“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
