Truth Or Lies. Kylie Brant

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