by Lisa Regan
“Okay, well, lifestyle choices can have a large effect on activating certain genes. So can environment. If you don’t mind me getting personal, I have to admit that I saw the Dateline last month about you and that news anchor, Trinity Payne.”
Josie suppressed a groan. Trinity had caught her at a particularly weak moment when she agreed to go on television and talk about the two of them being reunited after thirty years. But she had also known that Trinity would never let it go. It was best to get it over with. So she had done some limited press for Trinity’s sake, and Trinity had gone on to get the coveted anchor position on her network’s morning show.
“I really prefer not to discuss that,” Josie told him. “If you don’t mind.”
He waved a hand. “Oh no. I didn’t mean to be intrusive. I’m simply pointing out that you have an identical twin. You probably know that identical twins share one hundred percent of their genes.”
“Yes,” Josie said.
“And yet, there are marked differences between you and Ms. Payne, aren’t there?”
Josie considered this. Early on, when they’d first met, she and Trinity had been archenemies. They approached things differently, but they also had very different jobs. Josie’s job was to solve crimes. Trinity’s job was to tell the world about things they might not otherwise be privy to. They’d often butt heads over Trinity’s insistence on reporting everything. To Josie, justice was more important than exposure. Also, Trinity had long been obsessed with being famous, whereas Josie was content to put criminals away as quietly as possible. And yet, they both had the same cutthroat approach to their goals. Josie had stopped at nothing to solve a missing girls case a few years earlier, just the way Trinity stopped at nothing to get to the heart of a good story.
“I would say there are definitely differences,” Josie agreed. “But similarities as well.”
“You won’t get away from similarities. That’s not my point. My point is that you can take identical twins whose genes are the same and put them in different environments where they experience different things and make different lifestyle choices, and their genes will express themselves differently. For example, in the research I’ve been conducting—which James was helping me with—we look at why identical twins with the same exact genes develop different health conditions. Did you know that identical twins rarely die of the same cause?”
“Uh, no,” Josie said. “I didn’t.”
He stood up and started to pace the room, hands waving excitedly. “There’s a chemical called methyl that floats around inside our cells. It attaches to the DNA in our bodies—that process, it’s called methylation. When methylation happens, it can essentially turn down or hamper the activity of certain genes or even block some genes from producing certain types of proteins in our bodies. Almost anything can affect our methylation levels—sickness, diet, smoking, alcohol or drug use, medication, external things in the environment. You and your sister have the same genes, but your DNA methylation levels are different, and that will cause changes to your gene expression that can actually be passed on to subsequent generations.”
“So you’re saying that even though our genes start out the same, if I drink more, it can affect the methylation levels in my DNA and change the way my genes behave?” Josie asked.
“More or less,” Dr. Larson said with a smile. “Imagine that every cell in your body, each one containing your DNA, is just there, waiting to be told what to do. The methyl groups in your body bind to your genes and basically tell them what to do. The methyl group tells the cell what it is—for example, ‘You’re a heart-muscle cell, here’s what you do.’ Then there are histones. They’re protein molecules that your DNA wraps itself around, and they tell the cells how much to do—in other words, they regulate the genes.”
“So between the methyl and the histones, your cells will know what they’re supposed to be doing and how much of it they’re supposed to do?”
“Again, an extremely simplistic explanation, but yes.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Josie said, “is there a practical use for studying this stuff?”
His eyes lit up. He clapped his hands together. “Detective Quinn, our study of epigenetics could potentially have a profound effect on our ability to prevent and treat certain diseases—even cancer. What if we can develop drugs that will manipulate the methyl groups or the histones? We could cure so many diseases.”
He looked as though he was going to launch into another lecture. Josie closed the laptop and stood up. “That is very fascinating. It sounds promising.” She pulled out her phone and checked the time. “I’m sorry, Dr. Larson, but I have to get to a meeting with a detective on the Philadelphia PD soon.”
Larson lowered his gaze sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Detective Quinn. I have a great passion for my work.”
“And I do admire that,” Josie told him, moving past him and into the hallway. “I really do appreciate your time, but I can’t be late for my next meeting.”
He followed her into the kitchen. “James had great passion for the work as well. It’s a tremendous loss. I hope you find the person who killed him.”
A photo affixed to the fridge caught Josie’s eye, nearly buried among takeout menus and class schedules. “I’ll do my best,” she mumbled. Pointing to the photo, she said, “Who is this with James?”
The photo showed James from the waist up with one arm slung around another young man with dark, shaggy hair and brown eyes. Both were smiling and sweaty. Behind them, Josie could see a partially blurred sign that read: Broad Street Run.
“Oh, that’s Ethan,” Larson said. “They ran a local marathon last year.”
Josie took her phone out and snapped a picture of the two young men. Larson walked her out, and she thanked him for his time. He tried to recruit her and Trinity for his research, citing that identical twins separated at birth were particularly useful to his project, but Josie politely declined. As she watched the professor walk away, she took her phone out and studied the photo of Ethan Robinson again, wondering where the hell he had gone.
Chapter Eighteen
SEPTEMBER 1993
Seattle, Washington
* * *
Travis’s lips trailed along Janine’s neck, tickling her ear and making her giggle. The martinis had gone to her head. Or maybe it was him. It had been eight months, two weeks, three days, and seven hours between the time he was deployed and the time he arrived back at Fort Lewis. Things had been unexpectedly awkward once they got their first long embrace out of the way. It was Travis’s idea to go out for drinks—and it had worked. Within two hours, things felt back to normal between them. They couldn’t keep their hands off one another. Travis tipped the bartender generously, and they headed back to Janine’s house, falling through the front door in a tangle of limbs.
They didn’t bother turning on any lights as they collapsed onto the couch. Janine ran her hands up and down Travis’s back. It had been so long, she was ready to explode. She pushed his chest, guiding him until he rolled onto his back. Straddling him, a smile curved her lips. As she lowered herself down to kiss him once more, he grimaced.
“Hold on, babe,” he said.
They disentangled, and he began emptying his pockets, tossing his wallet, spare change, and car keys onto the coffee table. Janine walked her fingers up his thigh as she waited. When he spoke next, his voice was different—tense and suspicious rather than breathy and teasing. “What the hell is this?”
Janine looked up at him, searching his face. “What?”
He leaned down and scooped something off the coffee table, holding the object in front of her face. She strained to make it out in the dim haze of the streetlight that seeped through her windows.
“These are men’s glasses,” Travis said.
Janine smiled nervously. “So? They’re not mine.”
“How did they get here? Who’s been here? Are you seeing someone?”
She blinked, trying to clear the fog in her hea
d, suddenly wishing she hadn’t had that last martini. “I don’t… babe, those aren’t mine. I don’t know where they came from.”
He stepped away from her, his dark-brown eyes glittering angrily down at her. “There are men’s glasses on your coffee table, and you don’t know how they got here? Do you think I’m stupid?”
She reached for his hand, but he pulled away. “No,” she pleaded. “I swear. I don’t know where they came from. They weren’t here earlier. Someone must have been here. Maybe you should check—”
“Don’t lie to me, Janine.” He turned away from her and stalked off. A moment later she heard a thump, and Travis shouted, “Dammit!”
Janine stood, swaying slightly. “Wait, Travis—”
Then a new voice, male, one Janine had never heard before, sounded from the darkness. “Yeah, Travis, why don’t you wait a minute?”
She saw Travis’s form spin around. From behind her, a flashlight shone in Travis’s face. He put a hand up. “Who the hell is that?”
“Travis, I’m scared—” Janine screeched as she felt a hand tangle in her hair, tugging her head back.
The stranger’s breath was hot on her ear. “Oh, you should be, Janine.”
Chapter Nineteen
PRESENT DAY
Denton, Pennsylvania
* * *
Josie made her way to Market Street and started walking in the direction of police headquarters. She made a quick call to Noah, but he had nothing new to report. At Thirtieth Street she hailed a cab that took her to Eighth and Race Street and dropped her in front of police headquarters. When she’d spoken to Steve Boyd on the phone, he had called it the Roundhouse, and now she saw why. The building was shaped like the double barrels of a shotgun. As Josie approached the entrance, a tall, thin man with a crisp gray suit and salt-and-pepper hair pushed himself away from the wall next to the front doors and walked toward her. “You’re Josie Quinn,” he said, extending a hand.
Josie took it. “Lieutenant Boyd?”
He smiled, brown eyes twinkling beneath a pair of bushy eyebrows. “That’s me.”
Josie looked beyond him to the entrance, but he shook his head. “You don’t want to go in there,” he told her. “You’ll be twenty minutes getting through security, even as my guest. You hungry?”
Her stomach had growled loudly the entire cab ride. “Starving,” she said.
“Let’s go.”
He pulled out a key fob and led her to an unmarked SUV in the parking lot across from the entrance to the Roundhouse. They drove in silence, Josie taking in the crowded streets as he weaved in and out of traffic. She lost track of where they were in relation to the Roundhouse and her hotel.
“You been to Philadelphia before?” Boyd asked.
“Only for a couple of concerts,” Josie answered.
Finally, he parked in front of a place so small, it hardly looked like it could support a food establishment, but once inside, the smells of cheesesteaks and french fries made her stomach clench. Boyd pointed to a set of orange booths lining one wall. “Have a seat. You like onions, right?”
“Uh, sure,” Josie said.
She sat in one of the empty booths and waited for Boyd to return. Ten minutes later he slid in across from her with a tray heaped with food and two sodas. Josie seized the cheesesteak nearest to her and devoured it. The two of them ate in silence for several minutes while Boyd shot her knowing, appreciative smiles. Finally, he wiped his chin with a napkin and said, “I can see why Gretchen likes you.”
A fry froze halfway to Josie’s mouth. “What? You’ve talked to her?”
“Not recently. When she took the job in Denton you were the one who interviewed her. She liked you. A lot. And Gretchen doesn’t like many people. Well, if she does, she doesn’t show it.”
“She doesn’t show much,” Josie agreed. She abandoned the fry and took a sip of her soda. “When’s the last time you did talk to her?”
“Christmas. She called to wish me a happy holiday. We chatted for a bit. Talked shop, that sort of thing. I only hear from her about once or twice a year.”
That had been nine months ago. Josie said, “Does the name James Omar mean anything to you?”
“Nope.”
Josie took out her phone and showed him the photo of the young boy they’d found pinned to Omar’s body, but he didn’t recognize the child. Next, she showed him the picture she’d snapped of Omar and Ethan Robinson from the fridge in their apartment.
“Sorry, don’t recognize either of them.”
With a sigh, Josie put her phone away. “Lieutenant—”
“Steve.”
“Steve, I think Gretchen’s in trouble.”
He nodded. “From what you told me yesterday, I’d say you’re right.”
“How long were you partners?”
“Oh, about eight or nine years.”
That was a significant amount of time to be partners in their line of work. Josie knew that the people you worked with in law enforcement could become closer to you than your own family. The things you saw and experienced on the job could bond you like nothing else. “Do you think she did this?” Josie asked him.
Boyd’s eyes dropped to the table. His fingers folded a napkin into tiny squares. “I don’t know,” he said. “My gut says no, but Gretchen was a tough nut to crack. All that time we worked together, and I still don’t feel like I ever got to know her. Not in a real way.”
Josie thought of her own affection for Gretchen in spite of the fact that she knew virtually nothing about the woman. Then she thought about the spiked wood pieces lining Gretchen’s first-floor windows. What the hell had she been hiding? Or running from?
“So you don’t know where she would go if she was on the run? Who she would go to for help?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“Do you think she’s capable of something like this?”
“I really don’t know.”
It was then that Josie thought of the more important question. “Do you think she’d throw her career away like this? Shoot a boy in the back and then go on the run?”
Boyd met her eyes. “Gretchen didn’t strike me as a runner, and her job was everything to her. That I know. That I can say with one hundred percent certainty. I don’t know what she did in her spare time. I know she wasn’t married, didn’t have any kids, but I don’t know if she had hobbies or friends or even a pet. Hell, I don’t even know if she’s straight or not. I just know with one hundred percent certainty that she loves the job, and she’s good at it.”
That Josie couldn’t argue with. She stuffed a few more fries into her mouth. This was looking more and more like a dead end. Gretchen was a locked door, and it seemed that no one had a key. As an image of Gretchen flashed across Josie’s mind, her spine suddenly shot up straight. “Her jacket!” she said. “Do you know the story behind her jacket?”
Boyd laughed. “That nasty old leather jacket she never takes off? Yeah, I know the story.”
Chapter Twenty
“A few years before she left for Denton, she caught a double homicide. Couple of bikers. You guys deal with a lot of outlaw biker gangs around your way?”
“Some,” Josie said. “But it’s mostly when they’re passing through.”
“You know anything about them?” Boyd asked.
“I know they’re basically organized crime factions and have a hand in the usual stuff—drugs, prostitution, gambling. I know they feud with one another. A lot of them are violent as hell. Is that it? Gretchen’s a biker?”
Boyd held up a hand. “Slow down, there. Gretchen’s not a biker. Like I was saying, she caught a case where a couple of bikers had been murdered here in the city. It was over a turf war. A guy named Linc Shore was out here. Name ring any bells?”
Josie shook her head.
“Shore was a higher-up in the Devil’s Blade gang. He was in charge of the Blade chapter out in Seattle for decades. We’re still not sure what he was doing out here. Maybe lending suppor
t to the Northeast chapter. Like I said, they were wrapped up in a pretty dirty turf war with another gang called the Dirty Aces. Anyway, you know what a prospect is?”
“Someone who wants to be in the gang?” Josie guessed.
Boyd unfolded the napkin he’d managed to fold into a square the size of a nickel as he spoke. “A hang-around is someone who wants to be in the gang. Most of the time, a prospect is a step up, because they’ve gotten a full member of the gang to sponsor them.”
“So the prospect is a little more ‘in’ than a hang-around,” Josie said.
“Basically, yeah. Well, Shore had a prospect with him. Name was Seth Cole. Young kid. About twenty, twenty-one. Now we know that full members torture prospects. Make them do all kinds of nasty shit while they’re waiting to be patched in.”
“Patched in?” Josie asked.
“It’s when a prospect becomes a full member. The club votes on them, they usually have to do something to prove their loyalty—like kill somebody or commit some type of crime—and then they’re given a gang logo patch for their jackets.”
“I see,” Josie replied. “Was Linc Shore sponsoring this prospect?”
“We don’t know,” Boyd said. “We’ll probably never know. The kid came with him from Seattle. Chances are Linc just brought him along to do shit for him—like a personal slave. Anyway, the Dirty Aces got them alone, shot them and sliced both their throats.”
“How do you know the Dirty Aces did it?” Josie asked.
Boyd said, “They left their calling card. A partially burned ace of spades. Apparently, they do that at a lot of their murder scenes. This way the other gang knows they’ve been put on notice.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. So right off we knew it was a turf war thing. For some reason, Gretchen really took that one to heart.”