by CJ Lyons
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.”
“Thanks.” Leah left, going through the multiple secured doors that made the nursery floor the safest area in the hospital. Only nursery staff and parents wearing special electronic wristbands paired to their infants could take a baby beyond the ward without triggering an alarm. Even hospital staff like Leah needed to use their keycard to gain access and civilians needed to be buzzed in by a ward clerk monitoring the entrance.
Beth and her baby boy would be safe here. It was what waited them beyond Good Sam that had Leah worried.
Twelve
Harper pulled up alongside the patrol car waiting in the high school’s empty parking lot and rolled down her driver’s side window, cursing the heat that flooded her car—it had taken the entire drive down the mountain to get the interior temperature half-bearable. “What do you have for me?”
The uniformed officer, a guy named Tommy Narami, lowered his window. “Saw a few of Freddy’s girls over at the Burger Chef.”
“Anyone on this list?” She showed him the names of other girls arrested alongside Lily.
He propped his sunglasses on top of his head and flipped through her sheaf of booking photos. “Yeah. These two: Heidi and Tina. A couple of Freddy’s boys are with them, but I don’t think they’ll give you any trouble.”
Harper made a small noise of disgust. Of course Freddy wouldn’t trust his girls out on their own—not because he was worried about their welfare; more likely he wanted to make certain the girls weren’t ripping him off. “Thanks, Tommy.”
“No problem. Call me you need anything.”
Harper drove away, already thinking through her approach. It was too dangerous to talk to Heidi or Tina directly—that would lead to Freddy’s unwanted attention and could place the girls in danger. But if the girls were in a group, and Freddy’s boys were right there, she could work with that, leave an opening for anyone who had information to contact her when they were safely alone.
She pulled up alongside a fire hydrant in front of the fast-food joint and observed the group through the plate-glass windows. Five girls, including Heidi and Tina. Because their pimps were paid via online apps, the girls carried little to no cash, so Harper wasn’t surprised to see that there weren’t any food containers on the table, only a collection of large soda cups. Drinks were the cheapest item on the menu and the girls would make them last until it was their turn to venture out to the curb and flag down potential customers. Working girls were always underfed and hungry, which gave Harper an edge—thanks to Rachel.
She went inside, taking a moment to pause and appreciate the miracle of modern technology as the air-conditioned chill greeted her. Tommy was right: the girls were “protected” by two corner boys sitting at a front table, filling their faces with burgers and fries. Barely old enough to shave, yet they thrust their chests out and dropped their hands to the waistbands of their baggy shorts, giving Harper the stink-eye. She flashed her badge and ignored them, even as they got on their cells, calling their boss, no doubt.
The counter staff ducked their heads, knowing that if they asked her to remove the loiterers, they’d pay the price later. Harper gave them a nod, reassuring them that she wasn’t there to cause any trouble. She carried her cooler over to the girls. They were slouched along the seats lining the booth, pretending to ignore her.
Harper set the cooler on the table with a loud thud. “You guys hear about Lily?”
Two of the five gave an automatic nod, but quickly flicked their gazes away. As if anything outside the smudged and dirty window was more interesting than Harper.
“I’m trying to find her family. Let them know she’s passed.” Harper figured Lily’s family was a safe topic even if the corner boys reported their conversation to Freddy. “You guys hungry?” She opened the cooler, unleashing her secret weapon: Rachel’s roast with all the trimmings. The aroma overpowered even the weakest of them and while the corner boys looked on with envy, their greasy burgers forgotten, the girls dug in like locusts.
One girl, Heidi, edged over so that Harper could slide into the booth beside her. Harper sat quietly as the girls devoured the leftovers, passing the containers around, their guards dropping as their bellies filled. Tina sat across from Harper. She was the oldest of the group, in her thirties at least, and studiously avoided Harper’s gaze, keeping her expression stony and distant. No joy coming from that direction, Harper thought, so she focused instead on Heidi. “You doing okay?”
“I remember you,” Heidi said. “Picked me up last winter, got me a coat and boots.”
“Heidi, right?” Harper said as if she didn’t remember. The girl had been freezing, close to frostbite standing on a corner one icy night. “Thought they sent you to juvie.”
“Suspended sentence. Judge sent me home to Lancaster, but couldn’t deal with my dad—” She rolled her eyes. “So now I’m back. At least Freddy takes good care of me.”
And yet it was Harper who’d bought the girl a coat from the Goodwill. It always shocked her to be reminded of how brainwashed the girls were, how they believed that they were loved, respected, and cared for. The drugs helped erode their inhibitions, of course, and addiction kept them anchored by invisible chains, but the psychological manipulation was more powerful than any drug or fear of violence. All she could imagine was that their lives at home were so bad and their expectations about love and family were so warped that they wouldn’t know the real thing if they ever found it.
“You knew Lily? She ever mention where home was?”
“Nope.” Heidi filled her mouth with a biscuit and Harper turned to the others. None of them knew where Lily came from, just that she wasn’t from Cambria City. Harper carefully edged the discussion into the previous night, but everyone denied seeing Lily.
“Good thing, because Freddy’d kill her he saw her poaching his territory.”
“Besides,” another chimed in. “Thought she left the biz. Like, last year or something?” This garnered a chorus of nodding agreement.
“Maybe jail?” someone suggested.
“Not for that long,” another girl said. “Rehab?”
“You cook this yourself?” Heidi asked. “Like every day?”
Harper smiled as she gathered the empty containers and returned them to the cooler. “My mom did. Sunday dinner. Me? I live out of my microwave.”
The girls nodded. “Tell your mom thanks—and you can bring more anytime.”
“No, she can’t,” one of the corner boys shouted from their table. “Hey now, there’s cars waiting, you all need to get back to work.”
The girls muttered, until the two youngest were nudged from the booth, adjusting their tube tops and hair as they strutted past the corner boys and out the door. Harper realized she wouldn’t get anything more out of them, not with the corner boys there, so she stood to leave. She slid a few cards for the shelter her brother Jonah ran onto the table—on the back she’d written her own cell number. “In case you ever need anything.”
The girls studiously ignored the cards, but she hoped one or two might take one. As she walked to the restaurant’s door, Heidi passed her, heading to the restroom. The girl glanced over her shoulder at Harper, who made sure the corner boys weren’t watching and then followed.
Once Harper had closed the door behind her, Heidi said, “Sorry, I couldn’t say anything before. But have you tried Macy? She and Lily were real tight. They used to work for Freddy but took off last year, which is why he’d be super pissed off if he found Lily back here, working his territory.”
Macy Holmes. She was on Harper’s list, had been arrested once with Lily. “Any idea where I can find her?”
“Works for Philly now, over on Second usually.”
“Thanks.” Harper reached for her wallet, but Heidi stopped her with a gesture.
&nb
sp; “No cash. Freddy will find it and think I’ve been holding out on him. But maybe another meal sometime? I haven’t had cooking like that in a long…” Her expression turned wistful, eyes blinking back tears, reminding Harper that she was only a kid. Then Heidi cleared her throat, her features hardening once more. “Well, never had cooking that good, I guess. Anyway, hope you find Lily’s folks, let them know about her. She was always real nice to me.”
Harper handed her one of Jonah’s cards. “There’s always a hot meal waiting for you at the Pierhouse Shelter—my brother runs it, just tell him I sent you. I’ll bet he could help you find a job or a safe place to live, if you ever—”
Heidi scowled, then spun on her spiked heels to inspect her features in the mirror. “Got a job. Besides, I could never leave Freddy. He loves me, takes care of me.” And with a wave of her hand, she dismissed Harper.
Thirteen
Luka eyed the newcomer with suspicion. The man had the bearing and arrogance of a federal agent, yet he hadn’t identified himself as one. Had Ahearn called him in? But if so, then why was he asking for Spencer Standish—shouldn’t he already know Standish was dead?
“This is an active crime scene, sir,” he told the man, feeling at a distinct disadvantage sitting below him, one leg still dribbling blood despite the gauze Azarian had packed around the shard of glass. He would have loved to have seen the shard gone altogether, but basic first-aid principles said never to remove an impaled foreign body because of the risk of causing hemorrhage or further damage. “May I see some identification?”
The man considered this, then slid a hand into his rear pocket and withdrew a thin wallet. He opened it and held it down at Luka’s eye level, but he didn’t look at Luka; instead he was watching Sanchez. “Foster Dean. DEA, retired.” He snapped the wallet shut, returned it to his pocket. “Where’s Standish?”
“And why is a retired drug enforcement agent interested in Mr. Standish?” Luka asked.
“I’m here to help, Detective—”
“Detective Sergeant Luka Jericho.” Luka let that hang for a moment. “Help how?”
Dean started to step past Luka but stopped when every cop in the place—even the cyber tech, Sanchez—alerted, all turning to stare at him. Dean wasn’t old enough to have gotten his full twenty years in, so he must have left the DEA for another job—or because he was asked to leave.
“Where is he?” Dean snapped, his focus now solely on Luka. “Do you have him in custody?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Standish is not available,” Luka answered, playing along to see what Dean knew. Although he had the feeling that the abrasive former fed wasn’t going to volunteer any information, despite his offer of assistance.
But then Dean surprised Luka. “You don’t even know who you’re dealing with, do you? For starters, Spencer Standish isn’t his real name. His real name is Scott Spencer.” Dean scoffed. “I could tell you a lot more, but I’d like something in exchange. Do you know where he is?”
“Why are you so anxious to locate him?” Luka asked.
For the first time Dean appeared uncertain, his gaze assessing Luka like a poker player debating whether to fold or bluff. “I work as a private security consultant. My clients were victims of a Ponzi scheme Spencer ran back in Colorado. I’ve been searching for him for almost three years, since he fled Denver.”
The timing fit with Spencer’s arrival in Cambria City. Luka nodded his agreement. “Okay, Mr. Dean. Tell me what you know about him and I’ll tell you where Spencer is.”
Dean glanced at Luka’s leg and the shard of glass. “It’s a fairly long conversation. How ’bout you tell me where to find Spencer and, once you’re patched up, we’ll talk. I’ll tell you everything.” As if to punctuate his words, an ambulance pulled up to the curb out front. Luka tried to hide his grimace—talk about poor timing.
“Wait outside and we’ll discuss this further,” he instructed Dean in a voice loud enough to get Azarian’s attention. The burly officer sidled over to stand beside Dean, his body positioned so that the other man had no choice but to step outside to give the medics room to roll their gurney inside.
The medics worked efficiently, gathering Luka’s details as they took his vitals, cut away the bottom of his trouser leg, bolstered the gauze supporting the shard to further stabilize it, applied a splint to immobilize his leg, and lifted him onto the gurney.
“I’m needed here; can you finish treating it yourselves?” he asked them, reluctant to leave the crime scene or Dean, his only witness.
“Sorry, no can do,” the first medic told Luka. “It’s pretty deep, embedded in the muscle, and we can’t risk taking it out in case any blood vessels are damaged. Believe me, you want to be in the hospital if that happens.”
“Not to mention it’s gonna hurt like hell without the good drugs,” his partner quipped.
“How long can we wait?” Luka persisted, noting that Matthew Harper had sidled outside and was speaking with Dean. There was no way Luka could stop them, but he didn’t like the idea of the two of them joining forces. He needed information and so far all Matthew had done was to prevent Luka from obtaining any, under the guise of client confidentiality and Tassi’s emotional distress. Damn convenient for the pastor-attorney to be able to use both professions to guard his client’s secrets.
“Dirty foreign body?” the medic answered. “Wait longer than a few hours and it means a trip to the operating room and increased chance of serious infection. Wouldn’t risk it, if I were you, Detective.”
Luka knew they were right, but he also couldn’t risk losing Dean’s information. “Okay, give me a few minutes and then we can go.”
Before he could invite Dean back inside, Morton returned from the nail salon. “Hard to get much out of anyone,” he said. “But they did confirm that a woman in a gray van came in to have her nails done. Said she didn’t have an appointment, waited for a few minutes, but then left again.”
“Did they get a name?”
“Nope, sorry. And no CCTV inside—but I have a call into the owner of the property to gain access to his security footage. That will cover the entire shopping center plus he owns the gas station on the far corner.”
“Good. I’ll get my team working on court orders for any other nearby businesses that have cameras.” Luka nodded to Dean, beckoning him in, ignoring the medics who were standing by, filling out their paperwork and pretending not to be eavesdropping. “Mr. Dean, time to talk.”
Dean rolled his shoulders back, making himself appear even larger and more intimidating. Luka knew that whatever Dean told him it wouldn’t be everything the man knew. He could see it in the way the man’s gaze grew distant as he decided what story to tell.
“Spencer is originally from Ocean City, New Jersey. Used to run some low-level scams in Atlantic City, but drew attention from the wrong crowd.”
Luka wondered if that meant criminal organizations or the police.
“Then he fled out west. Six years ago, he surfaced in Denver as a supposedly legit hedge fund manager. Lived the lifestyle of the rich and famous, cozied up to old money and new, made a lot of charity contribution pledges, said he had so much money that he didn’t need any more, was instead devoting his financial talents to helping charities raise capital. Put his money where his mouth was by creating a charity foundation that doubled its capital in fifteen months.”
Sanchez hovered at the edge of Luka’s vision, obviously anxious for a word, but Luka didn’t want to stop Dean, not while he was being so forthcoming. “Anyway,” Dean continued, “returns like that had everyone knocking on his door, begging him to manage their investments. Charities, private foundations, individuals. But he told them all no.”
“Baiting the hook,” Luka surmised. Classic setup for a scam—and people always fell for it.
“Exactly. Next quarter, his foundation posted even better returns and his wife let it slip at a charity gala that he had a system that was foolproof.”
“How involved is she
?” Luka asked.
Dean frowned. “We never found any proof that she was involved. But after that, he began to increase his client base.”
Basic rule of any con: get the mark to beg for the privilege of having his money stolen. Conmen thrived on their victims’ greed and often used the defense that honest men could never be swindled. A self-serving lie, but all too often it allowed them to skate away from their more serious offenses, especially when victims realized they’d appear either complicit, incompetent or stupid if the con was revealed to the public.
“So your clients were victims of Spencer?” Luka asked.
“You know I can’t tell you that. Let’s just say they have a compelling reason to find him.”
Dean had only revealed what Luka would have discovered with a thorough background check. But he had saved Luka time, so Luka gave him what he wanted. “Spencer’s dead.”
Dean didn’t even blink. Instead, he smirked. “Are you sure about that? He faked his death three years ago, an apparent drowning during a fishing trip. No body was ever found, and he laid low for almost a year before showing up here as Spencer Standish.”
Sanchez beckoned again and the medics were checking their watches, anxious to get going. Luka didn’t want to keep them from answering other calls, but he knew Dean had more to offer. Then he saw an unmarked white Impala pull up beside the ambulance. The calvary had arrived. Ray and Krichek here to relieve Luka.
“Thanks, Mr. Dean. But we’re sure. Spencer’s corpse is in our morgue—I sent him there myself.” He nodded to the medics that he was ready to go. “Wait here, please.”
The medics wheeled him outside back into the broiling heat. Ray and Krichek greeted him on the pavement as he waited for the medics to open the ambulance doors.
The two couldn’t be more different: Krichek, the ultimate hipster, never far from his mushroom coffee or a wisecrack, had joined the VCU a year ago, a transfer from property crimes. The kid had a few rough edges—a fondness for puns and conspiracy theories to start—but showed promise if he didn’t allow his own ambitions to sabotage him. While Ray, despite being five years older than Luka, would happily end his career without ever seeking promotion. He’d come up through the ranks working undercover for Vice and Drugs, and still, even in his Sunday suit, could be mistaken for a grate man. But he was the smartest cop Luka knew and, despite being slowed down after getting shot in the leg six months ago, there was no one Luka would rather have beside him if things went south.