Sleight of Hand (26 page)

She stood and moved behind him.  Don't touch, don't touch, the words shuddered through his hunched shoulders.  He kept his back to her.  His fingernails bit into his palms as he squeezed his fists tighter, welcoming the pain that kept the red haze at bay.

"There's still some swelling.  That's normal," she rushed to assure him, her voice thankfully growing distant as she stepped away from him again.  "It might even get worse over the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.  They'll be monitoring her very closely.  That's also normal."

In what warped universe was it "normal" to have your mother's fate hanging in the balance for two fucking days?  Drake didn't want to be a part of that world.  Yet here he was.  Again.

Only last time it was his life that hung in the balance.  

He shoved his fists into the pockets of his mud-splattered jacket and encountered a small bunch of keys.  Hart's. Spanos had grabbed them at the scene, brought them to Drake before he went back to the House.  The memory was already dim, as if it had happened years ago.  His fingers clenched the tiny bits of metal like they were a lifeline.

Hart had saved him.  And now, because of her, his mother was still alive.  The surgeon had told him before the operation that Muriel was lucky Hart was there, that if everything right hadn't been done quickly, she might not have made it to the OR alive.

He turned away from the view of the angel guarding her dead and faced Hart.  "Thank you."

She colored and looked away.  "I'm sorry," she said.  "You know it had to have been because of Charlie Ulrich."

He was silent.  The cop in him had figured that out a long time ago–after Spanos had told him about Hart's extracurricular activities researching Ulrich's past.

"Something you dug up must have struck a nerve," he said, his voice flat.

She looked up at that.  "You know about that?"

"Spanos."  She nodded.  "I told you I'd look into Charlie's case," he said, the words rushing out, propelled by his anger.  "Why couldn't you trust me?  Just because I'm not carrying a gun, doesn't make me any less of a cop."  Liar–look what happened tonight because you couldn't act like a cop.  Not a real cop anyway.

But if she'd only trusted him, then none of this would have happened in the first place.  His anger at her grew–and so did the rage and humiliation he felt for himself.

He would have been carrying a gun if she hadn't gotten him shot.  Wouldn't have gotten shot if he hadn't gone to her house that February night, hadn't fantasized about seeing that damned smile of hers.  Wouldn't have known about that bewitching smile if she hadn't gotten involved in what didn't concern her in the first place.

The chain of logic was inevitable, cemented in stone.  Everything was Hart's fault.

Leaving Drake totally out of control and at her mercy.  Which only infuriated him further, and the cycle started all over.

That crimson tide rolled closer, closing in all around him.  Threatening to drown him in blood once more.

"I did trust you." Her protests were barely audible over the roar in his head.  "But after talking to Sheila Kaminsky–"

"Kaminsky is a goddamned nut case!" he shouted, whirling on her.  "She's been arrested twice for stalking Virginia Ulrich after she lost her job, been in and out of Western Psych like it has a fucking revolving door!  Paranoid schizophrenic.  Does that sound like someone you'd trust your child's life to?  Ulrich was right in getting her fired."

"But Kaminsky told me about Virginia's past, and I found–"

"You found shit!"  The words reverberated through the small room like the sound of gunshots.  "A drunk of an ex who admitted to poisoning his own baby.  A jealous aunt who gossips about her niece.  Tell me what you found, Hart.  Anything worth my mother lying in the OR with her brain sliced open?  Tell me!"

All color fled from her face.  She backed away from his fury.  

That surprised him.  He'd never seen Hart back away from a fight–agree to disagree, yes.  But back down, give up–never.

Then he saw the fear in her eyes.  And that hit him like a wave of cold water.

He collapsed in the chair, his hands dangling between his knees, head hung low.  "Shit," he muttered, barely finding the energy to tug his fingers through his hair, trying to make sense of all this.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.  Then she turned and ran away, her footsteps a dim echo.

Drake was crushed.  The only thing Hart had ever run from in her life was her ex-husband.  And now him–twice in two nights, in fact.

Used to be a good cop.  Used to think he was a good person.  Now he wasn't sure about anything.

Except this aching void where he knew Hart's hand should be, wrapped in his, sharing her strength.  But they seemed to both be running on empty.  Running away, running scared.

He covered his face with his hands, kneaded the tears from his eyes as the red haze consumed him.

CHAPTER 21

Jimmy Dolan opened the door of the ICU waiting room and flinched from the naked pain ravaging his partner's face.  

"Muriel?" he asked as Denise moved past him to take Drake's hands into hers.

"They say she'll be all right," Drake said.

"DJ, I'm so sorry," Denise crooned.  Jimmy watched as she gathered Drake's limp body against hers, in full-blown mothering mode.  "What has she gotten you into now?"

No need to specify who "she" was.  Denise still held Hart responsible for Drake almost dying two months ago.  Some of her resentment of the younger woman came from a fear of being supplanted in his partner's affections.  Denise was DJ's surrogate mother: providing food, clean clothes, shelter, a sympathetic ear whenever needed.  

Jimmy shook his head.  His wife wasn't the only one who treated DJ like the kid was her own personal redemption project.  Even Miller, hard-assed cop that she was, had a soft spot for Drake.  

Maybe that's why Jimmy liked Hart so much–she didn't let Drake get away with shit, stood toe to toe with him, not giving an inch.  Hart reminded Jimmy of Drake Senior.  Same passion for her work.  Ornery, stubborn as hell, needing to control everything, occasionally sullen and withdrawn.  But also dependable and fiercely loyal–the highest praise a cop could give.

All qualities he'd tried to instill in Drake Jr. with mixed success.  The kid was bright, resourceful, but also rambunctious and foolhardy.  He could read a crime scene like a book, but seemed blind sometimes when it came to understanding people. 

The kid.   Jimmy grimaced, looking down on his distraught partner.  

"Where is Hart?" he asked.  

The anguish on DJ's face as he disentangled himself from Denise's embrace made Jimmy think maybe the kid was finally growing up after all.

"I don't know," Drake told him.  His face blanked, but his voice was choked.  Jimmy knew his hands would be bunched into tight fists as well. 

Jimmy pursed his lips.  "Spanos said the actor was aiming for her.  Don't you think she needs watching over?"

Denise looked up at that.  "Jimmy, he's been through enough.  He's worried about his mother.  Hart can take care of herself."  Her tone was stern, suggesting that Hart would be luckier to tangle with the hit and run driver than with Denise.  

"How could she let this happen?" she continued.  "What has she gotten herself mixed up with now?  More drugs?"

Drake looked down at the floor.  "She's trying to protect a little boy," he said.  "Hart thinks he might have been abused."

"Oh," Denise said, sinking back into the vinyl cushions of the couch.  Her finger reached up to twirl a lock of her blonde hair, and Jimmy knew she was thinking hard.  Hopefully about cutting Hart a break.

"So who we looking at?" Jimmy asked, trying to get DJ's mind off his mother.

It worked.  Drake stood and began pacing, ticking off possible suspects as he went.  "We need to check into Virginia Ulrich, her husband, Paul, and the grandfather."

Jimmy arched an eyebrow at the last.  "You mean the Senator."

"Yes.  And Sheila Kaminsky–she's a nurse Virginia Ulrich got fired.  I checked her out this morning and found out she's also a nut case, paranoid schizophrenic.  She has a history of stalking Virginia Ulrich, maybe she became obsessed with Hart."

"What's she have to do with Hart?"

"She's the one who sent Hart to Wheeling, got her to dive into Virginia Ulrich's past.  I'm guessing she was looking for Hart to vindicate her somehow, maybe help her get revenge on Ulrich."  He paused and shook his head, his fingers raking through his hair.  "I don't know."

"Is Hart asking for protection?"

"No.  And she wouldn't take it if we offered."  

A cloud passed over Drake's face, giving Jimmy some idea of how things now stood between his partner and Hart.  This was going to be harder than he thought.  

Before he could say anything, the door opened once more and a short, Asian man accompanied by Adeena Coleman entered.

"Ed Castro called me," Adeena said, moving to take Drake's hand.  "I'm sorry to hear about your mother.  Dr. Park wanted to talk to you about her surgery."

Drake turned to the surgeon.  "Is she all right?"

"She's out of surgery, on her way to the ICU," the surgeon told him, motioning for them to sit down.  His gaze moved from Drake to Jimmy.

"This is my partner and his wife," Drake said, sitting on the couch.  Adeena and Denise joined him, one on either side while Jimmy moved to the corner of the room, leaning against the wall where he could watch everyone.  "When can I see her?"

"In a few minutes.  Everything went well," Park assured them.  "But the next few days are very important.  We'll keep her under sedation tonight and repeat a CT scan in the morning.  I've also placed a pressure monitor so that we can keep an eye on the swelling."

"Swelling?" Denise breathed the word

Park nodded.  "It's normal to have swelling after an injury–any injury.  But the brain is within a closed cavity, so there's very little spare room.  If the swelling becomes excessive–"

"You can treat that, right?" Drake asked.

"Yes, to some extent.  It's much better to prevent it in the first place, which is why we have her paralyzed on the ventilator."

"You mean she's not breathing, she's in a coma?" Denise asked, squeezing DJ's hand.

"It's normal procedure," Adeena interjected, translating for them.  "So the patient doesn't have to work so hard."

"And we can control things better," Park added.

"She's going to be all right?" Drake asked again.

"Odds are very much in her favor.  I'll be able to tell you more after the CT tomorrow."  His beeper sounded, and he looked at the display.  "I have to get down to the ER.  Adeena, can you take Mr. Drake in to see his mother?"

The four of them sat there in silence for a moment as they digested the neurosurgeon's words.  Jimmy cleared his throat. "I'll get to work on checking the Ulrichs," he said, moving toward the door.

Adeena looked up.  "The Ulrichs?  Why?  I thought this was an accident."

"The van was aiming for Hart," Drake told her.  "My mother just happened to be in the way."

"And you think the Ulrich family is behind this?" the social worker asked.  

"Hart spent the day in Virginia's hometown, digging up her past.  Who else would have a reason to go after her?"

"They couldn't have had anything to do with it," she told them.  "I was with them all evening."

"All evening?" Jimmy asked.

"From about five o'clock until past eight.  Virginia, her husband, and father-in-law.  Dr. Sterling was there also.  We went over Charlie's case, preparing a defense for the CYS investigation Cassie started."

Drake looked up at that.  "You think Virginia Ulrich is innocent?"  

"I know she is.  I've worked with her and Charlie since he was born, worked with her first son as well."

"So Hart was wrong?  All this happened for nothing?"

"I don't know what happened tonight, but I'm certain it had nothing to do with the Ulrichs," Adeena told him.  "Cassie has been under a lot of stress since she came back to work.  You know what happened with Morris?"  Drake nodded.  "I think she came back to work too soon.  I think," she paused, "she needs help."

Denise opened her mouth to say something at that, but Jimmy shook his head.  DJ's fists were clenched over his knees, fingers digging into the fabric of his slacks like claws.  

"If Hart's wrong about the Ulrichs, then why was someone trying to kill her tonight?" Jimmy asked.

No one seemed to have the answer to that.

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Drake followed Adeena into the surgical intensive care unit where she left him at Muriel's bedside.  Here the lights were dim as if to shield visitors from the flurry of activity surrounding them.  Men and women in pale green scrubs gathered around patients, busy attending to beeping alarms and strange-looking apparatus.  There were several people at Muriel's bedside.  Her head was bandaged and there were tubes in each nostril.  Drake looked down and saw a plastic bag with urine draining into it.  He winced and pulled his gaze away.  

Muriel's chest rose and fell in time with the ventilator.  Her heartbeat, blood pressure and other measurements were outlined in bright tracings on the monitor above the bed.  The worst thing was the clear tubing that snaked under the swath of bandages around her head.  A wire ran alongside the tubing and then connected into the monitor–this must be the device measuring the pressure in her brain.

A nurse who looked too young to be out of high school explained everything to Drake in a well-rehearsed monologue.  He couldn't pay attention to what she was saying, his mind wandering as he looked around the ICU to the other patients.  This place was worse than the morgue.  No one here was human, it was all depersonalized.  To them his mother was merely the head injury in bed four.  

Suddenly he was very angry at these people who had the power to save lives, who had such awesome talents at their command, but who would treat Muriel as they would any anonymous Jane Doe.  

He tore his eyes away from Muriel's swollen face framed in white gauze.  Hart wasn't like these others.  She saw each patient as a person, had the compassion–or was it just simple passion?–to battle any obstacle that stood in her way of caring for them.