“Told you, we looked—” Ramsey stopped himself. “Damn. You mean, what if she did something to the baby? Killed it?”
“Him,” Luka corrected automatically. “Newborn. Tiny. Opens up a lot more potential search areas.”
“We’re on it. But I really hope you’re wrong.”
“Anything we could do to help?” A true search would mean closing down the hospital floor and anything accessed from it like trash chutes, drains, elevator shafts—it would be a time-consuming, logistical nightmare. “Perhaps a cadaver dog disguised as a service animal? A handler could take it on a quick stroll around the floor without attracting undue attention.”
“Geez, and I thought I’d seen everything.” Ramsey was silent for a moment. “Let me work with our people, see what we can do on our own. I’ve still got a dozen other cameras and hours of footage to review, but now that we have a photo, I’ll also check the ward footage again, looking for a woman alone. Maybe we can get a handle on where she went.” He paused. “But why? I mean, if you don’t want your kid, just walk away, leave him with the doctors. It doesn’t make any sense that she’d hurt the baby.”
“We need to rule out every possibility.”
“Well, I’m hoping like hell you’re wrong.” Ramsey hung up.
A knock came on Luka’s open office door. Krichek.
“Got some good stuff from the Standish financials,” he started. “Still working on the security footage from the strip mall and surrounding businesses. Generated an initial list of license plates. Sent them to Harper to follow up.”
If Luka’s attacker were any kind of professional, he would have made certain that his vehicle couldn’t be traced back to him. Still, the job needed to be done if only to cross it off the list of possible leads. Scut work, Krichek called it, and the detective was obviously happy to pass it on to the newest member of their team.
Krichek swiped his tablet’s screen. “I’ve sent the bank documents to you,” he told Luka. “Bottom line is that, in addition to the funds Standish funneled through the charity to offshore accounts that we’ll never be able to touch, there’s also over six million missing. Cash.”
“Any idea where it went?”
“I figured we’d never find it, not with Spencer’s computers all wiped clean.” He grinned, obviously pleased with himself. Luka nodded at him to continue. “But then Sanchez found a memory card in the printer/scanner. Kept a record of every document that went through it. Turns out Spencer’s been converting the cash into gold.”
Gold. The universal currency and in many ways more untraceable than cash or even Bitcoin. While actual gold was heavy and cumbersome, there were a variety of anonymous services that would exchange it for even more untraceable bearer bonds, which could be funneled into any financial account.
“Six million?” Luka repeated as he pulled up the summary report and squinted at it.
“And change. I’m guessing the wife has it—along with all the offshore account information for the rest of her payout. The stock fund and the foundation are both zeroed out.” He pointed to Luka’s screen. “Standish’s last transactions, closing out all the accounts. On Friday.”
“And then he meets with his pastor-slash-lawyer to compose his confession, making sure to exonerate his wife.” The date on Spencer’s confession was Saturday.
“You’re thinking the widow did it?” Krichek’s voice upticked. “She killed him for the money?”
Ray appeared in the doorway, not bothering to knock. “Is anybody invited to this coffee klatch?”
“What do you have?” Luka asked, noting his smile.
“Got the details on Standish’s previous so-called death, the one he faked in Colorado three years ago. Did you know he was married to Tassi back then as well? Divorced her, gave her a pile of money, then a few months later Standish supposedly drowned during a fishing trip. Body never found.”
“They were in it together.” Krichek rocked on his heels, unable to contain his excitement.
“Only this time Standish ended up dead for real,” Luka reminded him.
“Denver also confirmed that the Zapata crime family lost money in Standish’s Ponzi scheme.”
“Good reason to fake your death,” Luka said. The Zapata family ran one of the largest crime syndicates in the United States. “I like how he protected his wife—excuse me, ex-wife—and his money at the same time; it set him up with enough cash to lay low until the heat was off.”
“Then he re-emerged a few years later,” Ray added. “New name, new town, same wife, same con. Guy should have quit while he was ahead.”
“And alive,” Krichek put in.
Luka’s phone rang. Ford Tierney.
“You need to get here right away,” the medical examiner said before Luka could offer a greeting. “I can’t deal with these people. There’s a widow demanding I not perform the postmortem I’ve already finished while also insisting on an expedited death certificate and some DEA guy wanting a photo of the deceased—”
“Are you talking about the Standish case?”
“Yes, of course the Standish case. I told security to keep them all in the waiting room, but I have work to do and this isn’t—”
“We’ll take care of it. Thanks, Dr. Tierney.” Luka knew Ford would respond to his use of his formal title and a dash of politeness. “I very much appreciate your patience.”
“See to it. We have grieving families here and important work that can’t be disrupted with these—”
“I’m on my way.” Luka hung up. Ray was sidling back out of the door while Krichek appeared intrigued. “Both of you, we’re headed to the morgue.”
“A hysterical widow and you need back-up?” Ray kidded him. Ray hated the morgue—although at least he didn’t get queasy like Krichek did at the sight of a dead body. “Or is it Tierney you might need help with?”
“I’m thinking divide and conquer,” Luka said. “We were set to interview Tassi and Dean anyway. Why not catch
