The Next Widow: A gripping crime thriller with unputdownable suspense (Jericho and Wright Thrillers Book 1)

by CJ Lyons

  “Still, Harper might have been right all along,” Ray said. “Oldest crime in the book: guy steps out on wife, wife hires a thug, teaches him how to torture the husband before chopping him to bits.”

  “There was a half million life insurance policy,” Krichek put in. “Pays double for homicide.”

  “And she’d get to keep the kid without a messy custody battle,” Ray added.

  Luka jerked his head up at that. “While we were in the car, Emily said something about keeping secrets. Made it sound as if her father was hiding things from Leah.”

  “Besides a possible affair, missing cash?” Ray said. “We need to find a way to talk to Emily Wright without the wife watching our every move.”

  Easier said than done—if Leah Wright got a lawyer, they might never be able to interview Emily, not unless Luka got Children and Youth involved. Which would take a hell of a lot more evidence than he had now.

  Ray sensed his reluctance. “Three attacks. Emily’s life is in danger. Sounds like child endangerment to me. Possible grounds for removal? For the kid’s own safety?”

  Luka heaved out his breath. He still couldn’t see Leah Wright traumatizing her daughter like that. “Keep it in our back pocket. Krichek, you keep working the patient angle. Get Sanchez up here to help. Ray, you’re with me.”

  “Face it, Luka,” Ray said as he scraped back his chair and stood. “Leah Wright checks all three Ps: passion, profit, and power.”

  Thirty-Six

  The thing about being an ER physician was that in addition to working with police and other first responders, Leah also often worked with prosecutors. Unfortunately, it was almost always involving sexual assaults or child abuse cases, but she’d learned a lot watching them interact with hostile witnesses, twisting their own words against them.

  “That’s why you always get a lawyer on your side,” the Assistant District Attorney working Crimes Against Children had once told her over drinks while they celebrated a conviction. “People think that if they’re innocent, they don’t need a lawyer. Or even that it’s their responsibility to help the police.”

  “Of course it is,” Leah had argued.

  “Not to help the police build a case against you.” The ADA had tapped her beer glass against Leah’s. “What’s the big deal? Call a lawyer. Then tell the police whatever.”

  “If I was going to talk to the police anyway, why would I need a lawyer?”

  “If a lawyer’s there, the police are going to be more careful which questions they ask and how hard they push. Because a lawyer will tell you to shut up and yank your ass out of there long before you even realize you’ve wandered into quicksand and are drowning.”

  Now, as Leah waited in the barren interview room at the police station, she remembered that advice. Except that, other than prosecutors, she didn’t actually know any lawyers. At least not criminal ones. She doubted the guy who’d drawn up their wills and family trust would appreciate a late-night call for a referral.

  Besides, not only was she clearly innocent—she was the victim here. Why would she need a lawyer?

  Exhaustion bobbed her chin to her chest. It was the first time she’d been truly alone since she left for work yesterday. Time had slowed to an excruciating grind. Leah folded her arms on the small table—it was cheap particle board, bolted to the floor, and scarred with a variety of graffiti. She lowered her head to her arms and tried not to think, not to remember.

  For a moment she felt as if she were having an out of body experience, floating above herself, looking down, a totally separate person. Was there another Leah somewhere out there in the universe? Along with another Ian who was blessedly whole, who hadn’t died? She knew it was only a dream, but still, it gave her comfort. She imagined Ian’s fingers smoothing her hair, whispering that he was safe, Emily was safe, everything was going to be all right.

  The door opened—the room was so narrow that it scraped along the edge of the table. Leah jerked up, swiped stray drool from her chin, and blinked. It was Jericho along with another man, a bit older and definitely more grizzled.

  “Dr. Wright, this is Detective Acevedo. He’s going to walk us through some preliminaries while I take notes.”

  She nodded, scraping her lightweight vinyl chair back to make more room as the second detective moved another chair beside her at the table. Jericho eased into the third chair in the far corner. Suddenly the room felt claustrophobic, her throat tightening as if there wasn’t enough air. When she did manage a breath the sour reek of fear filled her nostrils. She hoped the men couldn’t sense that it came from her—it made her feel ashamed, embarrassed, as if she was somehow guilty.

  “How’s Detective Harper?” she asked, breaking the silence. “What did her CT show?”

  Jericho frowned at that. “The doctors say there’s no sign of bleeding, but she has a pretty bad concussion. They’re going to watch her overnight in the ER.”

  “Good. I’m glad she’s going to be okay.”

  Another lengthy silence as the second detective, Acevedo, set a small digital recorder on the table between them, turned it on, and then shuffled papers from a large stack of file folders he carried. Finally, he selected one sheet of paper and slid it over to Leah along with a felt tip pen. “This is just a formality. If you can read and initial, then sign at the bottom. It explains that we record all interviews, video and audio, and also goes over your Miranda rights,” he explained. “Most people only know Miranda from what TV gets wrong, so we want to make sure you understand that you aren’t under arrest and can leave at any time. We can also take a break anytime you want one.”

  “In fact,” Jericho put in, “do you need anything now? Something to drink, a snack?”

  “I have a right to an attorney,” Leah read out loud, shaking her head at his questions. She glanced up from the paper. Neither man made eye contact, their attention suddenly focused elsewhere as if wishing she’d skip over that part. “Do I need one?”

  “That’s entirely up to you, Mrs. Wright.”

  She noticed that once again, they’d dropped her title. Reminding her not-so-subtly that her being a doctor no longer held any power. “Harper, she said she saw the man? Do you know who he is? Have you found him?”

  Acevedo made a grunting noise. “You saw him as well. Almost as close as Harper.”

  His tone was accusatory, as if she could have stopped the man or intervened. She understood that. A police officer was seriously injured, after all. “I only saw his back. Running away. It was dark.”

  Acevedo nudged the paper closer to Leah. “Any questions before we begin?”

  All she had to offer them was the truth—surely there was no harm in that? Except… there were ways to use the truth against even an innocent person. Maybe she should ask for a lawyer? What could it hurt?

  How much would it cost? Without Ian’s salary money would be tight, even without the costs of crime scene clean up—two crime scenes now, she reminded herself. Not to mention she wouldn’t be able to go back to work right away. When she did, she’d probably need daycare—she hated the thought of it. She was already regretting sending Emily with Jessica and that had only been a few hours ago.

  “Mrs. Wright?” Acevedo gave her a verbal nudge. “Are you ready to begin telling us your side of things?”

  There was something about his expression—it was like he knew something she didn’t. Leah remembered what her friend had told her: a good attorney never asks a question she doesn’t already know the answer to. Leah bet good detectives were the same way.

  “I understand my rights,” she said, signing the sheet and marking the box requesting an attorney to be present during questioning. “And I’d like an attorney.”

  Acevedo blew out his breath and leaned back in his seat, eyeing Jericho and giving the other detective a slight nod. As if Leah had done exactly what he’d expected.

  That’s when she realized her instincts had been spot on. The police hadn’t brought her here as a victim or a witness.
They’d torn her away from her daughter because they thought she was a suspect. That she’d been involved in Ian’s murder.

  Her stomach clenched as she pushed back in her chair and stood. The police couldn’t help her protect Emily. Not if they were thinking she was working with the killer.

  Thirty-Seven

  After leaving the police station, the one thing Leah was certain of was that the only way to protect Emily was to stay as far away from her as possible. So she headed to the one place where she’d always felt safe and in control: Good Sam’s ER.

  She found Naomi Harper in the observation area, fumbling her way upright in her bed, obviously confused. Leah rushed to her side and gently helped the police officer back against her pillows. “Do you know where you are?”

  Harper’s eyes fluttered, then opened wide. “Gotta go. I saw—”

  “You’re at Good Samaritan ER. Do you remember what happened?” Harper wore a clavicle strap and Leah saw from the films displayed on the bedside computer that her head CT was normal, no bleeding or swelling. Good news. Both for the police officer and for the case. If Harper could remember what her assailant looked like.

  “Flying?” Harper’s words came slowly. “Face. I saw his face.” She struggled to sit up again. “Jericho. Where’s Jericho? I saw him.”

  “It’s okay,” Leah reassured her. “You fell and broke your collarbone as well as sustaining a concussion. Your CAT scan was normal, no signs of bleeding, but we need to monitor you for a while longer.” Leah frowned. Was she still one of the “we” of Good Sam’s ER staff? Or was she just fooling herself that she wasn’t already exiled as an outsider?

  “Can’t stay,” Harper muttered, trying to sit up again. Leah pushed the button to raise the head of the bed so she wouldn’t strain her shoulder. “Have to get back to work.” She slumped into the pillows, eyes drifting shut. “Tell Jericho I saw him.” Then she lurched upright, her face contorting in pain as she moved her left arm. “Phone. I need to call—” The name was lost. “Phone. Please.”

  Leah regarded her with skepticism. “Sure you don’t want me to call for you? You’re still a bit out of it, you know.”

  “I can do it.” Harper backed her words up with a glare. “Why are you here?”

  Leah rummaged through the plastic patient belonging bag hanging from the foot of the bed. “I was worried about you.” She slid a phone out, then maneuvered a tray-table over the bed so Harper could work the phone one handed.

  Harper instinctively reached for the phone with her left hand but winced in pain. She closed her eyes, breathing through clenched teeth until the pain subsided.

  “You can still move your hand a bit even with the clavicle fracture, but trust me, the more you do with your other hand, the better.”

  “What are you doing here?” The words emerged relatively slur-free. “Really?”

  “I needed to thank you. For stopping him.” Leah drew in her breath. “I can’t believe I wasn’t there. If he’d gotten to Emily—” She grimaced. “Anyway. Thank you. I’m sorry you were hurt.”

  “Doing my job.”

  “Back at the house, you said you saw him before? Did you remember where?”

  Harper frowned. She clutched at the phone without actually calling anyone as if it was a security blanket. Her eyes drifted shut again. Leah took a seat at the computer. Least she could do was to sit with Harper—she’d probably wake up disoriented again. And maybe there was someone else she could help. She pulled the bedside computer closer and began to type.

  “What’s wrong?” Harper asked a few minutes later as she jerked awake once more. Her voice was steadier.

  “You’re fine,” Leah assured her again. “What do you remember?”

  “Doctor—other doctor, a man. He said my brain was okay, but my collarbone was broken.” She squinted at the computer screen. “Right? Did they find something else wrong? They took a ton of blood.”

  “No. You’re fine, all your labs are normal. I’m just searching for another patient’s files. But he’s not here.”

  “Who?”

  “There’s a little boy with CF—cystic fibrosis. His dad said he’s been really sick, but I can’t find any record of him.” Leah tapped her fingers against the monitor. “He said he just got custody, maybe the kid has a different last name. I’ll try the CF registry; it lists all the patients in the region.”

  “What business is it of yours? I mean, privacy, right?” Leah almost smiled—Harper sounded like her old, pugnacious, cop-self.

  “Brody said something about complications. I want to make sure we didn’t mess up in the ER, and maybe flag the kid’s chart for the future, but—” Leah blinked at the screen. “There’s no one named Charlie in that age range on the registry. That’s weird.”

  Harper was fumbling for the bed controls, straining to drop the side rail. “Brody. That’s what the receptionist called the guy in the free clinic. The one talking with your daughter. I saw him watching both of you.”

  “Yeah, that’s him. Jessica Kern is his son’s doctor.”

  “She’s a shrink.”

  “She’s coordinating Charlie’s care because he’s had so many problems. But there’s no medical record for him, nothing. Brody said Charlie had some tests today—” Leah thought hard. “Maybe Jessica’s treating him without a medical record? Save them money? No, that would leave Good Sam at risk; not to mention, it might cause unnecessary delays in care—”

  Harper raised her good hand to reach for her phone but Leah had moved it to the bedside table while she slept. She missed, the phone skidding past her fingers and flying off the table, practically into Leah’s lap.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Brody.” Harper’s voice was loud, not a shout, a command. “Call Jericho.” She slapped her good hand against the bed rail, beckoning to Leah.

  “Brody?” Leah gasped. “Brody was the one who— No. I mean, why would he? No.” But she gave Harper her phone.

  Harper wrapped her fingers around the phone as if it were a lifeline. She pressed the speed dial for Jericho. He answered on the second ring. “Harper? Something wrong?”

  “The guy. I know who he is, boss.” The words tumbled out machine-gun fast.

  “Hold on, slow down.”

  “He was here. At the hospital.”

  “A patient? They won’t divulge—”

  “Don’t ask the docs. Ask the security guys. He was in the free clinic. He had a hospital ID. Name of Brody.”

  “Allan Broderick,” Leah interjected loud enough for Jericho to hear. “He volunteers at the clinic. His little boy, Charlie, is a patient. Has cystic fibrosis.”

  “Broderick, Allan,” Harper repeated. “They’ll have him on camera. Maybe the parking garage?”

  Brody killed Ian? As it finally sank in, Leah stood up from the stool so quickly that it sped across the floor, crashing into the wall.

  “Wait,” Harper told her.

  But it was Jericho who answered Harper. “On it. I’ll need you to point him out. You okay to do that if I send Ray or Krichek over to get video from security at Good Sam?”

  “I’ll be here,” she promised. “We got him. Boss, we got him now.”

  Harper ended the call. Leah grabbed her coat, already had Ruby’s car keys in her hand. Brody? How? Why?

  “You can’t go,” Harper told her, her words slurring again as if she’d used up all her energy. “You need to tell Jericho—”

  “No. I sent Emily home with Jessica. Thought she’d be safer there, away from me.” God, how could she have been so wrong? Brody worked with Jessica, could know where she lived, might be heading there right now.

  “Wait for Jericho.”

  “I need to get to my daughter. You and Jericho take care of Brody, call me when you have him locked up.”

  “But—” The word emerged in a whisper, Harper’s eyes drifting shut again.

  Leah didn’t wait. She had to get to Emily. Now.

  Thirty-Eight

  Luka
let Leah go after setting an appointment for the morning—with her and her attorney. He was more than a little disappointed when she’d asked for one. It was the smart thing to do, of course. But it was also the guilty thing to do.

  Harper’s call from the ER was the one bright spot in the night. Luka found several dozen Alan, Allan, and Allen Brodericks in the statewide DMV database, so he sent Ray over to Good Sam to see if Harper was coherent enough to ID the guy. She’d sounded pretty out of it on the phone. Even if her Brody wasn’t in their database, if Harper confirmed the ID, the hospital should have a record of contact info—if he’d used his real address.

  “I still think Leah Wright might be behind this,” Krichek said after Luka dispatched Ray over to Good Sam. “Do I need to bother searching for her patients? If she killed her husband, it was because of something the husband did, not a patient from her past. And if this Brody character did it—”

  “Still needs to be done,” Luka said, glancing over the younger detective’s shoulder. “There must be a connection between Leah Wright and Broderick—if he was a patient of hers, then it’s another piece of circumstantial evidence to help build our probable cause.”

  A knock on the door interrupted them. “Marco Sanchez from the tech squad,” the man identified himself. “You called for an expert consultation?” His smile was wide as he didn’t wait for an invitation but moved to join them. “Where’s Naomi? I found something—she owes me a drink.”

  “Harper was injured, is at the ER,” Krichek told Sanchez, his voice frosty. Luka glanced between the two men—both about the same age, but there the similarity ended, with Krichek on the losing side of any comparison.

  “I’m Sergeant Jericho,” he said, interrupting the silent testosterone contest. “What do you have for us?”

  “Finished with Leah Wright’s phone. Turned up something interesting.” Sanchez held up a tablet and a photo appeared on the whiteboard. “Everything was wiped clean—she used an encrypted text service that deletes everything—except she must have forgotten she downloaded this to the internal memory card.”