by CJ Lyons
“Where are you going?” Matthew asked as Luka headed to the door.
“Spencer’s offices.” Luka didn’t really need a key; the warrant would allow him to pick the lock or call a locksmith to make entry.
“Then I’m going with you to observe.” Matthew rose, Tassi’s hand dropping from his arm to the loveseat in a languid motion that felt rehearsed. “That would be best, save you from worry, right, Tassi?”
“If you say so, Matthew. I can ask Larry to come over.”
Larry as in Larry Hansen, the neighbor who found Spencer’s body. Luka had had a feeling he’d been holding something back during their conversation—were he and Tassi closer than mere tennis partners? He’d let Ray know to keep an eye on them both and they’d definitely need to look deeper at Hansen. And how odd that Matthew, given his role of spiritual advisor, seemed more concerned about protecting Tassi’s legal interests—a curious conflict of interest. Luka would have assumed that consoling a parishioner in their time of grief would supersede any legal duties, but presumably Matthew justified it as protecting Tassi’s overall future? Or was he simply more interested in seeing what evidence Spencer Standish had left behind?
Matthew had said he was on the foundation’s board—perhaps he was more involved than a name on a letterhead?
The minister passed Luka to head to his vehicle, a white Lexus SUV with a tasteful Holy Redeemer insignia on the side. Clearly ministering to a congregation in this upscale neighborhood paid handsomely. Or were Matthew’s dealings with Spencer the source of his wealth?
Luka juggled phone calls as he drove, including arranging for Sanchez, one of the department’s cyber techs, and a pair of uniformed officers to meet him at Standish’s office. The same address was listed for both Standish’s financial firm and the charity foundation. Luka was surprised to see that it was a small storefront in a strip mall, sandwiched between an empty Radio Shack that had gone out of business years ago and a nail salon. The store’s windows and glass door were covered with butcher’s paper and there was no sign. Clearly Standish didn’t meet prospective donors or investors here.
The patrol units were waiting when Luka arrived. Matthew Harper had also already arrived and was arguing with the officers to allow him access, but they stood their ground. “Where do you want us, Sergeant?” one asked.
“Let’s see what we’re dealing with, then we’ll divide and conquer.” Luka turned to Matthew. “If you have the key, now’s the time to give it to me. Save your client a locksmith bill.”
The reverend reluctantly pulled a small keyring from his slacks and handed it to Luka. “Those should give you access to everything.”
“Who gave them to you?” Luka hadn’t seen Tassi hand Matthew anything at the house.
“Spencer. When we last met.”
Luka noted that he still wasn’t saying when or where. “Wait here.”
Matthew bristled, moving to follow Luka. “I have a right—”
“To observe. After we clear it.” Luka strode forward to the patrol officers standing beside their cars. He knew them both. Morton, the senior of the two, had joined the force a few years before Luka. And Azarian—Luka had been his field training officer. Over a decade ago. Suddenly Luka felt old. He greeted Morton, “Thought you were going for your sergeant stripes.”
“Passed the test, waiting for an opening. Why? You ready to retire yet, old man?”
“Think I still have a few years left in me.” He explained the situation as he eyed the parking lot. A silver minivan was parked in front of the nail salon, alongside an old Camry and a Ford Escort that had seen better days. Anchoring the corner of the strip mall was a gas station with a convenience store and a few cars also sat at the farthest row of parking spaces—employees, probably. Other than the nail salon, this end of the strip mall was quiet. “Morton, you’re with me.”
They left Azarian with Matthew and approached the office door. Luka selected the most likely key from the ring Matthew had given him and was rewarded when it fit the lock.
As soon as Luka opened the door, the afternoon sunshine spilling inside the dark interior, he sensed something was wrong. He snapped the lights on, illuminating a long, narrow space filled with desks, computers, and office equipment. There was no movement inside the room, but there was a wall about three-quarters of the way down, dividing the space and blocking his view. The door to the rear area was open. There were no lights on, but he had the sensation that he’d just missed movement.
“Go outside, head around to the rear exit,” he told Morton. Luka drew his weapon and sidled forward, edging his way through the maze of desks and office paraphernalia. A small rattle echoed through the empty doorway at the rear. Someone was there, hiding in the dark. “Police,” he called out. “Come out, show me your hands. Now!”
Luka heard a louder noise, the sound of a heavy door being opened. He ran from the lit area through the open door into the dark rear of the store in time to see the fire exit door close. He stumbled through the darkness, pushing the door open and hoping that Morton had made it around the back of the building in time to block their fleeing subject.
Luka raced out into the narrow alley behind the building. A noise came from his left and he spun toward it. A dumpster careened toward him. He dove out of the way, landing on a small pile of broken glass, inches away from the speeding dumpster before it slammed into the brick retaining wall that formed the far side of the alley. Pain bit through his left shin as he rolled to a sitting position, scanning the space where the intruder must have pushed the dumpster from. There was no one to be seen. His man had vanished.
Morton arrived, his passage blocked by the dumpster that had stopped on a diagonal.
“Call it in,” Luka shouted, his voice fueled with frustration. “You see anything?”
Morton radioed Azarian, instructing him to cover the far end of the alley. “Nothing. There was no one my way.” He pivoted the dumpster far enough that he could get through to Luka. “You okay? You’re bleeding.”
Luka stood, holstered his useless weapon, and examined his hands. They were scraped up, but there was more gravel and grime than actual damage.
Azarian appeared at the far end of the alley and jogged down to join them. “No one. They’re gone.” He pointed to Luka’s leg. “Sarge—”
Luka glanced down. A large shard of broken glass protruded from his shin. It wasn’t until he saw it that he realized that it actually hurt. A lot. Adrenaline gave way to a rush of queasiness as blood trickled out from under his pants leg and onto his shoe.
“Aw hell,” he muttered as he sagged against the retaining wall. The last thing he needed was to waste time with a trip to the ER. Maybe they could deal with it using one of the squad car’s first-aid kits. But Azarian’s wide eyes and suddenly pale lips made Luka look again. The glass protruded at an awkward angle as blood oozed out around it. He tried taking a step but that produced a wave of blood and pain that stole his breath and he slumped down onto the retaining wall.
Luka caught his breath, pulled his phone free and dialed Ray. “Change of plans…”
Since walking was out of the question, Azarian retrieved a wheeled office chair from Standish’s place and he and Morton wheeled Luka through the offices and back out front to where Matthew was pacing, talking to someone on his phone. He hung up when he saw Luka. “What happened?”
Luka ignored the question, the same way he was trying to ignore the five-inch shard of glass protruding from his leg. He might have succeeded except it throbbed with every heartbeat. “Did you see anyone run past?” he asked Matthew. “Would have been from that direction.”
“Man or woman? What did they look like?” Matthew asked.
A flush of momentary embarrassment heated Luka’s face as he realized he had no idea. The damn dumpster had blocked his view. Then he noticed that the gray minivan was gone from in front of the nail salon. “Did you see who left in the van?”
“A woman. Middle-aged. I didn’t pay much atten
tion, but she wasn’t running. She walked out of the nail place.”
Luka nodded to Morton, who headed into the nail salon to question them. The sun was beating down on the pavement, heat waves shimmering around him and he had the fleeting thought that the plastic wheels of the chair might melt. He used his good foot to scoot the chair back inside Standish’s office, grimacing as it bumped over the threshold. Matthew followed.
“Don’t touch anything,” Luka ordered him, uncomfortable having a civilian so close to evidence.
Azarian returned with a first-aid kit. “Medics are on the way.” Behind him entered another man, Sanchez, the tech from the cyber squad, carrying a briefcase of tools.
Sanchez’s eyes scanned the office, and without needing any direction from Luka, he found an empty desk and got to work, starting with photographing the scene, documenting the serial number of each electronic device. A vehicle pulled up outside. Luka looked up, expecting to see the ambulance, but instead it was a black Tahoe, similar to those driven by federal agents. Had Ahearn called them already?
A man wearing dark gray slacks and a navy polo emerged. He was tall, an inch or two taller than Luka’s own six foot one, had the physique of someone who never missed a day at the gym, and the swagger of a fed. He crossed into their crime scene, took his sunglasses off as he assessed the situation, dismissing the other men to address Luka. “Where’s Spencer Standish?”
Eleven
Leah accompanied Beth and her baby up to the Obstetrics floor where the Labor and Delivery nurses bustled both her patients away, clucking and fretting over the mess. L and D nurses hated out-of-hospital deliveries. Not only did they disrupt their well-established protocols but there was always a concern about complications for both mother and child.
Leah cleaned up and went to the nurses’ station to chart her role in events surrounding Beth’s delivery. As soon as she finished her dictation, the ward clerk approached her. “Dr. Wright, you came in with the woman who delivered out of hospital. Do you know her name? I’m trying to register her in the computer.”
“Beth.”
“Right.” The clerk waited, but Leah didn’t have any more information to give her. “Beth what? She wouldn’t talk to me and the nurses said she wouldn’t give them a last name either. But I need to register her—”
“Sorry, Beth is all I have.” Leah wondered at Beth’s refusal to give a name. To the ward clerk it was an administrative inconvenience, but there was so much more going on. Clearly Beth was traumatized, fearful about the safety of herself and her baby. Was someone after them? Why?
“I’ll put her in as Beth Doe,” the clerk muttered, obviously unhappy. “The people in Utilization Review can figure it out tomorrow when they’re back.”
“Has this ever happened before?” Leah couldn’t remember ever encountering an ER patient who refused to give a name. Even the street people could usually be coaxed into providing some form of ID or a proper name—especially after the ER nurses got them a warm meal and a chance to shower and change. “Is it against the law?”
“Never happened to me,” the clerk said. “If she used someone else’s name or insurance that would be fraud, but using no name? I honestly have no idea.” She returned to her desk and computer, leaving Leah to wonder.
Maybe Beth was a victim of domestic violence? In this day and age of social media and internet tracking, shelters had to be especially cautious, often keeping their locations secret to the point of meeting potential new clients off site. What if Beth had been on her way to meet a shelter volunteer when she went into labor? After all, pregnancy was the second most deadly risk factor for intimate partner violence—the first being leaving the relationship.
Leah’s team in the Crisis Intervention Center partnered closely with the domestic violence programs. But she couldn’t go behind Beth’s back and try to access confidential information. What could she do to help Beth? Because, no matter what Beth was running from, it was clear she needed help.
After she finished her charting, she stopped at Beth’s room. The OB had delivered Beth’s placenta, the nurses had bathed her, and they were carefully monitoring her for any postpartum complications since they had no records of her medical history. Beth appeared exhausted, her face almost as pale as the snow-white sheets that cocooned her.
“Just wanted to look in on you before I left,” Leah told her, taking the visitor chair beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”
Beth glared at her, lips pressed tight and for a moment Leah thought she wasn’t going to speak. Then she said, “They took my baby.”
“They usually bathe the newborns, check them for any problems, give them vitamin K and warm them up. I can go see how long it will be, if you want.”
Beth nodded, her eyes closing tight as if, by avoiding seeing the world around her, she could deny it entirely. Leah knew the feeling of yearning for the rest of the world to simply pause, give her time to catch up. After Ian’s murder, she’d been so terrified that something might happen to Emily. The constant vigilance and fear had taken their toll—and she was still paying the price with sleepless nights and anxiety.
“Everything changes when you have a child to protect,” Leah said in a soft tone.
Another nod from Beth, but at least this time she opened her eyes, even if she was staring at the ceiling, her hands tugging the sheet higher up as if the thin cotton was a shield against reality.
“So many decisions, choices,” Leah continued. “Your son. Does he have a name yet?”
Beth shook her head slowly, a silent tear slipping down her cheek. She didn’t bother to wipe it dry.
“Is there anyone you want me to call? Your son’s father? Grandparents? A friend?”
“No. No one.” Beth slumped against the pillow. With the sheet tucked up beneath her chin, she looked so young and vulnerable. “He’s gone.”
Before Leah could ask anything more, a soft knock came at the door and the nurse poked her head inside. “I wanted to let you know that your little boy is fine. He was a little chilly, so we have him under the warming lights, but let me know when you’re ready to visit him and I’ll take you to him.”
“He’s okay?” Beth asked.
The nurse smiled. “He’s just wonderful. Now, don’t try to get up on your own, not with that IV. Call me, okay?”
Beth nodded, her gaze distant again. The nurse waited a beat, then shrugged at Leah, and left.
“Beth,” Leah said. “It’s only the two of us. Please, tell me. Why are you so afraid? I can help, I want to help.”
Eyes still closed, Beth shook her head. “No, you can’t. No one can.”
Leah sighed, waited to see if the younger woman changed her mind, then stood. She slid one of her cards for the Crisis Intervention Center from her wallet and wrote her cell phone number on the back. Then she tucked it into Beth’s hand. “Please. Call me if you need anything. Even if you just want someone to listen. I promise you, I can help.”
Beth’s only response was to squeeze her eyes shut even tighter. But she kept the card, so Leah counted that as a step in the right direction.
She walked down to the nursery and watched the nurses through the observation window. Beth’s baby boy was under warming lights and his nurse was checking a heel-stick blood sugar test. The monitor at his Isolette showed good vitals. When the nurse had finished, shucking her protective gown and washing her hands, Leah tapped at the window to get her attention. The nurse smiled and a minute later unlocked the door to invite her into the charting area. “Checking on our new addition?”
“Yeah. I just saw the mother. How’s he doing?”
“Good. Quiet, though. I’ll take him to mom as soon as his temp is stable.”
“She wasn’t sure of her dates, said he was a month early—”
The nurse shook her head. “Not so early. On exam, I’d put him at thirty-six to thirty-seven weeks.”
“That’s good.” It meant much less risk of complications, even without prenatal care
and an unconventional delivery. “What’s your take on mom?”
The nurse hesitated. Once babies were delivered, the nursery team cared for both mother and child as a family unit, facilitating bonding. “Not sure yet. She seemed in shock.”
“Denial is more like it.” Leah explained how Beth had hidden at the fairgrounds. “She was terrified. I think she was running from someone. But she won’t talk to me.”
“Then no way will she talk to the police. Let me try—and if I can’t get anywhere with her, we’ll put a call in to social services.” The nurse sighed. “Think she’s incompetent to make decisions about herself and her baby? Should we get psych involved?”
“I don’t think she understands that by not talking she’s actually making things harder on herself.”
“Even though she’s fine, they both will probably be here a few days. We’ll need to wait on cultures for the baby.” Observing babies at high risk for infection for forty-eight to seventy-two hours in the hospital was standard procedure. “Plus, I’m not sure we can even discharge her or the baby since we had to register her as a Jane Doe—well, Beth Doe.”
“Could you let me know how it goes? Or if I can help—or one of the CIC’s staff.” Leah’s position as medical director for the Crisis Intervention Center gave her access to the best-trained social workers and interviewers in the county. It was the reason that they’d forged their new partnership with the police, to assist with vulnerable witnesses and victims as well as offering forensic, trauma-based interviews.
The nurse nodded. “I’m seven to seven today and tomorrow, so I’ll call you after rounds in the morning. Hopefully she’s only in shock, needs a little time. Knowing her baby is healthy will help as well.”
