Witness in Death

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Eve burst through the emergency room doors in the wake of the gurney and fast-talking MTs. The words were like slaps, hard and ringing. Under the barrage of them she heard something about spinal injuries, internal bleeding.

When they hit the doors of an examining room, an enormous nurse, her skin a gleaming ebony against the pale blue of her tunic, blocked Eve's path.

"Step aside, sister. That's my man down in there."

"No, you step aside, sister." The nurse laid a boulder-sized hand on Eve's shoulder. "Medical personnel only beyond this point. You've got some pretty good facial lacerations there. Take Exam Four. Someone will be along to clean you up."

"I can clean myself up. That boy in there belongs to me. I'm his lieutenant."

"Well, Lieutenant, you're just going to have to let the doctors do what they do." She pulled out a memo board. "You want to help, give me his personal data."

Eve elbowed the nurse aside, moved to the observation glass, but didn't attempt to push through again. God, she hated hospitals. Hated them. All she could see was a flurry of movement, green scrubs for the doctors, blue for the nursing staff.

And Trueheart unconscious on the table under harsh lights while they worked on him.

"Lieutenant." The nurse's voice softened. "Let's help each other out here. We both want the same thing. Give me what you can on the patient."

"Trueheart. Christ, what's his first name. Peabody?"

"Troy," Peabody said from behind her. "It's Troy. He's twenty-two."

Eve simply laid her brow against the glass, shut her eyes and relayed the cause of injuries.

"We'll take care of him," the nurse told her. "Now get yourself into Four." She swung through the doors, became part of the blue and green wall.

"Peabody, find his family. Have a couple of counselors contact them."

"Yes, sir. Feeney and McNab are monitoring Stiles. He's in the next room."

More gurneys were streaming in. The injured at Grand Central were going to keep the ER busy for the rest of the night with cuts, bruises, and broken bones. "I'll inform the commander of the current status." She stepped back from the glass so that she could give her report without wavering.

When she was done, she took her position by the doors and called home.

"Roarke."

"You're bleeding."

"I – I'm at the hospital."

"Where? Which one?"

"Roosevelt. Listen – "

"I'm on my way."

"No, wait. I'm okay. I've got a man down. A boy," she said and nearly broke. "He's a goddamn boy. They're working on him. I need to stay until… I need to stay."

"I'm on my way," he said again.

She started to protest, then simply nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."

The nurse pushed back through the doors, sent Eve one smoking look. "Why aren't you in Room Four?"

"What's Trueheart's condition?"

"They're stabilizing him. He'll be heading up to surgery shortly. Op-Six. I'll get you to a waiting area after you're treated."

"I want a full report on his condition."

"You want it, you'll get it. After you're treated."

The waiting was the worst. It gave her too much time to think, to replay, to second-guess. To spot every small misstep.

She couldn't sit. She paced, drank vile coffee, and stared out the window at the wall of the next wing.

"He's young. Healthy," Peabody said because she could no longer stand saying nothing. "That weighs on his side."

"I should've sent him home. I should've relieved him. I had no business taking a rookie on this kind of operation."

"You wanted to give him a break."

"A break?" She spun around, and her eyes were fierce, brilliant with emotion. "I put his life on the line, into a situation he wasn't prepared for. He went down. I'm responsible for that."

"The hell you are." Peabody's chin lifted mutinously. "He's a cop. When you put on the uniform, you take on the risk. He's on the job, and that means facing the potential of taking a hit in the line of duty every day. If I'd taken the left instead of the right, I'd have done exactly what Trueheart did, and I'd be in surgery. And it would seriously piss me off to know you're standing out here taking away from actions I took to do my job."

"Peabody – " Eve broke off, shook her head, and walked back to the overburdened coffee machine.

"Well done." Roarke moved over, rubbed a hand on Peabody's shoulder. "You're a jewel, Peabody."

"It wasn't her fault. I can't stand seeing her take it on."

"If she didn't, she wouldn't be who she is."

"Yeah, I guess. I'm going to see if I can tag McNab and get an update on Stiles's condition. Maybe you can talk her into taking a walk, getting some air."

"I'll see what I can do."

He crossed to Eve. "You keep drinking that coffee, you'll have holes in your stomach lining I could put my fist through. You're tired, Lieutenant. Sit down."

"I can't." She turned, saw the room was momentarily empty. Let herself crumple. "Oh God," she murmured with her face pressed to his shoulder. "He got this stupid grin on his face when I told him I was pulling him with me. I thought I had him covered, then everything went wrong. People trampling people, screaming. I couldn't get through fast enough. I didn't get to him in time."

He knew her well enough to say nothing, just to hold on until she steadied herself. "I need to know something. You've got strings here," she said, easing back. "Pull a few, would you, and find out what's happening in surgery?"

"All right." He took the recycled cup out of her hand, set it aside. "Sit down for a few minutes. I'll go pull those strings."

She tried to sit, managed to for nearly a full minute before she was up and after the coffee again. As she drew another cup, a woman stepped into the room.

She was tall, slim, and had Trueheart's guileless eyes. "Excuse me." She looked around the room, back at Eve. "I'm looking for a Lieutenant Dallas."

"I'm Dallas."

"Oh yes, I should have known. Troy's told me so much about you. I'm Pauline Trueheart, Troy's mother."

Eve expected panic, grief, anger, demands, and instead stared blankly as Pauline walked to her, held out a hand. "Ms. Trueheart, I very much regret that your son was injured in the line of duty. I'd like you to know that he performed that duty in an exemplary fashion."

"He'd be so pleased to hear you say so. He admires you a great deal. In fact, I hope it won't embarrass you, but I think Troy has a little crush on you."

Instead of drinking the coffee, Eve set it down. "Ms. Trueheart, your son was under my hand when he was injured."

"Yes, I know. The counselors explained what happened. I've already spoken with the patient liaison. They're doing everything they can to help him. He'll be fine."

She smiled, and still holding Eve's hand, drew her toward the seats. "In my heart I'd know if it was otherwise. He's all I have, you see."

Eve sat on the table, facing Pauline as the woman lowered into a chair. "He's young and strong."

"Oh yes, and a fighter. He's wanted to be a policeman as long as I can remember. It means so much to him, that uniform. He's a wonderful young man, Lieutenant, has never been anything but a joy to me." She glanced toward the doorway. "I hate thinking about him in pain."

"Ms. Trueheart…" Eve fumbled, tried again. "I don't believe he was in pain. At least, he was unconscious when I reached him."

"That's good, that helps. Thank you."

"How can you thank me? I put him in this position."

"Of course you didn't." She took Eve's hand again. "You must be an excellent commanding officer, to care so much. My son wants to serve. Serve and protect, isn't that right?"

"Yes."

"I worry. It's very difficult for those of us who love the ones who serve and protect. But I believe in Troy. Absolutely. I'm sure your mother would say the same about you."

Eve jerked back, bore down on the ache that centered in her gut. "I don't have a mother."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Well." She touched Eve's wedding ring. "Someone who loves you, then. He believes in you."

"Yeah." Eve looked over, met Roarke's eyes as he came in. "I guess he does."

"Ms. Trueheart." Roarke crossed to her. "I've just been informed that your son will be out of surgery shortly."

Eve felt the quick, light tremble of Pauline's fingers. "Are you a doctor?"

"No. I'm Lieutenant Dallas's husband."

"Oh. Did they tell you how – what Troy's condition is?"

"He's stabilized. They're very hopeful. One of the surgical team will speak with you in a little while."

"Thank you. They said there was a chapel on this floor. I think I'll sit there until they're ready for me. You look so tired, Lieutenant. Troy wouldn't mind if you went home and got some rest."

When she was alone with Roarke again, Eve simply braced her elbows on her thighs and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. "Tell me what you didn't tell her. Give it to me straight."

"The spinal injury is giving them some concern."

"Is he paralyzed?"

"They're hopeful it's temporary, due to swelling. If it proves to be more serious, there are treatments with high success rates."

"He needs to be a cop. Can you get a specialist?"

"I've taken care of it."

She stayed in the same position, rocked a little. "I owe you."

"Don't insult me, Eve."

"Did you see his mother? See how she was? How can anyone be that strong, that brave?"

Roarke cuffed her wrists, drew her hands down. "Look in the mirror."

She shook her head. "It's love with her. She'll will him to be safe and whole and happy because she loves him. I think she'll pull it off, too."

"Mother love is a fierce and powerful force."

Steadier, she rolled her aching shoulders. "Do you ever think of yours? Your mother?"

He didn't answer immediately, and the hesitation had her frowning at him. "I was going to say no," he explained. "But that was knee-jerk. Yes, I suppose I do, occasionally. I wonder now and then what became of her."

"And why she left you?"

"I know why she left me." The steel was back in his voice, in his eyes. Cold steel. "I held no particular interest for her."

"I don't know why mine left me. That's the worst of it, I think. The not knowing why. The not remembering." She hissed out a breath, annoyed with herself. "And that's useless speculation.

"I guess I've got mothers on the brain. I need to talk to Carly about hers."

She got to her feet, shoved back the fatigue. "I want to check on Stiles's condition, interview him if he's conscious. I'm going to have to go into Central, file my report. I have a meet with the commander first thing in the morning."

He rose as well. Her face was pale, her eyes bruised. The nicks and scratches on her face stood out like badges of honor. "You need to sleep."

"I'll catch some at Central. Anyway, as things stand, it should be wrapped up in a few hours. I'll take some personal time when it is."

"When it is, let's take a few days. You could use some sun."

"I'll think about it." Because they were alone, she leaned forward to kiss him.

At oh seven ten, Eve stood in Whitney's office. He had her written report on disc and hard copy, was listening to her oral follow-up.

"The doctor over Stiles estimates midday before he can be questioned. At this point, he's sedated. His condition is stable. Officer Trueheart remains in serious condition. His lower extremities are not yet responding to stimuli, and he has not, at this point, regained full consciousness. I would like to recommend Officer Trueheart for a citation for his conduct. His quick actions and disregard for personal safety were directly responsible for the apprehension of the suspect. The injuries sustained by him during the operation were not due to any negligence on his part but on mine."

"So you state in your written report. I disagree with your analysis."

"Sir, Officer Trueheart displayed courage and clear thinking under difficult and dangerous circumstances."

"I don't doubt that, Lieutenant." He leaned back. "You're admirably controlled in both your written and oral reports. Are you considering discussing the problems with the operation personally with Captain Stuart? Because if you are, I will have to issue a direct order that you make no contact with Captain Stuart. She is, at this moment, being reprimanded by her superiors. You don't think that's enough?" he asked after a moment of thrumming silence.

"It's not for me to say."

"Admirably controlled," he repeated. "She fucked it up. Through her disregard for your authority, your orders, the chain of command, and all reasonable common sense, she botched the entire situation, is responsible for dozens of civilian injuries, thousands in property damage, offered the suspect the opportunity to flee, and put one of my men in the hospital."

He leaned forward, spoke through his teeth. "Do you think I am not pissed?"

"You are admirably controlled, sir."

He let out a short blast of sound that might have been a laugh. "Did you advise Captain Stuart that you were in command, that you were on the scene, and had said scene under control, that all weapons were to be set to low stun and there was to be no discharging of same without extreme circumstance?"

"Yes, sir, I did."

"Captain Stuart will be dealt with, I promise you. She'll be lucky to work System Control when the internal investigation is complete. Be satisfied with that."

"Trueheart's twenty-two years old." And it weighed on her, like a stone on the heart.

"I'm aware of that. I'm aware of how it feels to have a man go down under your hand. Suck it in, Lieutenant, and do the job. Sit down."

When she obeyed, he set her written report aside. "When's the last time you got any sleep?"

"I'm all right."

"When we're done here, you'll take two hours. That's an order. Anja Carvell," he began. "Do you consider her an essential element in this case?"

"She's a loose thread. Any thread that isn't knotted off is an essential element."

"And her alleged relationships to Kenneth Stiles and Richard Draco?"

"The number of connections crossed in this case result in too many triangles to be ignored. It appears that Stiles arranged for Draco's murder, and as a result, Linus Quim's. However, there are a number of others with motive and opportunity. It isn't absolute that Stiles acted, more, that he acted alone. Before I moved on him, I was on the point of requesting a warrant to break the seal on Carly Landsdowne's adoption."

"Take your two hours, then try Judge Levinsky. Most judges are reluctant to open seals on private adoptions. He may be your best bet, particularly if you catch him after he's had breakfast."

She intended to follow orders. Finding a flat surface and sprawling over it would help clear her mind.

She closed the door to her office, locked it, then simply stretched out on the floor. Before she could close her eyes, her palm 'link beeped.

"Yeah, what?"

"Good morning, Lieutenant."

"No nagging," she muttered and pillowed her cheek on her hand. "I'm lying down right now."

"Good." Roarke studied her face. "Though you'd be better off in a bed than on your office floor."

"Do you know everything?"

"I know you. Which is why I decided to contact you. I neglected to pass on some information last night. The name of the birth mother in Carly Landsdowne's file."

"What're you talking about? I told you to leave that alone."

"I disobeyed. I'll look forward to you punishing me later. It's listed as Anja Carvell. She gave birth at a private woman's clinic in Switzerland. The adoption was preset and legal. She was given the mandatory twenty-four-hour period to withdraw her decision, stuck with it, and signed the final papers. She listed the father as Richard Draco, and included, per law, a sworn document that he had been informed of the pregnancy, her decision to complete it, and the adoption. The document was verified by voluntary truth testing."

"Was he notified of the live birth?"

"Yes. The file's complete, and as efficient as one expects from the Swiss. He was aware he had a child, a daughter. Mandatory DNA testing verified he was the father. He made no objections to the adoption."

She shifted to her back, let the information slide into her brain. "The adoptive parents are entitled to all this information except for the names. They're given medical histories of the birth parents, their cultural and ethnic backgrounds, intellectual, artistic, technical skills. All that can paint a pretty clear picture. The adoptee is also entitled to all this data upon request, including the legal names of the birth parents."

"I didn't find any request for that data from the adoptee," Roarke told her.

"There are ways around it. Carly could have known. She could have put it together and suspected Draco was her father. There's physical resemblance if you know to look for it. How much did she know?"

"You'll find out. Get some sleep."

"Right. Remind me to slap you around later for electronic trespass."

"I'm excited already."

She drifted off, thinking of fathers and daughters, of deceit and murder.

And woke with the old nightmare screaming in her throat, her skin bathed with the sweat of it and a violent pounding in her head.

She rolled over, pushed up to her hands and knees to struggle against the nausea. It took her several trembling seconds to realize not all the pounding was in her head. Some of it was at her door.

"Yeah. Hold on. Damn it." She rocked back to her heels, forced herself to breathe. She pushed to her feet, braced a hand on the desk until her legs were steady again.

After flipping the locks, she yanked open the door. "What?"

"You didn't answer the 'link," Peabody said in a rush. Her face was still flushed from the morning chill. "I was – are you all right? You look – " Haunted, she thought, but followed instinct and amended the word. "Out of it."

"I was sleeping."

"Oh, sorry." Peabody unbuttoned her coat. In her latest attempt to lose weight, she'd taken to getting off the subway five blocks from Central. Winter had decided to come back for another kick that morning. "I just got in, and ran into the commander on his way out. He's heading to the hospital."

"Trueheart?" She gripped Peabody's arm. "Did we lose him?"

"No. He's conscious. The commander said he surfaced about twenty minutes ago, and here's the best part, he's responding to stimuli. There's no paralysis, and they've upgraded him to guarded condition."

"Okay." The relief shuddered through her on bat wings. "Okay, good. We'll stop by and see him when we go in to interview Stiles."

"The squad's chipping in for a flower arrangement. Everybody likes Trueheart."

"All right, put me down." She sat behind her desk. "Get me some coffee, will you? I'm punchy."

"You didn't go home at all, did you? You said when you sent me off that you were going home."

"I lied. Coffee. I've got some information from an anonymous source. We're going over to re-interview Carly Landsdowne."

Peabody sniffed and stalked over to the AutoChef. "I guess your aide's not supposed to ask the name of the source?"

"My aide's supposed to get me coffee before I bite her throat."

"I'm getting it," Peabody muttered. "Why Carly, at this stage of the investigation?"

"I've just verified Richard Draco was her father."

"But they were…" A dozen emotions flew across Peabody's face. "Oh, yuck."

"In words of one syllable." Eve grabbed the coffee. "I want a formal request put in to Judge Levinsky to break adoption seal. We have to make it official. Meanwhile – " She broke off when her desk 'link signaled an incoming.

"Homicide. Dallas."

"Lieutenant Eve Dallas?"

Eve studied the woman. "That's right."

"Lieutenant Dallas, my name is Anja Carvell. I'd like to speak with you on a very important matter, as soon as possible."

"I've been looking for you, Ms. Carvell."

"I thought you might be. Would it be possible for you to meet me at my hotel? I'm staying at The Palace."

"Popular spot. I'll be there. Twenty minutes."

"Thank you. I think I can help you clear up a number of matters."

"Jeez." Peabody snagged her own coffee when Eve broke transmission. "We look for her all over hell and back, and here she just drops into our laps."

"Yeah, nice coincidence." Eve shoved away from the desk. "I don't like coincidence."

TO BE OPENED IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH

Yes, that had a nice ring, a dramatic touch. One never wants to lose one's sense of style, even under pressure. Particularly under pressure. The pills are where they can be easily reached, should they be needed. A last resort, of course, but they'll be quick. They 'll be gentle.

"Do not go gentle into that good night." Well, what the hell did he know? If it comes down to death or prison, death is preferable.

Life is a series of choices. One twists into the next, and the path shifts. It never really rides straight, unless there are no joys, no sorrows. I would always prefer the road that wanders. I made my choices, for better or worse, they were mine to make. I take full responsibility for the results of those choices.

Even Richard Draco. No, especially Richard Draco. His life was not a series of choices, but a compilation of cruel acts, small and large. Everyone he touched was damaged somehow. His death does not weigh on my conscience. What he did, knowingly, deliberately, viciously, deserved extermination.

I only wish there had been pain, great waves of pain, huge sweeps of knowledge, of fear, of grief in that instant before the knife pierced his heart.

But in planning his execution, I had self-preservation in mind as well. I suppose I still do.

Should I be given the opportunity to do it over again, I would change nothing. I will not feign remorse for disposing of a leech.

I have some regret for luring Linus Quim to his death. It was necessary, and God knows he was an ugly, cold-hearted little man. My choice could have been to pay him off, but blackmail is a kind of disease, isn't it? Once the body is infected by it, it spreads and returns at inopportune moments. Why risk it?

Still, it brought me no pleasure to arrange his death. In fact, it was necessary to sedate my nerves and anxiety. I made certain he felt no pain, no fear, but died with the illusion of pleasure.

But that, I suppose, doesn't negate the act of ending yet another life.

I thought I was so clever, staging Richard's murder in front of so many, knowing that all those surrounding him had reason to wish him harm. There was such a whippy thrill at the idea of having the knife Christine Vole would plunge into the black, miserable heart of Leonard Vole be a real one. It was so beautifully apt.

I regret and apologize for causing my friends and associates any distress, putting them, even for the short term, under any suspicion. Foolish of me, foolish to have believed it would never go this far.

No one, I told myself, cared about Richard. His death would be mourned by no one who knew him except with crocodile tears turned to glimmer on pale cheeks for the audience.

But I miscalculated. Lieutenant Dallas cares. Oh, not about Richard perhaps. She has certainly unearthed enough truth about him by this time to stir her disgust. But she cares about the law. I believe it's her religion, this standing for the murdered dead.

I realized that very soon after looking into her eyes. After all, I've spent my life studying people, measuring them, mimicking them.

In the end, I've done what I set out to do, what I believe with all my heart and soul I had to do. I have, ruthlessly perhaps, righted incalculable wrongs.

Isn't that justice?