Matthew had said he was on the foundation’s board—perhaps he was more involved than a name on a letterhead?
The minister passed Luka to head to his vehicle, a white Lexus SUV with a tasteful Holy Redeemer insignia on the side. Clearly ministering to a congregation in this upscale neighborhood paid handsomely. Or were Matthew’s dealings with Spencer the source of his wealth?
Luka juggled phone calls as he drove, including arranging for Sanchez, one of the department’s cyber techs, and a pair of uniformed officers to meet him at Standish’s office. The same address was listed for both Standish’s financial firm and the charity foundation. Luka was surprised to see that it was a small storefront in a strip mall, sandwiched between an empty Radio Shack that had gone out of business years ago and a nail salon. The store’s windows and glass door were covered with butcher’s paper and there was no sign. Clearly Standish didn’t meet prospective donors or investors here.
The patrol units were waiting when Luka arrived. Matthew Harper had also already arrived and was arguing with the officers to allow him access, but they stood their ground. “Where do you want us, Sergeant?” one asked.
“Let’s see what we’re dealing with, then we’ll divide and conquer.” Luka turned to Matthew. “If you have the key, now’s the time to give it to me. Save your client a locksmith bill.”
The reverend reluctantly pulled a small keyring from his slacks and handed it to Luka. “Those should give you access to everything.”
“Who gave them to you?” Luka hadn’t seen Tassi hand Matthew anything at the house.
“Spencer. When we last met.”
Luka noted that he still wasn’t saying when or where. “Wait here.”
Matthew bristled, moving to follow Luka. “I have a right—”
“To observe. After we clear it.” Luka strode forward to the patrol officers standing beside their cars. He knew them both. Morton, the senior of the two, had joined the force a few years before Luka. And Azarian—Luka had been his field training officer. Over a decade ago. Suddenly Luka felt old. He greeted Morton, “Thought you were going for your sergeant stripes.”
“Passed the test, waiting for an opening. Why? You ready to retire yet, old man?”
“Think I still have a few years left in me.” He explained the situation as he eyed the parking lot. A silver minivan was parked in front of the nail salon, alongside an old Camry and a Ford Escort that had seen better days. Anchoring the corner of the strip mall was a gas station with a convenience store and a few cars also sat at the farthest row of parking spaces—employees, probably. Other than the nail salon, this end of the strip mall was quiet. “Morton, you’re with me.”
They left Azarian with Matthew and approached the office door. Luka selected the most likely key from the ring Matthew had given him and was rewarded when it fit the lock.
As soon as Luka opened the door, the afternoon sunshine spilling inside the dark interior, he sensed something was wrong. He snapped the lights on, illuminating a long, narrow space filled with desks, computers, and office equipment. There was no movement inside the room, but there was a wall about three-quarters of the way down, dividing the space and blocking his view. The door to the rear area was open. There were no lights on, but he had the sensation that he’d just missed movement.
“Go outside, head around to the rear exit,” he told Morton. Luka drew his weapon and sidled forward, edging his way through the maze of desks and office paraphernalia. A small rattle echoed through the empty doorway at the rear. Someone was there, hiding in the dark. “Police,” he called out. “Come out, show me your hands. Now!”
Luka heard a louder noise, the sound of a heavy door being opened. He ran from the lit area through the open door into the dark rear of the store in time to see the fire exit door close. He stumbled through the darkness, pushing the door open and hoping that Morton had made it around the back of the building in time to block their fleeing subject.
Luka raced out into the narrow alley behind the building. A noise came from his left and he spun toward it. A dumpster careened toward him. He dove out of the way, landing on a small pile of broken glass, inches away from the speeding dumpster before it slammed into the brick retaining wall that formed the far side of the alley. Pain bit through his left shin as he rolled to a sitting position, scanning the space where the intruder must have pushed the dumpster from. There was no one to be seen. His man had vanished.
Morton arrived, his passage blocked by the dumpster that had stopped on a diagonal.
“Call it in,” Luka shouted, his voice fueled with frustration. “You see anything?”
Morton radioed Azarian, instructing him to cover the far end of the alley. “Nothing. There was no one my way.” He pivoted the dumpster far enough that he could get through to Luka. “You okay? You’re bleeding.”
Luka stood, holstered his useless weapon, and examined his hands. They were scraped up, but there was more gravel and grime than actual damage.
Azarian appeared at the far end of the alley and jogged down to join them. “No one. They’re gone.” He pointed to Luka’s leg. “Sarge—”
Luka glanced down. A large shard of broken glass protruded from his shin. It wasn’t until he saw it that he realized that
