by CJ Lyons
“Any history of trouble in the building?” Luka asked.
Cliff appeared surprised by the question. “Here? Nope. I’ve been here eleven years and only time cops ever came before was one Halloween a drunk pushed past Mr. and Mrs. Robeson, got through into the lobby. But no one was hurt or nothing.”
“Thanks, Cliff. Wait downstairs, please. Detective Krichek will need you to show him all the exits. You know, all the ins and outs of the building that only a manager like you knows.”
“Sure, sure. Happy to.” Cliff turned to leave.
“Do you know if Walt and Trudy have any relatives I could call, let them know where he’s at?” Leah asked him.
Slowly, Cliff answered, his gaze directed at her feet. “Nope. Far as I know, there’s no one. They never had kin come visit and there’s no emergency contact listed on their lease agreement.”
“We’ll need a copy of that as well,” Luka told him.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go get it ready for you right now.” He fled toward the stairs, realized his error, and spun around, striding back past them at a fast pace, muttering as he punched the elevator button.
“Strange bird,” Krichek observed as the elevator doors closed behind Cliff. “I’ll have Harper run him, see if he has a record.”
Luka nodded. “What did Maggie say? Any signs it wasn’t accidental?”
“Said it was too early to be certain, but there were no obvious signs of inflicted trauma or a struggle.”
Luka nodded and sighed. He wasn’t his usual self today, Leah noticed. As if something was weighing him down. Or maybe that was her projecting her own feelings. He and Krichek turned to head toward the Orlys’ apartment, leaving Leah uncertain of what she was meant to do next.
“If you find any medical records, can I review them before our interview with Walt?” She made a note to herself to also speak with Walt’s physician once they got him stabilized at Good Sam. As a police consultant, she wasn’t sure if he could speak with her without Walt’s consent. And Walt was in no state of mind to give informed consent. “I’d like to be prepared.”
“I’ll see if I can get a judge to sign off on a court order for them,” Luka replied.
“Maybe the neighbor knows more about his condition,” Krichek suggested.
“Good idea. I’ll go talk to her.” Risa had asked to speak with Leah anyway and it gave Leah something productive to do. She started toward Risa’s apartment when Luka called her back.
“Leah.” He was frowning. “Remember. You’re not here to play detective.”
“I know that.” Why was he being so snippy with her?
“Didn’t seem like it the way you waltzed into that apartment.” He took a breath, obviously trying to calm down. “Krichek, go ahead, I’ll meet you inside.”
Krichek glanced at both of them, then went into Walt’s apartment.
“I knew he wasn’t a danger,” Leah said before Luka could continue. “I’ve dealt with patients like him before and I knew how to reach him. I trusted you guys to have my back.”
“And we did. But you’re not in the ER where you call the shots. Out here, you’re part of a team. My team.”
“I just didn’t want him to get hurt—”
“Neither did I.” He blew his breath out. “I’m not saying you did the wrong thing. I’m just saying, next time, talk to me. We’ll come up with a plan. Together. No more rushing in on your own.”
Leah bristled. “Maybe we need to come up with a plan for this entire partnership. If you don’t want me here, I can head back to Good Sam—”
“No.” His tone softened—slightly. “No. You were very helpful. Thank you. But you’re right, we need to draw up some parameters.”
Leah had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. The Department of Justice grant had come with six four-inch binders filled with parameters and protocols and procedures. She’d spent hours wading through their administrative jargon and had emerged with no clear idea of what her new job actually entailed other than filling out a myriad of budget reports, staffing reports, and reports on the reports she’d already filled out.
“Yeah,” she told him. “That’s probably a good idea. Because if you and I can’t work together, there’s no way we’ll be getting the rest of the department, much less the SWAT team, on board.”
He glanced at his watch. “Probably not today, but soon, I promise. In the meantime, you seemed to have a rapport with Saliba. Want to start with her, get your medical questions answered, while I finish here? I’ll join you shortly.” He pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves. “Oh, and we don’t call them SWAT. It’s Emergency Response or ERT.”
Then he entered the Orlys’ apartment and closed the door behind him, leaving Leah alone outside.
Her cheeks burned with humiliation. This job was meant to be easier than working in the ER, but she felt lost. Leah sighed, pulled out her phone. Not to call anyone, but simply to look at the photo that filled the screen: Ian and Emily, playing on the lawn of their house—their old house—both caught laughing as they tumbled in the grass.
She felt a hand settle on her shoulder, calming her. It wasn’t real, she knew that, but she couldn’t help but place her own hand there, straining, yearning to feel his. You can do this, Ian’s voice whispered through her mind. For Emily.
Leah closed her eyes and took one breath, then another before opening them again. She touched her fingers to her lips then to the phone, a silent promise to Ian. She put the phone away and walked over to Risa Saliba’s apartment.
Six
Luka closed the door to Walt and Trudy Orly’s apartment behind him and took a moment to rein in his emotions. He hadn’t meant to take out his frustration on Leah. After all, the whole point of the pilot program was to determine the most effective role of civilian crisis intervention workers to assist law enforcement. Leah was basically inventing her new job as she did it and it was going to take some trial and error.
Krichek said something from the other room and Luka pushed thoughts of Leah aside to face more immediate concerns: how had Trudy Orly died and who had allowed his crime scene to mutate into a full-blown tactical call-out? He needed answers before Commander Ahearn or the Chief himself demanded them.
He found Krichek standing by the fireplace in the living room, photographing the damage done by Walt’s rampage: overturned end tables, a smashed lamp, scattered knick-knacks, the shattered vase. The kitchen was on his left, an island bar separating it from the living room. The living room had spacious floor to ceiling windows, a large fireplace, and soft, comfortable furniture. The walls were filled with photos of Walt and Trudy at various exotic locales.
Luka scrutinized the photos nearest him—the dates inscribed on the mats were only two to three years ago, yet both Walt and Trudy appeared a decade younger than what he’d seen of them today. Walt’s illness must have progressed rapidly. “Walk me through it.”
“What?” Krichek replied. “You were here, saw—”
“Before I arrived. How the hell did ERT get involved?” Thank God there’d been no press to document McKinley’s men aiming assault rifles at a sick old man. Or to film the presence of civilians on scene. If it turned out Luka’s team was responsible for the screw-up, Ahearn was going to eat him alive.
Krichek was a solid worker, good with tedious details like financials and cell records, but he was also green, prone to wild theories. “Honestly, boss, it went to hell before Harper and I even got here. We arrived to find the body unattended, a screaming match up here. Two uniforms trying to corral the husband, one of them with his Taser out, ready to deploy. That Saliba woman, the neighbor, was trying to help but the uniforms kept shouting at Orly to comply. The old man was like an animal—I don’t think he understood a word they were saying. The uniforms had already called for backup—no idea how that turned into ERT, but next thing I know, just as Harper and the neighbor are working to calm Orly down, McKinley and his guys arrive. I left to deal with them and asked Harper to call you.”
He turned one palm up, as if uncertain if he should be asking forgiveness. “Not sure what else I could do. It all happened so fast.”
“Both you and Harper need to document everything that happened—a complete timeline of your actions, down to the second.” Not for the first time, Luka wished Cambria City had the budget for bodycams. “And pray that the neighbor backs you up, that it was the uniforms who escalated things.”
“Yes, sir.” Krichek’s expression turned grave, the seriousness of the situation finally sinking in.
Luka turned his attention to the task at hand. “We don’t know yet if Trudy’s death was suspicious, so what should we be looking for?”
“If she was arriving home when she fell, there wouldn’t be any physical evidence inside the apartment. We could look for indications of pre-meditation like a life insurance policy or other motive…” He trailed off, turning in a circle, suddenly uncertain. Given the violence the living room had suffered it was easy to lose focus.
“How about we see if we can document Walt’s mental impairment,” Luka suggested. “Rule out any possibility that he’s faking that. And help assess how bad off he really is, for when we interview him.”
“Our warrant doesn’t cover medical records, but we could document his prescriptions, especially if they’re in plain sight.” Krichek moved past Luka to the kitchen where, above the sink, an array of prescription bottles could be seen through the cupboard’s glass doors. It, like all the cupboards and the pantry door, was held shut with a child-proof lock. Soft foam had been placed over the sharp corners of the countertop as well, while knob protectors covered the stove’s controls.
“We need to find a next of kin for the Orlys.” Luka tugged at one of the stove protectors. Given his grandfather’s forgetfulness, they might not be a bad investment. “Did Maggie find Trudy’s phone?” The coroner’s investigator would have control of any personal items found on the body.
“Said there wasn’t one,” Krichek said in a distracted tone as he photographed the prescriptions and then looked up each drug. “Wow, this is some powerful stuff. If Orly needs all this, he must be nuts—er, I mean, extremely mentally impaired.”
Luka was more concerned with Trudy’s missing phone. “Keep an eye out for a cell phone.”
“She was old, probably forgot it.”
“Not while leaving her sick husband home alone.” Which reminded him of the other thing bothering him. “Walt was in pajamas; maybe he was in bed when Trudy went to the store?” Perhaps she’d left early, in time to be first in line when the pharmacy opened, hoping Walt would still be asleep when she returned. Luka drifted down the hall to the bedroom. Two twin-sized beds, one neatly made, the other with covers tossed back. On the nightstand beside the second bed was a baby monitor with a video camera. Which meant Trudy definitely took her cell phone with her so she’d be alerted as soon as Walt got out of bed.
He returned to the kitchen where Krichek was still documenting the various medications. “Do you have the victim’s cell number?” Krichek nodded. “Call it for me.”
Krichek dialed and they waited. Nothing sounded in the apartment. “Straight to voicemail.”
“I’m going to check her shopping bags, maybe she slipped it inside.” Luka stepped out of the apartment to the landing between the front door and the elevator. A crime scene tech was dusting the railing over the atrium for prints near where Trudy’s shopping bags had been abandoned. “Wilson, did you hear a phone ring just now?”
“No, sorry.” He didn’t look up from where he was gently swirling his brush, barely touching the walnut surface. Wilson had been with the department for decades, but despite his seniority, he preferred evidence collection on scene to examining it in the lab.
Luka moved to the crime scene tape, but didn’t cross it, respecting Wilson’s space. “Anything?”
“Nothing to point to suicide.” He gestured to the palm prints the powder had uncovered. “See how they’re facing in the same direction? If she’d climbed over to jump—”
“They would be going in different directions as she changed her grip.”
“Right. And so far, these are the only ones I’m picking up. They must do a good job of cleaning. Plus, top floor, not much traffic up here.”
“But if she was gripping the railing—how did she fall?” Luka craned his neck to see more closely. “She was facing forward, holding the railing like she was looking down into the atrium, right? Not backwards, like she was struggling with someone?” He reversed his own position, demonstrating.
“Nope. Definitely forward. See the fingerprints lined up on the far side of the railing?” Wilson pointed to an area he hadn’t dusted yet. “Trust me, they’re there. I’ll get to them in a minute.”
“No rush, I believe you.” Luka leaned his weight over the railing. It was just low enough that he could see someone—maybe—leaning forward too far and losing their balance. It would be more difficult for someone short like Trudy, but not impossible. “Did you collect her purse?”
“Yep. Bagged and tagged. It was with the shopping bags.”
“Was her phone in it?”
Wilson shook his head. “Wallet, cash, credit cards, lipstick and stuff like that, but no phone.”
“Okay if I go through the shopping bags?”
“Already finished with them. No usable prints. No phone, either.”
“Thanks, Wilson. Let me know if you find anything interesting.” Luka moved a few steps away and called Maggie Chen. If the phone had been in the victim’s pocket, it would have been transported to the medical examiner’s office with the body. “Hey, it’s Luka. Did you find a phone with Trudy Orly?”
“No, sorry.”
“It’s missing and I’m certain she had it with her.” He explained about the video monitor and Walt’s condition.
“The husband has Huntington’s? That’s like my greatest fear come true,” she said. “It’s a nightmare diagnosis, not just for the patient but their entire family.”
“Did you find a next of kin besides the husband to notify?”
“No. If Walt can’t direct us to other family, we might need to get a court order to see if there’s someone listed in their wills or on their bank accounts. I hate doing that, it takes so much time and paperwork, but—”
“We can help cut through the red tape for you,” he offered. “Anything on your preliminary exam?”
“So far, everything is consistent with trauma from a fall of that height. No defensive wounds.” Which meant Trudy hadn’t fought off an attacker. “We’ll know more after the postmortem.”
“Any idea when?” In non-urgent cases like accidental deaths, a PM could take days to schedule. Luka mentally crossed his fingers. Something felt off here; his gut was telling him there was more to Trudy’s death than mere accident.
“You caught a break. Ford Tierney has a conference tomorrow, so he’s fitting Trudy in this afternoon. Start time is two o’clock, so don’t be late.”
“I’ll be there. Thanks, Maggie.” Luka hung up, his gaze following the path from the elevator to the Orlys’ apartment. Trudy’s keys were in the lock, but her grocery bags were positioned between the railing and the apartment. Why had Trudy detoured over to the railing?
At least the fingerprints ruled out suicide, he thought. Thank goodness. Because he didn’t think he could deal with that, not on today of all days.
The image that was his constant companion clouded his vision: Cherise in the water, changing her mind but unable to escape, her face filled with terror. How long had it taken her to die?
Now, haunted by Cherise’s ghost, he looked down over the railing, down to the lobby floor far below. How long had it taken for Trudy to hit the floor? No one had reported hearing her scream. Why didn’t she shout for help? A shudder shook him as he glanced back to Trudy’s apartment. Maybe she knew who killed her and couldn’t bear to see him go to prison. Maybe she thought her husband, given his devastating illness, had suffered enough.
&nbs
p; Seven
Leah knocked on Risa Saliba’s door. “Coming!” she heard through the solid oak. But it took over a minute, after the click and clank of several heavy-duty locks, before the door finally swung open.
Risa stood swaying, one hand pressed against the foyer wall keeping her upright. She appeared ashen, her entire body covered in a cold sweat. “Sorry,” she mumbled, then spun away, using the wall to guide her into a small powder room across from the hall closet. Retching noises sounded along with moans of pain.
Leah rushed in to help her, her instincts taking over. She understood the aftermath of adrenaline, but this seemed more than that. She grabbed a washcloth, wet it, and knelt beside Risa on the old-fashioned octagonal black-and-white tiles. “Here.”
Risa nodded her thanks as she took the cloth and ran it over her neck and forehead. She flushed the toilet, cleaned her face, but didn’t try to get up, simply cradled the toilet, her breath coming in panting gasps.
“Do you need me to call someone?” Leah asked. She remembered Risa’s leaning on the walker, the way her hand shook. A list of possible diagnoses ran through her mind, but she’d just met Risa. It would be rude to pry. So instead, she focused on making Risa comfortable, rinsing out the washcloth and replacing it with a clean, wet one over the back of her neck. “How can I help?”
Risa sighed, took in a deeper breath. “It’s the nausea.” Another breath. “I’ll be fine once the medicine kicks in.”
The tiny bathroom had pink tiled walls, a black porcelain sink with sweeping curves as if it aspired to be an ornamental fountain, and an oval mirror with etching along its rim. Risa took a few more slow, deep breaths and finally, pushed away from the toilet. Leah stood and offered a hand to help Risa up. Like her neighbor, Walt Orly, she was much too thin.
