“I’m needed here; can you finish treating it yourselves?” he asked them, reluctant to leave the crime scene or Dean, his only witness.
“Sorry, no can do,” the first medic told Luka. “It’s pretty deep, embedded in the muscle, and we can’t risk taking it out in case any blood vessels are damaged. Believe me, you want to be in the hospital if that happens.”
“Not to mention it’s gonna hurt like hell without the good drugs,” his partner quipped.
“How long can we wait?” Luka persisted, noting that Matthew Harper had sidled outside and was speaking with Dean. There was no way Luka could stop them, but he didn’t like the idea of the two of them joining forces. He needed information and so far all Matthew had done was to prevent Luka from obtaining any, under the guise of client confidentiality and Tassi’s emotional distress. Damn convenient for the pastor-attorney to be able to use both professions to guard his client’s secrets.
“Dirty foreign body?” the medic answered. “Wait longer than a few hours and it means a trip to the operating room and increased chance of serious infection. Wouldn’t risk it, if I were you, Detective.”
Luka knew they were right, but he also couldn’t risk losing Dean’s information. “Okay, give me a few minutes and then we can go.”
Before he could invite Dean back inside, Morton returned from the nail salon. “Hard to get much out of anyone,” he said. “But they did confirm that a woman in a gray van came in to have her nails done. Said she didn’t have an appointment, waited for a few minutes, but then left again.”
“Did they get a name?”
“Nope, sorry. And no CCTV inside—but I have a call into the owner of the property to gain access to his security footage. That will cover the entire shopping center plus he owns the gas station on the far corner.”
“Good. I’ll get my team working on court orders for any other nearby businesses that have cameras.” Luka nodded to Dean, beckoning him in, ignoring the medics who were standing by, filling out their paperwork and pretending not to be eavesdropping. “Mr. Dean, time to talk.”
Dean rolled his shoulders back, making himself appear even larger and more intimidating. Luka knew that whatever Dean told him it wouldn’t be everything the man knew. He could see it in the way the man’s gaze grew distant as he decided what story to tell.
“Spencer is originally from Ocean City, New Jersey. Used to run some low-level scams in Atlantic City, but drew attention from the wrong crowd.”
Luka wondered if that meant criminal organizations or the police.
“Then he fled out west. Six years ago, he surfaced in Denver as a supposedly legit hedge fund manager. Lived the lifestyle of the rich and famous, cozied up to old money and new, made a lot of charity contribution pledges, said he had so much money that he didn’t need any more, was instead devoting his financial talents to helping charities raise capital. Put his money where his mouth was by creating a charity foundation that doubled its capital in fifteen months.”
Sanchez hovered at the edge of Luka’s vision, obviously anxious for a word, but Luka didn’t want to stop Dean, not while he was being so forthcoming. “Anyway,” Dean continued, “returns like that had everyone knocking on his door, begging him to manage their investments. Charities, private foundations, individuals. But he told them all no.”
“Baiting the hook,” Luka surmised. Classic setup for a scam—and people always fell for it.
“Exactly. Next quarter, his foundation posted even better returns and his wife let it slip at a charity gala that he had a system that was foolproof.”
“How involved is she?” Luka asked.
Dean frowned. “We never found any proof that she was involved. But after that, he began to increase his client base.”
Basic rule of any con: get the mark to beg for the privilege of having his money stolen. Conmen thrived on their victims’ greed and often used the defense that honest men could never be swindled. A self-serving lie, but all too often it allowed them to skate away from their more serious offenses, especially when victims realized they’d appear either complicit, incompetent or stupid if the con was revealed to the public.
“So your clients were victims of Spencer?” Luka asked.
“You know I can’t tell you that. Let’s just say they have a compelling reason to find him.”
Dean had only revealed what Luka would have discovered with a thorough background check. But he had saved Luka time, so Luka gave him what he wanted. “Spencer’s dead.”
Dean didn’t even blink. Instead, he smirked. “Are you sure about that? He faked his death three years ago, an apparent drowning during a fishing trip. No body was ever found, and he laid low for almost a year before showing up here as Spencer Standish.”
Sanchez beckoned again and the medics were checking their watches, anxious to get going. Luka didn’t want to keep them from answering other calls, but he knew Dean had more to offer. Then he saw an unmarked white Impala pull up beside the ambulance. The calvary had arrived. Ray and Krichek here to relieve Luka.
“Thanks, Mr. Dean. But we’re sure. Spencer’s corpse is in our morgue—I sent him there myself.” He nodded to the medics that he was ready to go. “Wait here, please.”
The medics wheeled him outside back into the broiling heat. Ray and Krichek greeted him on the pavement as he waited for the medics to open the ambulance doors.
The two couldn’t be more different: Krichek, the ultimate hipster, never far from his mushroom coffee or a wisecrack, had joined the VCU a year ago, a transfer from property crimes. The kid had a few rough edges—a fondness for puns and conspiracy theories to start—but showed promise if he didn’t allow
