Sleight of Hand Page 14

  "What happened?"

  "They said I was sick, incompetent. Said they'd throw me in jail for going through their records. Called Virginia." She ducked her face down as if trying to hide. "She came in all of her glory, her facade, glittering and glistening, fool's gold. Fooled them all. And I," she shrugged, "I tried, but they sent me away, shot me up, forced pills down my throat. Fixed me up right." A shudder shook her body and she blinked, returning to the present. "And no matter what I said, no one believed me. Said I was the one who almost killed Georgie, who was dangerous. No one ever cared–not till you came along." She swept her shirtsleeve over her face, mopping up silent tears.

  "You're going to tell everyone the truth, aren't you? The truth is the only weapon against Satan. Promise me you'll be careful. She's going to come after you, but someone has to shine the Light on the Truth!" Her voice rose into a singsong cadence, and she dropped to her knees, head bowed, torso weaving back and forth.

  Cassie got to her feet as Kamisky began to speak in guttural syllables that were like no earthly language. She edged away from the ex-nurse, but Kaminsky grabbed her legs, holding her fast.

  "Watch out!" she yelled up into Cassie's face. "You're marked now, she'll find you." Kaminsky clutched her medallions, jangling them as if to ward off evil spirits. "I'll take care of you," she assured Cassie who cautiously backed away, toward the door. "I promise, I won't fail again!"

  CHAPTER 14

  Tanya Kent's mother was next on their list. Drake wasn't certain how much help she might be. When he spoke to her on the phone last night, she'd seemed eager to talk to them, almost effusive, even though he'd explained that they still had no suspect.

  "That's no matter," she'd assured him. "Y'all come on by, tell me all about my baby."

  When they knocked on the door of Marion Kent's Homewood apartment, a teenaged girl answered. She gave Drake and Jimmy a dirty look and blocked their entrance.

  "What'cha mean bothering my mother," she said in a low voice, doing her best to usher them back into the hallway. "She's been through enough."

  "Who's that, Tanesha?" came a woman's voice from inside the apartment. "Is that the policemen about Tanya?"

  Tanesha Kent sighed and shook her head as her mother appeared. Drake was surprised by Marion Kent's appearance. Although he knew from the file that she was only thirty-four, his age, she appeared decades older. Her hair was sparse, brittle, pulled back tight, making her face appear pinched. Her cheekbones were hollow, her dark skin sagging over them as if she were a famine victim. Yet the apartment seemed neat, well kept, the scent of cookies baking tantalizing them from the kitchen.

  "Smells good, Mrs. Kent," Jimmy said after making introductions.

  "Chocolate chip. They're Tanya's favorites," Mrs. Kent said, perching on the edge of an ultrasuede sofa, hands clasped together.

  "Maybe this isn't a good idea," Tanesha said, standing beside her mother, one hand hovering near the older woman's shoulder. "You know what the doctor said about getting excited."

  "Hush now. I told you it was only a matter of time before the police found the truth."

  Drake exchanged a glance with Jimmy. "Ma'am, we don't have any new evidence in your daughter's case," he told her. "But we haven't given up. We just wanted to clear up a few details."

  The woman nodded eagerly, her eyes locked on his with the intensity of a laser. "Of course, of course. Have to do everything proper and right. I understand."

  Her voice had taken on a sing-song quality, and Drake wondered exactly what the doctor was treating her for. She was much too thin, her hands trembled and she kept licking her lips as if parched. The woman was teetering on the edge–or had she already passed it?

  "We can come back later," Jimmy said, obviously having come to the same conclusion.

  "That would be a good idea." Tanesha grabbed onto his suggestion, took a step toward the door before her mother reached out a hand to stop her.

  "No sir. I've got it all here," Mrs. Kent insisted. She opened a thick photo album that sat on the table between them. "Got all my proof and certification, you can take a look, decree anything. Tanya's my baby, it's all here."

  She leafed through the album. The first section was crammed with photos of a beautiful baby girl who with the flip of a few pages transformed into a beaming toddler with a crooked grin and spark in her eye. Drake's stomach lurched. He hated this part, the reminiscing part. It seemed so cruel to see the possibilities that could never be, to re-live the short life, knowing that there was no way he could change the ultimate outcome.

  Many of the photos revealed a grinning school-aged boy, obviously enchanted with his baby sister, a few with a younger Tanesha as well.

  "Is that Tonio?" he asked, pointing to the boy, hoping to steer the mother back to the discussion of the case. "He was scheduled to go on a class field trip that day, wasn't he?"

  "Tonio didn't go," Tanesha answered. "Because of the baby. One of the school people came and talked to him, tried to help him." Her voice trailed off. "Never did any good."

  "My Tonio, Tonio," Mrs. Kent crooned, her fingers rubbing at the photo as if she stroked her son's face. "He's gone now, far away. How he loved his little Tanya. Used to read to her when he got home from school, would make up songs just for her–he had a beautiful voice." A long sigh escaped her, emptying her of whatever strength she possessed, releasing tears in its wake. "I miss that boy's voice."

  Drake looked to Tanesha who had joined her mother on the sofa. "What happened to Tonio?"

  "He lives with my father now," Tanesha answered. "He couldn't take all," she gestured to her mother and the collection of memories, "this. They separated almost three years ago now. Tonio don't come back or call, he gets too upset by it all."

  "So you take care of your mother?" Jimmy asked. Tanesha nodded.

  Mrs. Kent's sobs quieted, and she straightened once more. "Wait, wait," she cried out, her hands rapidly turning pages of the over-stuffed album. "Got to show you my proof so you'll give me my baby back."

  Drake almost groaned as he saw the remainder of the mother's collection. Four years of magazine clippings of pretty girls slowly aging just as Tanya would have if she had lived. The smell of burnt cookies added to the twisting in his gut as he realized that Mrs. Kent believed Tanya was still alive.

  His fears were confirmed when she pulled a stack of newspaper clippings from the back of the album.

  "I documented everything," she told them. "The lady in Philly. They said her baby died in a fire, but really she was taken, living not a mile away. Can you believe that?" She looked up, her eyes gleaming with hope. "The baby in Florida, she was stolen from her bed like my Tanya. Five years later her mother saw her walking down the street and called her name and she came back. Five years and Tanya's only been gone four. And even on that TV show, they talked about how maybe one person's genes can fool the scientists, not be who they say he is–a chimera, they called it. That's what happened to my Tanya, she got her genes mixed, so those people at the lab said it was her dead and it wasn't–"

  Clippings from The National Enquirer, TV Guide, The Watchtower, even The New Republic swirled through her fingers. Her gaze locked with Drake's again, her face filled with expectancy and joy. "There's all my proof and certification. You going to give me back my girl now, aren't ya? Please, you got to give me back my Tanya. I'm lost without my little girl."

  She stood, her bony frame shaking as she pled her case. Smoke began to billow from the kitchen. Tanesha moved behind her mother, pulling the other woman into a wordless embrace, tears streaming down her cheeks as she tried to sooth Marion Kent. Jimmy handed her a clean handkerchief.

  Drake fled the storm of emotions. He moved into the kitchen, turned the oven off and removed the charred remains of Tanya's welcome home cookies.

  Cookies as dead as the little girl they were baked for, as lifeless as the look of despair in her mother's eyes.

  CHAPTER 15

  "I need your help," Cassie spoke into the
plastic intercom speaker after she buzzed Drake's apartment. There was no reply except for the click of the door release. She grabbed the door handle, almost ran away instead of opening it.

  She gathered her strength and began climbing the three flights of stairs. Each step jarred her healing tendon. Drake was the last person she wanted to bother with her troubles, but there was nowhere else to turn. Ed Castro couldn't help her without compromising his own position; and, as he had said, this required more investigating than diagnosing.

  Why was it then, that with each step, she felt like she was shedding precious bits and pieces of her pride?

  He would tell her that she was wrong about Virginia Ulrich, her judgment impaired by the trauma she'd been through–like Adeena had, like Sterling had. Especially after she told him that her only witness was a raving lunatic with a personal grievance against Virginia. Then what would she do? Would she continue to jeopardize her career, Ed's clinic, and her professional reputation to follow her instincts?

  Cassie paused on the second floor landing. With a boy's life at stake–yes, the answer had to be yes.

  And if everyone was right and she was wrong? If she was being foolish, seeing conspiracies where none existed, playing the crusader to fight an imaginary foe–what then? Her hand caught at the St. Jude medal, rubbing it like a talisman. She could lose everything.

  Drake had been right about one thing yesterday. She didn't like to talk about things, it made her feel uncomfortable, nervous. And so very often what she said didn't come out with the same meaning that she intended. So much better just to take care of things herself. It was more difficult to misconstrue actions than flimsy words.

  This was a mistake. She should go home, come up with a plan of action and not drag Drake into the middle of all this. Things could get very ugly–especially with Richard and a Senator involved.

  "Have you decided yet?" His voice came from above her. She looked up and realized that he'd been watching her slow progress from his doorway. He wore jeans and a Rolling Stone's T-shirt smeared with paint.

  And a serious, half-smile on his face that told her he knew just what she was thinking. The man was irritating that way.

  "I'll come back later," she told him.

  "Then you'll miss my etoufee. They had fresh scallops and crawfish at the Strip. Jimmy and me knocked off early, so I had time to shop."

  Damn, he did know her weaknesses. He sweetened the pot. "Anduille sausage. Chocolate for dessert."

  Cassie took a reluctant step up. "Milk or dark?"

  He met her halfway and took her hand in his. "Dark, of course."

  "All right. But this was your idea. I need to salvage some of my pride."

  They were at his doorway. Led Zeppelin's "Black Dog" and the aroma of Cajun spices swirled around them. He turned her against the threshold, his hands resting on her shoulders as he looked down on her.

  "Been lonely around here without you." He kissed her gently on the forehead.

  Cassie met his gaze and knew that he meant what he said. God, was it only yesterday that she'd had a future? How could she let everything slip away? Careless. She needed to take control of events.

  Gram Rosa would totally disagree. Rosa believed in fate, destiny, kismet, could forecast the future in someone's palm with more accuracy than meteorologists predicted the weather. You can't outrun God's plan, she'd tell Cassie. What's meant to be, is.

  Cassie inhaled the aroma wafting from Drake's kitchen and pushed aside all thoughts of gypsy fortunes.

  "I'm sorry about yesterday," she said. Drake moved into the well-appointed kitchen and began to pull plates down from the cabinets. "When I–"

  She couldn't bring herself to say it, flushed with embarrassment when his hand went to his cheek as if it still burnt from her slap.

  "I only said what I did because I was worried about you," he told her, passing the dishes and silver across the bar to her.

  Cassie shook her head and said nothing, setting the table and pouring a glass of Merlot for herself and a Yuengling Black and Tan for him.

  "Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?" he said when the seafood stew was half eaten in silence. "What do you need help with?"

  "I think one of my patients might be in danger."

  Drake looked up at that, his spoon halfway to his mouth. "Really?" She nodded, biting her lip, daring him to laugh. He set his spoon down and turned his full attention on her. "Tell me about it."

  And she did. About Charlie and the intraosseus and her confrontation with Virginia Ulrich and Sterling in the PICU. About the grandfather, the Senator, who could ruin Drake and Ed Castro's plans for the free clinic, about the first son who'd died so close to the second one's birth. About everything except Virginia's supposed affair with Richard–Drake hated anything to do with Richard and she wanted him to judge her case on its own merits.

  "And she's seven months pregnant now," she finished with a rush. He remained silent, took a long swallow of his beer. Cassie bowed her head and concentrated on her food. It did sound foolish when said out loud. Then why wouldn't this gnawing in her gut go away?

  She mopped up the remnants of the stew with a piece of corn bread. Still he was silent. Finally she looked up to see his eyes resting on her, watching her with curious attention. As if he was judging her rather than the merits of her argument. Cassie felt the color rise to her cheeks under the weight of his gaze.

  "I'm not going crazy," she blurted out, breaking the silence. "There have been cases like this one before. It's a rare form of child abuse called Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. The perpetrator, usually the mother, sees her child's illness as a way of manipulating others, of getting attention or some other need satisfied."

  He pushed back his chair and moved over to stand beside her. Lowering his frame so that his face was level with hers, he placed a hand beneath her chin and raised her mouth to his.

  The kiss took Cassie by surprise. Its passion was quiet and intense, a smoldering heat that spread from him to her.

  She circled her arms around his neck, pulled him closer, opened herself to him. Forty-three days, she'd yearned for this.

  He lifted her to her feet, shoving the chair aside as their bodies met. Cassie drank him in, savoring his taste–spicy sausage, barley and hops–and swallowed all her fears and doubts. Who needed food, the giddy thought made her smile, this was all she needed.

  Her hands tugged at his shirt, sliding under the cotton to glide over his sweat slicked skin. He'd lost weight. His muscles, always strong and firm, now felt chiseled, in sharp relief. Her fingers danced over his back, reading the changes in his body. Then they came to the heaped-up scar under his right arm.

  The exit wound from a thirty-eight caliber bullet. She knew because she was the one who'd patched the sucking chest wound.

  Drake froze at her touch. Cassie immediately withdrew her fingers from the scar. Too late. He was gone. He gently disengaged himself from her, and she felt as if she'd lost something precious.

  Give him time, Adeena had counseled. How much did he need? Or maybe what he really needed was distance–distance far away from her?

  Cassie hung her head, refusing to say anything for fear she'd pour forth her doubts and worries and speaking them aloud might crystallize them into a terrible reality.

  He moved his hands from her face down to her shoulders, but his touch was now that of a neutral observer, there was no heat in it.

  "Tell me more about this Munchausen's by Proxy." His voice came from light-years away. He slipped his hands from her body and began to gather the dishes, taking them into the kitchen.

  She swallowed her anger, although it burned her to do so. Why wouldn't he accept what she wanted to give to him?

  <><><>

  Drake rinsed the dishes with a clatter. God, he couldn't resist her–not when she practically glowed with passion. But passion could burn. He'd learned that the hard way two months ago. Hart might be immune to its effects. He knew from painful experience that he
wasn't. And he wasn't certain he could live through the fire twice.

  The churning in his gut, clammy palms, heart pounding hard enough to jump through his skin–feelings that brought with them the overwhelming memory of that night six weeks ago. He took a deep breath and let it out, trying to collect his wits once more.

  They had to find another way. For his sanity if not hers. A middle ground, safer ground.

  He left the dishes and rejoined her at the table, keeping a safe distance. "I've heard about the woman in New York who smothered her babies but they called it Sudden Infant Death."

  "And there was a woman in Philadelphia, and another in California who poisoned her children with salt and baking soda. I found one article written by a survivor as an adult. She described her mother repeatedly breaking the same bone with a hammer. The mother told the child it was therapy."

  "We both know there are sick people out there," he acknowledged, thinking of his day spent with families tormented by a predator with a taste for children's blood. What a world the two of them lived in.

  For a moment he imagined leaving all thoughts of dead children behind, escaping with Hart to the bedroom, locking the door and burrowing into the warm comfort of her arms.

  No, he had a job to do, so did she. He regained his train of thought. "Why are you so certain that Virginia Ulrich is one of these? And if she is, would she dare to abuse the grandchild of a United States Senator?"

  "Part of the compulsion is the need to outwit anyone who might discover the abuse–physicians, nurses, family members. It reinforces the perpetrator's belief that they're superior to those around them. As they manipulate everyone, they're creating their own little narcissistic paradise where they are not only the center of attention but also the only person in control."

  "Isn't Munchausen very rare? And haven't people been accused of it who were actually innocent? Over in England, they're overturning hundreds of cases, saying doctors were overzealous in their attempts to find a reason for children dying."