties during a Freedom Ride, her unflinching exposure of corrupt public officials.  He'd never seen his aunt frightened before.

Jacob placed an arm around her and squeezed her tight.  "It's going to be all right," he promised, his lips grazing the top of her head.  Nellie closed her eyes for a second.  Drake watched her take comfort from his uncle and his stomach clenched.  They'd been married for forty-one years and still needed each other desperately.  He could only hope for a love like that.

Nellie straightened and reluctantly disengaged herself from Jacob's embrace.  "I'm ready," she told Drake.  He led her to the ICU and waited until Muriel's nurse came to escort her.  He saw her swipe at tears before she reached the bed space.  Drake sighed and returned to the waiting room.