Читать книгу Truth Or Lies - Kylie Brant - Страница 7

Two months later

“Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Blood pressure is one-ten and dropping. His name is Jon LeFrenz.” The paramedics helped transfer the moaning patient from the ambulance cot to an emergency-room cart. They ran alongside as the Charity Hospital E.R. employees rolled it through East Hall to triage.

“Room four is open,” Dr. Shae O’Riley said to her colleagues. Then she addressed the closest paramedic. “How’re his sounds?”

“Lungs are clear. But we had trouble stopping the bleeding. That’s the third pressure dressing. We already gave him a unit of O negative. He’s lucid and responsive.”

Nodding, she said, “Okay, thanks.” She left the ambulance crew behind as the cart was rolled into the tiny trauma cubicle. The area was jammed with people and equipment. Drawing the curtain to separate the area into two separate compartments left barely enough room to move. “Okay, Jenna, type him and get a couple of units of blood ready.” The lab tech nodded, reached for the patient’s hand.

Shae looked up, saw the lines the ambulance crew had put in to replace fluids. Both IV bags were nearly empty. “Let’s get another couple of bags in him. How’s his blood pressure doing?”

The emergency room RN looked at the screen. “One hundred over sixty.”

Not dangerously low yet, but dropping. “Roll him to his side.” Shae leaned in and lifted the dressing used to staunch the bleeding on the abdomen. The bullet had torn through the flesh, leaving a relatively small entry. She looked up at Boyd DuBois, the emergency-room resident. “Is there an exit?”

He lifted the dressing on the man’s back and nodded. Shae moved around the cart and looked at the angry gaping hole, which was oozing sullenly. “Wessels and Lyndstrom still on duty in surgery?”

DuBois checked his watch. “I think so.”

Shae looked at the triage nurse next to her. “Could you give them another call, get someone down here for a consult?”

“I called as soon as we heard he was coming in.”

“But no one’s here yet, are they?”

The woman shrugged and headed to the phone on the wall. The consultation would be merely a formality. Virtually all gunshot wounds to the abdomen had to be explored.

Shae turned her attention back to stabilizing the patient. The paramedics had cut his blood-soaked T-shirt up the center, baring his chest. He was awake, his face sheened with sweat. No more than twenty, she guessed, although it was difficult to tell for sure with pain and shock twisting his surprisingly innocent features. Leaning down, she shone a flashlight into each eye, noting normal pupil reaction.

The patient turned his head from the light, raised his hand to knock the flashlight away. “Get that outta here.” The oxygen rebreather mask the paramedics had placed on him made his words difficult to make out, but his meaning was clear enough.

“You’re in Charity Hospital, Mr. LeFrenz, and we’re going to help you.” She put a stethoscope to his chest to check his sounds. “You will probably require surgery. Do you have any family you want us to call?”

“No,” he muttered, turning his head back toward her. His eyelids fluttered open and he stared fixedly at her. Then he reached up and dragged down the mask. “Must be alive. Ain’t no angels where I’m going.”

Shae pushed it back into place. “We’re stabilizing you now, and a surgeon will come to assess your condition.” As she spoke, she pressed lightly on the skin surrounding the wound, watching his face carefully for signs of increased pain. When he flinched and moaned loudly, she said to Boyd, “Slight swelling to the upper quadrant.” She probed the area a bit longer. The belly was hard, rigid, indicating possible internal bleeding. “Let’s do a DPL and see what’s going on in there.”

She stepped aside to allow the RN to prepare an area on the skin where they could insert the catheter. Moving back up to the patient’s head, she spoke evenly, pitching her voice above the man’s loud moaning. “Mr. LeFrenz, we’re going to do a test that will let us know the extent of the bleeding in your abdominal cavity. The discomfort will be minimal, but one of us will let you know what we’re doing every step of the way.”

“No! Just patch me up and let me go!” He’d pulled his mask down again to scream the words. Then he spewed a stream of obscenities as he rolled from side to side, grimacing in pain. Boyd made a grab at him, but not before one of his flailing arms had knocked Shae back a step.

With no more than a look she directed two of the staff to restrain the man. Preparing the plastic catheter, she performed the direct peritoneal lavage and withdrew the catheter, handing it to the RN. “Get that to the stat lab and have them do a cell count.” The woman nodded and exited. It was only then that Shae noticed the man leaning against the far wall.

Her first thought was that he was a family member. She immediately realized her mistake as second and third impressions followed on the heels of the first. She didn’t need the gold shield hanging around the man’s neck to identify his occupation. There was cop in his eyes, in the cold steady way he was regarding her.

“Detective Cade Tremaine,” he said by way of an introduction. “I need to talk to him. Is he lucid?”

“Pressure’s dropping, Doctor. Ninety-eight over sixty.”

Shae acknowledged the resident’s words with a quick nod, but never looked away from the detective. “He’s as lucid as anyone would be with a bullet in his belly. Did you put it there?” She wasn’t even certain where the note of censure had come from, but she heard it in her voice.

If it had any effect on him, it didn’t show in his expression. “Yes.” He brushed by her, took up a stance next to the patient. “Hello, Jonny.” The patient abruptly stopped struggling. Tremaine turned to look at Shae. “Does he need that mask on?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to assure him that the man did. To tell him in no uncertain terms to get out of her trauma room and wait as long as it took for his little talk. But that urge sprang from the personal side of her, not the professional. So instead, she stepped in next to him, took out her stethoscope and listened to the patient’s breathing. It was shallow, but still even. Without a word, she reached up and pulled the man’s mask down.

“Sorry it took so long.” Jenna appeared around the edge of the curtain, holding two units of blood. “The lab was pretty backed up.”

Shae looked up at the monitor again. The pressure was still dropping. “Use a power infuser to transfuse him.” The device would warm the blood and deliver it far more rapidly than an ordinary infuser.

“You gonna keep protecting him, Jonny? What the hell for? You don’t see him here asking after your health, do you?”

The conversation between the detective and her patient diverted Shae’s attention as she flushed the wound of particles of fabric and dirt. There was no doubt in her mind which of the pair was the more dangerous. Tremaine’s six-foot-plus frame seemed overly spare, his unshaven angled face just shy of gaunt, as if he’d recently been through his own trauma. But the aura of quiet menace that radiated from him effectively quelled any sympathy his appearance might have elicited.

“I got nothing to say to you. Angel Eyes, get him away from me.” LeFrenz grasped her fingers.

Shae gave Boyd a sharp glance and the resident restrained the man again. The monitor beeped and her gaze flicked to the screen, noting that the pressure was hovering at ninety-six.

Tremaine shoved his face closer to the patient’s. “All you need to do is give me a name. No one has to know where it came from. That kid’s death is on your hands, LeFrenz.”

“Not my hands,” LeFrenz wheezed. His face twisted in pain and he cried out at Shae’s ministrations. “His choice…to take it…all at once.”

“But you’re the one who sold it to him.” The detective’s voice was unforgiving. “If you cooperate, I can arrange for your protection, but otherwise you’re going down for this kid’s death. I’ll bury you.”

“Doctor, I’ve got the labs.”

It took a moment longer than it should have for the lab tech’s voice to register, for Shae to turn away from the human drama unfolding before her. As she was looking over the results, Dr. Lyndstrom hurried into the room.

She looked up at the surgeon, then pointedly at her watch. “Busy up there?”

“We’re starting to stack them up, so don’t give me any grief. It’d be best if your guy could wait an hour or two.”

“I don’t think so.” Deliberately Shae shifted her attention from the detective’s hard persistent voice, LeFrenz’s moans interspersing his belligerent replies. Handing the results to the surgeon, she gave him a rundown of the case, ending with, “His count is high. There’s rebound tenderness in the upper quadrant and his BP is dropping, despite two transfusions. His liver may be bleeding.”

The surgeon’s muttered curse was drowned out by the RN’s voice. “Blood pressure’s ninety.”

Shae leaped back to the patient’s bedside, elbowing the detective out of the way. DuBois and Lyndstrom joined her, and the cubicle became a flurry of emergency maneuvers to save the patient from flat lining.

“Let’s get him upstairs.” Lyndstrom and Shae helped Boyd shove the cart out of the room, the RN running alongside with the IV stands and infuser.

“Wait a minute. Where are you taking him?” The detective jogged after them to the elevator.

“Surgery.” Shae switched her attention to the intern, Sara Gonzalez. “Stay with him for the duration, okay?” The woman nodded.

“LeFrenz.” Frustration laced the detective’s voice. “Dammit, LeFrenz, do the right thing.”

The elevator doors opened and the surgeon and intern stepped in, pushing the cart. The patient had gone silent, pale, his limbs shaking with shock. Shae threw up an arm to prevent the detective from following the patient even as the doors began to close. And when the man rounded on her angrily, she met his gaze with a steady one of her own.

“He’s unconscious. You aren’t going to get anything more from him right now.” She watched the man tuck away his frustration and fury with a control that looked as dangerous as it was deliberate. And when he turned the intensity of his focus on her, it was all she could do not to take a step back.

She had enough experience dealing with cops to last her a lifetime, but she’d never met one like this. The gold shield he displayed didn’t in any way mask his lethal air. “Is he going to make it?”

“Since I don’t have my crystal ball handy, I really couldn’t say.” Shae turned to walk away, but she didn’t get more than a step before a hard grip on her elbow spun her back around.

“In your professional opinion, Dr.—” his gaze dropped to her name tag before recapturing hers again “—O’Riley, what are his chances?”

Boyd DuBois passed them, turning to quiz Shae with raised brows. Aware that her reaction to the detective hadn’t gone unnoticed, she forced a neutral tone. “I’m sorry.” And she was. There was little she despised more than allowing her private life to splash over into the professional. “It’s been pretty wild today with the crash on Interstate 10.” Most of the victims of the pileup had been transported here, straining both emergency-room personnel and surgery.

“I heard about that.” His gaze never left hers. His eyes were an unusual shade of dark jade, and every bit as unyielding. She imagined his penetrating stare was used to great advantage during interrogations.

The observation wasn’t a comfortable one. Shae began walking toward the front desk, and Tremaine fell into step beside her. “I really can’t predict what LeFrenz’s outcome will be. He lost a lot of blood and it’s a good bet there’s still bleeding going on inside. His chances for surviving surgery depend on the path of the bullet and the extent of the internal damage.”

“How long before he’s out of surgery?”

Again she shrugged. Reaching the front desk, she sneaked a glance at her watch. Seven o’clock. Technically she was due to go off shift, but there were still reports to be dictated and paperwork to sign off on. “It could be four hours or more. It’s hard to tell.”

He gave a short nod, started to turn away. “I’ll be back then.”

“You’ll be wasting your time.” Shae didn’t know what made her say it. She was more than ready to part ways with the enigmatic detective. But she couldn’t shake the impression that he’d recently been ill. He possessed a runner’s body, taut and lean, but his bordered on gaunt. “No use losing sleep. From surgery, LeFrenz will go directly to a PACU—post-anesthetic-recovery unit. In all likelihood you won’t be able to speak to him until tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t worry.” It was clear from his tone that he’d misinterpreted the cause of her concern. “I’ll leave my rubber hose at home.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about.” She made no effort to soften the bluntness of her words. “You look like one of the walking wounded. We can’t really spare an extra bed if you collapse during your all-night vigil.”

Oddly her tart remark brought an almost smile to his lips, a softened expression that was as arresting as it was fleeting. “Despite your underwhelming concern, I’ll be back in a few hours. Maybe I’ll see you then, Angel Eyes.” He sauntered away, leaving her to burn over his use of LeFrenz’s name for her.

Turning back to the desk, she snatched down the most recent patient’s chart, aware that DuBois was eyeing her.

“You know, that guy looks familiar.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a cop. They all look alike.”

Her attempt at humor fell flat. Boyd continued to stare in the direction of the double doors Tremaine had disappeared through. “No, I mean I think we worked on him not long ago.” The E.R. resident stared into space, as if searching his memory. “A month ago? No, more like two. Maybe it was when you were out on personal leave.”

She flipped over a page on the chart, continued to make notations as if uninterested. In actuality every nerve was on alert. It was far more comfortable to attend to the reason for Tremaine’s visit here two months ago than on the reason for her leave at the same time. “What’d he present with?”

DuBois had already given up trying to remember. He took down another chart and began to read through it. “I don’t recall. I wasn’t primary. Aren’t you supposed to be going off duty?”

“Pretty soon,” she answered vaguely. But it was another two hours before she’d finished with the charting and dictation. And even then she couldn’t force herself to head for the parking lot. Instead, she sat down in front of a computer, typing in a name.

Cade Tremaine.

The file unfolded slowly on the screen, and Shae leaned closer, scrolling down as she scanned it quickly before she stopped, paused to read more carefully. Minutes later she logged off, more shaken than she cared to admit.

She didn’t know many men who took three bullets to the chest in the line of duty, only to be back on the job two short months later. He’d been dangerously close to death by the time he’d arrived at the hospital, and his recovery must have depended on equal parts luck, science and sheer force of will. Even from the limited time she’d spent with the detective, his tenacity was apparent. She could only assume he’d browbeaten his physician into granting him a release without giving many details of the danger of the job he was returning to. From what she’d witnessed today, it didn’t appear as though he’d allowed his condition to slow him down much.

It shouldn’t matter. As she made her way to the parking lot, she tried, and failed, to convince herself of that. In all likelihood she’d never see the detective again, and a flicker of relief accompanied the thought. What kind of person, after all, exhibited that kind of dedication to his job? A very determined man. Or a very driven one.

Either way, he seemed like an excellent man to avoid.

At dusk St. Jude’s had emptied of the usual tourist tours. In New Orleans cemeteries were notoriously unsafe at night. Row after row of white monuments provided endless hiding places for thieves and muggers waiting to pounce on the unwary. Only foolish or dangerous souls would take a chance and be caught there alone. The woman standing before the narrow gleaming tomb didn’t fit either description.

Cade reached her, placed his hands on her shoulders. “Carla.” She didn’t turn; she must have heard his approach. She covered one of his hands with both of hers.

“We just got the marker up.”

“I saw that. It looks good.” Silently they both stared at the shiny gold plaque.

Brian Hollister, beloved husband of Carla, father of Benjamin and Richard. Died too young in the line of duty.

“He was a good cop, wasn’t he, Cade?”

“The best.” There was no doubt in his voice, none in his mind. He’d partnered with Brian since he’d made detective four years ago, was godfather to both his children. He’d spent as much time at the Hollister home as he did at his own apartment. And not a day had passed in the past two months that he didn’t feel guilty for being alive while his friend lay lifeless in the family vault.

“I can’t tell you what it means to hear you say that.” Carla turned to face him, and he saw the toll the recent weeks had taken on her. Always delicate, the Creole beauty looked as though a good wind would tumble her over. There was no sign of her familiar teasing smile, but the haunted look in her dark eyes struck a chord. He saw the same in his own each time he looked in the mirror.

“Have they gotten to you yet, Cade?”

He frowned, not understanding her meaning. “Has who gotten to me?”

“Internal Affairs.” The venomous tone sounded foreign to her usually soft voice. “They’ve been to the house at least three times, most recently yesterday. At first they danced around things, saying how sorry they were about Brian. Then they started asking questions. Had he said where he was going that night, what he was going to be doing? Yesterday they asked if they could go through his things.”

Her words seemed to come from a distance. Internal Affairs? Cade tried, and failed, to imagine a positive reason for them to be looking into the shooting. The whole event, as much as he remembered of it, had been laid out in the report he’d dictated to the investigating officers. Then her last sentence registered, and her revelation started to take on an even more ominous light. “What did they want to look through?”

“Brian’s case files. They asked whether he kept notes on any ongoing investigations and I said no. You know Brian left work at work.”

“What are they looking for?”

She gave a harsh laugh. “Irregularities is the word they used. Like he was a damn accountant or something. When I press for more information, they clam up. But every time they come around, they get pushier, and one of them threatened to get a search warrant.”

Although trepidation was circling in his gut, he made an automatic effort to soothe. “Don’t worry about it, Carla. It’s just I.A. on another wild-goose chase.”

She clutched his arm, her fingers biting. “I was a policeman’s wife for eight years. I know what I.A.’s all about. Cops hunting other cops. They think Brian was dirty. They’re investigating him.”

Looking into her liquid dark eyes, he couldn’t find it in himself to lie to her. “What are their names?”

“Torley and Morrison. Do you know either of them?”

He shook his head. But then, he wasn’t especially well-acquainted with anyone from I.A. Because of their occupation, the cops he knew had a healthy disdain for that department. Ferreting out corruption in the ranks was a noble enough calling, he supposed, but good cops had a way of getting dragged into their investigations, too. And the taint of an I.A. investigation had stalled more than one police officer’s career.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his wallet. It took a moment searching the contents before he found what he was looking for. He took out a card and handed it to her. “I want you to get in touch with someone at this number.” She took the card and looked at it. “It’s the policemen’s-rights committee. Tell them what’s been going on and then follow whatever advice they give you.”

Her jaw set in an expression that was all too familiar. “I can’t call them, Cade. It’d be like admitting there was substance behind I.A.’s interest.”

“It’s an admission that you need help,” he retorted, “and with I.A. sniffing around, for whatever reason, you do. Call them. I’m going to check in tomorrow to make sure you did. Got it?” He waited until she gave him a reluctant nod. “Good.” Gathering her close, he patted her back reassuringly. “Don’t worry. It’ll all turn out to be nothing.”

“You won’t let them smear his memory, will you?” For the first time her control seemed to waver. He could feel the tremors working through her body. “He was a decent cop. You said so yourself. I don’t want my babies growing up thinking otherwise.”

The thought of his two dark-eyed godsons had his chest going tight. At three and two, neither of them would recall their father. There would be no memories of ball games and barbecues, or fishing in the bayou. All they’d have, all there was, were pictures and newspaper clippings. And the stories their mother would tell them about their father’s bravery. Living up to a hero’s legacy could keep the boys on the right track all their lives. And living with a shadow over their name could send them hurtling down the wrong path.

“No.” The word was torn from him without his conscious permission as he hugged his dead partner’s widow closer. “I won’t let them smear Brian.”