by CJ Lyons
Now it was 12:03 and Harper sat parked in her departmental-issue unmarked sedan debating her options. She was three minutes late for Sunday dinner; she should be rushing inside to offer apologies. Or she could throw the car into reverse and get back to work on a case that statistics said she had no hope of solving.
The August glare beat down on the Impala’s windshield. Harper stared at the house she’d grown up in, a modest white-framed colonial with a roofline that paralleled that of the larger church beside it. The only home she’d ever known and yet every time she returned it was harder and harder to find the strength to go inside and face her family. Especially her father, the leader of Holy Redeemer, the Reverend Matthew Harper.
After Luka left her at Lily’s crime scene, Harper had gone back to the police department where she’d pulled Lily’s records and searched for known associates, made a list of people arrested at the same time as Lily, as well as the various addresses—most of them fake—that Lily had given along with an assortment of Lily’s aliases. She’d also compiled the names of the people who’d bailed Lily out and paid her fines. By the time she’d finished, she couldn’t even verify that Lily Nolan was the girl’s real name. Typical of so many street kids, Lily had never given the same name twice and she was young enough that they had no driver’s license or other official documentation to confirm her true identity.
Undaunted, Harper had spent the rest of the morning walking the streets around the Towers in a fruitless search for anyone who could possibly tell her about Lily’s final hours or point her in the direction of Lily’s next of kin. But Sunday mornings were about the only slow time on the streets, a chance for working girls to catch a few hours of sleep.
The entire time, all Harper could think about was Lily’s birthday, four days ago. For some reason, she couldn’t get past that.
Harper’s own birthday was January sixth, the same date as the Epiphany, the celebration of the Magi arriving with their gifts for the Christ Child. It was a poor choice of a birthday for the adopted child of a preacher. A day to give, not to receive. A day that meant more as a biblical lesson than it did a celebration of Harper’s entering the world.
As she glanced past the two silver minivans and the white Ford Expedition parked between her and the house, her father’s voice rang through her head. It was her fourth birthday. Life boils down to two choices, the Reverend Harper had told her when she’d reached to open her first brightly wrapped present. Only two, so it should be easy, the Reverend continued. Good or evil. Do you want to do the right thing, the good thing? Make our Heavenly Father smile with joy along with me and your mother? Your choice. Right or wrong. Make me proud.
Even now, twenty-four years later, she felt the weight of the silence that had followed while she fought to understand his words, her three older brothers growing restless as the candles dripped onto the birthday cake they were poised to devour. Then came her mother’s hands, squeezing Harper’s shoulders as she inched her fingers toward the small mound of enticing gifts. A squeeze that warned her that it was the wrong choice.
“You look just like them,” John, the youngest of the Reverend’s boys had said, laying his pale white forearm against Harper’s dark skin. “Mom, did Naomi come from where the Magi came from?”
“She’s not a king from the Orient,” Jacob, the eldest scoffed. “We got her from Philly. From a mom who didn’t want her.”
“Hush,” Rachel, Harper’s mother, commanded. “Naomi is our gift and we are blessed to receive her. Now, sweetie, what are you going to do with your gifts?”
Harper remembered feeling confused, torn between her desire to rip open all the bright paper and ribbons to see what lay beneath, her hope that maybe her father had taken time from his busy life of leading his flock down the path of righteousness to find the perfect gift for her, and a sinking certainty that none of these presents actually were meant for her at all.
“It’s better to give than receive,” Jonah, the middle son, whispered as if coaching her.
She glanced up, daring to meet her father’s gaze. The Reverend said nothing, his face expressionless as he waited in judgment. Would she do the righteous thing, prove his faith in her? Or would she, as she seemed to do so often without even trying, let him down? Again.
Grimly, her lips compressed to stifle her disappointment, she pushed the gifts away. The Reverend gave the tiniest nod of approval while Rachel kissed the top of Harper’s head. “Good girl. I’ll add these to the pile for the charity drive.” She whisked the gifts away while Harper blew out her birthday candles and they cut the cake, the boys talking nonstop, the Reverend reading his Bible, Rachel rushing around in the background filling glasses and serving.
Harper remembered how the cake stuck to her palate, tasteless and hard to swallow—not because Rachel wasn’t a good baker but because Harper was so certain that, despite having made the right choice, she’d never actually be truly worthy to sit at the Reverend’s table, deserving of his love.
Now sitting in a police car, August sun beating down on her, she shook her head, dismissing the childhood memory, even as she recognized that she was still struggling to win her adoptive father’s respect. But she was here now, nothing for it but to go inside—especially after Rachel had called to chide her for missing the last two Sunday family dinners.
Harper secured her service weapon in the lock box bolted to the floor of the car’s trunk. Technically, regulations required she carry it on her person while on duty, but her mother would not allow a handgun to cross her threshold. She had no problem with rifles or shotguns but because handguns could be so easily concealed, Rachel saw them as evil, a belief that none of her sons had been able to talk her out of. Harper hadn’t even tried, her newfound detente with her family too fragile to risk. She trudged to the front door, its white paint brilliant in the sunshine, creating an otherworldly glow. As if crossing the threshold required an equally flawless soul, which Harper most definitely did not possess.
“You’re late,” Rachel called by way of greeting as soon as Harper stepped inside.
Harper glanced into the dining room with its table that could seat twelve. The Reverend and his three sons, all adorned in their Sunday clerical uniforms, were already seated, waiting for the women to finish bringing the food. Sunday dinner was a well-rehearsed choreography of women in motion designed to allow the four ministers to enjoy the fruits of their labor during their busiest workday. The Reverend and his sons divided ministerial duties during the work week—over the past two decades, Holy Redeemer had grown into a massive organization requiring many hands to steer it. But Sundays were reserved for a morning of preaching, family dinner, followed by an afternoon of prayer and then evening service. Harper’s sisters-in-law would bring dishes ready to serve, take turns wrangling their various children, one of them eating with them in the kitchen so as to not disturb the Reverend with their noise, while Rachel would supervise, always hovering in the background until everyone was served and their appetites sated.
Harper took her customary seat across from the kitchen. She watched as Jacob’s wife wrapped her little girl in one of Rachel’s never-ending supply of aprons, remembering back to when it was only Harper and Rachel alone in the kitchen, exploring the mysterious world of women’s work. The way Rachel had folded the oversized apron to gather the extra material around Harper’s waist, crouching behind her to tie it tight and smooth any wrinkles. “There now, don’t you look lovely,” she’d say every time.
It’d been a long time since Harper had worn one of her mother’s aprons or been invited to join her in the kitchen. Not since Harper had left college, disgracing her family.
“Sorry I’m late. I had a case,” she told them. The boys ignored her, continuing to debate some new online system designed to facilitate parishioner contributions. Jonah at least glanced her way and gave her a nod of recognition.
The Reverend didn’t look up from his Bible, but did startle her by asking, “What kind of case?”
> That silenced the boys. Rachel stepped into the doorway, her fingers bunching up her apron, glancing at the Reverend in confusion. It was the first time he’d asked Harper about her job since she’d joined the force eight years ago. At her promotion ceremony last week, she’d invited her parents, had reserved seats for the Reverend and Rachel, ever hopeful. But nobody had come and the seats sat empty.
So now, Harper leaned forward, anxious to grasp the olive branch her father had offered. “A homicide. My first as lead detective.”
“They’re trusting you to solve a murder?” John scoffed. He was the closest to Harper in age but had always seemed to resent the fact that she’d been “chosen” by the Harpers when they adopted her, as if they were rivals competing for Rachel and the Reverend’s love. “The police must be hard up.”
“Shut up, John,” Jacob said. “Someone’s died. Show some respect for the dead.”
Not respect for Harper’s abilities to bring the dead justice, she noted.
“We should offer a prayer for them,” he continued.
“Who died?” the Reverend asked, closing his Bible and removing his reading glasses, slowly cleaning them with slow, rhythmic circles. It was the silent signal for service to begin and the women emerged from the kitchen bearing steaming platters of food.
Harper was surprised he was interested enough to follow up beyond his initial perfunctory enquiry. “A young woman,” she told him. “Just turned eighteen.”
“Really, Naomi,” Rachel chided her. “This is not appropriate conversation for the dinner table. What if the children heard you?”
The Reverend waved a hand, dismissing Harper and her victim as if his patience with polite small talk was spent. The women sat and everyone joined hands. “Let us pray,” he intoned.
The Reverend didn’t glance in Harper’s direction during the entire meal that followed. After receiving a text summons from Luka, she left before dessert, not even sure if anyone noticed her departure. But as she approached the car, her mother ran out with a cooler of packaged leftovers.
“It’s nice to see you and your father getting along so well,” Rachel said.
Harper cradled the small cooler. “Yeah, five whole unsolicited words. My heart is aglow.”
“Naomi Harper! Don’t you use that tone about your father.”
Harper hung her head. “No, ma’am. Sorry.” She jerked her chin up toward the house. “It’s just—I try so hard and I can’t get anywhere with him.”
“Your father has a lot on his mind, you know that. Not only the ministry but preparing your brothers to eventually lead—” A worried look dampened Rachel’s smile. “He’s doing his best.”
“So am I. And speaking of doing, I need to get to work.”
“Right. Your poor young dead girl. I’ll keep her in my prayers.”
“Actually, I’ve been called out to another case.”
“Really?” Rachel’s voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “Two murders? In one day?”
“We get called to any suspicious deaths, so I’m not sure if it’s a murder,” she told Rachel as she loaded the leftovers into the car. At least she’d have dinner covered—not always a certainty while working fresh cases. “But you can only hope.”
Rachel gave a small laugh. “Don’t talk that way around your father,” she warned. But after Naomi got into the driver’s seat, Rachel leaned into the car and said in a conspiratorial tone, “But feel free to call later, fill me in.”
Harper glanced up at that, almost couldn’t speak for a moment. All these years she’d been praying for a chance to be welcomed back into her parents’ lives. “You sure, Mom?”
Rachel kissed her fingers and touched them to Harper’s forehead. “I’m sure. I want to know everything about your life, Naomi. I’m sorry it’s taken so long. Will you call me?”
“Yes. It might be late—”
“That’s fine. I don’t sleep much. But it would ease my mind, knowing that you’re safe, understanding more about what you face out there.” Rachel closed the car door and stepped back. She mimed a phone and mouthed the words, “call me.”
Naomi smiled and waved back, then put the car in gear and headed out. She couldn’t believe how well that had gone. A weight lifted from her chest as if she’d been holding her breath for years. Rachel was only the first step—regaining her place in the Reverend’s heart would take work.
Her phone rang. Luka. “We’re still waiting on the coroner. How far out are you?”
The address he’d given her was up the mountain, barely inside the city limits, which placed her at an advantage since her father’s home was only a few miles away. It was an exclusive neighborhood, large wooded lots with even larger mansions situated on them, a combination of historical summer homes built by the coal barons and steel magnates of the prior century and new construction by equally new tech millionaires. “I’ll be there in five. What have we got?”
“Not sure. Rich guy. First responders thought suicide.” But then he said the magic words that had her pressing down on the accelerator. “But at this stage, we can’t rule out murder.”
Five
As he waited for their reporting witness to calm down, waited for the dead man’s wife to be located, waited for a Mincey warrant to search the premises, waited for the coroner’s investigator to arrive, and waited for the fire department to complete their work, Luka kept checking his phone for a message from Nate. Juggling crime scene tasks he was used to. Anxiously waiting for news about family? This was a foreign experience for a thirty-seven-year-old lifelong workaholic bachelor who was suddenly a newly minted adopted father to his eight-year-old nephew and caretaker for his eighty-four-year-old grandfather.
There could be worse places to wait. His victim, forty-three-year-old Spencer Standish, lived in a centuries-old mansion. The grounds contained the main house, the guest house, a pool and pool house, large expanses of manicured gardens along with Luka’s crime scene, a stable that had been converted into a garage. Luka had scoured the area and despite the thick forest surrounding the estate he hadn’t seen a single errant leaf, much less any hint of a weed daring to trespass or a blade of grass rebellious enough to outgrow its brethren.
A guy with all of this? How the hell did he end up dead, sitting inside his SUV with the motor running and the garage doors closed?
“All clear, Sergeant Jericho,” the fire crew chief called to Luka as he emerged from the garage. Behind him, his men carried their industrial exhaust fans out to the drive. “Carbon monoxide levels back to a safe range.”
“Any precautions my people need to take?”
“Nope, you’re good to go. No signs of any other hazards, either.” He joined Luka, standing beside him as the fire crew packed their gear onto their truck. “The CO levels weren’t all that high to begin with. I’m not sure if they were enough to cause your man’s death. Although the gas might have partially dissipated before we arrived. Plus, carbon monoxide is tricky, so hard to tell.”
“You documented everything?” Firemen and paramedics didn’t mix well with evidence preservation at crime scenes.
“Yep. I’ll send you a full report once I’m back at the station. Need anything else from us?”
“No. Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Just doing our jobs.” He nodded to the mansion on the other side of the drive. “Rich people. Never understand why someone with everything does something like this.”
They shared a shrug. The fire chief strolled back to his truck.
Luka glanced at his phone one last time before heading into his crime scene. What was taking so long? Surely the judges at the fair had announced the results by now. Maybe Leah’s silence meant she was busy consoling Nate. Luka thought the kid showed real talent with his newfound love of photography, but then he was definitely biased on Nate’s behalf. The kid deserved a break, after losing his mother to a drug overdose and then being bullied after he moved to Cambria City to live with Luka. He only hoped the county fair judge
s felt the same.
He hovered his thumb over the phone screen, ready to call Leah for an update, when one of the patrol officers approached. “Sergeant Jericho? Harper just pulled up.”
Luka noted the patrolman didn’t use Harper’s new rank, but patrol officers sometimes didn’t with detectives. Besides, Harper could fight her own battles. He only hoped she’d choose them wisely—after all, not many newly minted detectives had the privilege of starting their careers in the VCU. Most had to put in their time on lesser investigatory duties like property crimes, leaving many in the department debating exactly how Harper had jumped the line.
No way in hell was Luka about to explain that the other sergeants had refused to offer her a position on their squads, despite her stellar record—including working on several plainclothes details with both Vice and the VCU. Initially, Ahearn, the commander in charge of the investigative division, had insisted that she belonged with the Domestic unit, which specialized in special victims—child abuse, sex crimes, and intimate partner violence. But Luka understood that Harper’s sometimes abrasive personality was ill-suited to the needs of special victims, so he’d convinced Ahearn to assign Harper to Violent Crimes.
“What’ve we got, boss?” Harper’s words were rushed with excitement. Despite having been on the go since before dawn, she didn’t seem tired at all.
“Anything on Lily Nolan?”
She sobered. “Not yet. Still trying to locate next of kin. Tonight I’ll hit the streets again, look for any friends of hers.”
“Talk to Vice before you go out. They might be helpful.”
“Right.” She glanced at the departing firetruck. “In the meantime, how can I help here?”
He motioned to her to follow him. In the shade of a group of trees—their shadows as sharply edged as the manicured lawn—waited a man sitting on a wrought-iron bench, gazing out at nothing, tears streaming down his face. Their reporting witness. The uniformed officer standing beside him shrugged at Luka. At least the guy wasn’t hyperventilating anymore.
