by Carrie Smith
She stood and willed herself to focus all her attention on the Grubers from Plainfield, New Jersey, as they entered her office. The husband fixed her with his dark eyes, nodded, and gruffly said, “Good morning.” The wife, her belly still distended two weeks after childbirth, wrapped her pink cardigan tightly around her as she lowered herself to the navy couch. They would have to face their consequences too, she thought as she came from behind her desk to shake their hands and sit in a chair across from them.
“I’ve reviewed all the tests,” she began matter-of-factly. In her particular subspecialty of endocrinology, forthrightness was essential during a consultation like this. She was not the support team that would help these parents process their complex emotional reactions to biological fate. Her responsibility was to present the facts and recommend a care plan for the child. Empathy only biased parents’ reactions. Empathy told them, “You have my permission to feel bad about your situation.” For the sake of their child, she would not hold open the door of negativity for them to walk through. She had made that mistake only once and had learned that parents like these needed to face reality quickly and calmly. Life didn’t dole out rewards and punishments in equal shares—some parents faced a far stiffer test of love than others—but that didn’t absolve the Grubers of their responsibility to love and care for the child they’d created.
“Your child has a condition called Partial Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome—PAIS.”
Mrs. Gruber hugged herself.
“Partial what?” the father demanded.
“Partial Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome,” she repeated. “It’s a recessive condition in which the body doesn’t respond to male hormones.”
“You said ‘partial.’ So it’s not that serious, right?”
“Partial refers to the level of androgen insensitivity, Mr. Gruber. It—”
“I don’t get it,” he snapped.
Susan felt his impatience. He didn’t really want to get it. He only wanted to be told that everything was fine.
“What are you saying to us?” he demanded.
“Genetically, your child is male, Mr. Gruber, but—”
“But what? Do we have a boy or a girl? Just give me the bottom line.”
Susan was offended by his tone and his words, and she struggled to keep disdain out of her voice. “As I just began to say, Mr. Gruber, genetically your child is male—XY—but your child was born with sexual characteristics of both sexes, and from a gender perspective, we will have to wait for your child to tell us what he or she is. Partial AIS is a congenital intersex condition.” She used the language the Grubers would have to learn. “Some children with partial androgen insensitivity syndrome will end up identifying as male; others will identify as female. Time will tell. The good news is that your child is healthy.”
“Time will tell? No.” The husband shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.”
Susan noted the cold resolution in his gray eyes. The wife placed a hand on his arm. He jerked it away from her. Some parents drew closer in moments like this, shoring each other up in the face of what fate and hormone receptors had dealt them. Those were the parents who joined support groups and scoured the Internet to educate themselves for the sake of their child. But these parents were already breaking apart, and their child could get swallowed up in the chasm they created.
“Please, Jack,” the wife whispered.
“Please what? Please let me take home a hermaphrodite?” He turned back to Susan. “I want something done about this. I want to speak to a surgeon. We’re going to make this right.”
“Your child will tell you what’s right if you just wait and listen,” she said evenly.
“Bullshit.”
“Listen to the doctor,” the wife said too timidly to have an impact.
The husband trained his sights on Susan as if his wife were not even there. “You said this was a congenital condition. Which of us carried the gene?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.” His tone said, Give me my answer. I’m paying your fee.
She held Gruber’s stare. In his eyes, she saw the same uncompromising cruelty she’d seen in Philip’s one week ago, and she felt nothing short of pure contempt for him. This new father would never bend to the needs of another. He didn’t care if he wrecked a life. He had no conscience or compassion, and she found herself wishing he were as dead as Philip now was.
CHAPTER 33
Codella sat at her desk and called Haggerty. “Are you at the church? What’s happening over there?”
“The CSU guys are already here, and so are three news trucks,” he said.
“I’m not surprised. Two dead bodies at a local church might even sell more papers than a constitutional crisis. They’ll work this one for all it’s worth. Cordon them off. Don’t let them through the gate.”
“Don’t worry. My guys are on it. I’ll meet you at Graves’s apartment in a couple of hours.”
When Codella ended the call, Farah Assiraj was standing in her doorway with a notebook under one arm. Codella gestured her to a chair, filled her in on the events of last night, and passed her a list of names. “I need to know more about these people.”
Farah scanned the names. “Okay. Does anyone take priority?”
Codella stared at the timeline she’d scrawled in City Diner four hours ago. She thought back to Susan Bentley’s cautious answers. She recalled Roger Sturgis assessing her like a commodity. She saw Todd Brookes standing on the sidewalk with his child, and she replayed the moment in which Peter Linton burst into the Blue Lounge, rammed into Officer O’Donnell’s chest, and ended up pinned on the carpet. Finally she looked across her desk at Farah. “It’s a hard call, but start with Todd Brookes.”
Farah opened her notebook to a blank page and began to write.
“He’s the rector’s husband,” Codella said, “and he was home alone last night while the vestry meeting was going on. We found him wandering around on the second floor of the parish house near where the murder weapon was hidden.”
Farah nodded.
“And look into Peter Linton too. He was pretty belligerent last night. Kept complaining that he had to get home, and his back was hurting, and he had a trial this morning. What kind of lawyer is he? Does he really have a case in court right now? Run him through the databases.”
Farah said, “Will do.”
“Oh, and Roger Sturgis,” Codella added. “When I asked what he does for a living, he told me he rescues failing companies. Something tells me he isn’t with the Small Business Administration. He’s probably a vulture capitalist. How wealthy is he? What companies does he own? Who’s he married to, and does he have a criminal record?”
Farah was writing furiously now, and Codella realized she was talking at top speed because Peter Linton and Roger Sturgis had both triggered her extreme antipathy. She paused to give the officer time. She had once been in the younger woman’s position, taking notes in hopes of dredging up information that would make a difference to a case and gain her a superior’s respect.
“I guess they’re all a priority, Farah. I want to know more about Susan Bentley too. There’s just something about her. I couldn’t get a sense of who she really is.” Then her mind went to Vivian Wakefield, who’d veered off on the long story about Seneca Village with Haggerty. “Something happened at that meeting, and no one’s coming clean.”
Farah lowered her pen and looked up. “This was a meeting of church leaders, right? Didn’t someone take minutes?”
Codella stared into the officer’s dark eyes. “Oh, my God, Farah, You’re right.” She remembered Roger Sturgis peering into the silver minivan last night to identify the body. It’s Emily Flounders. She’s the vestry secretary.
As soon as Farah left her office, Codella called Muñoz. “Before you get with Portino on the phone records, check the inventory of Emily Flounders’s belongings. She took the vestry meeting minutes. We need those minutes.”
CHAPTER 34
Roger Sturgis pressed his cheek against Kendra’s smooth shoulder blade. She moved and resettled. He inhaled the scent of her soft skin. She turned onto her back, and he kissed the pulsing vein on the side of her neck. He moved his head down, and his lips found her nipple. It hardened against his tongue. “Roger,” she whispered.
“Shhh.” He touched her lower lip with his thumb.
She lifted her head. “I didn’t hear you come in last night. I tried to stay up for you, but—”
“It’s okay.” He ran the top of his foot up her calf. Her leg was smooth, hairless.
“Do they know who killed Emily and Philip?”
“Not yet.” He brought his head back to the pillow. “The police are working on it. Three detectives were there. They interviewed us one by one. They asked me to identify Emily’s body.”
“Oh, my God. That’s terrible. How was Vivian? She must be so upset.” Vivian Wakefield was Kendra’s aunt—Kendra’s mother was Vivian’s youngest sister—and Roger supposed Kendra was thinking about how close Vivian and Emily had been. “You don’t think it was someone from the church, do you?” she continued.
He could tell she wanted him to say no. “It was probably a crazy person who wandered into the garden.” He kissed her soft earlobe.
“I hope it wasn’t someone from our homeless shelter.” She sounded worried.
“Shhh.” He stroked her arm. “Don’t think about it now.”
She bent her leg, and he felt her knee press against his groin. “You must be tired,” she whispered.
“Not that tired.” He gently twisted her nipple with his thumb and index finger.
“Cancel your trip today,” she suggested.
“You know I can’t do that. I’ve got meetings scheduled.”
She sighed and pushed him away.
“Don’t be angry.”
“You’re never here for more than three days at a time. Can’t you Skype those companies? Can’t they come here and give you presentations?”
“I have to meet their management teams. I need to see their operations. Otherwise, I don’t know what I’m buying. You know that.” He pressed his palm against her taut stomach. Last year when he’d placed his palm there, he could feel the baby—his baby—flip and stretch. “Remember, it’s the revenue I generate from these operations that’s going to give Charlotte her private school education, her dance lessons, and anything else you want her to have. You knew the deal.” His hand slid below Kendra’s navel, and his fingers felt the small triangle of tight pubic curls her Brazilian waxes left behind for him. “I have to be on a plane in three hours,” he reminded her. “So I’ll go take a shower now—unless you stop me.”
He sat up. She grabbed his arm—he knew she would—and pulled him back down. In a quick well-practiced maneuver, she raised his right wrist over his head—he didn’t resist—and locked it to one of the open handcuffs dangling from the back of the bedposts out of sight. She reached for his other wrist, and he let her lock that one too.
He tested the cuffs. “I guess I’m your prisoner.” Your slave, he wanted to say, but she might object to that word, and so he carefully avoided it.
Kendra had embraced this sexual scenario with more enthusiasm than he’d anticipated. He’d supplied the handcuffs—an authentic prop acquired for the St. Paul’s revels two years ago when Vivian had asked him to play the cop in a skit. Kendra had thought to add the blindfold one weekend after he returned from a trip with a business-class overnight kit containing a black sleep mask. Since their game had begun, her imagination continued to exceed his expectations. Now she looked down at his erection. “I didn’t say you could get hard yet.”
“I’m sorry.” He smiled beneath his moustache.
“Don’t smile. I’m not amused.” She placed the blindfold over his eyes. He had to admit, she played her role convincingly, but when all was said and done, he was really the one in control.
CHAPTER 35
Todd Brookes was standing in front of the gas range when Anna walked into the kitchen holding Christopher. She put Chris into his high chair, handed him a sippy cup of milk, and cut a bagel into sections for him. Then she turned to Todd. “You weren’t in bed when I woke up at five AM.” She pulled out her chair at the table.
“I moved to the couch. I couldn’t get to sleep.” He lifted a pot from the left front burner and spooned his steel-cut oatmeal into a bowl on the counter. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
He set the pot in the sink and ran steaming water into it.
Anna watched him carry his bowl to the table, pour two cups of coffee, and slide one across to her in a silent motion that screamed contempt. She stared at the small brown mole next to his left nostril. She’d liked that little mark when they’d first met—the slight imperfection had seemed to give his face character—but now, as he sipped his coffee without making eye contact, she decided the mole was only an imperfection.
“Why do you think the police talked to you last night?”
Todd lowered his cup. “For the same reason they talked to everyone. It’s their job.” His tone was like a slap across the face, and she felt her eyes sting. He watched her spoon sugar into her coffee, and she could feel his judgment. He drizzled blue agave over his oatmeal and stirred it in. Was his precious blue agave any healthier than a little sugar? You have food issues, she wanted to blurt out. People with food issues always believed their choices were so much better than those of everyone else, and they conveniently rationalized whatever indulgences they did allow themselves. Like blue agave. You’re such a hypocrite, she wanted to say.
The edge of his lips curled upward in a familiar snotty expression. He lifted his spoon to his mouth and took a bite, closing his eyes as if in rapture. When was the last time he had truly looked at her? When was the last time he’d smiled at her or touched her with affection? “Why did you come over to the church anyway?” she asked.
“Maybe because I woke up, and you weren’t there, and when I looked outside, the place was crawling with cops.” He didn’t stint on the sarcasm.
“But you had to get Christopher up. Why didn’t you call my cell? I would have filled you in.”
“I don’t know. Why didn’t you think to call me?” he fired back.
She hadn’t even considered calling Todd last night, she realized. Her mind had been on Philip, only on Philip. She sank lower in her chair feeling guilty and ashamed until she reminded herself that Todd wanted her to feel guilty—he was a master at turning things around—and she sat up again and looked him in the eyes. “Which detective did you speak to?”
“Muñoz. The tall one.”
“What questions did he ask you?”
“Probably the same ones you got asked.”
“Do you suppose they suspect you—because you were home alone and don’t have an alibi?”
“I wasn’t home alone. Christopher was here.”
“Yes, but—”
“But what?” He let his spoon clank to the table. “What’s with the third degree, Anna? Jesus! You’re so naïve, you know.” He shook his head. “They suspect everyone right now—including you, by the way. And if there’s anyone in this family who’s guilty of something, it isn’t me.” He lifted his eyebrows and smirked.
Christopher began to cry. She reached over and took her son’s small hand. “Shhh. It’s okay, Chris.” He curled his soft little fist around her index finger as she willed herself to hold Todd’s gaze. Nothing was okay, and what exactly was he suggesting that she was guilty of? Certainly he wasn’t referring to what she’d done in the bathroom last night. Even if he’d been awake, he didn’t have the power to see through solid doors. He couldn’t read her private thoughts.
She pushed out her chair. “Sofia is coming for Christopher at ten. Can you get him ready?”
He gave her a look that said she was asking a lot of him. She was tempted to say, Don’t tell me you’ve got another meeting. When are all those meetings going to lead to a new job? She stood and
stared at the sweetened coffee she hadn’t even touched. “I need to get to my office. If I don’t send a note to parishioners soon, they’ll hear about the deaths on the news.” She turned and left the kitchen.
When Anna walked down the front steps of the rectory ten minutes later, police vehicles and news vans were double-parked on the street, and reporters with microphones stood as close to the south gate as the crime scene tape allowed. She approached the officer guarding the gate, and he held up his hand in a stop gesture. “Church is closed to visitors, ma’am.”
“I’m not a visitor. I’m the rector.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “You still can’t come in.”
“Is Detective Codella here?”
“Detective Haggerty.”
“Can you call him out here?”
“Why?”
“Because I need to talk to him.”
“About what?” the officer demanded.
If she told him she needed to get inside, he’d just send her away. “I have to speak directly to him about it,” she said.
The officer shook his head. “Lady, this is a homicide investigation. It better be important.”
“It is,” she assured him. She wasn’t lying, she thought. Disseminating the sad news to her parishioners was important. “Please,” she said.
CHAPTER 36
“Excuse me, Detective Haggerty,” said the uniformed officer, “but there’s a woman outside who says she’s the rector, and she insists on talking to you. She won’t leave. What do you want me to do?”
Haggerty turned away from the CSU investigator who was dusting for prints in the second-floor supply closet where Claire had found the murder weapon. “I’ll handle it.”
He walked downstairs, stepped through the parish house doors, and spotted the rector sitting on the bench between the church and the gate. Her shoulder-length hair whipped across her face in the April wind. The stiff tab collar of a clergy blouse peeked out from under her light spring jacket. She looked pensive. Maybe a little sad. Or was he only seeing what he wanted to see? Was he determined to be right about her feelings for Philip Graves?