Sleight of Hand (30 page)

"Still, we should check with Kent and Frantz.  I've got a bad feeling about this."

"You and me both."

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Jimmy yawned as he steered the departmental Dodge into Sheila Kaminsky's parking lot, narrowly avoiding taking off the open door of a beat up Pontiac that was sprawled diagonally across the main entrance lane.  Thank God he'd picked up the city vehicle and sent Denise home with the Sienna–she'd have a fit if he'd driven her pride and joy here.  

There were no readily discernible parking spaces, cars were left randomly, it appeared, so Jimmy did a three point and double parked in front of the entrance.  Well, triple parked, actually.  There was already a Jetta perpendicular to the curb and an ancient Datsun wagon blocking it in.

Jimmy got out, his attention drawn to a rusting black Econoline van jumped over the curb, halfway into the grass at the far end of the lot.  Kaminsky had a '81 black Econoline registered to her.  The van hadn't been here when he'd come by earlier.

Technically the investigation belonged to Jo Anderson over in Traffic, but she understood why Jimmy wanted on board.  As long as Jimmy didn't do anything to tank her case when it came to trial, she didn't mind.

He walked over to the old van and used his light to examine the front grill.  There was what appeared to be a fresh dent on the passenger corner.  The headlight was shattered and a streak of green paint was visible along the passenger side door, highlighted by naked steel where the van's paint had been scraped clean by the impact.

Jimmy gave a low whistle.  Jo said the Taurus that had been hit was green.  Looked like he'd might have hit the jackpot.

Jimmy called Anderson on her cell.  "Sorry to get you out of bed," he started when she answered.  Then he heard the roar of an eighteen-wheeler and the honk of an air horn.

"You didn't," she told him when the background noise died down.  He heard a car door slam and suddenly her voice was much clearer.  "Major pile-up on the Parkway did," she continued.  "What's up?"

"Think I found your van from the Drake hit and skip."

"Yeah?"  He heard the interest in her voice.  "Dumped?"

"No.  Parked in front of a suspect's building.  I was calling to see if you wanted to talk to her–"

"I'm stuck out here for the next few hours.  Why don't you do the initial, get the van impounded and the boys working on it?  I'll meet you back at the House."

"I don't want to take your collar–"

"Jimmy, you know that's not how I work," she said.  And she was right.  Anderson had one of the highest clearance rates in the Bureau, despite the fact that her chosen specialty was often one of the more unrewarding areas of police work.  She had nothing to prove and as she put it, no male bullshit to get in her way.  "If you've got enough to bring your suspect in, do it, take the collar.  It'll be good for Drake to have this closed."

He smiled at that.  Once upon a time a few years ago Anderson and Drake had been a short-lived item.  Before Anderson met her dream man in the form of an auto-mechanic who shared her passion for amateur stock car racing.

"Yes, ma'am.  I'll see you back at the House."

He picked his way past empty beer cans and cigarette butts to the open front door of the building.  Odors of marijuana and burnt Mexican food mixed with the stench of vomit, urine and unwashed bodies in a malodorous goulash that he barely registered.  

His steps down the stairs were accompanied by pounding hip-hop mixed with the melodious strains of a woman yelling at a worthless piece of shit named Frank.  As he passed the apartment in the front of the building where the screaming was coming from he heard the sound of breaking glass.  He hoped Frank had ducked.  

Kaminsky's apartment was quiet.  He knew from his previous visit that the buzzer didn't work, so he knocked loudly.  No answer.  He tried the doorknob, and it turned.

Shit.  Should've waited for the uniforms.  Still could.  But he'd already alerted anyone inside that he was here.   Should have gotten Anderson out here.  Or brought Drake–who was at the House fighting with the computer system, trying to track down other cases with dead pets. 

Kaminsky was a nutjob, but nothing in her file said she'd ever been violent. Yet.  There was always a first time.  Jimmy drew his gun, stayed to one side of the door and gingerly pushed it open.

He crouched low and looked around the door jam, sighting his gun to follow his gaze as he visually cleared the room of any potential danger.

The lights were on but no one was home, he saw immediately.  At least no one living.

Sheila Kaminsky's body sprawled over a rickety folding chair, her jeans wet with urine and vomit, her face the dusky grey of death.

Jimmy quickly walked through the apartment, ensuring that he and Kaminsky were the only occupants.  No bogeymen under the bed or hiding behind closed doors.  He used his cell phone to call it in and then approached the body, noting the scrambled heap of empty pill bottles that littered the carpet beside Kaminsky's right hand.  He took care not to touch anything until the photographers and other crime scene techs arrived.  

Men and women whose business was death.  Like Jimmy's.  Anderson was off the hook.  This wasn't a traffic case anymore.

CHAPTER 24

Virginia Ulrich watched as the ICU team made their morning rounds.  They came in waves.  First, the nurses gathered their information and gave report to their replacements on the day shift.  Then the residents came and copied the information from the nurses' records at the bedside and did brief examinations on their patients.  Virginia knew better than to ask anything of the residents.  She had learned from experience that they were powerless.

The fellow on call that day would quickly sweep through the unit discussing any troublesome cases with the physician he was relieving.  Then, in the grand finale, would come attending rounds with everyone following the physician in charge of the PICU like a gaggle of white-coated geese in formation.

Virginia always made certain that she was up and ready for the attendings.  Dr. Sterling had several patients in the PICU and so he would usually join attending rounds as the unofficial monarch to the PICU attending's prime minister.  As chairman of the department, everyone deferred to him. 

And he usually listened to Virginia.  Especially if she broached her suggestions and concerns in front of the audience of other physicians present during rounds.  This way she could ensure that her voice was heard, and that Charlie received the care he needed.

It was an inefficient way of running things, but after so much practice, she'd actually learned to enjoy the spectacle of attending rounds.  

The trick was to never embarrass the attendings and to make them feel as if her suggestions were indeed their own ideas.  Sometimes she wondered why doctors always seemed to think they were smarter than everyone else.  She knew as much about medicine as any of them, more than some, and she had taught herself without the benefit of any fancy medical school.

This morning she was disappointed to see that Dr. Sterling wasn't present for rounds.  She wanted to discuss the idea of a possible PET scan for Charlie.  She'd read several articles about the procedure and thought it might be helpful.  Also, he'd had a fever last night, and she didn't think that they had him on the proper antibiotics to cover the infection caused by the intraosseus needle.

Virginia settled back into her chair.  She'd just have to catch Dr. Sterling after they moved Charlie downstairs to Pediatrics later this morning.

The flock of white coats was two bed spaces away from her when a tall, black-haired man accompanied by an overweight woman with curly brown hair entered the PICU.  Virginia watched as they approached the desk clerk who immediately rushed to get the charge nurse.  The charge nurse, Beth, frowned as she looked over some papers that the man gave her, then turned to look at Virginia.

Virginia felt a surge of alarm.  The man's face was a blank mask, unreadable, but Virginia saw storm warnings in his dark blue eyes.  She sat up straight, straining to hear what they were talking about.  

Then, just as the team of physicians arrived, Beth and the two strangers came over.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," the man said with an air of authority as the woman moved to the head of Charlie's bed, placing herself between Virginia and Charlie.

"Who are you?" Virginia demanded, trying to pull the woman away from the bed.  "Get away from my son!"  Her voice was frantic and every head swiveled to stare at her.

"I'm Detective Drake," the man continued, unperturbed.  

Drake–of course, Hart's lover.  The good doctor obviously thought Virginia was responsible for what had happened at her house last night.  And wasn't it Drake's mother that had been injured? 

He handed Virginia some papers.  "This is official notification that Children and Youth is taking protective custody of one Charles Ulrich."

Virginia looked at them, stunned.  How could the police allow an obviously biased officer to do this to her?  She clutched at the bed rail.  "No, you can't!"

"I'm in charge here," Dr. Marchant, the PICU attending, said.  "On what grounds–"

"This will not interfere with the patient's medical care," Drake interrupted.  "I understand that transfer orders have already been written.  Ms. Caulfield and I will accompany Charlie to his new room on the Pediatric floor.  Mrs. Ulrich," he turned back to Virginia, "visitation by you and your husband can be arranged with advance notice to CYS and will be supervised."

Virginia glared at the police officer.  How dare he do this to her?  And in front of all these people?  They had no right, Charlie was her son, damn it!

"You can't take Charlie away from me!" she wailed, flinging herself toward the bed.  "Dr.  Marchant, what's going on here?" Virginia pleaded, tears streaming down her face.  "Don't let them take my son!"

By now the entire ICU was in an uproar.  Medical staff and family members were all crowding around, watching.  Virginia clutched at the bed rail.

"Please, someone call Dr. Sterling," she begged.  "He'll fix all this."

Dr. Marchant and one of the residents came to Virginia and tried to calm her.  "It'll be all right, Virginia.  We'll get to the bottom of this."

Charlie's monitors began to alarm as the toddler woke up crying.

"Charlie, what's wrong?" Virginia screamed.  "See what you've done, you're hurting him!"

"Mrs. Ulrich, the boy's upset by your yelling," Drake said coldly.  "Please step away from the bed.  Ms. Caulfield and I will accompany Charlie's nurse and help move him down to Pediatrics."

Virginia felt the policeman's eyes on her and despised his calm acceptance of her distress.  He and the CYS worker seemed utterly oblivious to the torment they were causing her.  In fact, she could swear that Drake was almost smiling at her.  

She wanted to slap the man, spit in his face for what he was doing to her.  But instead, she took a deep, ragged breath and attempted to compose herself.  She grasped Dr. Marchant's arm, leaning heavily on him.

"Please, will someone go with him, a familiar face?" she begged the medical personnel who surrounded her.

"I'll go with Charlie."  Beth came forward.  "I'll watch over him and make sure that he's settled in.  He'll be fine, honest."

"Thank you."  Virginia used her free hand to wipe her tears.  "Thank you so much, Beth.  Please don't let anyone give him any medicine until Dr. Sterling comes.  You know what's happened before when he got the wrong medicine."

"Of course, Virginia.  Don't worry, everything will be all right."

Virginia took another deep breath and pulled herself upright, releasing Dr. Marchant's arm.  "Please, can I just say goodbye?" she asked in a low voice.

Drake looked at the CYS caseworker who nodded and moved aside enough for Virginia to approach Charlie.  Charlie was wide awake now, he had stopped crying and was looking around in silence at the adults who had gathered above him.  He must be terrified, Virginia thought, reaching forward to brush his hair back.

"It's okay, Charlie.  These people are going to take you to a new room, that's all.  Mommy will come visit you soon," she whispered, then leaned forward to kiss him.

He was so scared that at first he pulled back away from her.  Virginia held his head with one hand and steadied it in place so that she could plant her lips on his.  She felt Charlie tense, resisting momentarily against her grasp, then he relaxed, accepting her embrace.

"Goodbye, Charlie.  Mommy loves you," she called as Drake and the woman helped Beth push the bed toward the door.

Virginia rushed forward as the PICU doors slid shut behind them, then stopped, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.  

"Charlie," she cried out as physicians and nurses surrounded her.  Then she couldn't bear it any longer and collapsed to the floor.

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Hart was slumped over Muriel's bed, her hand over his mother's. 

"Wake up," Drake nudged her gently.  She jerked upright, and he could tell from the dark swelling below her eyes that she'd probably just fallen asleep.  "I need to ask you a favor."

She combed her fingers through her thick hair, wincing as she grazed the area with the staples.  She glanced at Muriel's monitor.  "She'll be going down for her CT in a short while," she told him.  "Dr. Park was already here, said things looked good."

Drake nodded his thanks at her update.  "What time is your meeting?"

Hart looked up at the clock.  "About twenty minutes.  What do you need?"

"I just took Charlie into protective custody.  He's safe in the monitored room on Peds.  But his mother–she freaked.  I'd feel better if someone stayed with Mom," he paused, "just in case."

She nodded her understanding.  "Of course.  I'll come right up after the meeting."

"It's this cold case–I have a few things to track down this morning, then I'll be back," he assured her.  "I know you have better things to do–"