No such luck. It was Lisa Dimeo, the Assistant DA handling Mary Eamon's case.
"Cancel any plans you have for tonight," the prosecutor started.
"Why?" The last thing Cassie needed was something else going wrong today. She let herself inside the Center, almost tripping on the tool belt she'd dropped when she rushed out this morning.
"Haven't you heard? Brickner has a new lawyer. He got all of our DNA evidence tossed. Been out on bail since yesterday."
"What happened?" Cassie asked, astounded the confessed child molester and murderer was out walking the streets.
"The body was left unattended in the OR for almost half an hour before the coroner arrived. That means no chain of custody."
Cassie felt an overwhelming urge to hit something. She couldn't bring herself to put a hole in the drywall she and Tammy so painstakingly hung, so she hit mute and shouted a string of obscenities into the empty room.
"It gets worse," Dimeo went on. "The defense filed a motion to exclude your testimon. If it's granted, we'll have to drop the case for lack of evidence."
"What's wrong with me testifying?"
"They're saying since you've testified as an expert witness before, you knew anything you learned in the course of a medical history could be used as evidence. They're saying that's the same as a coerced confession, that you manipulated Brickner and he had no benefit of counsel."
"So they're using my own expertise against me? That's insane. I can't help it if Brickner confessed to me."
"Mary's mother and grandmother will testify you orchestrated the interview hoping he would confess even though you knew it wouldn't do Mary any good. That you in fact acted as an investigator rather than a physician."
"How am I supposed to take care of a patient if I don't get a complete history?" Cassie argued.
"This has nothing to do with taking care of people. I have to give Judge Flory my response tomorrow morning. He'll review the motion over the weekend and there'll be a hearing on Monday. Without you, I don't have a case, and Brickner walks."
"So you need me Monday?" Cassie held out hope she could salvage at least part of the weekend. Drive up this afternoon, come back tomorrow in time to meet with Alan King for her deposition on Richard's malpractice case. She knew how important this weekend was to Drake, wanted to be there for him.
"You don't understand. We're going over your stuff tonight. I need to put it in my rebuttal and we have to prep your testimony for Monday."
"Tonight?" Cassie stared out the rear windows of the clinic, straining to catch any hint of a breeze. The air was so thick, the dust seemed permanently suspended, defying the laws of gravity.
"You have a problem with that?" the harried prosecutor snapped. "Just say so, and I'll stop wasting my time and drop the case. You want to let scum like Brickner walk the streets free, it's fine with me. I don't need this bullshit–"
Drake said Dimeo was a tight-ass, expecting perfection from those she worked with and no less from herself. Intense was the word he'd used.
Intense didn't quite cover it, Cassie thought as the prosecutor continued ranting. "Lisa, I'm there. What time?"
"Be here by seven. You might want to bring your PJ's," she said as if inviting Cassie to a slumber party.
Cassie sighed. There went any chance for a quiet weekend at the Lake. There was nothing she could do about it. Drake would just have to go by himself. Maybe he'd come back in a better mood.
"All right."
<><><>
Drake pulled into his parking lot feeling better than he had in days. They were going to make it out of this city. Hart would love Nellie's lake house, and he couldn't wait to teach her how to sail. He'd bet she was a natural. Hard to imagine anything Hart wouldn't be good at.
Spanos' van was gone. Good. But who belonged to the BMW parked near the back entrance? He noted the handicapped tag on the plate and frowned. Just what he didn't need, a visit from Hart's ex, Richard King. He squared his shoulders and climbed the steps to the handicapped accessible entrance.
He didn't give a shit why King was here. Probably something about his damn lawsuit. King was determined to make Hart's life just as miserable now as it had been when they were married.
Wasn't going to happen. Not today. He and Hart were out of here; they were going to the Lake. They were leaving now.
He found King sitting in his wheelchair at the elevator in the rear of the building. Despite the heat, King wore a stylish suit, but Drake noticed his shoes weren't so stylish, although probably expensive. Black leather high tops wide enough to accommodate the splints King wore on his ankles.
No sign of Hart or anyone else. Drake frowned, glanced around. Tools lay haphazardly on the floor, a bucket of mud with an open lid.
Weird. Hart was a bit of a slob when it came to her personal space, but a fanatic about her work at the clinic. She'd never leave tools around where Tammy's kid could get into them.
"Who the hell let you in?" he asked King, wondering if Hart's ex was the reason she hadn't gotten any work done today. If King had done something to upset her...
King spun his chair around and shot Drake a glare. "I came to check on Cassandra. Why weren't you with her? How could you let her go there?"
Drake stared down at the wheelchair-bound man. King lost a good part of his memory after his overdose but he'd never been irrational before. "What are you talking about?"
"You don't even know, do you?" King tilted his chair up then gave it a small bounce of exasperation. It was sleek, black, and looked built for racing. "What the hell good are you, Drake? You're a cop, goddamn it! If you can't keep her safe—"
"What happened?" Drake's patience snapped. "Is she okay? Where's Hart?"
"She was attacked by a bunch of gangbangers."
"Here? They attacked her here, in the clinic?" Nightmare images hammered at Drake's mind. She'd be all right. She had to be. Probably at Three Rivers. He turned to leave, but King stopped him.
"She's upstairs," King said. "At least I'm guessing—your land line's been busy and she's not answering her cell." He gestured to his wheelchair. "I just got here and was trying to figure out your elevator controls when you arrived."
Drake didn't bother to ask how King had access to his private phone number. He was more concerned that King knew what happened and he didn't.
"Tell me everything," he said, his words emerging in a taut staccato. "Now."
King gave him an elaborate shrug, obviously delighting in his superior knowledge. Drake had once entertained the idea that King could be his stalker, but there was no way a man in a wheelchair could have gotten the letters to the places they were delivered. Now he saw the spark of malice in the other man's eyes and his suspicion returned. Even a man in a wheelchair could hire a delivery boy.
"I wonder why Cassandra didn't call you herself," King said.
"What happened?" Drake practically spit the words out, his jaw clamped shut against his anger and fear. He was torn between waiting for King to explain the details and wanting to rush upstairs to Hart. But he knew Hart—she'd minimize everything. Better to learn whatever he could on his own.
"She went to the Stackhouse to deliver a baby. On her way out they were jumped by a bunch of gang members—"
"Ruby Avenue Rippers," Drake supplied automatically.
"Whoever. She wasn't hurt, but a kid with her got his arm fractured in two places. The baby's doing fine, in case you're interested."
Hart wasn't hurt. The magic words. "Thanks, you can go now."
"I have no intention of going anywhere," Richard sputtered, hands grabbing the wheels of his chair like he was ready to run Drake over.
"This is my building and you're leaving. Now." Drake held the door open. He could give King a push. If he got lucky, maybe the asshole would miss the handicapped ramp and go flying over the steps, all the way down the ravine and out of their lives forever.
Nah, he'd never be that lucky.
King glared at Drake for a long moment. "You know she'd be better off with me. Happier. Safer."
"What the hell are you talking about? Are you threatening me?"
King's expression hardened, his smug smile etched into his face. "Maybe I am. Think about this, Drake." He wheeled past Drake over the threshold. "I can give Cassandra everything you can't. If you care about her at all, you'll let her come back to me. Where she belongs."
"Go to hell, King." Drake banged the door shut, made sure it was locked, and bolted up to his apartment. He ran inside to find Hart, her clothes streaked with blood and grime, talking on the phone.
"Thanks for the update, Ed." She hung up and turned to him in surprise.
Drake stood inside the open door and stared at her. Her hair was plastered to her head with sweat, her shirt was ripped, scratches on her forearms.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she said. "Nothing a shower won't cure." To his surprise, her face lit up with a wide smile. "You should've seen me. I was worried maybe I'd gotten rusty, lost my edge, but it was great," she continued in a rush, her face flushed with excitement. "I felt like a real doctor again!"
He took her hands in his, scrutinizing her injuries more closely. All superficial. But that didn't ease the anger churning through his gut. At her for not calling him. At himself for not being there. King was right, it was Drake's job to protect her, but he seemed repeatedly doomed to failure.
Of course Drake couldn't keep Hart safe, a small voice whispered inside his head. After all, he was only ten feet away when Pamela pulled the gun and he couldn't save her.
"Want to explain why I had to hear about your," he paused, searching for words, "adventure from Richard King?"
She jerked her head up at his tone and he tried to take a breath, calm down. Instead he remembered King's words mocking him and his fury grew.
"Richard?" she asked. "Why were you talking to Richard? How did he know?"
"How the hell should I know? Seems like he has some kind of psychic hotline when it comes to you. Seems like everyone does except me. Why didn't you call me?" His voice was loud enough to bounce off the high ceiling, reverberating back at him as she pulled away.
"There wasn't a chance. I didn't have my cell." Of course not. She never carried the damn thing. Especially not when she needed it. One of these days he swore he was going to surgically implant a Bluetooth into her.
"You were at the hospital, weren't you?" He advanced on her and she backed up. Another step and they were inside his studio, the afternoon sun cascading through the windows, shimmering off the canvases positioned around the room, most of them revealing Hart's image. "They still have phones at Three Rivers, don't they?"
She planted her feet, hands fisted on her hips.
All the fear and anger and anxiety building in him all week crescendoed as he glared down at her.
She returned his stare measure for measure.
"I didn't call from Three Rivers because I'm not a doctor there anymore," she began, her voice low and calm. Too calm by far, he realized. He saw where she was heading and immediately regretted having pushed her there. "So I didn't ask to use a phone at the nurses' station. I could have used the phone in the visitor's lounge." Her voice faltered. He reached for her, tried to stop her, but she pulled away as if determined to get the words out. "But that would have meant..." Her words trailed off and she broke eye contact.
His anger still simmered but it wasn't powerful enough to blind him to her pain. Aw hell. This wasn't what he wanted. They were supposed to be on their way out of here. He moved forward, gathered her in his arms.
"You didn't want to admit you were a visitor, an outsider," he finished for her, his fingers stroking her hair, untangling the snarled mass of curls. He knew how much her job at Three Rivers meant to her—losing it was like losing a piece of herself. She loved the clinic and would be the best thing that ever happened to her new patients, but her heart still ached for the adrenalin rush of the ER.
"It's all right," he whispered, his face cradled against her head. "It won't be long. We'll have the clinic running and you'll be saving lives right and left."
Her arms tightened around him. What the hell was wrong with him? He was losing it, letting King get his goat like that. She'd only been trying to help someone in need. It wasn't her fault there was a gang war brewing in this neighborhood.
"Your patient, is she all right?"
She nodded, pulled back enough to tilt her face up to his. "Mother and beautiful baby girl did fine, thank you very much." A shadow crossed her face and he guessed there was more.
"King said some kid got hurt?"
"Tagger. Fell and broke his arm. He's all right. In a way it's for the best. He's going into foster care—at Ed Castro's."
Drake smiled at that. Ed's wife would soon straighten Tagger out. He was glad the kid wasn't seriously hurt. He liked his artwork. Would like it better if it wasn't on the side of his building, but the kid had style, a natural flare. Banksy meets Van Gogh.
Hart stepped back, her gaze skimming over him with appraisal. He felt a flush of shame as he remembered his momentary lapse of reason, flirting with Monica Burns earlier.
"You ready to talk yet?" she asked, hands on her hips.
Drake grimaced. He hadn't fooled Hart. Not at all.
"I'm sorry," he began. The thought of the photos he'd received this morning clamped his jaws shut before he could continue.
"Good start. Want to tell me what about?"
"I'll tell you after we get to the Lake," he hedged. Once he got her to safety, his head would be clear, he could think straight. Most importantly, she would be far away from his stalker.
"I can't go."
His chin jerked up at that. "You have to. We need to get out of here–"
"I can't. Not this weekend, at least. Maybe–"
He was reduced to begging. He didn't care. "No. Tonight. Now."
"It has to do with Pamela, doesn't it?" Her hands circled around his waist, snugging him against her body, sharing her warmth, her strength with him.