The Drowned Woman: An absolutely unputdownable mystery and suspense thriller (Jericho and Wright Thrillers Book 2)

by CJ Lyons

  Hypervigilance, the trauma counselor called it during their last session. A symptom of PTSD. Meaning, an abnormal state of being.

  Who cared, Leah thought. Who was he to decide what was “normal” after what she and Emily had been through? As long as it kept her daughter safe, gave Emily room to grow and be happy, live the life she deserved, then any strain on Leah’s psyche was worth it.

  “She’s still a real doctor.” Emily surprised Leah by coming to her defense. “But now she gets to help people with toys.” She was referring to the child-friendly interview room where she’d given her own statement after Ian’s murder. “So now your job is fun, right, Mommy?”

  Leah didn’t answer right away, distracted by her daily dilemma of navigating a labyrinthine route to school to avoid their old house—the house Emily still thought of as home, and Leah as a nightmarish crime scene. It was difficult because the school was only two blocks up the street from their old place, but the last thing she needed was Emily to break down, screaming about wanting to go home again.

  “My job is always fun, pumpkin,” she answered as she diverted down a one-way street heading past the park. “But you know the most fun part?”

  “Bullet wounds? Getting an arm cut off?” Nate asked, leaning forward with excitement. Leah made a note to ask Luka what the kid was watching on TV. He made a karate chopping motion accompanied by sound effects. “Pow-ee! My arm, my arm! Where’d it go?”

  Now Emily was getting into the roleplay. “I cut it off with my space-pirate knife! And now I’ll cut off your head, too!”

  “Not before I blast you with my alien ray gun!” Both kids were turned in their seats, filling the air with sound effects as they ducked and wove, avoiding imaginary weaponry.

  “Enough,” Leah called out as she pulled into the school drive, behind the other parents’ cars in the drop-off lane. “No one’s shooting or blasting or stabbing anyone. Not here and not in school. You hear?”

  “Oh boy, not in school,” Nate said. “You play space pirates and aliens in school and they send you to the dungeon for sure.”

  “I think you mean in-school suspension. But I want you guys to think of another game, use your imaginations—”

  “But, Mommy—” Emily started, a hint of a whine in her voice.

  “Think of a game like Daddy used to play with you. Only instead of the computer, make believe in real life, okay?”

  Ian said Emily was a computer prodigy and had taught her programming skills that were far beyond anything Leah could offer—or understand. But with their electronics all taken by the police as evidence, Emily had gone a whole month computer-free. Leah rather liked it.

  She edged the Subaru forward to the drop-off point. A volunteer opened the door, helping Emily out of her car seat, while Nate jumped out on his own.

  “Have a great day!” She injected a note of false brightness into her voice, trying to mask the undercurrent of anxiety that threatened to devour her every time she let Emily out of her sight. She remembered the words of Emily’s trauma counselor, stressing the need for Emily to return to a normal life. Structure, routine, independence. All vital to the healing process. “I love you!”

  Too late—they were already running hand in hand, splashing through puddles, laughing as they raced away from Leah.

  She stared after them until the car behind her honked. Jerking with a guilty start, she waved at the other driver and pulled away, steering down Jefferson. Her street. Their street. Would she find the courage to actually stop today? Go inside the house that once upon a time was her dream home?

  The crime scene cleaners—trauma remediation, the company called it—had finished their work last week, rescuing as many personal possessions as possible, removing the rest—labeled as biohazards—and repairing the damage left in the wake of the attack on Ian. At least that’s what their bill itemized in excruciating detail. Leah still hadn’t stepped inside, despite Emily’s nightly recitation of things she’d left behind that she really, really, wished and hoped she could have back. Clever girl had even figured out the best way to make sure Leah knew exactly how important each toy or book or stuffed animal or hair clip was by invoking her father.

  “Please, Mommy. I need it to help me remember Daddy,” she’d say, hugging Leah tight and whispering it into her ear like a prayer. “Please, Mommy.”

  Today Leah slowed the Subaru and pulled to the curb, despite her clammy palms and heart racing so hard she felt her pulse throb in her throat. Nothing to worry about, just a little panic attack. Look, no hyperventilation, no crushing chest pain. Gripping the steering wheel, she forced herself to breathe. I’m fine, just fine.

  It was a lie, but one she was willing to live with.

  What other choice did she have?

  Three

  Luka was driving down the mountains west of Cambria City, heading into work, when his phone rang. Naomi Harper, the patrol officer assigned to his team. She was awaiting a potential promotion to detective, which made her the most likely to be given the job of calling the boss with bad news.

  “What’s the problem, Harper?” he answered.

  “No problem. Just a—a situation. Krichek said not to worry, he just wanted you to know.”

  Scott Krichek was almost as green as Harper—the detective had only joined Luka’s Violent Crimes Unit last year. Ray Acevedo, Luka’s second-in-command, was still out on medical leave after getting shot last month, which meant Luka hadn’t only temporarily lost a trusted member of the team, he’d also lost two decades of experience at his disposal.

  “What situation?” he snapped, his mood still raw from his pre-dawn pilgrimage.

  “It was called in as accidental. Old lady fell down the stairs at her apartment building. DOA.”

  “What’s Maggie say?” Despite being younger than either Harper or Krichek, Luka trusted Maggie Chen’s instincts. The coroner’s death investigator had an uncanny ability to see beyond the obvious.

  “She’s not here yet. Fog caused a multi-vehicle crash on the other side of the river. She’ll get here soon as she can.”

  “Give me the address.”

  Harper told him. Luka knew the apartment building, the Falconer. It was in a quiet neighborhood that catered mainly to seniors. Last year, after his gran’s death, he’d tried to convince his grandfather to move there, where Luka could keep an eye on him, but Pops had refused. Said he’d lived on his farm all his life and he’d damn well die there. Luka had eventually compromised by giving up his own place to move across the river to Jericho Fields. Good thing he had, because he now had a nephew to raise, his grandfather to watch, and a live-in caretaker to pay. It stretched every penny of Luka’s paycheck, but so far, he was making it work, and living at the farm kept them all under one roof.

  “Even if it looks accidental, treat it as suspicious until we learn otherwise,” Luka told Harper.

  “Right. We are. Even found a possible suspect. The husband…” Her voice trailed off as if she were searching for words. “But… he has some kind of mental health issue. Went nuts after he saw his wife’s body. Barricaded himself inside his apartment along with a neighbor who was trying to help calm him down. Before we arrived,” she added hastily. “Patrol called in ERT. We’re still trying to sort out exactly what happened. Krichek wanted you to know.”

  “Are you serious? Why the hell—” He took a breath.

  Harper side-stepped his question. “Krichek wanted to know if you want to give ERT the green light to go in.”

  “The neighbor is barricaded inside with the EDP?” Incidents involving emotionally disturbed persons were unpredictable, but calling in the Emergency Response Team was usually a last resort. For McKinley, the ERT leader, every option began with lethal force. Having a mental health issue shouldn’t condemn someone to die, and it didn’t sound like the uniforms had even tried to calm the situation down before making the call. If anything, it seemed as if they had exacerbated things.

  “No. I talked the husband into
opening the door and she’s out. The neighbor and I are now standing just outside it, close enough so she can talk to him, but he’s beyond reasoning with at this moment. Neighbor said before we got here, when she was still inside, she almost had him calmed down but then a uniform barged in, ready to Taser him. That’s when things escalated.”

  “Escalated how? Weapons involved?”

  “None that I’ve seen. Uniforms said the guy became violent and they had no choice but to call ERT. But the neighbor is saying the husband didn’t become violent until after the uniforms grabbed her and threatened to Taser him.”

  The truth probably lay somewhere in the middle. But either way, there was bound to be hell to pay. Either patrol had been too aggressive, or the husband truly did pose a threat that the neighbor was blind to—although she seemed ready to tell anyone who listened that the uniforms had mishandled the situation. “Tell McKinley to hold until I get there. Make sure everyone knows the husband has medical issues—which means no Tasers. We need to de-escalate.” Then he had another thought. “What’s the husband’s diagnosis? Anyone know?”

  “Not sure. Manager says some kind of dementia. We found prescriptions with the husband’s name on them scattered near the wife’s body, but we haven’t been able to get ahold of the doctor yet.”

  A physician’s input would be valuable—and subduing the man might require medication beyond what paramedics could offer. Exactly what the new crisis intervention program was designed for. “Call Leah Wright.”

  “Boss?” Harper’s voice upticked not only with a question but also with disapproval. She and Leah had clashed during Leah’s husband’s murder investigation. It didn’t help that Harper had been convinced Leah was behind her husband’s death.

  “Call her, Harper. Tell the neighbor to keep talking to the guy—as long as you both are safe. And keep the ERT cowboys from killing anyone before I get there. I’ll be there in ten.” He hung up.

  He’d driven his private vehicle over the mountain to Lewisburg this morning, anticipating exchanging it for an unmarked one after he arrived at police headquarters. But since Luka was basically on call 24/7, his truck had wig-wags installed behind the grill. He flicked the emergency lights on and sped up as he rounded the final curve leading down the mountain.

  Usually he loved this view of his city carved into the side of the mountain and stretching out to the river and beyond. Even today with the glooming clouds, the morning sun still managed to filter through, turning the soot-stained peaked roofs, wet brick and stone masonry into something out of a painting. A fantasy, to be sure, because in reality, Cambria City was a down-and-out rustbelt town hanging on purely through audacity and stubborn pride.

  As Luka drove, he called the ERT leader, McKinley, and got a situation report from his more tactical perspective. Definitely more gloom and doom and portents of bloodshed than what Harper had given him. Luka drove over the final hill leading into the heart of the city and turned down Second Avenue. A few minutes later he was being waved through a police barricade, parking in front of the Falconer, a brick pre-war building, five stories high. At least McKinley hadn’t brought the armored vehicle—that damn thing always attracted attention.

  As Luka sprinted past puddles on the street, hood up against the rain, he assessed the crowd gathered beyond the barricade. Mostly men, working age, a few college students, almost everyone with cell phones at the ready, sharing the buzz of anticipation, hoping for a show. Anything to kill the dreary monotony of the endless days of rain.

  Luka grimaced. He hoped he could resolve the situation upstairs calmly, leave the crowd feeling like they’d wasted their time. Krichek spotted him and opened the first set of two ornate-leaded glass doors leading into the building’s lobby, waving Luka inside.

  “Detective Sergeant Luka Jericho, Violent Crime Unit,” Luka told the recording officer stationed at the inside door. He unzipped his parka and glanced around.

  There was a security camera inside the small entrance formed by the two sets of glass doors and a keypad below it, requiring visitors to be buzzed in if they didn’t have a key. The foyer had a marble floor and columns enhanced with art deco-style embellishments. There was an elevator bank directly across from the front doors, a walnut reception desk on the left, and to the right, a wide staircase with intricate wrought-iron railings circled the lobby’s perimeter to create a spacious atrium.

  And near the foot of the stairs sprawled a woman’s bloody corpse.

  Four

  Other than discovering her husband’s body, Leah had never been to a crime scene before. As she drove up to the Falconer Apartments, she wasn’t certain if the tightness in her belly was from excitement, anticipation, or anxiety. It felt different than the usual rush she had when heading into a fresh trauma in the ER. Maybe because here, she was trespassing on someone else’s territory, subject to their rules.

  She gave her name to the officer at the barricade and showed him her ID, then parked the Subaru where he pointed. Her new job at the Crisis Intervention Center included what her boss termed “call-outs,” aiding the police in interviewing upset or fragile witnesses and using her medical expertise to help with volatile subjects, like drug users or people with psychiatric diagnoses. The program was part of a federal grant her boss had received that allowed the CIC to keep its doors open, but it was uncharted territory, this forced collaboration, for both the medical center and the police.

  As she ran through the rain, trying to look like she knew what she was doing, Leah hugged a knapsack containing her trauma kit. Last month she’d been forced to treat a gunshot wound with nothing more than a kitchen towel and a belt for a tourniquet. Even though she’d saved the detective’s life, she vowed never to be caught off guard like that again.

  Another officer stopped her inside the doors to the apartment building and she gave him her name, even as her attention was riveted by the sight of the woman sprawled face down on the marble floor. Blood had pooled beneath her broken body and, even if Leah hadn’t spotted Maggie Chen attending to her, it was obvious she was dead.

  “I’m hoping that’s not my patient.” The joke was born of nervous anxiety and she regretted it as soon as it left her lips, felt her cheeks warm with a blush.

  The officer didn’t answer, merely jerked his chin to the reception desk along the other wall of the lobby. Not wanting to contaminate the crime scene, Leah edged along the perimeter. Luka Jericho and one of his team members, a young detective named Krichek, stood at the desk, along with an older uniformed officer wearing body armor and carrying an assault rifle. Luka wasn’t dressed in his usual suit and tie; instead he had on muddy hiking boots, jeans, a button-down shirt, and a parka. Was something about this case so important that they’d called him in from home? A thrill of anticipation shot through her, not unlike the feeling she had in the ER when greeting a fresh trauma. But then she quickly sobered. Unlike her old life in the ER, where each new case brought with it the chance to save a life, Luka’s team calling her in meant a fragile or vulnerable witness, either the victim of a crime or a family member left bereft by violence. Just like she’d been when she first met Luka herself.

  The older man spotted her. “And now he goes and brings in the welfare lady,” he said in a tone of disdain. “Gonna try to tell me that talking and listening works better than a bullet to the brain stem.” The man had a severe case of rosacea that left his face florid red. Probably why he worked on the SWAT team instead of undercover or investigations, Leah thought. Every emotion flashed like neon across his features.

  “Dr. Leah Wright,” she introduced herself and held out a hand, which the other man ignored.

  “This is Sergeant McKinley. Leader of the Emergency Response Team,” Luka told her. “Don’t mind him. He’s never happy unless he gets a chance to bust in a door or use his toys to ruin someone’s day. Which I’m hoping won’t be necessary.”

  “He had a hostage—” McKinley protested.

  “His neighbor is at the door, tryi
ng to help calm him down,” Luka corrected. “Harper’s on scene, says there’s no immediate threat.”

  “Not what my boys are telling me. Says Orly is tearing the place up, totally unhinged.”

  “Orly?” Leah asked.

  “Walt Orly.” Luka nodded to the dead woman. “Husband to Trudy. Sixty-one years old. The building manager says they’ve been married almost forty years.” He gestured to a man Leah hadn’t noticed before, he’d been standing so quietly at the far corner of the reception desk, partially hidden by a large potted palm. He wore jeans and a khaki shirt with the name “Cliff” embroidered over his left chest pocket. “Mr. Vogel, can you tell Dr. Wright what you told me? About Mr. Orly’s health?”

  The man shuffled forward, head down, a sheaf of lanky dark hair falling into his face. He smelled of floor wax and machine oil stained his fingernails. When he finally looked up, not meeting anyone’s gaze, Leah realized he was in his late forties even though his posture was more like a shy teenager’s.

  “Not sure, of the exact—” He picked at his cuticles. “I mean, I know it’s not Alzheimer’s. Walt isn’t that old, that’s for sure. And he wasn’t sick, not that I could see, not until sometime last year, at least.” He cleared his throat, looked to McKinley first and then to Luka, avoiding Leah entirely. “When Walt saw Trudy’s body, he just lost it. Screaming for her to come back. Me and Miss Risa tried to calm him down, but he won’t come out of his apartment, won’t talk to no one but her—”

  “Making him a risk to himself and others,” McKinley put in, gesturing with his rifle for emphasis.

  “Possible risk,” Luka corrected him, then turned to Leah. “Harper reports no obvious weapons and the neighbor, a Risa Saliba, seems to be making progress in calming him down. Which is why I’ve asked McKinley’s men to switch to nonlethal options.”