Crime & Counterpoint (29 page)

“Sodium thiopental.”

Shelley stared at Jared with blank alarm, the sanitary whiteness of the ER ward burning her unblinking eyes. “What?”

“In small doses, truth serum,” he said, clutching the blood test results in one hand. “It’s a barbiturate. Acts similarly to alcohol, releases inhibition quickly. But in large amounts, it’s lethal. If they had dispensed the entire syringe into his body, he would have passed out, stopped breathing, and died in minutes.”

Her hand flew to her neck, fingering the delicate chain she wore for lack of anything else to grab. “Does… does that mean he’s going to be okay?”

Jared crossed his arms, a new tan from his recent honeymoon heightening his normal soap opera good looks. “Well, yeah. I doubt he had more than 9 to 10 milligrams. For a guy his size, it wasn’t enough to put him into a sustained coma. He has plenty of lean body mass which means his metabolism is high, and so he’ll expel the drug from his system rapidly.” He paused to make sure she was following. “Thiopental redistributes in the body in adipocytes – fat cells. So we don’t need to be overly concerned about side effects.”

“Side effects? Like what?” she asked worriedly.

“Headache, nausea, fatigue. Sleep apnea.” He lifted a hand to scratch around his collar. “The point is, he’s going to be feeling low and depressed. But he can’t have any alcohol and the only medication he can take is the ibuprofen I’m prescribing.”

She chewed on her lip, still not over the sickening scare. “Then… are you saying he can go home?”

Jared shrugged. “My recommendation is that we keep him for the night since he lives alone. But he’s gonna refuse.” Changing the tilt of his head, he looked her in the eye. “You should go with him.”

“Me?” she said with shock. “Carter would have a
fit
if–”

“
Carter
is upstate, and he wouldn’t want his best man dying because he stopped breathing in the middle of the night or because he drank himself to death.” Jared put a hand on her shoulder. “I know Zach. I don’t trust him to take care of himself. But unless he’s physically chained to that bed, I can’t stop him from leaving. So it’s up to you. For now, I’m going to add you to his list of emergency contacts which will allow you to receive medical instructions.”

Shelley nodded reluctantly.

Feeling her distress, Jared dropped his gaze, shifting on his feet. “You know, I don’t think I ever said it, but I’m sorry – about us, I mean.”

She drew a sharp breath, and her eyes widened. “Jared, this isn’t really the time–”

“No, it is.” He reached out and squeezed her arm like one of her brothers would have. “I finally told Carrie the truth. Took me ‘til day four of our honeymoon to muster up the balls.” He snorted in self-deprecation. “She was ridiculously understanding.”

“That’s because she’s wonderful,” she said without malice.

Jared glanced up at the perforated ceiling. “Yeah, she is. But she was concerned about you, about how it affected you. She said that I needed to ask for your forgiveness.” Glancing at Shelley again, he said, brows drawn tight, “Three out of four of your brothers think I screwed you up.”

She meditated on that. “What do
you
think?” she returned quietly.

“You know me. I go with the majority…” He swallowed. “I’m really,
really
sorry.”

Her mouth quivered, and something deep inside unlocked a little.

“I just had to say it before you end up marrying the wrong guy. Again.”

“You think Carter’s the wrong guy?” she asked in surprise.

Jared glanced away, searching for the right words. “You know why we failed? Because we didn’t need each other. I need Carrie. I can’t live without her.” He returned his gaze to Shelley. “You were great, but I didn’t feel the pull to be with you day in and day out. And you didn’t for me either. We might’ve made it work, might’ve been able to move past our differences: your music,
my
infidelity.” He smirked.

She smiled faintly.

“But would we have been happy?” He shook his head. “We would have been doing our own thing until eventually we both found something better.” His gaze settled on Zach inside the room, and he shut his mouth. “Anyway, that’s my two cents. You can go see him now.” He pointed to the room with his pen. “I’ll have the discharge paperwork ready. Oh, and make sure you keep the area clean.” He gestured to his own neck. “You know. To stave off necrosis. I’ll send some disinfectant wipes with you.” At her panicky look, Jared said encouragingly, “Relax. He’ll be fine. Always is.”

Shelley followed Jared’s white-coat departure for a few seconds of indecision before she walked into the room.

The nurse was checking his vitals again. Shelley waited until she was done and attempted a smile as the middle-aged woman neared.

“He’s doing just fine, honey,” the nurse said, bubbling with cheerful optimism. She gave Shelley a reassuring pat on her arm and encouraged her to go in.

Sighing, Shelley set one foot in front of the other as Zach’s head swiveled to her. Right away, she could tell he was ready to break out.

“Hey,” Shelley asked. “How are you feeling?”

“What did Jared say?” he replied brusquely.

She swallowed a wave of smoky emotion. “That you’re okay.”

“I know that,” he snapped, causing her to jerk a little. “I mean what did they inject me with?”

She told him. He reacted as expected, a string of uncanny expletives flying out of his mouth. When he started pulling off the IV, she grew anxious. “You need to be monitored overnight.”

He gave her a blue-fire look that was answer enough. Standing up, he located his black polo, pulled it on, and then grabbed his leather jacket, shrugging into it.

“Zach, you can’t,” she pleaded. “You have to stay and rest.
Please
.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead,” he grumbled as he bent to lace up his boots. He didn’t see how the blood drained from her face. And by the time he straightened, she had turned from him. Not thinking anything of her behavior, he said, “I spoke to the FBI. Bennet wants you sequestered in your parent’s home until after the wedding. No more club, no more anything. Enough’s enough.”

He took her by the arm, intending on leading her out. But she yanked away and quickened her pace, putting distance between them. He scowled. “What?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t see that you have a choice in the matter.”

She kept storming away. He caught up to her and pulled her to a stop. She glared at him, eyes glittering with unshed tears. “If you get to be idiotically stubborn, why can’t I?”

His gaze softened. “Please let me take you home. At least for tonight.”

“What about the club?” she persisted, crossing her arms. “Are you going to shut it down?”

“There’s no point in keeping it open, Shelley. You heard those guys. They know Kazanov has a price on his head.”

“But I know the musicians. They
need
those jobs.”

He scoffed and shook his banged-up head. “I’ll make you a deal. You come with me, I’ll see to it the club stays open. Okay? Happy now?”

She gave him a soul-treading look and turned away.

Muttering to himself, “I’ll take that as a yes,” he followed her down the white corridor, watching the way she moved, the way she carried herself. Her body. Her curves. His pulse dropped like a gavel. He couldn’t shut the feelings down. A terrible symphony rang loud and discordant. And he readily saw himself fire a bullet within inches of her perfect head.

But he asked himself as they stepped out into the dank, thirty-six-degree weather that reeked of unborn rain, if he had to do it all over again–

“Where’s your car?” she asked, glancing at him, the streetlight capturing the gold in her eyes.

–he most definitely would.

He smiled at her faintly. “We’ll take a cab.”

They arrived at the family estate where it was dark and secluded, unperturbed by the world at large. Though freezing rain had started to trickle from the sky, the domineering pencil trees and the waters of the bay seemed content with the stormy weather. The cabbie left them off right at the front door and glanced from the enormous stately residence to his two ragamuffin passengers, clearly thinking they didn’t fit the destination.

Zach paid in cash with a twenty percent tip. All in all. A hundred dollars flat. Shelley blinked at the amount but said nothing.

They entered via the front doors. The breeze blew a splattering of frigid drops onto their faces as Shelley parsed through her keys. She cringed, and Zach instinctively moved to shield her. She didn’t notice.

Once inside, Shelley flicked at a digital panel, turning on the kitchen, bedroom, and upstairs lights, leaving the rest of the house in darkness. “I hate this place at night,” she commented, and they keenly felt the hollow resonance of the magnificent, grand palace foyer.

“When you’re alone.”

She nodded. “I’ll show you to your room,” she said and started towards one of the double-serpent stairs. He followed her only after checking the locks and making sure the home security system was engaged.

She took him to a room a few doors down from hers. Before he even entered, Zach declared, “This was James’ room.”

She regarded him with some surprise. “I keep forgetting you know everything.”

He frowned. “Not everything.”

Uncomfortable, she went to a drawer and pulled it open. “James left a lot of his clothes and things here. You can use whatever you want.” She backed away. “The bathroom is down the hall. There are fresh towels in the cupboard. You’re welcome to take a shower.” She realized she was just rambling but she couldn’t stop. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“You should eat. I’ll make you something.” Her voice brooked no disobedience. “Come down when you’re done.”

She escaped his presence then, and Zach was left to stew and remember.

Zach appeared in the gourmet kitchen freshly-showered and wearing a Harvard Law T-shirt and track pants. His dark hair was wet, curling a little around the edges. The cut on his head didn’t look half so bad, but there was still a colorful swelling around the areas where he’d been hit.

“Smells good,” he said with minimal intonation.

She glanced at him unsmilingly. He’d shaved, and she hoped to God that it wasn’t for her. Swiftly, unbidden, memories of the last time they’d stood in this kitchen together made her terribly feverish and angry. At herself. At her situation. At life, in general. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs. But she kept her lips buttoned tightly and her focus on the savory meal she was busy preparing.

He approached and leaned against the counter by the Wolf range stove, watching her in action. Watching
her.
She’d taken off her jacket and heels and worked in her body-hugging cocktail dress. Ebony, strapless, knee-length. It gently brought his attention to her alluring curves, making him warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the heat of the stove.

She headed to the fridge and pulled out a lemon.

“Would you like some help?”

“No, thank you,” she bit off and shut the Sub-Zero door.

He was slightly taken aback by her attitude; she was not the shy, retiring pianist anymore. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” he said in his usual deep timbre, smelling the wealth of aromas, hearing the hiss of the frying pan, and seeing the steam billow from the stove.

She picked up the black pepper and dusted the fatty red cuts of Alaskan sockeye salmon grilling in the pan. Then, she set it down and brushed off her hands, which is when he noticed she had flour covering them – covering the ring as well.

The timer on the oven went off and she hustled on bare feet to the double ovens. She opened the top one to check on the casserole cooking in there and then opened the bottom and grabbed a baking sheet of round doughy discs dotted with raisins, sliding that into the oven. She set the timer again. Twelve minutes.

Skating back to the stove, she moved the salmon around a little, making sure it wasn’t burning. And then she went to her flour station, dipped her hands in more of the white powder and started pinching off pieces from a smooth round ball of dough.

Zach watched in fascination as she took small pre-cut chunks of wet mozzarella and encased it in the dough. She made several and then dumped them all into a pre-heated wok. The whooshing filled the exalted, designer-lit kitchen; the smell of frying cheese followed soon after.

In a sauce pan, she stirred what looked like homemade marinara if the remainders of cut tomatoes on another chopping board was any indication. She threw in a few sprigs of fresh basil and some spices before covering it and letting the sauce simmer.

Then, she lifted a pot with a strainer from another range and removed the asparagus which had turned a perfect dark green. She threw them in with the salmon and squeezed fresh lemon over them along with a sprinkle of paprika and turmeric.

Zach moved closer, absently picking at a few green onions she’d chopped into perfect, equal-sized segments. He watched her quick and easy movements, marveling that she was as adept in the kitchen as she was at the piano. The need to touch her, to take her in his arms, hit him with thunderous force. But that ring on her finger sheened reminding him of the obvious.

She was getting married next week.

Needing the counter space he blocked, Shelley brushed him aside with a hand to his bicep, leaving some remnants of flour on him.

The place she’d touched him tingled long after she’d removed her fingers. His tension ratcheted. The pain in his temples expanded all of a sudden, making him irascible.

She opened a cupboard above her head and withdrew only one plate.

He noticed. “Aren’t you eating?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat.”

She stared daggers. “I’m not hungry.”

He got the message and stepped back.

“Could you take the casserole out of the oven for me?”

He didn’t answer but immediately sprang to do her bidding as she scooped out the salmon filets from the cast-iron skillet and set them on the gold-filigreed plate along with the asparagus tips. She drizzled them with chopped green onions and chives. For color
and
flavor. “How did you know where I would be?” she asked then. She scooped out the fried mozzarella.

“I was watching you.” Using a pot holder, he pulled out the cheesy, mildly bubbling dish from the 400-degree upper oven and shut the door. He set the casserole on the stove, smelling the heat of the food.

Dropping the pot holder, he crossed his thick, burly arms. “You didn’t think I’d leave everything to the FBI, did you?”

Anger swelled her chest; she drew a hot breath threw her nostrils as she dolloped the chunky marinara onto the fried cheese balls. Setting down her spatula with controlled motion, she touched the casserole dish and withdrew her hands right away, singed.

“Let me do that,” he offered.

“I can do it!” she snapped. “You don’t need to baby me.”

He frowned in bewilderment, taking a step back. “I’m not trying to.”

Reining in her precarious emotions, she added a heaping helping of the jasmine rice, zucchini, squash, cheese, and broccoli concoction and then offered him the filled plate with a clean fork.

“You’re angry,” he declared, not taking the food.

“Why would I be angry, Zach? You saved my life.
Again
!” She stormed across the eat-in-kitchen, circumventing the islands, and set the plate down on the dining table.

Without permission, she slammed out, leaving him to eat in silence.