by CJ Lyons
“Mrs. Standish?” He offered her a handkerchief, which she immediately smeared black with make-up and tears. Harper took a step back, discreetly out of the widow’s line of sight, and began to record their conversation. “I’m Detective Sergeant Luka Jericho and this is Detective Harper.”
She sniffed and nodded.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Standish.”
“Tassi.” Her voice was gravelly, deep and smoky.
“Excuse me?”
“No one calls me Mrs. Standish. My name. It’s Tassi.”
“All right, Tassi.” Luka kept his tone solemn as he prepared to deliver the news of her husband’s death.
But when he opened his mouth, she shook her head at him and said, “I went to the river.”
“Ma’am?”
“Larry called and said Spencer was dead, so I went to the river. He was meant to be at the river. Not here. Why is he here? He can’t be—this isn’t, this can’t be happening.”
Luka exchanged a glance over Tassi’s head with Harper. She shrugged, as clueless as he was about the wife’s rambling.
“Your husband, you expected him at the river?” Had Standish called Tassi and threatened to kill himself along the river? There were several bridges scattered throughout the county that were known suicide spots, spans high enough over fast-moving white water that often bodies were never recovered. “When did you last hear from him?”
“No, this can’t be happening,” she repeated as if a mantra. Then she lurched up. “I need to see him. It’s not him, it can’t be.” But before Luka could stand, she fell back onto the bench as if her body didn’t have the strength to fight gravity.
Luka gave her a moment, then asked again, “When did you last speak with your husband?”
“He had the cancer before, fought it once—it about killed him. So when it came back, he always said he’d decide how and when to end it, not the cancer.”
“Cancer?” The way the woman was leaping from topic to topic, Luka was straining to keep up. Obviously, Tassi Standish thought what she was saying was relevant and important, but Luka wished she’d leave a few conversational breadcrumbs for him to follow. “Your husband has cancer?”
She nodded grimly. Then frowned—even the furrows in her brow appeared styled by a make-up artist. “Are you sure it’s him?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Luka assured her. “We used his driver’s license photo for the preliminary ID, and we’ll check his fingerprints to confirm it.”
“Fingerprints?” Her frown deepened. “Spence isn’t a criminal, why would you—”
“His thumbprint from when he got his driver’s license.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.” Despite her words, she didn’t sound any less confused.
He noted that she still hadn’t asked how Standish had died. “How much did Mr. Hansen tell you?”
“Dr. Hansen,” she corrected. “He’s our chiropractor. He said Spence was gone, that’s all. I was so upset, I hung up, drove to the river as fast as I could. But Spence wasn’t there…” She trailed off in confusion.
Again with the reference to the river. And she’d immediately assumed suicide. Maybe Standish’s cancer diagnosis explained that, but Luka thought she’d still want to know the method her husband had chosen. Or if he suffered—the one question every family asked and that there was no good answer to.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Wilson, the CSU tech, beckoning him. “It’s very hot out here and we want to know all about what’s been going on with Spencer,” Luka told Tassi. “Detective Harper will take you inside where you can get something cold to drink, and I’ll be along shortly.”
Tassi looked at him in confusion. “You want to come into the house? Why? Why can’t you just leave me to bury my husband in peace?”
“Ma’am, in cases of unexpected deaths—”
“But Spence’s death was expected. I mean, the man gave his life to this community. Do you know who he is? He single-handedly established the Craven Relief Foundation, uses his position to ensure that his clients donate handsomely to it. Do you have any idea how many children have gotten medical care because of Spencer? Not to mention families with food on their table and roofs over their heads? Why do you insist on prying into his private life?”
Luka did a double-take. Tassi’s demeanor had gone from confused and shocked to privileged entitlement in the space of a few heartbeats. She seemed to read his reaction, because she covered her face with her hands and slumped down on the bench, which made him wonder if she really was as frantic and upset as she appeared. “Harper, I think Mrs. Standish needs to get out of this heat. Could you please help her inside where it’s cooler?”
“Of course.” Harper slid her arm around Tassi’s shoulders and helped her up. “C’mon, Tassi. We’ll get you someplace more comfortable, give you some privacy.”
Tassi kept her eyes almost completely shut, leaned her weight against Harper—who at five-eleven towered over Tassi’s petite form—and clutched her arm as they shuffled toward the main house.
Luka joined Wilson inside the back of the CSU van, thankful for the air conditioning running at full strength. “What have you got for me?” he asked the tech, knowing Wilson would never interrupt an interview without good reason.
“I was able to open the deceased’s envelope without compromising any evidence. I took photos of the contents—figured you’d want to read them before you talk with the widow. It’s pretty damning.”
“Wife was just saying what a pillar of the community Spencer was,” Luka muttered as he leaned over the tech’s laptop to read Standish’s confession.
“If by ‘pillar’ you mean someone building a Ponzi scheme using a charity foundation as its base, then yeah, sure.”
Luka scanned through the images and realized they weren’t actually a confession, so much as evidence: pages of financial transactions from a variety of accounts, both local and offshore. It would take hours to go through and verify them all—hours that would need to wait until banks and brokerages were open for business to confirm the data. Standish had been moving millions around, but one thing was clear even from a quick glance: most of it hadn’t stayed in any investment account or charity foundation for long; instead it had been funneled back into Spencer Standish’s own pockets.
“There was also this,” Wilson told him, scrolling through to another photo. “Kinda puts everything else in perspective.”
It was a handwritten note on personal stationery, written in the same distinctive scrawl as the note on the front of the envelope:
Dear Detective or whoever is investigating my death,
Please know that I fully regret and repent my crimes. I would blame my failing health, but the truth is that I intended to steal whatever I could from those arrogant bastards. Not for myself, but to help others. I thought that if I could dispense the money via the foundation, then even if I was caught, it would still have done some good.
But then the market got tight and Tassi needed—well, it doesn’t matter, because I could never say no to Tassi. She’s not involved in any of my crimes and has no knowledge of them whatsoever. She’s innocent.
I take full, complete responsibility and confess that I was the sole perpetrator of the crimes you’ll find detailed in these documents.
I’m so sorry. I’m a weak man and unworthy of forgiveness.
I can’t bear the thought of the pain an arrest or long, drawn-out trial would cause Tassi, so this is the only way. I’m sorry.
Spencer Standish
Luka read the note again and skimmed over a few of the financial statements. Just enough to know the right questions to ask Mrs. Standish until they could get a full forensic accounting of Standish’s business, charity and personal finances. He called the judge on duty for the necessary warrants, forwarded Standish’s confession, and swore an affidavit.
“You’ll want the house, the office, and all financials for both husband and wife?” the judge asked.
“Th
ey live on a sprawling estate with several outbuildings, so the entire property and all vehicles, electronics—”
“Yes, so I see. And we’ll freeze all financial accounts. Are you planning to involve the federal authorities?”
“Probably. We need a chance to examine the evidence first.”
“Of course, of course.” The judge hesitated. “I think we’re okay here, but I should disclose that I’ve had dealings with the charity foundation. In fact, you’ll be hard pressed to find a judge who hasn’t.”
“How’s that, Your Honor?”
“We and our spouses have participated in several charity events to raise money for them. As did the local bar association, the medical association, Cambria City College—”
In other words, Standish had tainted pretty much Craven County’s entire upper strata. The people with money or influence or both.
“Bottom line,” the judge finished, “is you’re going to have some very upset people knocking on your door wanting answers, Detective Sergeant. You’d best prepare yourself.”
Luka held his irritation in check. He hated when cases got political. “Thanks, Your Honor. I appreciate it.”
He hung up and caught Wilson’s eye.
“This is going to be a red ball, isn’t it?” the CSU tech said with a frown. “You know we can’t rush—”
“I know. Do the best you can.” Luka sighed. “I need to call Ahearn.” The commander would want advance warning of the political tsunami headed their way.
“Good luck with that. I’ll have my guys finish here and we’ll take the SUV to the garage for complete processing.”
Luka nodded and left the air-conditioned confines of the CSU van, the outside air hitting him like a blast wave. He tried Ahearn but there was no answer, so he left a voicemail. Then he crossed the lawn and climbed the porch stairs to enter the Standish residence.
It was as opulent on the inside as he’d expected, although mostly due to the lavish construction materials and ornate architecture. The foyer was empty of any personal items and when he stepped through the archway into the spacious front room, he saw that it was furnished only with a few tasteful antique sofas and chairs grouped into conversation areas. There were few personal effects, making the house feel more like a property staged for sale than a lived-in home.
Harper and Tassi were huddled together on a loveseat, Tassi weeping into Harper’s shoulder and Harper awkwardly attempting to comfort the widow. Luka hid his smile as she pleaded silently with him to rescue her.
“Detective Harper, could you fetch a glass of water for Mrs. Standish?” He offered Harper a lifeline. She nodded gratefully, disentangled herself from Tassi, and leapt from the sofa, heading to the rear of the house.
“I know this is difficult, Mrs. Standish,” Luka started as he chose a chair at right angles to the loveseat where Tassi was now curled around its arm, her tears staining the silk upholstery.
“It’s Tassi, please,” she corrected him with a sniff.
“Tassi. If you’re up to it, I’d love to hear more about Spencer. When did you first move here?”
Before she could answer, the front door banged open and a blond man in his fifties strode past Luka as if he wasn’t even there, taking the seat Harper had vacated. He wore a black suit and clerical collar and Tassi immediately turned, wrapping her arms around him.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “I’m here now. Don’t say another word. Let me handle everything.” He patted Tassi’s back, then looked past her to Luka. “Detective Sergeant Jericho, I presume? I’m Reverend Matthew Harper.”
Eight
The pregnant woman moaned and pulled her knees to her chest, an instinctual posture of impending birth. Leah knelt beside her.
“Breathe through it, breathe.” She demonstrated. Once the contraction had passed, she said, “What’s your name?”
The woman didn’t answer right away. She took a few deep breaths. “Beth.”
“Beth, I’m Leah. When’s your due date?”
“Next month. It’s too soon—” Another contraction cut off her words. Leah didn’t need to glance at any clock to know this baby was coming. Now.
“Beth, I’m a doctor. I’m going to help you and your baby. First, I need to get us some help.” The fair would have an ambulance and crew stationed on site. Leah glanced toward the tent, ready to summon someone from inside, but Beth grabbed her arm.
“No. Don’t go.”
Ruby and the kids came running out of the tent. “What’s going on?” Ruby asked. But then she quickly took in the situation. “Kids, stay back.”
“Get the ambulance over here,” Leah told her as another contraction writhed its way through Beth. “I need more hands.” She’d soon have two patients to care for, one of them a premature baby. Ruby nodded and shepherded the kids back into the tent. Leah grabbed a bottle of water and used it to rinse her hands, then reached into her bag for the small bottle of hand sanitizer. All she had by way of supplies were basic items: an Ace wrap, some Band-Aids, a clasp knife, an Israeli trauma dressing. She’d been anticipating scraped knees and twisted ankles, not a preemie.
The contraction passed and Beth fell back against the stack of bottles. “Are you allergic to anything? Taking any medicines? Have any medical problems?”
Beth vehemently shook her head to each question. “I feel like I need to push,” she gasped.
“Don’t push, not yet. Try to breathe through it. I’m going to examine you, see how close the baby is. Is that okay?”
Beth nodded.
“Your ultrasounds all normal, no signs that the baby is breach?” Although with a preemie, they could flip positions. Leah ran through the neonatal resuscitation protocols in her mind—it’d been a long time since she’d delivered a baby. Usually if a woman made it as far as the ER, they could get them to Obstetrics in time to give birth up there. “How many weeks did they say the baby was?”
Beth clenched her teeth, although Leah had her hand on her belly and didn’t feel a contraction. Finally, Beth answered. “Missed my last few appointments. Thought I’d have time—” Another contraction cut her off. They were coming even faster. Leah glanced around; where was the damn ambulance? She really didn’t want to deliver a preemie without access to oxygen and proper equipment.
Then she realized: who came to a county fair alone? Much less a pregnant woman venturing into the sweltering heat of the crowds. Beth carried nothing with her—no bag, no trinkets from the arcade games, not even a water bottle. Her dress had no pockets, therefore no phone or wallet, either. Where had she come from? Why was she alone?
“What’s your full name, Beth? Tell me who I can call for you. Family?”
Beth just shook her head, lips pressed tight. The sound of an engine came from around the corner of the tent and the ambulance appeared. About time, Leah thought, grateful that the baby had waited. The rig pulled up and the rear doors opened. Ruby, Nate, and Emily all hopped out, followed by a medic, who was joined by his partner. Ruby herded the kids to the far side of the wall of bottles, thwarting their efforts to see what was going on.
“Had to show them how to find you back here, didn’t I?” Ruby said before Leah could voice the question.
“Thanks. Please get the kids home. I need to stay with her.”
Ruby didn’t argue, thank goodness—but Leah knew she’d pay for it later. Ruby always collected on her debts.
“What’ve we got, Doc?” the first medic asked as his partner pulled the gurney close.
“Uncertain gestational age, I’m guessing approximately thirty-four to thirty-six weeks. Contractions less than two minutes apart, urge to push, some spotting, no med history but also no recent prenatal care.” As she gave them the report, Leah helped Beth onto the gurney and the other medic strapped her in as another contraction hit.
“I need to push,” Beth cried out.
“Breathe, Beth. Give us a sec to get you into the ambulance,” Leah told her, ignoring the medics’ panicked looks
. They were only EMT-basics, not trained in advanced life support. Like most Pennsylvania EMS services, Craven County relied on volunteers, so it wasn’t always possible to staff every shift with full-fledged ALS paramedics.
“You are coming with us, right, Doc?”
Leah nodded, her focus on Beth as they jostled her into the back of the ambulance. The first medic joined her while the other got in front to drive. “Get her on the monitor, hand me the OB pack, let’s get some O2 going.” She grabbed a pair of gloves and slid them on, immediately feeling more in control of the situation despite the bumpy ride as they drove over the grass, heading out to the dirt road leading to the two-lane highway twisting down the mountain to Cambria City.
Under the oxygen mask, Beth heaved in breath after breath as Leah examined her. The medic prepped the neonatal resuscitation equipment and stood by, ready to hand Leah whatever she needed. When she examined Beth, the baby was already crowning, a head of dark hair pulsating with Beth’s movements.
“The baby’s right here,” Leah told Beth. “Try hard not to push for a moment while I check.” Everything looked good; the amniotic fluid was clear except for a small amount of blood—not unusual. “Do you know if it’s a boy or girl?”
“Girl,” Beth said between gasps. “They thought it was a girl.”
“Well, won’t be long now before we know for sure.” Leah glanced at the medic and he nodded his readiness. They bumped over a curb and the road got smoother. Good timing. “Beth, when the next contraction comes I want you to push for a count of ten, okay?”
Sweat pouring into her eyes, hands gripping the gurney’s rails, Beth nodded. Leah grabbed a towel and a pack of gauze, hands at the ready. She kept one hand on Beth’s belly and felt the contraction before Beth made a sound.
“Okay, push, push, push!” Leah urged as the baby’s head emerged. Then she saw the bulging, gelatinous umbilical cord that connected the baby to the mother’s placenta. The cord had wrapped itself around the baby’s neck. “Wait. Stop. Breathe but do not push.”