Code Triage (18 page)

“Leigh?”

“Yes?” She opened her eyes, blinking as Caro turned the lights up. Nick let go of her hand. Antoinette was standing beside Harry’s chair, gesturing to her.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she explained, pointing at the oxygen tank. “But I have such trouble adjusting the flow on this thing. Could you help me?”

“Of course.” Leigh moved away from Nick, feeling a wave of relief.
Not regret.

“And I think,” Antoinette said as Leigh cranked open the tank’s valve and adjusted the flow to two liters, “that we’ll have to call it a night.” She tidied her husband’s sparse strands of hair. “We’re tuckered out.”

Leigh looked at Harry, at his off-kilter bow tie and the maroon lipstick print at the corner of his mouth. “Did you have a good time, Harry?”

“Sure did,” he said, raising his chin to gaze at his wife. “Always do. I’m a blessed man.”

Antoinette’s eyes shimmered with tears. “I love you, Harry.”

“And I’ll love you . . . forever and ever.”

Nick shifted beside Leigh. “Happy anniversary,” he said, stepping forward to kiss Antoinette’s bruised cheek. “And you too, sir,” he said, extending his hand to Harry. “Thank you for including us in your party.”

“Good party—always good.” His brows drew together. “Except I’ll have to speak to the manager. Those Tonga dancers aren’t what they used to be.”

Nick pitched in and they managed to get Harry and Antoinette back to their house, where Leigh encouraged him to take a small dose of the same sedative she’d given him earlier. In pill form, this time. Which probably moved her to the rank of good cop, she thought. Nick helped Harry out of his tuxedo and into bed and set the CD player on their dresser—the Frank Sinatra disc, with no risk of sporadic drumming frenzies. Leigh switched the oxygen over to a new tank.

When they walked back through the McNealys’ living room, Caro was putting sheets on the couch.

“I’m staying the night,” she explained as she tied her hair back with a band. “In case Antoinette needs any help.” She shook her head when Leigh tried to offer her own help. “You have to be at work early. I don’t.” She nodded at Nick. “You’re working too. I have your cell number on speed dial. I’ll call if we need you.”

“Okay.” Leigh sighed. “You’re pretty great, you know?”

Caro smirked, the single dimple appearing beside her mouth. “Not that great. I’m leaving you with the dishes.”

Nick laughed. “Not a problem. I’m here. And I wash dishes much better than I dance.”

Leigh stayed quiet for a moment, then glanced at him. “You’re hired.”

+++

Kurt watched Kristi from the darkness of his car, secure that even if she saw it parked down there in the moonlight, she wouldn’t recognize the car. The crystal meth he’d sold in Stockton had brought in more than he’d expected, and the MINI Cooper was part of the deal. He squinted up at the apartment window. She was still washing dishes. Scraping boxed macaroni and cheese off plastic dishes probably; she’d never been a decent cook. And Abby . . .

He ground his teeth together and swore, feeling the rage pound in his temples. His daughter was probably forgetting him already or hated him after hearing Kristi spit out a string of ugly lies. Calling him a low-life druggie, a loser, a crazy person.
Not fit to be a father.
The Child Crisis woman would be selling her that and more. And the church, too—that smug jerk he’d seen walking with Kristi. Was he planning to take Kurt’s place with his kids?

There wasn’t much time to set things right. His son would be discharged like Abby had been. The pneumonia was better; any damage from the exposure to the propane heater would be evaluated over a period of months. Kurt shook his head, thinking again how easy it was to pull on those scrubs and sneak around the hospital, hear things.

But the scrubs and the information were nothing unless he used them. Until he stepped up as a man and put an end to this completely unfair crock of . . . He reached over to the passenger seat of the MINI Cooper and rested his palm on the cool steel surface of the new semiautomatic pistol. Another bonus included in the deal along with the car. Two guns. Twice the power. Tomorrow he’d be unstoppable. When he claimed his family again.

Chapter Thirteen

“Here,” Nick offered as Leigh stood on tiptoe to hang the stainless-steel saucepan on the pot rack overhead. “I’ll do that.”

“No need.” She pushed her palm against the countertop, grunting softly as she boosted her reach. “I’m getting it.” The granite reflected her efforts in its shiny black surface as if mocking her stubbornness.

“Suit yourself.” He shook his head, then let his gaze skim over her. She’d changed from the black dress into a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled up, tucked into worn jeans. But she’d kept the pearls. Then pulled on thick rag socks that bunched above her short leather paddock boots, scuffed from countless hours at the barn. For some reason the combination—classic lady and haphazard stable hand—struck him as completely irresistible. Except that he had to resist.
She’s divorcing me.

“You know,” she said, turning toward him as the saucepan swung in place on the rack, “you still need to pack all your pans and knives.” Her gaze moved across the kitchen. “Except for my French coffee press and my grandmother’s china and maybe that dumb plastic hamburger press I bought from the infomercial, everything in this kitchen is really yours.”

Yours. Mine.
She couldn’t have sucker punched him worse if she’d hit him in the gut with that saucepan. Nick glanced away, rubbing a dish towel over a minuscule spot on the counter.

“You know?” she repeated.

“I know.”

He exhaled slowly and looked at her, wondering how she’d react if he admitted that packing up his kitchen things was going to be the hardest part of all. Moving his clothes, his toothbrush, his mother’s Bible, and even his sagging pillow—lifting it from its place beside hers—hadn’t been so bad. Sitting in the lawyer’s office, signing the sheaf of financial documents had seemed easy, numb, nothing. Pick up the pen, initial, flip the page, initial, next page, next page. Even when she’d yanked their photos from the magnets on the refrigerator, it had inflicted only a dull ache. But the thought of packing his kitchen things, taking them from this house, it felt . . . bad. Worse than bad. Like a wound from a hand-forged German carving knife. It made him remember all the times he’d stuffed his belongings into his backpack, made one last search to see if he’d left anything behind, before moving on to the next foster home.

“The coffee’s still hot,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t mention that the Moccamaster coffeemaker was his. And offer a packing box.

“Coffee?” Leigh tilted her head, looking at him as if he’d suggested more—that they have another dance, spread a picnic blanket on the steps of the Palace of Fine Arts . . . run off to Capri. Find each other again.

“Seems a shame to waste it.”

“Well . . .”

“It’s only coffee, Leigh,” he said, remembering her words earlier:
“It’s only a dance. . . . Don’t make more of it.”

She glanced away, fingers moving to her pearls.

He dropped the dish towel onto the counter. “Okay, then. I’ll—”

“Fine.” She met his gaze. “I’ll have some. But I need to make a quick call to the barn first. To check on Frisco.”

Some things would always be the same.

She stepped away to make her call and he heard her asking questions about the animal’s comfort, whether he’d eaten, was drinking, and if he’d produced any manure. Nick grimaced, opened the cupboard door, and reached for the mugs. He pushed aside the one with a handle fashioned like the hind end of a horse.

He poured the first cup, appreciating the rich aroma and wondering where they should drink it. Here in the kitchen? At the McNealys’ table? Maybe shove aside the pile of grass skirts and party props on the living room couch, or . . . He stopped. Why was he making such a big deal out of this? When had a cup of coffee become so important?

He glanced toward the darkened dining room, where—for the first time in his life—he’d sat in his own dining room, held his wife’s hand, and offered a blessing. First time, at their last supper. Last dance, last cup of coffee.
Last chance.
He took a slow breath and filled the other cup.

What did he have to lose?

He looked up as Leigh returned to the kitchen. “Grab a jacket. We’re having our coffee out on the porch.”

+++

Leigh sat on the paint-layered porch step beside Nick, watching as he tugged his tie loose and left it hanging half-mast over the open collar of his shirt. The moonlight lit his face and brushed his black hair with silvery-blue highlights. But it left his eyes in shadow, dark as the coffee. She was glad; she didn’t want to read what they held. He’d done her a favor by coming to help with Harry; the least she could do was sit here for a few minutes. Drink some coffee. And hope he didn’t remind her that it was the last time they’d do that. She watched the steam rise from her cup to blend with the cool air and listened to the muted sounds of evening traffic and distant foghorns.

“I appreciate your coming tonight,” she said. “I thought I could handle it with Harry, but . . .”

He smiled. “But you needed a ‘good cop.’”

“Yes.” Her chuckle died in her throat. “And you are. You are that, Nick.”

“Thank you.” He looked down at his coffee. “It was something to combine it all tonight. Arrive as a cop—end the evening cooking again.”

“Do you ever miss it?”

“Miss . . . ?”

“Cooking professionally—Niko’s.” She realized that she’d never asked him that before. Not directly. It had come up in their arguments, after she’d seen TV footage of police shoot-outs, explosions, slain officers; those times when, shaking inside, she’d remind him that people didn’t shoot chefs. And of course, she’d had to grit her teeth at her mother’s taunts that her doctor daughter had “fallen in love with a restaurateur and wound up married to an ordinary street cop.” But after the restaurant closed, she’d never asked Nick if he missed it.

“No. I don’t really miss the restaurant,” he answered. “I drive by it once in a while. It’s a Mexican bakery now and doing a decent business from what I can tell. The flower shop next door—you remember, Betty’s Blossoms—is a tattoo place.” He shook his head. “Maybe I should have stayed and offered tats and body piercing along with my lemon soup and baklava.”

Nick caught her gaze and his expression sobered. “I should have told you that taking the police science classes was about more than curiosity or my friendship with Toby.” He winced. “You should have known that I was thinking seriously about making the change. Before . . .”

Before I fell in love with you.
“It doesn’t matter now.”

“It does to me. I need you to know I wasn’t trying to be dishonest. I didn’t think the force would even accept me after all the trouble I got into as a kid. Figured I didn’t have a chance, but I kept at it anyway.”

“And then business started sliding downhill.”

He took a sip of his coffee. “I was relieved when Niko’s closed. I never told you that, but I was.” He shook his head. “I remember your mother telling everyone who’d listen that her son-in-law’s restaurant had hit the skids, so he was ‘settling’ for being a cop.”

She grimaced.

“Didn’t matter. Because I’d already figured out that cooking—the business of selling food—wasn’t what I was meant to do.” He smiled. “Do you know the best part about owning that restaurant?”

She didn’t. Her stomach sank at that truth. She’d never asked. “What? What was best?”

“After closing time. After thanking the councilman for coming, walking the
Chronicle
food critic to her car. When I put the Closed sign in the window, and . . .”

A lump rose in her throat. “Let the street people come in and eat.”

He nodded. “Being a cop is like that for me, every day. It’s what I do—who I am. I didn’t ‘settle,’ Leigh. I need you to understand that.”

“Okay.” The word came out in a whisper and she didn’t trust herself to say more. She sipped her coffee, glad Nick had stopped looking at her. Then she glanced toward the McNealys’, saw a shadow on the porch. “Caro,” she said, gesturing with her mug in that direction.

“She seemed better tonight,” he said, “happier, I guess.” He chuckled low in his throat. “I can’t believe I hauled those hedge clippings twice today. A jungle in our dining room.”

“The table needs to go back.”

He hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “I’ll do it. I’ll see when Buzz is free to help me.”

“Good. And tie up that chandelier.”

“Right.”

“Well . . .” Leigh glanced toward the McNealys’ porch. Caro was gone. “I do appreciate your helping us tonight. I’m sure you had other plans.”

“Nothing that couldn’t wait.”

“Anyway, thank you.” She glanced at her watch. “We both have to work in the morning.” She started to stand.

“Wait.” He grasped her wrist. “Don’t go. I need to say something.”

+++

“Stay, please.” Nick reluctantly released her arm. “Hear me out.”

Leigh pulled her hand into her lap and held it with the other, lowering her head for a moment. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was praying. He wondered if she still stubbornly refused to do that. She inhaled softly and lifted her chin. “If this is about us, there’s no point.”