The Next Widow: A gripping crime thriller with unputdownable suspense (Jericho and Wright Thrillers Book 1)

by CJ Lyons

  Next he tracked down the trauma surgeon Maggie had mentioned from Leah’s case last night. He was curious about his take, not only on Leah’s medical skills, but her decision making. Anything to gain more insight into the widow.

  “Leah Wright?” Andre Toussaint scoffed. “Thinks she can save the world when really she’s just wasting time and resources.”

  Luka had caught up with the man between surgeries while he and his team were making their rounds. Despite the fact that Toussaint was considerably shorter than Luka—and considerably older—he could barely keep up with the surgeon as he swept from one doorway to the next while his white-coated team danced after him, presenting him with patient updates or cleaning up dressings and surgical paraphernalia left in his wake.

  “And the kid from last night?” The nurses in the ICU had told him that despite her own trauma, Leah had still found time to call and check on her patient this morning.

  “She got his heart beating again, yes,” Toussaint admitted grudgingly. “But I wouldn’t call that saving anyone’s life. Kid was down too damned long, his brain would’ve been mush. Of course, now I’m the one the family blames for his death. Leah gave them false hope, let them expect miracles. Too bad, really. The kid would’ve made a damned fine organ donor, could have saved lives.”

  Luka blinked at the surgeon’s detached assessment. Toussaint noticed. “You think I’m heartless. I grew up in the South Bronx, did most of my training there. I’ve been doing this for going on thirty-seven years. So, no, Detective Jericho, I’m no longer young and idealistic like Dr. Wright. I’m a realist and I’m not afraid of the hard choices—not like she is. That’s what I was trying to explain to her last night. I was trying to help her learn from my own early mistakes. Sooner or later she’ll learn. We all do, if we stay in this business long enough.”

  “Learn what?”

  Toussaint’s shoulders sagged as he sighed, no longer the cocky surgeon but appearing world-weary and worn-out. “The truth is, not everyone can be saved. Not everyone is worth fighting for.”

  With that, Toussaint turned away, squared his shoulders, and whisked his team through the doors to the ICU, leaving Luka to return to the ER for Emily Wright’s interview.

  As Luka traversed the labyrinth of Good Sam’s hallways, one hand scrolled through his phone. Ray had already uploaded summaries of his initial interviews and Krichek had come through on the warrants and court orders they needed.

  He called Krichek first.

  “Anything on the money trail?” Luka asked.

  “Only weird thing so far is ten thousand cash withdrawn from their joint account last week.”

  “Ten thousand?” Seemed too little to pay an accomplice. “Withdrawn by whom?”

  “That’s the thing. It was the husband who took it out. I was thinking maybe blackmail?”

  Luka made a mental note to prioritize the Katrina Balanchuk interview. He’d hoped to make it to the cafeteria to talk with Tanya, get that out of the way so he could focus on work, but it might need to wait. He ducked into an alcove leading to a pair of restrooms, out of the path of the busy hospital corridor. There was a janitor’s closet beside the restrooms; fumes of bleach and ammonia overpowered every breath. “Anything else?”

  “Did you see the video from the ER this morning?” Krichek asked.

  “What video?”

  “Some guy throws a bloody rag at Leah Wright, accuses her of killing his wife.”

  “She called me after. Security is working on getting me a name. I also arranged for a guard for her and her daughter.”

  “It’s gone viral. Anyway, Good Sam just sent over a copy of their incident report. Guy’s name is Jefferson Cochrane. Got a conviction for domestic battery. No motorcycle registered to him.”

  Of course not, it couldn’t be that easy. Only an amateur would show up in his victim’s wife’s ER hours after the killing and threaten her. And the cold calculation of Ian Wright’s murder seemed anything but amateurish. More like lovingly planned and executed. But they had to rule out everything. He was almost tempted to assign Krichek and Harper to the Cochrane interview but then he glanced at the info Krichek texted him—Cochrane’s address was less than ten minutes from the farm. Two birds…

  “Call me if anything else pops,” he told Krichek. When he hung up, he saw that Janine had left a voicemail.

  “You might want to see about getting home,” she said, not sounding particularly excited, more like resigned. “Your sister is gone. No idea where. All she took was some cash your grandfather gave her. Said she’ll be back later tonight. And she left your grandfather in tears.”

  He glanced at his watch: almost eleven. Tanya was no doubt already here, waiting for him. Emily Wright’s interview was scheduled to begin in a few minutes. After it, he’d deal with Tanya. And then Cochrane, hopefully combined with a quick run out to the farm to check on Pops. If he was lucky, somewhere in there he’d be able to grab a bite to eat and follow up with Balanchuk.

  As he headed down the ER’s back hallway to the Crisis Intervention Center’s interview rooms, Luka texted Harper, who replied that they still had no luck with their mystery motorcycle, then he called Ray Acevedo, hoping for better news. “What did you find at the college?”

  “Forget getting a vicious killer off the street or avenging the death of their colleague,” Ray said, his tone filled with scorn. “Idiots are more concerned about a bunch of computer code—as if I’d know enough to even give a shit. And Wright’s boss said Wright’s office and work computers are off limits to us, that we’d need to go through the DIA. Said they’re sending a government jabberwonky up from DC.”

  “Your government jabberwonky is here already.” He explained about Radcliffe and his so-called cooperation. “Turns out the DOD stopped working with Wright a few weeks ago—Radcliffe wasn’t saying why.”

  “They’ll be digging diamonds from coal mines before the DIA will share anything useful they find,” Ray scoffed. “Tierney find anything helpful?”

  Luka told him about the abnormal tox screen and the possibility that Wright had been tortured and the killing staged.

  “Tortured?” Ray’s whistle echoed through the phone.

  “Any complaints from students or other faculty?”

  “Dr. Ian Wright. Great guy, everyone loved him, adored by all near and far.” Ray’s tone was a mocking singsong. “Usual shit. Got the same from the neighbors about both Mr. and Mrs.”

  Typical. No one ever wanted to speak ill of the dead—especially not a murder victim. Not at first, anyway. Eventually they’d ferret out Wright’s dirty little secrets, then folks would be lining up to say, “I had a feeling…”

  “Anyone talk about him losing his DOD consulting gig?”

  “Nope, no one would say anything about his work other than he was some kind of genius at it. Except, there’s this one guy, grad student, gave his prof the stink eye while the guy was talking up Wright. I want to chase him down, see what’s up.”

  “Good. After that, wanna play bad cop?” It was a rhetorical question; Ray lived to play bad cop. “Did you see the video from the ER this morning?”

  “Guy who threw the bloody bandage at the widow? Yeah. Hospital hiding behind privacy laws?”

  “Gave him up, after a bit of persuasion. Krichek ran him. He’s got a history of domestic assault charges—only one ever made it to trial. Name of Jefferson Cochrane.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.” Ray had an encyclopedic memory when it came to actors he’d encountered. “You bringing the guy into the house or are we ambushing him at work?”

  “Neither. Uniforms tracked him to his home. I’ll text, meet you there soon as I wrap up here.” Luka gave Cochrane’s address to Ray and hung up. Interviewing subjects in the comfort of their home tended to relax them, give them a false sense of confidence and security. Which he readily used against them—while also gaining the advantage of a casual look around. Anything in plain sight was fair game and sometimes enough to get a w
arrant for a more thorough search.

  He shook his head—his simple home invasion had become much too complicated, but he’d suspected that it might from the beginning. One time he wished his gut instinct was wrong.

  Sixteen

  Emily was still yawning as Leah helped her through a quick shower and change into clean pajamas. Exhausted, she’d probably sleep on and off all day. As a survival mechanism, Emily’s ability to sleep while her brain processed her trauma was an excellent one. Ian was the same way, could sleep through anything while Leah would toss and turn, enviously watching him slumber.

  She’d just finished combing Emily’s hair when Jessica arrived to escort them downstairs to the ER’s Crisis Intervention Center. “You didn’t have to come yourself,” Leah told Jessica as the elevator whisked them away from the pediatric floor. Emily said nothing, merely held Leah’s hand tight while squinting at Jessica with suspicion.

  “I thought a familiar face—although, I’m sure you already know the social workers from the CIC. And…” Jessica crouched down to Emily’s level. “I wanted to make sure Emily didn’t have any questions.”

  The elevator came to a stop and they emerged into the main floor hallway that ran behind the ER, leading from the hospital entrance to the cafeteria. Emily glanced in the direction of the cafeteria—home to her favorite hamburgers and all the frozen yogurt with toppings she could eat.

  “Hungry?” Leah asked, happy to grasp any excuse to postpone the interview.

  Emily frowned and shook her head, then turned and followed Jessica through the secure doors. They reached the children’s interview room, which was designed like a playroom, filled with interactive games, dolls, stuffed animals, and a variety of art supplies. The decor was soft edges, pastels, intended to allow kids to relax even as they disclosed their painful secrets.

  Jessica opened the door and waited for Emily to step inside. “You can play with anything you want,” she told Emily. “But I thought first we could show your mom a magic trick. Want to help?”

  Emily stood inside the door, her gaze circling the room, taking in every detail as she twisted a length of hair and chewed on it. Leah regretted not having the time to braid it—Emily’s hair was like Leah’s, had a mind of its own if not tamed. She gently removed Emily’s hand from her mouth. Emily stared at the wet hair clenched in her fist as if she hadn’t even realized what she’d done.

  “Pumpkin, how about if you explore for a minute while Jessica and I talk?”

  Emily nodded and moved to methodically dissect the contents of the room. Leah and Jessica watched from the doorway. “You’ll be using a trauma-informed interview format?” Leah asked.

  “Combined with Palouse mindfulness-based stress reduction,” Jessica answered. “I know you’re worried about any adverse impact on Emily, which is why I thought we might use one of my research projects.” She bent over the child-height table and opened a box that sat on it, revealing a small EEG cap. “Gordie, my husband, and I were working on this when he died. It’s an enhanced, wireless EEG. I can monitor Emily’s responses in real time, slow down or stop if anything is too disturbing.”

  Emily, drawn to the adult discussion, had drifted near to the table. “Is that the magic trick?”

  “It’s a special hat you use to make it work. Want to try?”

  Emily nodded. Jessica slid the cap onto her, snugging it tight and aligning the electrodes over her skull. Then Jessica donned a similar cap and turned on the video game console. “Okay. This is easy. Kinda like T-ball. You hold the joystick to control the bat—the idea is to hit the ball and dunk the clown. But you won’t be doing any of the work, you won’t even see the pitch or anything except the clown in the dunking booth.”

  “How can I hit the ball if I can’t see it?” Emily asked.

  Jessica set her tablet onto the table and sat on the floor, her skirts flouncing around her. “We do it together. I see the ball coming and—here’s the magic part—I’ll guide your hand to swing at just the right time to hit it.”

  “You’ll hold my hand?” Emily seemed deflated. “Daddy lets me play games myself—I even beat him. Lots of times.”

  “Just try it.” Jessica motioned for Emily to sit at the video games. “Hold on tight but don’t move the controls. Ready?”

  Emily nodded, focused on the clown mocking her from its perch on the dunking stool. Jessica flicked a screen on her tablet, revealing Emily’s brain waves, watching them for a moment.

  “Imagine moving your hand on the joystick but don’t actually do it,” she told Emily. A spike blipped across the screen. “Perfect,” Jessica said. “All right, here comes the magic—watch the clown.” Jessica gripped an imaginary joystick and as the pitch soared across her tablet’s screen she flicked her hand with a definitive motion.

  The sound of a bat smacking a ball sounded from Emily’s screen followed by the splash of the clown being dunked. Emily jumped up. “Mommy! I dunked the clown by magic. My hand moved the stick without me even thinking about it.” She turned to Jessica. “Do it again! Show me how it works. Please?”

  Jessica repeated the feat. This time Leah kept her gaze on Emily’s hand on the controls. Sure enough, Jessica’s motion was mirrored by Emily’s own hand, even though Emily couldn’t see Jessica.

  “You’re stimulating her motor cortex?” There was an edge to Leah’s voice that drew Emily’s attention. There was no way for Emily to know that Jessica had basically just taken over Emily’s hand—without even asking Leah’s permission.

  “What’s a cortex?” Emily asked, joining them as if she were an equal.

  “It’s part of your brain,” Jessica explained before Leah could say anything. She lowered herself to Emily’s eye level and drew a quick sketch on the tablet. “If I’m thinking of moving my hand and I know where in your brain your hand muscles live, then I can send a tiny spark of electricity and make your hand move.”

  “Electricity?” Emily considered. “From your brain to mine?”

  “Exactly. That’s all our thoughts are, really. Electricity.”

  Emily nodded, satisfied. “Mommy, I need to learn more about electricity. Can we try some more experiments?”

  “Maybe when we’re done talking,” Jessica promised. “If your mom says it’s okay. And I can show you other stuff, too. Like building a special place in your head where you can go if you get scared or sad or anything. Your own private, magic world where you can make anything happen.” She stood, smoothed her skirt, then removed her own EEG cap and patted her hair into place. “I’m going to send Veronica, our social worker, in. She’ll show you the other toys and then I’ll be back, okay?”

  Leah hesitated. She stepped over to Emily, knelt on the cushioned padding that covered the floor. “Did it hurt? When she did that?”

  “No,” Emily said. “Just a tingle.” She pointed to the side of her head. “I watched my hand but I wasn’t telling it to do anything. I want to learn how to do it—the kids at school will think I’m so cool.” Then her expression turned sad once more. “I wish Daddy was here. He’d know how it works, we could build our own.”

  “You’re okay talking to Dr. Jessica? You know if you need to stop or want me, just tell her. I’ll be right behind that mirror, watching.”

  Emily focused on her reflection. “I can’t see through the mirror but you can? Can I see how?” It seemed that while Leah’s defenses centered on avoidance—putting off until tomorrow what she couldn’t deal with today—Emily’s involved curiosity, keeping her mind active and engaged.

  “Sure. Follow me.” Leah led Emily out the door and then into the observation room situated between the children’s interview room on one side and the adult one—currently empty—on the other. It was a narrow space kept dark so as to not impede with observation, even though now all their interviews were filmed and a social worker watched them live, ready to intervene if necessary. Emily pressed her face against the glass, then nodded, magic secret revealed. Jessica introduced her to the social
worker, who led Emily back to the playroom while they waited for Luka Jericho to arrive.

  “You should have asked my permission before you did that, taking control of her hand to play that game,” Leah told Jessica.

  Jessica shrugged. “Just a harmless parlor trick, but it impresses donors when I apply for grants. Then I let them fly a drone remotely, using only their minds to control it. Their wallets open every time.”

  “Does it work like the new artificial limbs that can be controlled by the wearer’s thoughts?”

  Jessica’s smile flashed bright. “My Gordie created the tech for those, I simply adapted it to the enhanced EEG unit. Saving the world, one limb at a time, Gordie used to say.” Then her smile faltered, turning to sorrow. Leah remembered that Jessica’s husband had also been murdered. She regretted bringing him up.

  Jessica seemed to understand. She laid a hand on Leah’s arm. “You’ll feel the same. It’s a gut-kick, every time. Nothing to do but keep on living for those who can’t.”

  They stood silent for a moment, watching Emily decide on a set of Legos to play with.

  “How are you?” Jessica asked.

  “Fine,” Leah answered reflexively.

  “Seriously. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, really.” Leah tried to steer the conversation away from her emotions. She’d have a lifetime to deal with them later, after making certain Emily was all right.

  Jessica’s expression grew skeptical. “Right. Fine. You aren’t one of those people trying to tick off the stages of grief like a Chinese menu, are you? Because that’s what we professionals call denial.”

  “I don’t have time for any Kübler-Ross timeline. Emily needs me. Once I’m sure she’s safe, then maybe…”