by CJ Lyons
“What’s wrong?” Beth cried out between gasps.
“Just hang on.” Leah carefully teased the nuchal cord over the baby’s head, taking care not to pull too hard—the baby was still depending on its blood flow, not to mention the risks of hemorrhage to Beth if it tore. Once the head was free, she swiftly suctioned fluid from the baby’s airway. “Okay, now push.”
Beth blew her breath out as another contraction hit. Leah slid her hands around the baby, guiding the shoulders, turning it to make the passage easier. It was a good size for a preemie—but Beth had been so uncertain of her dates that it was possible the baby wasn’t as early as Leah had supposed. The head and shoulders were delivered by the time Beth collapsed back, gasping for air.
“One more push like that and we’re done,” Leah coached her even as she took advantage of the few seconds between contractions to suction out the baby’s mouth and nose again. Another contraction hit and the baby slid out into Leah’s waiting hands.
No meconium, color a bit dusky, she noted as she suctioned again then dried and stimulated the baby with the towel. The baby took a gasp, breathing on its own, but still not crying.
“Is she okay?” Beth gasped. “Why can’t I hear her?”
“She’s a he,” Leah told her with a smile as she continued to rub the baby’s back, hoping to coax a gusty cry to finish clearing his lungs. The medic attached an oxygen monitor and checked the baby’s pulse, but Leah knew they’d both be good—the baby’s color was pinking nicely and she could feel his heartbeat beneath her fingers. She clamped and cut the umbilical cord, grabbed a clean, dry towel and wrapped the baby, bracing herself as the ambulance sped around a curve.
“Does he have a name?” Leah took the medic’s stethoscope and listened for herself. Despite how quiet the baby was, his lungs sounded clear, no heart murmurs, everything looked good. She hefted him, guessing his weight: a good size—he was probably close to full term.
“No name. Not yet. Can I hold him?”
“Better than that, I want you to put him directly against you; skin to skin is the best way to keep him warm. We’ll keep both of you on the monitor until we can get you to the hospital, but everything looks good so far.” She held onto the bedrail to keep her balance as she maneuvered up to the head of the gurney.
Beth gasped and tears appeared as she reached for her baby. “It’s you,” she whispered as she cradled him against her breast. “I’ve been dreaming of you for so long and now you’re finally here.”
Leah blinked back her own tears at the sight of the mother and baby. Deliveries always got to her, the miracle of life wrought through pain and blood and fear and ending in hope. She glanced at the medic and saw him swiping away his own tears with the back of his shirtsleeve. He gave her a sheepish shrug and she grinned in return.
She checked Beth’s vitals and massaged her belly, hoping that the placenta could wait until they got to the OB floor—delivering it was always a mess.
“Now that things are calmed down,” the medic said, pulling out his clipboard. “I need a little information for our record. Let’s start with your name.”
Beth kept her head bent over the baby, arms tightening around him as if she was afraid he would be taken from her.
“Beth?” Leah touched her arm. “We’re trying to help you. Can you tell us your full name?”
Beth shook her head, her gaze still fixed on the baby, lips pressed tight.
Leah and the medic exchanged glances. “Beth, this is all confidential. If you’re scared of someone or running away, it’s okay. We just want to give you and your baby the best care possible.”
Beth looked up, meeting Leah’s eyes with an expression that was more than fear; it was sheer terror. “No. I’ve said too much already. They’ll find me. I can’t let them find me.” She clutched her baby tighter. “Can’t let them find us.”
Nine
Harper heard her father’s voice and came to an abrupt stop, almost dropping the glass of water she held. The glass was made of crystal so thin and elegant that it probably cost more than her take-home pay. Wouldn’t that make a lovely impression of competence, smashing it to bits simply because she was startled? But then, what would the Reverend think of her fetching water in the first place? Would he assume that Luka didn’t trust her with real detective work, that she was only here as a token? It was what a lot of the patrol officers she’d left behind would think. She could deal with them making false assumptions, but not the Reverend.
She forced herself to take a breath. She was an adult now, a professional—just like the Reverend. She had a job to do and the fact that it was practically her first day and her father would be watching her do it, well, all that fell under the category of “suck it up and deal.” After all, a man was dead and it was Harper’s job to do whatever it took to see that he received the justice he deserved.
Harper took another breath to steady her nerves and strolled back into the living room to hand Tassi the glass of water. She acted as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her father to be present at a death scene—which it actually was, given his profession. Although she’d never thought of any of his parishioners dying in a manner that would draw the attention of the police. Given how traumatized Tassi appeared to be, it was good that the Reverend had come to offer her spiritual comfort.
Tassi clutched the glass with both hands, staring into it, while Harper stepped over to join Luka. The Reverend stopped midsentence, his gaze barely pausing on Harper before he turned to Luka, angling his shoulders to exclude her.
“Sergeant Jericho, do you really think it’s appropriate to assign my daughter to a case where we might be forced to play an adversarial role?”
“Adversarial role?” Luka said. “Reverend Harper, I thought you were here to offer spiritual support.”
“Clearly Tassi is in no condition to answer any of your questions. The fact that you seem oblivious to that makes me think I need to advise my client to assert her constitutional rights.”
“Client?” Luka glanced at Harper, obviously hoping for a translation.
“My father is more than head of the church,” Harper explained. “The Reverend also acts as an attorney for many of his parishioners.”
Luka turned to the Reverend. “You’re a lawyer?”
The Reverend drilled Luka with a stare but Luka didn’t flinch.
“My father insisted I learn a trade that would be of benefit to our congregation, as has been customary in our family for generations,” the Reverend explained. “I am both a doctor of divinity and a doctor of jurisprudence, specializing in family law. My sons have followed our family tradition—” He avoided even the slightest glance in Harper’s direction, a not-so-subtle reminder of her choice to rebel against the Reverend’s wishes. “My oldest, Jacob, has a master’s in communication, Jonah is a licensed social worker, and John is a certified financial planner.”
Luka’s expression didn’t change as he absorbed this information, but his posture shifted slightly, and Harper knew he was preparing to alter his tactics. “Family law. So you wrote Spencer Standish’s will for him?”
“Yes, as well as creating the family trust he established so that Tassi will be taken care of after his death. With Tassi’s permission, I can provide you with copies—save you the time of obtaining a court order.”
Tassi nodded, her gaze fixated on the depths of the glass she cradled. She didn’t seem to care that the men were speaking over her head as if she wasn’t even there. But Luka did, motioning to the Reverend to join him in the foyer where Tassi couldn’t hear. Harper hesitated; she knew she was probably meant to remain with the widow, but couldn’t resist the opportunity of watching the two men she respected most square off.
“Did you also know about his deathbed confession?” Luka asked in a low voice. “It was dated yesterday and reads as if his language and word choice was scripted by legal counsel.”
The Reverend seemed disappointed by the question, his expression d
isdainful. “I’m afraid that falls under the umbrella of attorney-client privilege. As do any specifics we might have discussed while drafting Spencer’s will or trust. I would have expected a senior officer such as yourself to know that.”
“What about the charity foundation?” Luka persisted. He didn’t realize it, but Harper knew that Luka’s refusal to accept the Reverend’s answer would only anger her father. But then she looked more closely—maybe Luka did realize it. Maybe he hoped to use that anger against the Reverend, get him off balance. She leaned back, taking it all in. No one confronted or challenged the Reverend. Ever. “It would be on public record if you were involved in its creation. I trust you wouldn’t waste my time—”
“I was not involved in the foundation’s creation. Spencer and Tassi established it themselves soon after their arrival here. However, as you’ll see as soon as you bother to glance at the foundation’s letterhead, I am on the board.” Somehow the Reverend implied that the fact that Luka even asked the question meant he was less than competent. “Along with most of Craven County’s leaders.”
“Of course.” Luka nodded as if acquiescing. But Harper saw the gleam in his eye and knew it was all an act. “Well, in that case, since Mr. Standish’s confession implies that his crimes may be linked to improprieties in his charitable foundation, then it’s you who might have a conflict of interest if you continue to represent Mrs. Standish. Everyone on the board or connected with the foundation will need to be questioned.”
“I sincerely doubt that, but we can approach a judge.” The Reverend offered his rebuttal. “And you will of course need to assign my daughter duties elsewhere.”
Harper couldn’t help but stare at her father, but his gaze never shifted in her direction. Why was he so concerned about her involvement in this case? The Violent Crimes Unit would treat Standish’s death as suspicious until the coroner ruled. If Standish did kill himself, then the VCU’s investigation would end there. Standish’s other crimes, given the level of financial malfeasance and fraud Luka had alluded to, would no doubt be investigated by the state police and the feds. Was the Reverend embarrassed by his possible entanglement in Standish’s crimes? Did he fear she’d think he was a fool to have been manipulated into lending his good name to a corrupt charity? She blinked, suddenly feeling disoriented. The Reverend worried about what his wayward daughter thought of him? Surely not.
Luka gave her a studied look and she finally caught up to what was really going on—not the family-forgiveness fantasy she’d concocted. No. The Reverend was smart enough to know that if he couldn’t use family connections to help him, then his best bet was to make sure those family connections also couldn’t hinder his cause by sharing insights with his enemies.
Making it very clear whose side he saw Harper standing on, and it wasn’t the right side, the family’s side. In his eyes, she was now an opponent, not a daughter.
Before she could say anything, her phone sounded. It was a text from one of the patrol guys in the Kingston Towers sector who’d spotted a few working girls back on the street. Not urgent news, but it gave her a way to exit gracefully, avoiding allowing her father to use her as a pawn in his power struggle with Luka. Plus, Luka had things handled here, while she was the only one actively working Lily’s case. Her case.
Pointedly ignoring her father, she turned to Luka, holding up her phone. “Got a lead on our earlier case. You good if I head out to follow up?”
He nodded. “Keep me updated.”
“Yes, sir.” She walked toward the door, shoulders back, chin high, wanting her father to see how professional she was. Maybe the Reverend didn’t trust her to draw the line between family confidences and her job, but she needed him to know that at least Luka respected and trusted her. She wasn’t sure why it was so important to her, but it felt like more than saving face. It felt like crossing an important threshold from childhood to adulthood.
If only her father also saw it that way. “Call your mother, Naomi,” the Reverend said in an off-hand tone as she reached the door, as if he’d only now noticed her presence. He knew she’d seen Rachel an hour ago, so his words were clearly meant more to illustrate how unimportant her career was compared to her family obligations. “It’s cruel of you to make her constantly worry when she doesn’t hear from you.”
Harper stifled her sigh. So much for being treated like an adult, much less an equal.
Ten
Luka watched Matthew Harper’s expression as he dismissed his daughter. There was more going on there than normal parent-child relationship friction. Harper was intensely private when it came to her past. The only things Luka knew about her family were that she’d been adopted and that her father and brothers were all ministers. Was there some reason why Matthew wanted his daughter off this case?
Or perhaps it was a simple diversion, intended to distract Luka from some essential truth. It was too early to say, and Luka definitely wasn’t rushing to judgment.
“Mrs. Standish.” He focused on the widow. “I’ve requested a search warrant for your home and your husband’s office.” Usually he’d start with the wife’s statement before sorting through financials, but Matthew was right—Tassi was in no condition for a formal interview. And, given that the widow had already summoned her attorney, Luka didn’t want to give her any opportunity to remove evidence. “We will, of course, provide you with a written copy, but it would expedite things if you could give me the keys?”
Tassi shook her head, bewildered. “Search? Where? Here? Why? Whatever are you looking for?”
“Your husband left a letter implying that he was involved in some financial impropriety,” Luka explained. “We need to secure any documents, electronics—”
“Spence would never!” Tassi exclaimed, bolting to her feet so quickly it caught Luka off guard. She pointed a finger at the door. “I want you out of my house. Now!”
Luka waited a beat, expecting Matthew to calm his client, but instead he gave Luka a challenging look. “Surely this can wait, Detective. You can see how traumatized Mrs. Standish is.”
“I’m afraid it can’t wait.” Luka kept his voice low and gentle. “We’ll try to expedite things to minimize any inconvenience, Mrs. Standish.”
“But, I don’t understand—I don’t know anything.”
“I’d like to start with your husband’s cell phone. Do you have any idea where it is?”
Tassi’s arm, still pointing past Luka, began to tremble. She dropped it to her side. “Phone? At the river, in the water… No. None of this makes sense. None of it.” Her voice was barely above a whisper and she still faced the door, speaking to the air past Luka’s head.
“Can you explain that to me, Mrs. Standish?” he tried to coax her. “Why were you expecting to find your husband at the river?”
More tears. She covered her face with her palms and collapsed back onto the loveseat beside Matthew. In any other circumstances, Luka would attempt to provide whatever comfort possible, but given that Tassi had chosen to call her spiritual counselor to attend to her, he nodded to Matthew to take over. Matthew folded his hands around Tassi’s and whispered something. She looked up and they bent their heads in prayer, lips moving in unison.
Luka’s phone buzzed. He crossed the massive room until he reached the hallway leading to the rear of the house. Matthew and Tassi were still in sight—across a basketball court’s length of hardwood floor, plush rugs, and antique furniture. Luka still found it strange that there was only a single wedding photo framed above the fireplace. He answered his cell. It was Commander Ahearn, head of the Investigative Division.
“Is it true?” Ahearn began without greeting. “Spencer Standish killed himself?”
“Maybe.” Luka explained about the suicide note and confession. “The wife is a bit scattered, can’t really get anything from her right now, so I’m headed to his offices to take a look.”
“Your eyes only for now. Spencer worked with a lot of highly placed men. Pillars of the community. We don�
�t need their names dragged through the muck, not when we’re not even certain what happened.”
“The wife mentioned some kind of cancer—”
“There you go, man wasn’t in his right mind.”
“Yes,” Luka replied, “but the firefighters said the carbon monoxide levels weren’t very high when they arrived at the scene.”
“You’re not sure it was a suicide?” Ahearn asked, sounding thoughtful, weighing the political ramifications of each possibility, deciding which would be more advantageous. “That could open a can of worms best left buried. You’d best be certain of your facts. I want you to report everything directly to me. We need to stay in front of this.” As usual Ahearn didn’t bother digging very deep into the treasure trove of clichés he loved to mix and match.
“I could use more people.” Luka’s gaze drifted down the end of the long hallway, doorways situated on both sides. It might take days to complete even a cursory search of the mansion and grounds.
“Pull in whoever you need, I’ll authorize the overtime.” Authorize and overtime—two words seldom heard in the same sentence when coming from Ahearn. “Whatever you need to speed this up—and keep it quiet. I’m headed to the house. I want Mrs. Standish to understand how seriously we take this, give her the department’s condolences in person. And I’ll handle any press when the time comes.”
Fine with Luka. “Thank you, sir. I’ll have Ray Acevedo and Scott Krichek meet you here. They can be trusted with the search of the home, with minimal disruption for the widow.” Ray was Luka’s second-in-command, more street-ready rough-and-tumble than Ahearn probably would like, but Luka trusted Ray to get the job done right. While the less experienced but more polished Krichek could hone his natural kiss-ass tendencies with Ahearn and the widow.
