“Aw hell,” he muttered as he sagged against the retaining wall. The last thing he needed was to waste time with a trip to the ER. Maybe they could deal with it using one of the squad car’s first-aid kits. But Azarian’s wide eyes and suddenly pale lips made Luka look again. The glass protruded at an awkward angle as blood oozed out around it. He tried taking a step but that produced a wave of blood and pain that stole his breath and he slumped down onto the retaining wall.
Luka caught his breath, pulled his phone free and dialed Ray. “Change of plans…”
Since walking was out of the question, Azarian retrieved a wheeled office chair from Standish’s place and he and Morton wheeled Luka through the offices and back out front to where Matthew was pacing, talking to someone on his phone. He hung up when he saw Luka. “What happened?”
Luka ignored the question, the same way he was trying to ignore the five-inch shard of glass protruding from his leg. He might have succeeded except it throbbed with every heartbeat. “Did you see anyone run past?” he asked Matthew. “Would have been from that direction.”
“Man or woman? What did they look like?” Matthew asked.
A flush of momentary embarrassment heated Luka’s face as he realized he had no idea. The damn dumpster had blocked his view. Then he noticed that the gray minivan was gone from in front of the nail salon. “Did you see who left in the van?”
“A woman. Middle-aged. I didn’t pay much attention, but she wasn’t running. She walked out of the nail place.”
Luka nodded to Morton, who headed into the nail salon to question them. The sun was beating down on the pavement, heat waves shimmering around him and he had the fleeting thought that the plastic wheels of the chair might melt. He used his good foot to scoot the chair back inside Standish’s office, grimacing as it bumped over the threshold. Matthew followed.
“Don’t touch anything,” Luka ordered him, uncomfortable having a civilian so close to evidence.
Azarian returned with a first-aid kit. “Medics are on the way.” Behind him entered another man, Sanchez, the tech from the cyber squad, carrying a briefcase of tools.
Sanchez’s eyes scanned the office, and without needing any direction from Luka, he found an empty desk and got to work, starting with photographing the scene, documenting the serial number of each electronic device. A vehicle pulled up outside. Luka looked up, expecting to see the ambulance, but instead it was a black Tahoe, similar to those driven by federal agents. Had Ahearn called them already?
A man wearing dark gray slacks and a navy polo emerged. He was tall, an inch or two taller than Luka’s own six foot one, had the physique of someone who never missed a day at the gym, and the swagger of a fed. He crossed into their crime scene, took his sunglasses off as he assessed the situation, dismissing the other men to address Luka. “Where’s Spencer Standish?”
Eleven
Leah accompanied Beth and her baby up to the Obstetrics floor where the Labor and Delivery nurses bustled both her patients away, clucking and fretting over the mess. L and D nurses hated out-of-hospital deliveries. Not only did they disrupt their well-established protocols but there was always a concern about complications for both mother and child.
Leah cleaned up and went to the nurses’ station to chart her role in events surrounding Beth’s delivery. As soon as she finished her dictation, the ward clerk approached her. “Dr. Wright, you came in with the woman who delivered out of hospital. Do you know her name? I’m trying to register her in the computer.”
“Beth.”
“Right.” The clerk waited, but Leah didn’t have any more information to give her. “Beth what? She wouldn’t talk to me and the nurses said she wouldn’t give them a last name either. But I need to register her—”
“Sorry, Beth is all I have.” Leah wondered at Beth’s refusal to give a name. To the ward clerk it was an administrative inconvenience, but there was so much more going on. Clearly Beth was traumatized, fearful about the safety of herself and her baby. Was someone after them? Why?
“I’ll put her in as Beth Doe,” the clerk muttered, obviously unhappy. “The people in Utilization Review can figure it out tomorrow when they’re back.”
“Has this ever happened before?” Leah couldn’t remember ever encountering an ER patient who refused to give a name. Even the street people could usually be coaxed into providing some form of ID or a proper name—especially after the ER nurses got them a warm meal and a chance to shower and change. “Is it against the law?”
“Never happened to me,” the clerk said. “If she used someone else’s name or insurance that would be fraud, but using no name? I honestly have no idea.” She returned to her desk and computer, leaving Leah to wonder.
Maybe Beth was a victim of domestic violence? In this day and age of social media and internet tracking, shelters had to be especially cautious, often keeping their locations secret to the point of meeting potential new clients off site. What if Beth had been on her way to meet a shelter volunteer when she went into labor? After all, pregnancy was the second most deadly risk factor for intimate partner violence—the first being leaving the relationship.
Leah’s team in the Crisis Intervention Center partnered closely with the domestic violence programs. But she couldn’t go behind Beth’s back and try to access confidential information. What could she do to help Beth? Because, no matter what Beth was running from, it was clear she needed help.
After she finished her charting, she stopped at Beth’s room. The OB had delivered Beth’s placenta, the nurses had bathed her, and they were carefully monitoring her for any postpartum complications since
