by CJ Lyons
As Harper drove to the ER, his words haunted her. Had she done good? Really? How could she have been so stupid? Stupid, stupid, stupid. She should have pushed the issue with Macy yesterday, brought her in off the streets. Now a girl had almost died because of Harper’s carelessness.
The aftermath of adrenaline shook her almost as much as her guilt at her rookie mistake. She’d thought she was cultivating Macy, easing her into telling her what she needed to know about Lily’s death. Should have known better. A street addict was going to do what addicts always did: chase their next fix, even if it killed them.
At least they’d gotten Darius. No way was he walking away from this. Kid was probably also high, reacting that way. The uniforms were taking him to get drug tested and cleared medically before booking him. Then it would be Harper’s turn to see what Darius knew. Had he killed Lily? Maybe he thought she was trying to get Macy to go back to rehab, was trying to take Macy from him?
Too many questions, not enough answers and now one girl was dead and one almost dead.
It felt like Harper’s first case as lead detective was going nowhere fast.
Harper pulled into one of the reserved parking spaces at the ER. She killed the engine, sitting in the sudden silence for a long moment, taking a few cleansing breaths. Macy was going to be okay—thanks to Leah. Darius was in custody. And soon Harper might have the answers she needed to bring Lily justice.
Those thoughts echoing in a reassuring cadence, she strode out from the car and into the ER, flashing her badge at the security guard to enter the inner sanctum.
“He give you any trouble?” she asked Miller, the patrol officer waiting at Darius’ bedside.
Miller gave Darius a glare. Darius responded by closing his eyes tight and pretending to be asleep. “Nope.”
“Everything by the book. Full medical eval, tox screen, and once he’s cleared by the doctors and processed, call me.”
“Sure thing, Harper.”
Darius squinted one eye open. “Harper? That your name? Get ready, because I’m going to sue you all.” He rattled his handcuffed wrist against the steel rails of the bed. “I’m going to take everything you have. This is false arrest, police brutality!”
“Shut up,” Miller told him. “Save it for the judge, why don’t ya?”
Not for the first time, Harper wished that Cambria City had the budget to be able to afford bodycams. But the patrol vehicles’ dash cams would have caught most of the encounter—along with the civilians with their phones. There was probably already video streaming.
The thought brought her up short. Which meant Luka might at this moment be facing calls from the press—or worse, Commander Ahearn. She knew Luka was shielding her from the commander’s critical gaze, putting his own reputation on the line for her sake. And she’d let him down, big time.
Assured that Darius was in good hands, she moved down the hall to a quiet corner and called Luka. “Everyone’s okay,” she started, then explained what had happened. “If anything, this is good for the department,” she finished. “No one fired their weapons, Leah did her crisis intervention thing, Darius is in custody—”
“How’s the girl?” he asked, cutting to the heart of the matter, like always. She could tell by the background noise that he was in his car.
She glanced down the hallway to the resuscitation area. Macy wasn’t in the major trauma area—a good sign, Harper thought—but rather in one of the nearby glass-walled rooms. Nurses swarmed over the girl in a well-rehearsed choreography, cutting off her clothing, covering her with a sheet as they applied monitor leads, drew blood, and inserted an IV.
“They’re treating her now. I think she’ll be okay.”
He was silent for a long moment. “How’s Leah?”
“Seriously? I think she loved it—maybe not so much the talking Darius down part. That was stressful, especially with us needing to be prepared to use force and the civilians cheering like Darius was some kind of hero. But you should have seen her, taking care of Macy. She’s a good doctor.”
“Listen. You’re going to get questioned ten ways from Sunday about your tactics, about your motivations. Civilians and the press will ask why you didn’t do something stupid like tackle an armed man, other cops might tell you you should have shot him as soon as the knife came out. But no one died today and, no matter what anyone says, that makes this a good day.”
She slumped against the wall, the adrenaline that had sustained her earlier now totally dissipated. “Thanks, Luka.”
“I’m headed over to Good Sam now. Tassi Standish and Foster Dean are causing some kind of ruckus in the morgue.”
“Want me to leave, go down there?”
“No, you’ve got your hands full. Document everything, make sure it’s all by the book. When you’re done, let me know. I need to interview Tassi and Dean, so if the CIC rooms are open, I’ll probably do it while I’m there.”
“Okay.” Usually she would have been pissed off, being excluded from an important interview, but now she was relieved. It gave her the freedom to see if she could get Macy talking about Lily Nolan. “Thanks, Luka.”
He hung up. Harper saw the nurses had backed away from Macy, and several had left, so she took that as a sign that Macy might be stable enough to talk. She walked into the glass-walled room. Macy was on oxygen and in soft restraints, although she didn’t appear to be fighting anymore. Her color was ashen, she reeked of vomit, and she barely stirred as Harper approached.
But she was alive. And from what Harper could interpret from the monitor, she was doing okay. The nurse turned to Harper, her hands full of Macy’s clothing, shoes, and purse all collected in a clear plastic bag. “Detective, do you want to sign for her personal effects? I’ve inventoried them and found what could be drugs. The lab said her initial tox screen was positive for fentanyl, which explains why she needed multiple doses of Narcan.”
Harper took possession of the bag, which was now evidence. “Are you testing for other drugs as well?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Harper liked that—no one ever called her “ma’am.” And the nurse wasn’t even that much younger than she was. “We’re running a complete tox screen.”
“Thanks.” She’d grab one of the uniformed officers to help her document Macy’s belongings before taking them down to the station where they’d be logged into evidence. “When can I talk with her?”
The nurse shook her head. “Probably will be a while. Dr. Davidson is her attending, he can give you a better idea.”
Harper glanced at Macy. She looked very small and very young, dwarfed by the medical technology surrounding her. Clutching the bag with Macy’s belongings, Harper left the room and spotted Leah at the nurses’ station talking with Dr. Davidson, the head of the ER.
“Any idea when I can interview Macy?” she asked them.
Leah started to answer but then stopped, no doubt remembering that Macy was no longer her patient. A quick look of yearning crossed her face and Harper realized she’d been right about how much Leah enjoyed—and missed—her life in the ER.
Dr. Davidson looked up at Harper, suspicion filling his eyes. “My patient needs rest, not an interrogation.”
“I’m working a girl’s murder.” Harper didn’t try to soften her tone or sugarcoat the facts. “And Macy OD’d on fentanyl, which means big problems for everyone—especially the ER. I need to trace her supplier.” So far, Cambria City had been spared the stronger synthetic opioids smuggled in from China. Fentanyl wasn’t only deadly to the addicts who inhaled or injected it; it also had the potential to be absorbed through the skin, placing every cop, EMT, paramedic, and first responder at risk.
“I understand,” Davidson replied, the edge gone from his tone. “But Macy won’t be ready to talk to anyone for a few hours at least.”
Harper glanced at Leah, who nodded her agreement. “Thanks. I’ll let you know when the lab definitively IDs the drugs we found on her.”
“And we’ll of course keep you apprised.
I assume she’s under arrest, so one of your officers will remain with her?”
“Yes. Don’t worry, since she’s in no condition to respond to her Miranda rights, no one will question her until she’s medically clear.”
“Sounds like an appropriate arrangement.”
Harper swallowed a sigh of frustration and turned to leave, but Leah called her back. “Good luck, Harper.”
Harper gave her a wave and walked past Darius’ room on her way out. “Only thing he tested positive for was pot,” Miller told her. “We’re waiting for the discharge paperwork then we’ll get him to the station, book him.”
“Great. I have some evidence that needs to be logged in as well. Got a voucher?”
He took an evidence label from the rear of his notebook. They moved to the corner of the room where there was an empty stainless-steel table. Harper donned a pair of gloves and opened the plastic bag while Miller videoed her using his phone. They both recoiled at the noxious fumes from Macy’s clothing, but Harper saw that the nurses had thoughtfully packaged her purse in its own bag. She slid that bag out, sealed the clothing bag shut, then opened the one with the purse.
The nurses had enclosed their own inventory and Harper verified it as Miller sealed each item in a separate bag: one small plastic baggie containing ten white pills consistent with OxyContin; two hand-rolled cigarettes, probably marijuana; an assortment of change in various denominations wadded up in a five-dollar bill; a syringe, tourniquet, lighter, cotton wad, spoon; a plastic bag containing unknown white powder—the fentanyl, Harper suspected, taking care not to disturb it; a cheap flip phone; a smartphone inside a glittery case; and a variety of condoms.
“Vice and Drugs are going to want to talk to her if this does turn out to be fentanyl,” Miller said as he gingerly resealed the bag of powder. He hefted the bag in his palm. “Got to be almost dealer weight. Worth a pretty penny on the street if it’s pure.”
“If it was pure, she’d be dead.” She couldn’t see any dealer trusting Macy to hold such weight—and how could Macy have bought it herself? Even diluted, that much fentanyl would have cost a few thousand. Had she stolen it from someone?
She turned her attention to the two phones. The flip phone was charged and didn’t require any security. She was tempted to “accidentally” access the recent texts and contacts, but anything she found could be ruled inadmissible if she needed the evidence for court, so she held off. For now. They’d be able to get a warrant easily; she just needed to be patient.
She examined the more expensive smartphone. How had Macy afforded this? A gift from Darius? Maybe the untraceable burner phone was for business and the smartphone for personal use? Whatever the answers, they’d need to wait since the smartphone was dead.
Harper turned to where Darius was snoring, sleeping the peaceful sleep of the guilty.
The overhead light glinted on a thin gold chain he wore around his neck. It was much too delicate for a man to have chosen for himself. She stepped toward him for a closer look. From the chain dangled a single calla lily.
“Call me after he’s processed,” she told Miller, excitement sparking through her. “I want photos of everything—including that necklace.”
“No problem. Think he’s got something to do with the drugs we found on the girl?”
“I think he has something to do with murder.”
Twenty-Eight
Leah was finishing charting her involvement with Macy’s resuscitation when her phone rang: Luka. “Meet me at the morgue?”
“Paperwork versus bodies? No contest.”
“I’m serious. That widow I asked you to help interview? Tassi Standish? She’s at the morgue along with an ex-fed who was investigating her husband. Anyway, it’s too complicated to get into, but I need to separate them, get them out of the morgue before Ford Tierney refuses to do another case for us—”
“Ford does not enjoy complications, especially not ones coming from family members,” Leah told him.
“I know. So can you help? I thought we could interview them at the CIC.”
“Sure, no problem. Any word on Beth?”
“No.” He paused as if considering. “But we can stop by security after the interviews, review their footage ourselves if you want.”
She appreciated the time he was spending on a case that officially was no case at all. “Thanks.”
The morgue was in Good Sam’s basement. Leah took the stairs, and couldn’t help but be reminded of the times after Ian’s death when she’d taken solace in being surrounded by the stairwell’s simple cinderblock, overwhelmed by her pain and sorrow. The seldom-used stairway had made for a good place to hide and regroup, compose herself to face the world once more. Thankfully, it had been a while since she’d needed to take advantage of its quiet comfort.
She passed the security desk in the lobby of the coroner’s office, the guard jerking his chin to the visitors’ waiting room. Luka leaned against the open door of the waiting room, balanced on his crutches, watching the people inside. He nodded to her as she joined him. The room held several seating areas, designed to allow families space and a bit of privacy while they waited to speak with the coroner investigators. There was a door on the side wall leading to a small meditation room and another room for private consultations.
The group gathered inside didn’t seem at all interested in quiet reflection. A blonde woman sat in a chair that had been pulled to the center of the room, her face buried in her hands, although from her posture, Leah had the feeling that she wasn’t actually crying. She wore a designer silk dress, black but definitely not tailored as widow’s weeds with its short skirt and low neckline.
“Tassi Standish, wife of Spencer Standish—at least that was the name he used here,” Luka told her in a low voice. He explained about the circumstances and questions surrounding Spencer’s possible financial crimes and his death.
“And she’s here because she’s protesting her husband’s autopsy?” she asked. “On what grounds? Religious?” She’d known the medical examiner to pursue less invasive methods in some cases, but only if they allowed adequate evidence collection.
“That’s what she says. Loudly. But Ford said she also requested an expedited death certificate. For the insurance company, I’m guessing.”
“The kind of woman who wants her cake and eats it, too.”
“Or the kind of woman who understands how to create an emotional smokescreen and use it to her advantage,” Luka replied.
In front of Tassi, in a protective stance, was a man who had the tan and muscles of a tennis pro. He wore crisp white linen slacks and a blue polo top that matched his eyes. He had his arms crossed over his chest and stood with his feet planted as if prepared for battle. The object of his fury was an even taller and more muscular man who, from his posture, had dismissed the second man’s presence to focus on the widow, speaking to her in a low but threatening tone that was unmistakable even without hearing his words clearly.
“The Ralph Lauren model is Larry Hansen,” Luka continued. “He’s the neighbor who found Spencer’s body. And obviously a very good friend to Tassi. Not sure exactly how good—that’s one of the things I’d like to find out. Larry not only found the body, he also has no alibi and was an investor in Spencer’s fund.”
“So he was a victim. Which makes him a suspect,” she surmised. Luka nodded. “Who’s the wannabe Navy SEAL? He looks like he wants something from Tassi.”
“Foster Dean. Former DEA, now works as an investigator for victims of Spencer’s previous Ponzi scheme back in Denver. Back there Spencer faked his death, ran off with the money, and laid low until he showed up here almost two years ago and started up shop again.”
“He’s a good guy?” Her skepticism colored her voice. Any man bullying a widow—even if her husband had been a crook—was not a good guy.
“I’m not sure. All I know is that he left the DEA in a haze of suspicion for possibly feeding intel to the Zapata family. And, apparently, from what I’v
e gotten from Denver so far, one of the investors in the Denver Ponzi happened to be a Zapata cartel money-launderer.”
“Ah, making Mr. Dean our bad guy.”
“Except he has a solid alibi—unless our time of death is way off. He was on a plane flying from Denver the morning Spencer died.”
Leah’s mind buzzed with the various ramifications and connections. Life in the ER was so clean and simple compared to Luka’s work untangling the threads leading to a crime. And of course, his job was made more complicated by the need to be able to prove everything in a court of law.
Tassi raised her face so that Leah could finally get a good look. She was beautiful by any standards, but also had an elusive quality to her. The way, with a beseeching glance of her eyes, she compelled Larry Hansen to edge even closer to her, his body blocking Foster Dean. What had Luka called it? Emotional smokescreen. A woman like that, working with a husband who was a conman—were they partners in crime? “You think Spencer confessed to save his wife.”
“Good call. Yes, I believe he did. Especially as she was also his wife back in Denver—before he faked his death, so how much does she really know about his criminal activities? How involved is she? She plays dumb, but I think she knows more than she’s letting on.”
“Clearly, Mr. Dean is as suspicious of her as you are.” She thought for a moment. “How did you say Spencer died?”
“Ford was kind enough to share his preliminary impressions with Harper—” That drew a raised eyebrow of surprise from Leah. “I know, somehow he likes her. I’ll need to start sending her to more autopsies. Anyway, he thinks Standish hit the back of his head, breaking his neck, which eventually caused enough swelling around the spinal cord to stop his breathing.”
“But you found him in his car with the engine running. So someone put him there after he sustained the cervical spinal fracture? To make either an accidental slip and fall or an intentional blow to the head appear as suicide?”