by CJ Lyons
“But that’s not—” Harper cut in.
“And the phone records,” Krichek drawled, clearly enjoying tormenting the junior member of the squad. “But I think maybe Harper has news from the cyber squad.”
“Yes,” she exclaimed. “Sanchez figured out that the baby monitor you found was loading to the Orlys’ cloud account and we have the password, so he was able to remotely access the monitor videos.” She paused to take a breath as she clicked her tablet. “Watch this.”
A grainy night vision video revealed Walt sleeping. The time stamp was from 8:19 this morning. Walt was tossing and turning, his hands flapping about, despite him seeming sound asleep. The chime of the doorbell made him jerk upright, eyes open. “Trudy?” he shouted. After waiting a few moments with no answer, he threw back the covers and got out of bed, his gait slow and shuffling, moving past the camera’s range. With no motion to activate it, after a minute the camera went blank.
“Did you see the time? When the doorbell rang?” Harper asked. “It was only two minutes before the first 911 call.”
Krichek was not impressed. “So? She locked herself out, he’s pissed, opens the door, argues with her, she drops her bags, he shoves her over the railing. Bing-bang-boom, two minutes is plenty of time.”
“Her keys were in the lock,” Luka reminded him.
“There’s a safety latch on the inside to prevent Walt from leaving,” Harper added. “Either Trudy or someone using her keys had to open it for him. Walt couldn’t have opened that door himself.”
Luka wasn’t sure that Walt couldn’t have opened that door, but he let Harper’s comment slide. “Maggie found marks from a stun gun on Trudy’s scalp, hidden by her hair. So whoever did this—”
“Planned it.” Krichek blew his breath out, conceding the point to Harper. “Unless they just happened to be carrying a stun gun and just happened to see Trudy right after she unlocked her door and just happened to know Walt was asleep inside so they needed to ring the bell to wake him and open the door from the outside for him…”
“We need to test those childproof latches, see how difficult they really are,” Luka said, reluctant to give up on Walt as a suspect totally. After all, the vast majority of the time, the domestic partner was involved in cases like this one.
“Dr. Wright could maybe help us know if Walt’s symptoms are as bad as everyone thinks,” Krichek said. “He could still be our actor.” He frowned. “Except for the damn monitor. It shows he was asleep before the doorbell—so who rang the doorbell? No reason for the wife to use it when she had her keys.”
“Wait.” Harper was still up, practically bouncing on her toes. “That’s not the only thing Sanchez found.” She clicked through to the Orlys’ cloud account. There were two folders labeled with numbers correlating to each of the Orlys’ phones. Harper clicked on one and the screen filled with dozens of photos.
“Look at the dates,” she told them.
Most of the photos were of nursing facilities. The final ones were a stately colonial-style mansion on a well-manicured lawn. “Trudy’s been searching for a long-term placement for Walt,” Luka said. “His physician said she’d decided on a place in Smithfield.”
Krichek tapped his own device, scrolling down to squint at a report. “Cell records show she was there last week and again yesterday.”
“There were photos taken yesterday that were deleted from her phone. These six,” Harper said. She highlighted the photos and enlarged them to fill the screen. They showed the grounds around the nursing home, its street, and the neighboring houses. Somehow Trudy had found a window of opportunity to take the photos when the rain had stopped, leaving behind puddles that reflected the parked cars and trees along with a row of smaller, but still elegant homes that lined the avenue.
“Why would she delete them?” Krichek asked. “To save room on her phone?”
Harper shook her head, her grin wide. “Trudy didn’t delete them. The metadata says they were erased from the phone after she died.”
That earned a raised eyebrow from Krichek. “The killer didn’t want anyone to see them.”
“But he didn’t know they were still in the cloud’s trashcan where Sanchez found them,” Harper finished.
“Where’s the phone now?”
“Sorry, boss, that’s all I have. Sanchez said as soon as the photos were deleted, the phone was turned off and its GPS disabled. Said the actor probably removed the battery and SIM card. Last tower it pinged to was the one nearest the Falconer at 8:24 this morning, only a few minutes after the murder.”
“It might still be there. Along with the stun gun.” Luka narrowed his eyes at the photos. They were perfectly ordinary pictures of a perfectly ordinary street. The only human visible other than Trudy’s reflection in a car side mirror was a faint silhouette of a man at the far edge of one shot. “Sanchez is enhancing these images?”
“Yes, sir. Running them through every program he can think of.”
“Where are we on motive?” Luka asked Krichek. Even if the photos were the reason why Trudy was targeted, they still needed to rule out any other motives. And they didn’t rule out Walt entirely; he could have been working with an accomplice.
“Financials look fairly benign. No excessive debt, but their retirement accounts have taken a hit because of Walt’s medical bills. Last year they established a family trust so that if anything happened to Trudy, the money would be earmarked for Walt’s care. That’s where her insurance payoff is going. Half a mill, should buy Walt a nice room at that nursing home.”
“No other beneficiaries? Next of kin?”
“Nope. Just the two of them. No one other than Walt stood to profit financially from Trudy’s death.”
“If Walt isn’t our actor—and we also need Sanchez to analyze the monitor footage, see if it’s been tampered with—then the killer knew to ring the doorbell to wake Walt. And to open the door for him,” Luka said.
“Setting Walt up to take the fall.” Krichek grinned at his own joke, ignoring Harper’s groan and eye roll.
“Bad puns aside,” she said, “if our actor intended to implicate Walt, they knew about Walt’s medical condition and the safety latches Trudy had installed on the door.”
“So someone who’s been inside their apartment. And someone with access to the Falconer,” Krichek added.
“Maybe they were disguised as someone in a position of authority?” Harper suggested. “That would also explain how they got out without anyone noticing them. Dressed as a cop or a medic.”
“Or they just moved fast, knowing that Walt seeing Trudy’s body would provide a distraction when he called for help.”
As Luka listened to Krichek and Harper’s ping-pong of theories, he couldn’t help but think that there was one person who fit every aspect of the profile they were building.
“Krichek,” he interrupted their debate. “Did you find that report I asked you about? The one from the neighbor about a possible cyberstalker.”
“No report ever filed by or about Risa Saliba. Not with us, at least. Maybe since it’s cyberstalking she went straight to the feds? It’s their jurisdiction.”
Luka sat back, absorbing the implications. Had Risa lied about filing the police report? Or had Leah misunderstood which agency Risa had spoken with? Krichek was right; a journalist with Risa Saliba’s experience would definitely know that the FBI investigated cybercrime. Hell, she’d written a story on it.
He needed to talk to Risa Saliba. But not until he had a chance to do a thorough background check on her and go over her so-called stalker files again. And look at what stories she’d covered before she got sick. If she was hiding anything, he was determined to find it.
Twenty
Despite the fact that Good Sam was only a mile away from her home, Leah lost her nerve halfway there. Luka was counting on her to get Ian’s files, but she couldn’t even make the turn onto Jefferson, her old street. Anger simmered through her. Not just anger, shame at her weakness. More than
a hint of despair and dread—she couldn’t even perform this simple errand, and it was only one of an overwhelming myriad of tasks Ian’s death had left her with. She had an inbox filled with forms and phone calls waiting to be returned to insurance adjustors, attorneys, bankers, his former employers, retirement advisors, credit card companies, the DMV—the list was daunting and endless.
Instead of wallowing in grief and self-pity, she allowed herself the luxury of anger. And, as she drove past the school, she realized she had a target other than her own wounded psyche to direct it at. Classes were out, the kids all gone, but the lights were on in the administrative wing, she noted as she took the spot closest to the main door. She ran through the rain to the door, glad to find that it hadn’t been locked yet.
The guard post was empty and the only person in sight was a custodian waxing the floors at the far end of the corridor. She strode into the administrative offices, past the vacant secretary’s desk, and into the vice principal’s office.
Ms. Driscoll glanced up from her computer, its screen bathing her face in an orange-yellow light. No wonder the kids called this place the dragon’s den, Leah thought as she almost turned to flee. But her anger squashed the impulse and she held her ground.
“Mrs. Wright,” Ms. Driscoll began before Leah could say anything. “I was not expecting you. Did you make an appointment?” Her tone implied that if Leah had, then Leah must have gotten the time or date wrong, otherwise she would have been expected.
“You made a mistake. You called my mother in today, instead of me. If there’s a problem concerning my daughter, I expect to be called.”
Ms. Driscoll said nothing, merely arching an eyebrow of disbelief as she clicked on her computer. She read down a screen, taking her time—and leaving Leah standing, rain dripping from her coat, feeling more and more like a child waiting to be disciplined rather than an adult. Power games meant to manipulate. Everything in the office was arranged to intimidate, from the lack of chairs to the wall filled with framed diplomas to the bookcases filled to the brim with officious-looking volumes. What kid wouldn’t immediately be cowed into obedience?
Leah smiled. Any kid, except her Emily.
Finally, Ms. Driscoll looked up from the screen. “It appears you made the mistake, Mrs. Wright. Usually your husband, Dr. Wright, was our primary contact for events concerning Emily.” She gave an arch smile, as if Emily was so out of control that she caused such events on a daily basis. “Dr. Wright was always readily available when we needed his presence to… intervene and modify Emily’s behavior.”
“I—” Leah was about to protest. Ian was a regular fixture at the school, volunteering with Emily’s class, and he’d also sometimes taken Emily out of class early to work on their father–daughter computer projects, but he’d never mentioned any occasion when Emily had required discipline.
But the vice principal cut her off before she could even start. “I see here that you called to change the primary contact from Dr. Wright to your mother, a Miss Ruby Quinn. So, no mistake. At least not on our behalf.”
“No,” Leah fought to keep her voice calm, “I called to add my mother to the pickup list and emergency contacts. I should have remained primary contact.”
“But, Mrs. Wright.” Ms. Driscoll’s smile widened, showing even more teeth. “You were never a primary contact. Only Dr. Wright.”
Leah forced herself to count to ten, but made it only to four. “Please correct the error immediately. And explain to me how your school allowed my daughter and her friend to be both physically and psychologically abused by two of their classmates?”
There was click as the lights in the outer office shut off. Leah glanced at the clock: four o’clock. Ms. Driscoll closed down her computer, stood and brushed past Leah to retrieve a trench coat and old-fashioned umbrella from a coat stand beside the door.
“I’d love to, but I’m afraid we’ve run out of time for the day.” She stood in the doorway, one hand on the light switch, her body angled in an invitation for Leah to either leave or remain in darkness. “However, feel free to call and schedule an appointment to discuss Emily’s behavior and potential consequences. At your convenience, of course, Mrs. Wright.”
“It’s Dr. Wright,” Leah said as she stalked past, already wondering how difficult home-schooling might be.
Satisfied that at least she’d gotten the last word, she fled to her car and started driving. Rage simmered through her, but there was little she could do about it. On the surface, any objective evaluation of their conversation would reveal only that the vice principal was acting in a professional manner. But Leah understood the truth of the matter: Ms. Driscoll was as much of a bully as the Homan brothers.
Seething, the encounter replaying in her mind, she was startled when she realized she’d turned onto Jefferson and was only a few houses away from her old home. As she pulled into an open space across the street, a queasy feeling swamped her. She couldn’t do it.
But Luka needed Ian’s copy of his work for Risa. Leah had to go inside sooner or later, if only to grab her and Emily’s personal belongings and retrieve the boxes of evidence the police had returned to the house a few weeks ago. If she kept giving in to her fear and anxiety, they would only fester and build. Best to face them now.
Still, she sat, her gaze fixed on the brick Victorian divided into two townhouses, all thoughts of Ms. Driscoll forgotten. The azaleas beside the front stoop had gone from naked branches to budding, the rain making their green appear otherworldly. Had they been so green and alive this morning when she’d stopped after dropping the kids at school? Honestly, she had no idea, she’d been so trapped in a haze of grief. She thought of the day when Ian had planted them. She’d been working on the hydrangeas on the other side of the walkway, Emily plopping small containers of annuals in between, more dirt covering her than made it into the ground.
A good day. One of many that this house had gifted her.
Hanging onto the happy memory, she left the car before her courage could desert her and crossed the street. Her fingers were numb—from the cold, not from fear, she lied to herself—as she fumbled her key into the lock. The door swung open and Leah stepped into the house, feeling like a stranger in her own home. It was cold, so physically cold that she shivered. And the smell… nothing horrible, no scent of blood, but stale with the faint underlying tinge of chemicals.
She shut the door, the thud echoing through the house before dying into silence. It was the quiet that made Leah falter. Her house was never quiet, not like this, not this soundless vacuum devoid of life.
She hugged her arms around her chest. She couldn’t focus beyond what was right in front of her: her good wool coat, the one she saved for church and special outings, hanging from the coatrack. She brushed her fingers against its sleeve, trying not to remember the last time she wore it—coming home from church, her and Ian arguing about something the priest said. Well, she’d been arguing, and Ian, as always, treated their difference of opinions as an opportunity for debate. It was the one thing that drove her mad about him, the way he became excited when they argued, as if it was some kind of intellectual exercise, stimulating, fun. So much so that he’d often end up arguing her side for her, which, of course, only infuriated her more.
And now, she couldn’t even remember what they’d been arguing about. All she remembered was at one point yanking her hand away from his, her need to gesticulate, hammer home a point, more important than her need to keep hold of his hand.
Hanging onto her coat with one hand, she reached for Ian’s herringbone coat beside it, raising the sleeve, inhaling his scent. She tucked the cuffs of both coats into the pockets of Emily’s pink jacket hanging between them, creating a family.
Only then did she turn to face the rest of her home. Evidence boxes were stacked on the coffee table. She’d asked the police to deliver them here instead of to Nellie’s house, because she hadn’t wanted Emily asking questions. And because she hadn’t had the strength to deal with wha
t was inside them. She still didn’t.
Several were small and flat, sized for computers, the other two were larger, and on top was a small plastic envelope that held Ian’s wedding ring. All were marked with a case number scrawled in a thick marker. As if Ian’s entire life—and death—could be contained by an anonymous seven-digit number.
Leah wove her way around the armchair and coffee table, past the sofa and basket of Emily’s toys, until she ended up at the fireplace with its mantle full of photos. She stretched a hand out, yearning, but immediately pulled it back, afraid to contaminate memories so precious and pure with the despair of her current reality. Her breath came quick and gasping. Her lips were numb, her face tingling with pins and needles, and the pressure on her chest had a stranglehold on her breathing.
She knew it was a panic attack, but no amount of logic could ease the overpowering sense of impending doom. She whirled, ready to bolt, but some last strand of rational thought had her grabbing the laptop boxes and envelope as she fled to the door. Arms full, she almost dropped everything as she struggled to turn the knob.
And then she was outside, stumbling down the steps. She made it to her car, and threw the boxes into the back, closing the hatch and collapsing against it, rain streaming down her face and hair, rivulets of cold seeping between her parka and her skin.
Had she locked the door? She dug into her pocket and found her keys. No. Her hands had been full.
Reasoning through that one simple question somehow helped to calm her, the pressure in her chest giving way, although her pulse still throbbed in her temples. A few more deep, slow breaths and she was able to clear her vision and focus on the next task: going back.
Not inside, she promised herself. Just to the door. Lock it and leave. She could do that. Lock it and leave.
She focused on her feet as she retraced her steps until she faced the solid oak door once again. Despite her panic, part of her was desperate to escape inside, never leave the world where she could imagine Ian still alive. But she denied herself the luxury of escape. She couldn’t afford it—she had Emily to think of.