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  She was returning the chart to the nurses' station when she turned the corner and almost ran over Virginia Ulrich. Cassie fumbled for words, trying to keep her expression neutral.

  "Dr. Hart." Virginia looked at the chart in Cassie's hands. "What are you doing with Charlie's old records?"

  "I came up to see how he was doing," Cassie said, returning the chart to its rightful place. "I was sorry to hear that he had another seizure."

  Virgina pursed her lips and stared at Cassie. "Dr. Sterling is on his way. I'm certain he'll get to the bottom of all this. Have you read any of his work?"

  "No, I haven't."

  "Well, he's the expert in this field," Virginia continued, dismissing any skills that Cassie may have. "He left some copies of his articles. Here." She rounded the nurses' desk with an air of familiarity and superiority, as if this was her rightful place, took a stack of reprinted journal articles from an empty slot in the chart rack and thrust them at Cassie. "Maybe you'll find them enlightening."

  "Thanks," Cassie mumbled, still amazed by the woman's audacity. The chart rack and nurses' station were strictly off limits to non-medical personnel. Cassie picked up Antwan Washington's chart. "Guess I'd better check on my other patient up here." She tried to sound casual.

  "I appreciate your interest in Charlie's case," Virginia went on. "I understand that he holds some fascination as a diagnostic dilemma, but in the future please direct your questions to Dr. Sterling instead of going through confidential medical records." Her tone had hardened and Cassie looked up, surprised. "I'm sure you agree that you are the last person who should be treating my son. Given my relationship with your ex-husband, I'm sure it is difficult for you to remain objective, isn't it, Dr. Hart?"

  "I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

  "Richard is a very close friend of mine. My husband works with his brother. I'm sure you can appreciate how dismayed they were when they heard you were involved in Charlie's case. Richard's brother went so far as to suggest that we have Dr. Sterling ban you from further contact with Charlie, said you were unstable, might even try to harm Charlie."

  Cassie felt her face flush with anger. "How dare you. I would never–"

  "Exactly what I told him. That you would never allow your personal emotions interfere with the care of a patient. I told him it wasn't your fault that you couldn't start a simple IV in Charlie, that you had to resort to a painful and potentially dangerous procedure."

  "His veins were collapsed, the seizure–"

  "Of course it was your first day back," Virginia continued, ignoring Cassie's protests. "You were rusty after taking all that time off. I'm sure it had nothing to do with who I am or the fact that I'm a friend of Richard's."

  "Richard has nothing to do with me any longer. I don't care who his friends are." Cassie's voice emerged louder than she intended, drawing stares from several nurses nearby.

  "I guess that explains why you never visited him while he was in the ICU, fighting for his life. After you put him there."

  Cassie straightened to her full height, engaging Virginia head on. Virginia's face was placid, her voice low and steady as if she were discussing the latest summer fashion trends. Cassie's fists tightened and she rammed them into the pockets of her lab coat. "I didn't give Richard those drugs, he took them by accident. They were intended to kill me. And the reason I didn't visit him was because his brother forbid it. All of which has absolutely nothing to do with how I treated your son, Mrs. Ulrich. I treated Charlie with the same dedication and care I give to any of my patients."

  Virginia smiled placidly at her as one of the nurses approached. "I guess that explains why there's another little boy in a coma, fighting for his life. Your track record speaks for itself, Dr. Hart."

  "Can I get you anything, Virginia?" the nurse asked before Cassie could answer.

  "Oh, no thanks, Gail. I was just wondering if Dr. Sterling would be here soon."

  "He said he'd be right in. I'm getting coffee if you want any."

  Cassie took the opportunity to escape before her temper got the better of her, opening Antwan's chart and turning her back on the two of them. Her hands shook with anger. She had to fight to keep the words before her in focus. It was even harder to silence the nagging voice in her mind that Virginia had spoken the truth, that she was to blame for missing something on Monday when she first cared for Antwan.

  And if she missed something then, what else had she messed up?

  She swallowed hard and stilled her trembling hands. Scanning Antwan's chart, she hoped to find that he had made some progress since she saw him two hours ago. There was nothing substantial, she noted with a frown. They had almost weaned him from the ventilator, but he was still unconscious. The neurologists planned to repeat the EEG in the morning.

  She went over to his cubicle. Tammy Washington was on the phone, talking angrily to someone, but hung up when she saw Cassie.

  "Hi, I just wanted to see how everything's going," Cassie said, moving to Antwan's side.

  "How do you think?" Tammy demanded. "I can't believe you're here, showing your face! They're trying to take my baby from me!" The mother's anger hit Cassie like a gale force blast.

  "I tried to–"

  "I don't care what you tried," Tammy interrupted. "This is my baby. I ain't got anyone to help me, but I've raised him the best I can. I don't need the likes of you coming around and telling me I done it all wrong!"

  "Tammy," Cassie tried to calm her. "I'm certain that they only want what's best for Antwan, just like you do."

  "Like hell they do! Is it best for my baby that he go and live with strangers? You know who that was on the phone? My work saying don't bother to come back! I never took nothing from nobody my whole life and now thanks to you–" she seemed to run out of words as her rage crescendoed. She stood and pushed Cassie's hand away from Antwan.

  "I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do–"

  "Ain't you done enough? Just get out, I don't want you anywhere near my baby! You all can just go to hell!" She was crying now.

  Cassie left, the mother's anger a tsunami sweeping her from the room. She turned to leave the PICU, but not before she saw Virginia Ulrich smiling at her.

  Out in the corridor, she added Sterling's journal articles to the stack of notes bulging out of her lab coat pockets. She lowered her head and headed down the hall to the stairwell, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone.

  Better work on your bedside manner, the cynic in her whispered. Cassie felt awful about Tammy Washington. This was just what she'd been trying to avoid. The woman had a terrific strength and a lot of pride. Take that away and what resources would she have left to help her son through this?

  And somehow she was certain Virginia wouldn't let things rest. She had the feeling Charlie's mother had read her intentions and suspicions and would be making her life hell unless she backed off.

  She returned to her office and found the number for Children and Youth. Too bad Virginia Ulrich didn't know her better. Then she'd know that being a pigheaded, stubborn, hyper-driven, pain in the ass was Cassie's most endearing quality. One of the few things that Cassie surpassed even her grandmother, Rosa, in. And it had nothing to do with the Ulrichs being friends with Richard. Well, maybe it did–but only in the sense that she refused to let Richard or his powerful family and friends intimidate her.

  "Childline, how may I help you?"

  "I'd like to report a suspected case of abuse."

  CHAPTER 12

  "Pardon my French, but you look like shit," Jimmy Dolan told his partner when Drake dragged himself through the doorway at the top of the steps the next morning. The Major Crimes Squad's office was on the fourth floor, and Drake looked like he'd felt every one of those steps. It didn't help that he was hauling about twelve pounds worth of murder books.

  Jimmy handed his partner a cup of fresh coffee and gestured to the bag of Krispy Kremes on his desk. To hell with stereotypes. Ever since his wife, Denise, had banned donu
ts and other "junk food" from their home, calling them a Madison Avenue conspiracy to cripple the nation, work was his only chance to indulge.

  "Hope you look so ragged out because you got some make up sex last night," Jimmy went on. Everyone in the House had heard about Hart and Morris–and Drake's reaction in the ER.

  Personally, Jimmy liked Hart's style. The girl had guts even if she did sometimes lack finesse. Had to admit, she'd gotten the job done without bloodshed. He wouldn't necessarily have trusted Spanos to do the same–but his opinion was definitely in the minority. Last thing the cops needed was the civilian populace to start trying to do their job for them.

  Drake hung his head low and didn't answer. So, still fighting with Hart. Which meant no tales of bedroom calisthenics. He sighed. Denise would be upset to hear that Drake was having relationship problems. Again. And she'd somehow manage to blame it on Jimmy. God forbid Drake ever take responsibility for his own actions.

  Jimmy munched on a honey-glazed still warm from the ovens. Drake was almost thirty-five but every woman Jimmy'd ever seen him with seemed to either want to baby him or fuck him. Or both.

  Except Hart. Which was probably why Jimmy liked the doctor so much–she seemed the perfect match for his wayward partner. Even if Denise didn't approve of her. Not after Hart almost got Drake killed six weeks ago.

  But Denise probably would never accept any woman as being good enough for Drake.

  "I thought we'd start with Regina Eades' husband and son," Jimmy said.

  Drake nodded, his eyes brightening somewhat after the coffee. "I already set us up for nine o'clock. I ran everyone last night when the computer was free," he explained when Jimmy looked at him in surprise. He pulled a sheet of paper from his notebook and slid it across the desk. "Here are the current addresses. The Kents are divorced, I could only find the wife. The Frantzs are still in the same house over on the Northside, and the Clearys moved to Plum."

  Jimmy nodded in satisfaction. One thing about DJ–once he was on board, he put his heart and soul into closing a case. A lot like his dad that way. "Nice work. Let's roll."

  <><><>

  Clinton Eades had moved from the city proper to an upscale neighborhood just outside of Murrysville. Once they passed the brick arch guarding the entrance of the development, the streets became meandering narrow lanes that threatened to curve back on themselves. They crossed Bear Meadow Lane, turned off Deer Leap onto Fox Hollow Road and finally made their way to Possum Path.

  The houses were large monstrosities of brick and stone placed on too-small lots with manicured squares of lawns. Despite the size of the houses, it seemed as if children were as extinct as the wildlife in this suburban oasis. There were no sidewalks, no evidence of bikes, trikes, or toys and none of the chalk graffiti that littered Jimmy's neighborhood.

  He found the Eades house and pulled the white Intrepid into the driveway. As he closed the driver's door and waited for Drake, he saw that theirs was the only car exposed to the light of day.

  "If one of the Stepford wives answers the door, I'm outta here," he told Drake.

  He remembered the man, Eades, as mid-thirties, a short, skinny man with bony hands that Jimmy had worried about crushing when he shook them. A CPA in one of the firms downtown, Eades specialized in managing pro-athletes' money, rolling short-term millions into long-term security. That had been Jimmy's lead in, their common ground. Denise was a financial planner, worked with most of the guys at the House, helping them to eke mortgage payments or tuition savings out of a city employee's take home pay.

  While they waited for the door to be answered, Jimmy wondered how Eades had changed in the eight years since he'd lost his wife. He'd guessed that he'd somehow recovered from his grief, probably by immersing himself in his work. This house was a definite step up from the Bloomfield duplex he'd last interviewed the CPA in.

  The door opened. A gaunt man with thinning red hair wearing jeans, a Pitt sweatshirt and Fruit Loops in his mustache answered the door.

  "Detective Dolan," he greeted them with a smile that came a few beats too late. "Come in, come in." Clinton Eades stepped aside, and they joined him inside the slate-floored foyer.

  "I didn't realize it was so late," Eades continued, rambling on in breakneck fashion. He wiped the cereal from his mustache and grinned. "Food fight with the two year old–you know how it goes. Stella," he called out to the rear of the house, the kitchen presumably, "I'll be in my study."

  Without waiting for an answer, he led the way into a large room paneled in knotty pine with a hunter green hobnail sofa and a desk that would rival a pool table for square footage. Eades took the seat behind the desk, barricading himself from them.

  "This is Detective Drake," Jimmy introduced DJ. "If you don't mind, he'll just take some notes. And I'll record us, so in case I have to refresh my memory later I won't need to bother you again." Eades agreed readily to the prospect of not having to see the policemen again.

  "Has there been–have you found–" His voice broke.

  "No sir, I'm sorry to say. Periodically we try to revisit these cases, don't want to ever give up on them."

  Eades nodded, but the look in his face said that he'd already given up on finding his wife's killer. "I appreciate that."

  "Is Stella your new wife?" Jimmy asked, moving to perch on a windowsill to one side of the desk, leaving Drake unobtrusive in the background.

  "No, our housekeeper." Eades reached for a framed photo that sat on his desk and passed it to Jimmy. "That's Cynthia, my wife. We got married three, no four years ago now. She's a realtor. And that's Billy, our son. He was only eight months when that was taken."

  "And your older son, Mitchell? How is he doing? He'd be what, sixteen now?"

  The father's face blanched, and the skin around his eyes tightened, revealing deeply etched lines there.

  "Mitchell," the name seemed painful for him to speak, "was never the same, after–" He paused and looked past Jimmy, out the window. "I tried to get him help, counseling, kept him in school as long as I could–they said the routine would be good for him. But things just kept getting worse. Fights, bullying the other kids. Stealing things from teacher's desks, lying. Then, when he was in sixth grade a teacher found him in the boys room, smoking pot, forcing some third graders to strip naked and urinate in front of him."

  Jimmy said nothing, allowing the father to collect his memories of the painful past. "Mitch was thirteen then," Eades continued after a moment, still not making eye contact. "We had to go to court. They ordered him into a residential treatment program–out near Latrobe. I was only allowed to visit him on weekends. I thought it was just a phase, a result of everything he'd been through, but when he came home, things only got worse. He beat up a teacher–broke the man's arm with a baseball bat, and the judge sent him to juvenile detention. But he got into trouble there–went on a rampage one night, right before he was due to be released, and they sent him to another residential facility–this one with higher security. He's still there. They said next time he does anything he'll be charged as an adult.

  "He won't talk to me or see me anymore. I send him letters, pictures of his brother but the envelopes come back unopened. This is the last thing he sent me." Eades slid open the desk drawer and pulled out a thin sheet of lined notebook paper. The painfully printed pencil strokes were marred by erasures and smudged fingerprints. "See for yourself."

  Jimmy glanced at the note.

  "Dad," it read, "don't send no more pictures especially of Billy. I can't see him or you no more, so don't come here or call. It's the only way I can take care of you all. Good bye. PS: when you see Mom tell her I'm sorry, sorry." He passed the note to Drake.

  Eades hadn't moved, still staring out the window, silent tears sliding from his eyes. "The day he wrote that Mitchell tried to kill himself," he told them. "That bastard took everything from me–Regina, Mitchell. God, I wish he'd come after me instead."

  The father swiped a hand across his cheeks, finally turned to fac
e Jimmy. "Even if you caught him now, it would be too late, wouldn't it, Detective?"

  "Maybe not for someone else's family," was the best Jimmy could offer. Eades nodded slowly. "When Mitch said 'when you see Mom', he wasn't talking about your new wife, was he?"

  "No. After Regina was–died–we used to pray together every night, talk to her, in a way. Mitch used to always whisper things for me to tell her when I saw her, couldn't talk to her himself. Poor kid was always thinking I was going end up dead too, I guess. I don't think he ever had a full night's sleep since that day–never felt safe again."

  "It must have been difficult for you to try to be both mother and father to him. While suffering your loss as well."

  Eades shrugged. "Tell the truth, those bedtime prayers were about the only time we ever talked, I mean more than please pass the ketchup, and Mitch gave up on those a few months later. Like he locked me out of his world. I kept food on the table and clothes on his back but no matter how much I was there for him, it wasn't enough. I just didn't have what he needed."

  "I'm sure you did the best you could," Drake put in as he returned Mitchell's letter to Eades. Jimmy knew his partner was getting impatient. DJ hated the emotional stuff, always wanted to cut to the chase.

  The father shrugged and deposited the evidence of his failure back into the depths of the desk drawer.

  "If you could just think a moment, remember back to the day of your wife's murder," Jimmy went on after giving Eades a moment to collect himself. "What was the routine for Mitchell that day supposed to be?"

  "The same as always for a Tuesday or Thursday. Regina would drop him at school on her way to open the studio. He had school, then met with his speech therapist until four o'clock when he'd walk over to the studio and wait for Regina to drive him home. I worked seven to three, so the rest of the week, I'd pick him up from school myself."

  "And besides you and your wife and the therapist, who else would have known Mitchell's schedule? A babysitter? Neighbors? Did he mention his therapy sessions to anyone else?"