Save Her Child by CJ Lyons (best historical biographies txt) 📗

intended to bring against the department, Harper suspected he’d learned most of what he knew about being a criminal from video games and TV.

“Is she all right? Just tell me, is Macy gonna live?” Darius demanded before she got the door shut behind her.

“The doctors are working on her now. But they said she was stable.”

He leaned back in his chair, breath whistling from him. He blinked and his expression morphed from worried to cunning. “Good. Then she can sue your asses, too. Assault, false arrest—”

“False arrest?” Harper swallowed her laughter. “You had a knife to her throat.”

“Only cuz you all forced me to defend myself best I could. Yeah, add that one—excessive force. And, and police brutality. I’m gonna own your ass, my lawyer gets done with you all.”

“If you’re not in prison doing life for murder.” Harper decided on a shock approach rather than something more subtle.

“Murder? What the hell you talking about?”

“When we booked you, I saw that chain of yours.”

“What? My peace lily? It’s cuz I’m a lover, not a fighter. My girl gave me that.”

“Your girl? As in, Lily Nolan? I saw her wearing that same necklace last time I arrested her.” She slid a photo of Lily’s body, the most gruesome one she could find in the assortment from the coroner, and left it face down on the table before him.

“What’s that?”

“Take a look and see. Nothing a tough guy like you can’t handle.”

He gave her a sidelong glance but then curiosity got the better of him and he flipped the photo over. “Nah-uh.” He recoiled, pushing himself as far away from the table as the chair allowed. “You ain’t pinning that bitch on me. Never saw her in my life.”

“That bitch was a girl. She had her whole life in front of her. Why’d you do it, Darius? Was it because she tried to get clean? Was she going to steal Macy from you, get her into rehab and off the streets as well?”

He shook his head violently. “I’m telling you, I ain’t have nothing to do with her.” His gaze fixed on the photo again. He tapped his finger over the time stamp. “She died Sunday morning?” He slid a glance up to meet her eyes, mocking her. “You cops are all so stupid. Know where I was since Friday night? All weekend, until yesterday afternoon?” He slammed his palm down on the table, Lily’s photo flying off the edge and onto the floor. “I was locked up. Check your records. Your own jail is my alibi. You ain’t got nothing on me.”

Harper hid her smile. Darius was wrong. She had him exactly where she wanted him: excited and talking.

Thirty-Three

Despite his misgivings, as he drove up the mountain to Holy Redeemer, Luka called the district attorney’s office and laid out his concerns along with what little evidence he had. The ADA practically convulsed with laughter. “You want us to try for a warrant on a minister and a church? A sanctuary? Based on what?” she’d asked. “There’s no law against carrying a diaper bag out of a hospital or giving a mother and her baby a ride. Not that you even have evidence proving that he did that.”

Luka hung up, more frustrated than ever. His leg throbbed and itched simultaneously, not to mention the brace and wrappings over the wound were hot and sweaty, and the damn crutches… He took a deep breath, gathered his thoughts, and turned onto the drive that led to Matthew Harper’s church. Harper’s father, one more addition to his list of aggravations and complications. Nothing about this case was easy—either case, Beth’s disappearance or Spencer Standish’s murder.

And yet, one man of God stood at the intersection of both. Luka always warned the others on his squad against the fallacy of connecting unrelated cases together—it was a human tendency; the mind was tempted to create order out of chaos. But in Luka’s experience, all too often chaos ruled, and trying to force facts to fit an orderly theory led to wasted time chasing false conclusions.

But he couldn’t deny the evidence here. Matthew Harper was the last person to speak to Spencer; that was a fact. And his presence on Beth’s ward at the same time she walked away was too much of a coincidence to ignore, even if he had no physical proof that Matthew had helped Beth leave. There simply was no other answer that made any sense.

He drove past the church and its empty parking lot, then arrived at the house. It looked like a typical minister’s house—white-framed, dwarfed by the church beside it, yet also mirroring the church’s architectural lines. Despite the lack of rain, the exterior was spotless, placidly basking in the afternoon sun. And none of it felt like Harper—at least not the Harper he knew, the guarded, ambitious, highly energetic woman who’d climbed the ranks of the police force. The last adjective he’d ever associate with Harper was “placid.”

He fumbled his way up the porch steps—he’d been tempted to leave the crutches in the car, but had decided that perhaps they might give him an edge, appeal to the minister’s sympathy. He rang the bell and within seconds it was opened by a woman in her fifties wearing a sky-blue dress and an apron embellished with matching blue birds.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Detective Sergeant Luka Jericho.” He held his credentials up for her to scrutinize. “I was hoping to find the reverend. Is he home?”

“Matthew is over at the church with my son. I’m Rachel, his wife. Come inside, please.” She led the way into the foyer, which opened onto a large, formal dining room to the left and a living area to the right, as well as a hallway that continued to the rear of the house and a staircase leading up. “Wait here a second. Let me turn the stove off and I’ll take you over, Sergeant Jericho.” Rachel disappeared into the rear of the house, leaving Luka to