Sleight of Hand Page 18

His body began to shake and his voice broke. "I guess, I didn't even grab the right bottle or measure it right–I don't know." He was silent for a minute. "Virginia found Lizzy dead in the morning. They told me I gave her the wrong medicine and way too much, so she stopped breathing. It was all my fault," he wailed, his voice cracking like an adolescent's.

  Cassie looked down at the remnants of a man before him. She had an idea who was behind Elizabeth's death and doubted that it was this poor, ignorant wretch. How hard would it be for Virginia to get up either before or after Stainsby and give the baby more medicine? Maybe she even mixed it in the baby's bottle.

  "Mr. Stainsby, did the doctor's examine Lizzy's body after she died?"

  "Yeah, they took her away and cut her up. They cut up my little girl!"

  "Can I have your permission to look at Lizzy's medical records?" Cassie risked contamination by grabbing a sheet of yellowed stationary from the pad beside the telephone and wrote a quick authorization. She held it before Stainsby and watched him sign it with a shaky hand.

  "You gonna lock me up for what I did?" the father asked. "You gonna give me my just punishment?"

  All she could do was shake her head. "No, Mr. Stainsby. I'm not with the police." She left Stainsby to the purgatory he'd created for himself.

  <><><>

  Virginia changed the dressing on Charlie's leg and applied the tape to it. The site where Cassandra Hart had drilled the needle into Charlie's bone was getting infected, just as she had told the doctors it would. She pulled off her gloves and tossed them into the trash can, then went over to the nurses' station to wash her hands.

  The baby was kicking a lot and her back was sore from sitting for so long. Virginia walked around the corner to the side hallway that contained the isolation cubicles. As she passed Antwan Washington's room, she noticed that Tammy Washington sat alone by her son's side.

  She was always alone. Other than Virginia, no one seemed to talk to Antwan's mother. The nurses blamed Tammy for Antwan's illness. And Tammy certainly had done nothing to earn anyone's friendship. She hadn't even thanked Virginia for the work Scott Thayer had done on her behalf in bringing suit against Hart–all pro bono. In fact, Tammy seemed to be having second thoughts about suing Hart at all.

  The woman didn't seem to understand how to survive in this environment. Tammy was totally out of her element here. She just sat there, rocking with her comatose child, instead of fighting for him, gaining allies from among the staff or asserting her rights as a parent.

  Virginia shook her head. She'd done everything she could to help Tammy Washington, but Tammy seemed content to allow the doctors to have their way with her son.

  Virginia had more important things to worry about.

  She knew Charlie would be gone soon; she had come to accept that fact. And who knew how long Samantha would live?

  Children lived and children died–that was the reality of her life. Paul didn't understand, but what would he know, spending all day in that office of his? He didn't appreciate how hard she worked, how difficult her life was.

  Thank goodness for Dr. Sterling and his staff. They seemed to understand.

  Virginia completed her circuit around the PICU and ended back at the nurses' station. The desk clerk came over and smiled at her.

  "Mrs. Ulrich?"

  "Virginia, please." The girl looked barely old enough to be out of high school, Virginia thought. But she was good at keeping things organized and helped Virginia when she needed to reach Dr. Sterling or one of the other specialists to discuss Charlie's case.

  "There's a phone call for you on line two."

  "Thanks Marina." Virginia crossed behind the barrier and took a seat behind the desk at the doctor's dictation area. No one else was there–the doctors were hardly ever around, it seemed.

  "Hello?"

  "Virginia dear? This is your mother. How are you?"

  "I'm fine, Mom. Why are you calling me here? You know how busy I am whenever Charlie's sick."

  "I know, I'm sorry. I just wish I was well enough to come visit in person."

  "Did you want something, Mom?"

  "Oh yes. I just had the strangest phone call from your aunt."

  "Stella? Whatever did she want?"

  "That's what was so strange. She said she heard about Charlie being so sick. I didn't understand all of it, but it seems that some lady doctor from Three Rivers came by to visit Stella and was asking about you."

  Virginia clenched her teeth. It had to be Hart, no one else would have the audacity to be prying into her private affairs.

  "Stella seemed to think that you were in some sort of trouble," Mary Jurassic continued, oblivious to her daughter's distress. "Said the doctor talked with Sheila Kaminsky, too."

  Sheila–she thought that idiot was locked up in a psych unit for good. Nobody, not even Hart could consider her a reliable witness. Not after Sheila tried to poison George.

  "Virginia, you still there?"

  "Yes, Mom, I'm here. Don't worry, I'm not in any trouble. Aunt Stella's got it all mixed up, is all."

  "That's what I figured, dear. I just thought I'd better call and let you know."

  "Thanks, Mom. Bye." Virginia hung up the phone before her mother could begin to prattle on with one of her stories. She didn't have time to listen to them, she had a sick child to attend to.

  She drummed her fingers on the desk. Should she call Paul? This had to be a violation of the court order. No. She didn't want him to have to deal with Stella or the rest of her family.

  She'd take care of Cassandra Hart herself.

  CHAPTER 19

  The receptionist at the City Hall records office didn't need the scribbled note of release. She was happy to give Cassie a copy of Elisabeth Stainsby's autopsy report and death certificate–they were matters of public record, after all. All Cassie had to do was write a check to the city for twenty dollars and add an extra ten for copying fees.

  Finally Cassie carried her hard won stack of papers over to a wooden bench in the marble waiting area. It was almost three o'clock, and she hadn't eaten lunch yet, but she wanted to read them before she hit the road again. Rain coated the large window beside her in a sheet of grime. People were rushing in, shaking their umbrellas and filling the high-vaulted area with giddy laughter.

  She looked up from the dry details marking of the end of a child's life to see what was causing all the commotion. Then she realized the couples were lined up before the marriage office. A sign in front proclaimed that marriages were held between three and five every day except Monday and Friday. She watched as a man with trembling fingers dropped the corsage he was trying to pin to his bride-to-be's red satin dress. He bent down but not before a heavyset man stepped on the carnations, crushing them as he rushed over to traffic court.

  The man held the ruined flowers in his hand, staring at them in incomprehension, but the woman just laughed and hauled him back up onto his feet, linking her arm with his.

  Cassie smiled as the two of them crossed the marble lobby to the marrying judge. Her cell phone chirped, and she snared it from her jacket pocket.

  "It's me," Drake's voice sang over the line, widening her smile. "Have you already started dinner?"

  She blinked and looked at her watch again. She'd totally forgotten Drake was coming to dinner tonight. Thank God for take out. "No."

  "Good. Would you mind terribly if I brought a guest?" He went on without giving her a chance to answer. "I forgot, my mom's flying in this afternoon. I promised her she could meet you–it's okay, isn't it?" he finished in a rush.

  His mother? She made a small noise of panic and exasperation, but Verizon somehow mis-conveyed it as assent, because Drake began to thank her. "Great, I knew you wouldn't mind. We'll be there at seven. I've got to go."

  Cassie stared at her phone. All the fancy options it boasted, but she still couldn't crawl through it and throttle the person on the other end. If she could, it would be justifiable homicide. No jury with any women on it would ever co
nvict her.

  As it was, she had to be satisfied with a muttered curse as she thrust the evil device into her pocket. She turned her attention back to Elizabeth's autopsy findings.

  The Wheeling coroner had done a good job of documenting everything, even did a death scene visit. The bottle with the liquid codeine in it was Virginia's. She had gotten it refilled that week after a trip to the dentist. But it was almost empty when they searched the medicine cabinet.

  The amount of codeine they found in Elizabeth meant the baby must have been given almost the entire bottle. Even if Michael Stainsby accidentally used a tablespoon instead of a teaspoon, it wouldn't have been enough to generate such a high of blood level.

  But once again she had no proof–and Stainsby already admitted that any mistake was his.

  Where to go next with this? Cassie could gather all the circumstantial evidence and innuendos in the world, but it wouldn't fly in a court of law. She needed some solid, tangible evidence.

  She didn't care about the Executive Committee or her career anymore. She just wanted something that would force CYS to take Charlie into protective custody.

  Then she could sleep soundly, knowing he was safe.

  <><><>

  Cooking for Drake was bad enough, the man was practically a gourmet chef, but meeting his mother too? And the trip to Wheeling had her running late.

  Cassie opened her freezer door and eyed the contents. There, a package of frozen chicken breasts. She dumped it in the sink, running hot water over it. To hell with FDA rules for food safety, if they got salmonella, she'd apologize later.

  Maybe Drake was right, she should enter the twenty-first century, break down and buy a microwave. Truth was, she hated shopping for things like that, all those salespeople asking you what you wanted when you had no idea. Not to mention the noise the damn things made.

  What else? She rummaged through the rest of her foodstuffs. Olives, she had fresh basil growing on the windowsill, have to use canned tomatoes, sorry Rosa, and capers–where'd she put the capers?–there.

  Rosa's chicken and saffron rice. The only wine she had was a pinot grigio, shouldn't go too badly. Dessert? She wrinkled her nose, slowly turning around her kitchen, hoping for inspiration. Of course, Ed's wife had sent over some of her delicious Cuban pastries. Cassie smiled. This dinner was definitely taking on an international flavor.

  She fled up to the bathroom, eager to shower off the stench of Wheeling. Hopefully Mrs. Drake wasn't made violently ill by capers, didn't detest white wine and wasn't on a strict diet. Because about the only other thing Cassie would have to offer her would be the choice of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich made with the remnants of a moldy loaf of bread or Hennessy's cat food.

  Cassie rushed through her shower, then faced the question of what to wear. Again the decision was made easier from a lack of choices. She slid into a sleeveless sheath of peacock green silk. It had been the first nice thing she'd bought for herself after leaving Richard. She twisted from side to side in the mirror liking how the dark color shimmered.

  The nickel religious medallion Sheila Kaminsky had bestowed on her was the only flaw. She reached a hand to slip it over her head and was surprised by a surge of heat that seemed to radiate from the cheap medal.

  From the shower, idiot. She tugged it off. Still, unease flip-flopped her stomach as she tossed Sheila's charm onto the dresser.

  Through the open window she heard a car pull up across the street. Damn, they were early. Cassie slid bare feet into her black leather all-occasion flats and ran down the steps. Her hair was still damp, but there was nothing to do about it.

  Music–she should've put on music, she thought as she opened the front door. Oh well, she'd let Mrs. Drake chose. And the table still needed to be set. As soon as she got the chicken into the oven, she'd deal with that.

  She stepped out onto the porch, waving to Drake as he emerged from the driver's side of his Mustang. At least the rain had slowed to a drizzle. She danced down the steps and crossed the street, skirting the puddles in the pavement.

  Drake moved around to the passenger side of the car, opening the door for a slender woman with sleek dark hair and a graceful carriage. Cassie moved to join them, well aware of the lace curtains being drawn aside in Mrs. Ferraro's front window across the street.

  "Hello, Mrs. Drake. I'm Cassie Hart." She held out her hand, suddenly feeling uncertain of herself. What if Drake's mother hated her? After all, Cassie was responsible for her son getting shot.

  She was rewarded with a warm smile that lit up Mrs. Drake's dazzling blue eyes. "Muriel, please dear. Mrs. Drake was my mother in law." Muriel took Cassie's hand, then pulled her into a hug. "I'm so happy to meet you at last."

  Raindrops began to splatter them. "Come inside, dinner will be ready soon."

  Up the hill a car started its engine. They were half way across the street when Drake stopped.

  "Wait, I forgot something." He turned and ran back to the car, moving around to the curbside.

  She paused for a moment to watch as he ducked his body into the back seat of the car and emerged, holding a bright bouquet of roses and a bottle of wine. He raised them aloft in a gesture of victory.

  Muriel continued on, but stopped short of the curb. "Is everything okay?"

  Cassie laughed. Mrs. Drake had no reason to know how difficult it had been for her son to bring her roses. The last time he'd done that, he'd been greeted by a killer.

  "Fine, Mom. Go on inside," Drake called out, bundling the flowers under his suit coat as he started around the car once more.

  Cassie waited for him. A little rain didn't bother her, not when it brought her Drake and a nice, normal night together. A night blissfully free of murder, mayhem and madness.

  As she watched, Drake's smile faded and his gaze left hers to jerk up the street. "Look out!"

  She heard the car just as he called out. A black van, no headlights on, gunning its engine as it hurtled down the hill. She pivoted and sprinted for the curb. The van sped up, swerving toward her.

  Muriel stood directly in its path, her mouth open in surprise. Cassie leapt, tackling the older woman. They slammed into the hood of a parked Ford Taurus just as the van careened off the side of the Ford, propelling the two women into the air.

  Cassie heard the squeal of tires and Drake's voice yelling in a kaleidoscope of sound as she and Muriel hurtled across the hood of the Taurus, finally bouncing onto the sidewalk with a sickening thud.

  Muriel hit headfirst. Cassie threw her arms out, trying not to land on top of Muriel as she collided against the cement.

  She ignored her own pain, rolling over to check on Muriel. The older woman's gaze met Cassie's, her eyes filled with confusion.

  "So happy," she said, her words slurred. "You two. Remy–" Her mouth went slack.

  Drake was there, shouting into his cell phone. "That's right, Gettysburg Street. Medics and a patrol car. Now!" He put the phone down and knelt beside Muriel, taking her hand. "Mom, you're going to be all right–you hear me? The ambulance is on its way. You're going to be fine."

  Cassie moved to Muriel's head, immobilizing the woman's neck and swiftly checking her breathing. Mrs. Ferraro was the first neighbor out onto the street, but not the last. Soon there was a small crowd gathered around Muriel's still form.

  Blood from the left ear canal, Cassie noted. Probable basilar skull fracture. Breathing good, pulse steady–should be faster though. Pupils? Damn, the left was bigger than the right.

  She looked up, wiping the rain from her face, and met Drake's eyes.

  "She's going to be all right," he told her firmly.

  "We need to get her to Three Rivers."

  The ambulance siren drowned out the rest of her words. As the crowd parted, she spotted the vibrant color of crushed roses scattered across the black pavement.

  She looked down, unable to face Drake. So much for a nice, quiet evening in the Hart household.

  CHAPTER 20

  The paramedics k
new Cassie and were glad of her assistance. "Basilar skull fracture, left pupil blown," she told them, moving aside so that they could secure the cervical collar. "We need to scoop and run. I'll tube her en route."

  With practiced hands they slid Muriel onto the backboard and loaded her onto the gurney. Drake started to climb into the ambulance with them.

  "No," Cassie told him, echoing what the medics had already said. "Let me do my job. Trust me."

  The look in his eyes almost broke her resolve. Fierce and pleading at the same time.

  "She's in good hands," one of the medics told Drake as he closed the rear doors of the rig. "Doc Hart's the best."

  The door slammed shut, locking out Drake and his lost expression. Cassie shook her head, banishing all thoughts but those of her patient from her mind.

  "Seven-oh ET tube, suction. Do you have that IV started yet? Fluids at KVO, head injury protocol," she instructed the medics as she worked. "All right, tube's in. How're her vitals?"

  The trip to Three Rivers passed like a carnival ride complete with lurching twists and turns, accompanied by the scream of the siren and horn when recalcitrant drivers failed to yield and punctuated by a snarl of fear that stabbed and twisted into Cassie's gut.

  Every time she took her eyes off Muriel, her vision was filled with the sight of the black hulk of metal hurtling toward her with menacing intent.

  Someone had just tried to kill her.

  The ambulance lurched to a stop, and the rear doors opened once more. She jumped out and accompanied Muriel into the trauma room, her hands squeezing the bag that forced oxygen into her patient's lungs. Muriel was hers now and Cassie wasn't about to leave her in the hands of some green-horned resident.

  To her relief, it was Ed Castro waiting for them, gowned and ready for action in the trauma room.

  "Pedestrian versus van, hit her head on a sidewalk, probable skull fracture with blown pupil, improved now," she gave him the bullet.

  "Neurosurg is waiting up in CT," Ed told her as he finished his exam and concurred with her diagnosis. They'd cut Muriel's clothing from her, inserted nasogastric and foley catheters, started another IV line and shot X-rays of her spine, chest, abdomen and pelvis. "Let's get her upstairs," he commanded, and the nurses began to push the gurney from the trauma room now littered with debris.