Erica Spindler - Dead Run

“Correct.” Val’s lips lifted in a grim smile. “He was able to fool the bank so long because he had an accomplice in the bank’s processing center.”

“Naomi Pearson,” Rick murmured. “I knew the coincidence was too much to swallow.”

“Yup. She scanned in bogus payments for nonexistent corporations. For a hefty cut, no doubt.”

Rick thought a moment. “Bernhardt suddenly got wealthy and the bank didn’t get suspicious? From what I’ve heard, this guy didn’t live like a pauper.”

“Inheritance, or so he said. From an uncle. Nobody checked it out. Why should they? He was a well-respected bank officer.” Val’s lips twisted. “Apparently, he even took time off to fly to Philadelphia for the funeral.”

“So, why’d he kill himself? Seems like he had a pretty sweet deal going. One he could have strung out a while.”

“I can only speculate, of course. My opinion is, Naomi told him she wanted out. Without her, he’s left holding a fistful of dummy loans and nowhere to go but down.”

Rick frowned. “Why not just take the money and run before it all came crashing down on him?”

Val leaned toward him. “Maybe crooked old Bernhardt thought the gravy train would never end. Maybe he blew all the money on girls, that house and drugs. The guy had one hell of a lifestyle, drugs, sex and rock ’n’ roll.”

“And the visitor he had the night of his death?”

“If I planned to end it all, how do you think I’d want to spend my final hours?”

“Doing the horizontal mambo?”

“Without a doubt.” Val looked away, then back at Rick, expression disgusted. “From what I saw, having it all wasn’t enough for Bernhardt. The greedy bastard wanted to live like a king.”

Much later Rick found himself thinking of what Val had said and wondering at his friend’s seeming naïveté at Bernhardt’s motivations. Greed destroyed lives. Desire for more drove people to unbelievable acts of selfishness and cruelty, even against those they loved. It was a sad fact of human nature Rick had seen play out in one way or another in nearly every case he had worked. It was one of the things he didn’t miss about being a cop.

Wednesday, November 7

4:00 p.m.

Within twenty-four hours of Liz’s visit with Pastor Tim, the parents of the teenager he had mentioned had called for an appointment. That the pastor trusted her enough to recommend her pleased her on two levels: it moved her plan forward and led her to believe he had not seen through her ruse.

Liz greeted the couple, Inez and Dante Mancuso, at her office door. She smiled warmly, hoping to ease their obvious anxiety. “Mr. and Mrs. Mancuso, come in.”

She ushered them into her office and they all sat. They looked petrified. These were people of modest means, with traditional values and limited education. He was a gardener, she a homemaker who took in ironing to help make ends meet. Nothing could be more foreign to them than the concept of psychological counseling.

The couple looked at each other, then the woman spoke. “Pastor Collins said you might be able to help us.”

“I’ll try, I promise you that.” Liz smiled again, hurting for the two. On the phone they had told her a little about their daughter, Tara. That they were desperate was the most important thing she had learned from that conversation. That emotion had come through loud and clear then, and she could read it in their expressions and body language now. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on with your daughter.”

The woman wrung her hands. “We don’t know what to do. Tara was such a happy child, so sweet and-” Her throat closed over the words and the man reached across and squeezed her hand.

“She’s changed,” he said. “It started a year ago-”

“She became sullen and disrespectful. Her grades fell. Her friends, they…They’re not nice girls.”

“They’re fast,” he added, frowning. “Insolent. Tara has become like them. She refuses to listen to us.”

The woman leaned toward Liz, eyes filling with tears. “She locks herself in her room, sometimes for hours. And she has lost her faith in God. I’m so afraid…I fear for her eternal soul!”

The woman began to cry, soft tears of despair. “Nothing we’ve tried has helped. She was better when she was talking to Pastor Howard, but when she disappeared…”

At the mention of her sister, Liz’s heart leaped to her throat. She worked to keep her focus on the teenager’s needs instead of her own. “How did she respond to Pastor Howard’s leaving?”

“She withdrew more,” Dante said. “She was-” He stopped as if searching for a word.

His wife found it. “Frightened,” she said. “Terribly frightened.”

It took Liz a moment to find her voice. “Have you considered that your daughter might be using drugs?”

“Drugs?” they repeated simultaneously.

“The behaviors you describe are ones we see in kids who begin using.”

The couple looked at each other, then back at her. “But where would she get them?”

They looked genuinely dumbfounded and Liz felt for them. One would think that such naïveté in this day and age would be rare, but she saw it time and again in parents. Even though drug use in teens had skyrocketed, few parents believed their children could be involved.

She softened her tone. “Anywhere, Mr. and Mrs. Mancuso. Everywhere.”

Silence fell between them. Liz filled it. “Let me tell you a little bit about myself. I’m a clinical social worker. I’ve been in private practice for six years and specialize in family and adolescent counseling.”

“Social worker?” the man repeated, looking confused. “I thought you were a psychologist.”

“Actually, the two areas of study are closely related.” Liz folded her hands on the desk in front of her. “Our methods differ, however. Where the psychologist focuses almost exclusively on the ‘I’ of a patient, the social worker aims to uncover the area of imbalance in the patient’s life, be it social, professional, spiritual or familial. Once that imbalance is discovered, the social worker aims to correct it.”

“Do you think you can help Tara?”

“I need to speak with her before I make a full determination of treatment, but I will tell you there are very few people who can’t be helped.”

A whimper escaped the woman. “But what if she’s one of those? I don’t think I could bear it if Tara -”

“I don’t think that’s going to be the case, Mrs. Mancuso,” Liz inserted quickly, reassuringly. “From everything you’ve told me, I feel Tara can be helped. It sounds as if she had a happy, normal childhood and as if it’s only recently that something has gone awry.”

The woman looked at her husband, then back at Liz. “What about…Pastor Tim said you might be willing to work with us on your fees?”

“Absolutely.” Liz stood. “Why don’t I speak with Tara, assess how often I think I should see her and we’ll go from there. Fair enough?”

They agreed it was and made an introductory appointment for their daughter for later that afternoon.

That first meeting with the teenager had gone much as Liz had expected. Tara Mancuso had barely made eye contact, let alone spoken. She’d been sullen, angry and resentful.

No surprises there: adolescents were the most difficult age group to work with, especially when they were unwilling participants in the process.

Liz had determined that she’d need to see Tara twice a week, but she knew it would be difficult to get her into the office that often. She decided to take it one session at a time, starting with this afternoon.

That had been three days ago. She hoped today’s session would prove more productive.