by CJ Lyons
“I just left her.” Why would Jessica be calling her? She’d said their next session wouldn’t be until this afternoon.
“She asked that you call her back right away. She’s in the clinic but said you can have her paged.”
“Okay. Let me just get Emily into bed. If you could go ahead and call the clinic?” It would probably take several minutes before Jessica could disengage herself from patients to take Leah’s call.
She carried Emily into her room and tucked her into the sprawling field of crisp white linen, not a wrinkle in sight, inviting slumber. Her eyelids sagged at the mere thought of sleep.
By the time she returned to the nurses’ station Arthur was on hold with the clinic. “Where’s the security guard?” she asked him. “Detective Jericho said he’d be here?”
“I think since you were gone, they went to lunch. I’ll call them back.” Arthur turned his attention to the phone. “She’s right here,” he told the person on the line. He handed her the receiver. “Dr. Kern.”
“Hey, Jessica. Did I forget something?”
“No, I did. I forgot what idiots the Utilization Review people were along with the insurance companies. They called. They’ll only approve Emily’s admission as a twenty-three-hour observation. And with it being peak RSV and flu season, they need her bed.”
“You’re kicking us out? But Emily—” Leah twisted around, hiding her face from Arthur, who was listening to every word. “What if something happens? How can I—”
“No one expects you to go it alone.” Jessica was using her reassuring shrink tone—the one for patients, not colleagues. “You have my number. Call me anytime. And I still want to set up outpatient sessions for both of you—and any other family members.”
Leah was silent, waiting for her to offer some magic fix. But as the silence lengthened, she realized there was no fix. Despite Jessica’s reassurances, she was alone.
“You can’t do it all yourself, Leah,” Jessica said, using her shrink spidey-senses to read Leah’s mind. Not that it wasn’t pretty obvious what she was frightened of. “I can give you the names of some good grief counselors and you already know the victim advocates. Maybe also arrange for someone to provide respite care so you can leave Emily in good hands while you deal with—” Now she hesitated. “With the police and all that.”
“All that” being the myriad of details Leah hadn’t begun to process, much less plan for. Funeral. Transport from the morgue to the funeral home. Service or viewing? Given the extent of Ian’s injuries, could they even consider an open casket? Church or graveside or both? A wake at home was out of the question, of course.
Home. Forget about where to call home in the foreseeable future or her fantasy about grabbing Emily and driving off into the sunset, leaving all this behind—they needed a place to sleep. Tonight.
“Thanks, Jessica.” She handed the phone back to Arthur, ignoring the fact that Jessica was still speaking. She didn’t have time or energy for niceties.
Arthur hung up the phone. “Lunch trays came up while you were gone. I put one aside for you and Emily.” He nodded to the other side of the hall where a small kitchen served the ward and the staff. So many parents ended up camping out for the duration that it saw a lot of use.
“Thanks.” Leah walked down to the kitchen to heat up their lunches. While the microwave was zapping Emily’s pizza, she grabbed a few cartons of milk and then called Ian’s father’s cell, hoping to catch them before they were in the air. He hadn’t sent her an itinerary and if she and Emily were going to a hotel, she wanted to book the same one. Although the idea of leaving Cambria City behind still tempted her. She sighed. One conversation with Ruby and she was starting to think like her, dreaming that running away would magically erase all her problems. No. The answers she needed were here.
“Leah,” Bruce answered. “I was just getting ready to call you. You saw the weather? We tried. But no luck. They’re cancelling flights, wouldn’t book us. Said to call back tomorrow.”
“The weather?”
“Yeah, the storm. Hit here this morning and is heading your way. Supposed to meet up with the system you guys already have brewing, form an even bigger storm. Even if we were able to get a flight out, we’d be stranded in Chicago or Denver. I’m so sorry.”
In a way it was a relief. Ian’s parents would be a help as far as babysitting, but they’d also be two more wounded, grieving people for Leah to try to ease their pain. And honestly, she was having enough trouble with her own feelings.
“No,” she said. “I totally understand. Don’t feel bad. Things here are still crazy. Maybe it’s for the best.”
“Does that mean the police have the guy?”
“No. But they’re working on several leads.” She knew it sounded vague, but it was more definite than Jericho had been with her. No way in hell was she going to ask Ian’s parents if he was having an affair. The ache behind her breastbone at the thought of Ian betraying her felt like molten lead, hardening her heart. “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Still, we want to help. I don’t want to intrude, so please tell me if I’m crossing a line, but we thought maybe we could handle some of the arrangements? After all, nowadays everything’s done online or over the phone and it would save you—”
“Yes,” she interrupted, leaping at his offer. “That would be so helpful. Thank you.”
“Was there anything in particular? Anything you and Ian discussed that we should—”
Ian and Leah both agreed that the body was a vessel, meaningless after death. But now that it was time to decide what to do with his body, she knew he’d want whatever would bring his family comfort. “Whatever you decide is fine. Thanks again.” The microwave dinged and she said goodbye.
Balancing a tray with two plates of food and drinks, she crossed past the nurses’ station to Emily’s hallway. Arthur was nowhere to be seen, probably running labs or the like.
She pushed open the door to Emily’s room and stepped inside. Someone had drawn the privacy curtain around Emily’s bed. She continued into the room, past the curtain with its bright cartoon characters. Then she stopped.
Emily was still asleep. On the pillow beside her was a bouquet of red roses.
Leah clutched the tray, wondering at the sudden rush of fear that overcame her. People sent flowers when someone died—but to a child’s hospital room? And who would have put them on Emily’s pillow instead of in a vase? She set the tray on the bedside table.
They were only flowers, nothing to be afraid of. But they looked exactly like the bouquet from last night, the one with Ian’s final message to her. They probably came from the hospital gift shop like the ones last night, that was all. But… She shot her hand out and snatched the bouquet away from the pillow. For some reason she did not want these roses anywhere near her daughter.
With trembling fingers, she sought out the card nestled between the cloying blossoms. She tossed the flowers into the garbage can, then opened the card.
Did you enjoy the surprise I left you last night?
Twenty-Three
As he drove back to the city, Luka couldn’t help but feel that Ian Wright’s death had a strange duality to it: technically complex but also intimate. The devastation inflicted felt very personal. And yet, the extremely well-planned and organized initial attack, lack of forensics at the scene, creating and bringing a designer cocktail of drugs—that felt cool, remote. Psychologically the two parts of the crime were disconnected. Two actors, not one? One the brains, one the brawn.
If so, then Ray was right: Cochrane was definitely not the brains. Although Luka could imagine Cochrane working himself into a lather, pushing harder and harder on that shiny new exercise equipment, eager to get his revenge on the woman who, in his mind, had taken his wife from him, threatened his son.
He glanced at the crank files sitting on the passenger seat. How many more Cochranes were out there? What had Cochrane said? Best way to torture someone is to go after their f
amily? Which would make Leah Wright the true target, not her husband.
He was glad he’d followed his instincts and put the extra security on Leah and Emily. He only wished he’d been able to get real cops into Good Sam instead of relying on their private security. Luka decided to send Harper over as soon as she finished interviewing motorcycle owners—the administrators didn’t need to know, and he’d feel better with extra protection for Ian’s family.
Where to next? If the killer was targeting Leah, then Cochrane’s sentiment also fit with a spurned lover, perhaps someone obsessed with Ian Wright, someone who, after Ian rejected her advances, was driven to punish the wife Ian loved more than her. Which made interviewing Katrina Balanchuk essential. Could she possibly be the brains behind the brawn?
He needed to find the damn motorcycle. It could be the key to tying everything together. So far Harper and Krichek had come up empty with their interviews of registered local owners. Time to let the feds do what they did best: search through reams of data. As he drove over the bridge leading back into the heart of the city, he called Radcliffe.
“Detective Jericho,” the DIA man answered in a jovial tone, getting Luka’s rank wrong. On purpose, he was certain, putting him in his place. “Did you crack the case already?”
“No,” Luka admitted through gritted teeth. “I actually need your help.”
“Really? I mean, it all seems so clear to me. Philandering husband, nice chunk of life insurance, not to mention no custody battle—all kind of makes you wonder about the widow, doesn’t it? Given the way Wright was drugged and tortured, fact that she’s a doctor and all.”
Luka actually felt the opposite—the more he learned about the details of Ian Wright’s torture, the less he suspected Leah. Was that because he sympathized with her? After all, he understood sudden, violent loss better than most. Or because he respected her strength, the way she’d do anything to protect her daughter—which also argued against her being the mastermind behind her husband’s brutal murder.
“We narrowed down the make and model of the motorcycle seen leaving the scene. Can you run all the registered owners, follow up on anyone suspicious?”
“No problem. My guys can run a national search, correlate it with any known associates of the Wrights—both husband and wife.” Meaning a much, much more thorough job than what Luka and his team were able to do with their limited, local resources. Whatever worked, Luka told himself. And bonus points if it kept the feds off his back for a while.
“Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ll text you the details and the list we’re working from.” Luka hung up before the fed could ask for more details of Luka’s side of the investigation.
He parked half a block from Balanchuk’s address. The Ukrainian grad student lived near the river in the Wharf District, a collection of old warehouses that were being converted into loft apartments and condos in an effort to attract new money to a broken city. The red-brick building that Balanchuk lived in offered stunning views of the river and mountains beyond—if you could get past the gang graffiti, the rusted-out cranes tilting like drunks ready to fall into the water, and the homeless who had done their own gentrification, converting the abandoned building next door into a makeshift encampment.
Before he left the car, his phone rang again. Maggie.
“Give me some good news.”
“Not sure if it’s good or bad,” she said. “Definitely interesting. They re-ran Ian Wright’s tox screen and in addition to our designer stimulant drug compound, they found another drug: scopolamine.”
“Wait. Isn’t that for motion sickness?” Ray had used it when he’d taken wife number two on a cruise.
“And it’s been used by criminals to facilitate sexual assaults and robberies. Known on the street as Devil’s Breath. Supposedly you blow it into someone’s face or mix it in a drink and they turn into walking, talking zombies, obeying any command. And then after? Total amnesia. I pulled up a bunch of case reports. This stuff is crazy wicked.” She sounded excited.
“Cases from around here?” He frowned; he hadn’t heard of any street drugs that could do all that. What had the killer wanted Ian Wright to do for him?
“No,” she admitted. “They’re from Europe and South America. And the compound in Ian’s blood, it wasn’t what you’d find on the street. This stuff is pharmaceutical grade.”
“Where would someone get that?” Maybe at last a tangible lead.
“Not sure. Maybe a research lab? Scopolamine is definitely not approved for human use at these levels.”
Luka sighed. There went his lead. “Could you ask around? It had to come from somewhere.”
“Definitely. I’ll call if I find anything.”
“Thanks, Maggie.” He hung up and was heading toward Balanchuk’s building when she appeared from the opposite direction, dressed in jeans and a parka, a large portfolio slung over her shoulder. She didn’t appear particularly furtive, not rushed or even the slightest bit apprehensive as he approached and identified himself.
“I wanted to speak with you about Ian Wright,” he told her. “I believe you knew him?”
“Yes, come, come.” Her tone was almost business-like. She led the way inside the building and up to the loft apartment. Luka took a moment to admire the space with its exposed brick and expansive views. The walls were naked, the only artwork visible a series of charcoal sketches arranged on easels surrounding a modeling couch. He wondered how a foreign grad student newly arrived in the country could afford such a luxurious apartment—maybe the ten grand Ian Wright withdrew wasn’t Balanchuk’s only payment from him? Or she had other benefactors?
“Coming from a class?” he nodded to her portfolio, which she carefully laid flat on a large dining table before removing her coat and tossing it over the back of a chair.
“Yes.” She didn’t elaborate. “I heard the news. Ian’s dead. Awful. Terrible.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Tea?” she asked as she moved into the kitchen area.
“No thanks.” He gave her a moment as she filled an electric kettle with water. “The last time you saw Ian Wright?”
“Last session for work was two, three weeks ago.”
“Session?” He was intrigued. “Exactly what was your relationship with him? How did you meet?”
“Class. Live drawing—beginners,” she explained. “I was teaching assistant. He wanted practice, private lessons. So we meet.” She gestured to the couch surrounded by easels.
“That’s all you two did? Art lessons?” He thought of the receipt with the note from Trina. It’d been dated October. “Four months of drawing lessons?”
“He was good student. Learned fast.”
“And that was the full extent of the relationship?”
“Of course.”
He wondered at that, but her expression gave nothing away. “I don’t suppose you could give me the exact date?”
She frowned, her lips pouting, then pulled out her phone, swiped, and showed him the results. “Yes, here. See, he paid, last payment.”
Forty-five dollars for a modeling session. Nowhere near the ten grand Ian had withdrawn a few days ago. “And he never paid you any money beyond these classes?” His skepticism put finger quotes around the word “classes” but she didn’t rise to the bait.
“No.”
“Did you see him yesterday?”
“No.”
“Could you tell me where you were last night?”
She gestured, a broad sweeping motion. “Here. With my partner. Olivia Karmody.”
Luka took down Karmody’s contact information. “You never met Ian outside of your classes?”
“No.” Now it was her turn to scrutinize him. “You think we sleep together. Not true. Only art. Ian, he love wife. Very much. Love family.” She seemed somehow both annoyed and wistful, as if maybe she’d wished for more from Ian. Or again, Luka reminded himself, she could simply be a skilled actress.
“So you haven�
��t seen him at all since that last drawing class three weeks ago?”
“No,” she said but she nodded her head. Then frowned and paused. “Friday, I see him on campus. Walking.”
Nothing remarkable there. So why deny it? “And?”
Her frown deepened. She glanced toward the windows then the door as if realizing how vulnerable the wide-open space left her. “He was being followed. By a man in black.”
“A man in black? Like a black suit? Or coat?”
“No. Special clothes. Like for road.”
Luka showed her the grainy traffic cam photo of the man on the motorcycle. “Clothes like these? Like you’d wear on a motorcycle?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Katrina, did you see his face?”
“No. Just his back. He was very far away.”
“Was he tall? What was his skin color? Anything else—any details, distinguishing marks?”
She kept shaking her head as if wanting to deny everything. “Tall. Yes. But not too tall. Skin. Light, pale.”
“Hair color?”
“No. He wore hat. I saw nothing else. But when Ian saw me and wave hello, the man, he—” She moved her hand very fast in a shooing motion. “He turn, other direction, back the way he came, and then he just gone.” She snapped her fingers. “Vanish.”
“Tell me exactly where and when.” Maybe they’d get lucky with security cameras. But Luka doubted it. So far, this actor had remained almost invisible.
How long had this man been stalking Ian Wright?
Twenty-Four
Her stomach churning as she fought a wave of nausea, Leah’s pulse roared through her temples. Was the person who left the roses still here? She opened the closet door, looked in the bathroom. No one. She stepped to the still open door and glanced up and down the hallway. No one appeared suspicious.
Whoever left the roses was long gone. As much as the panic roiling her belly left her wanting to find the man and tear him apart with her own two hands, that wasn’t an option.
