“Oh,” Gin said, disappointed. “I thought maybe we could enjoy our wine and finish that show we started.”
“You go ahead without me, okay? I might be up for a while. They’ve found dry rot in the internal structure. I need to figure out how extensive it is.”
He touched her arm as he passed her, headed for the stairs. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do for now.
3
Gin woke the next morning on the living room sofa, tucked under a wool blanket. For a moment she was disoriented. Not only could she not remember having fallen asleep there, but she didn’t remember fetching the blanket or the pillow under her head.
Then it all came back to her: the news about Jake’s mother, the visit to the morgue, the tense conversation with Jake. She’d restarted the show that she and Jake had begun watching earlier in the week, hoping that he would finish his paperwork and join her. Instead, she’d fallen asleep in front of the television, something she almost never did, and Jake must have covered her rather than waking her to come up to bed.
But that meant that she also had slept through her alarm. She could hear the faint tone of her phone alarm upstairs, a series of serene chords. She sat up and threw off the covers, stretching, and glanced over at the kitchen. Jake’s coffee mug was sitting on the counter; the lunch he’d packed the night before was gone. Judging from the angle of the sun, it was already well past dawn, and Jake was probably halfway to the job site already.
Gin tried to stifle her disappointment. She’d hoped to have another opportunity to talk to Jake this morning about his mother, after he’d had a chance to let the news sink in. She understood his desire to put it all behind him—but even the simplest burial required myriad decisions: the selection of a plot, a headstone, a casket; conferring with the cemetery staff; scheduling the interment, even if there was to be no service.
There was also the matter of the expense. A simple burial could cost thousands of dollars. Jake’s finances, never completely secure in all of the years that she’d known him, had suffered a setback last year when a job he’d sunk all of his savings into was struck by tragedy: a fire wiped out the nearly completed house, and the investigation into a body discovered on the property tied up the project longer than Jake could comfortably manage. As a result, he’d bid for the retreat center, despite its distance. The project carried a lot of prestige and promised significant financial rewards once it was completed, but the progress payments were barely covering his expenses.
Gin suspected that Jake had no idea of the high cost of the burial. She would be more than happy to make a loan from her savings, but Jake had made it clear before that he didn’t want to accept any money from her. Any support she hoped to give—financial or otherwise—would have to be offered with great sensitivity. It wasn’t the sort of thing she could discuss with him on the phone, which meant that it would have to wait until the weekend.
“Damn it!” Gin exclaimed as she folded the blanket. She had gotten into the habit of talking to Jake’s elderly dog when she was alone in the house, but Jett’s health had declined precipitously last winter and they’d made the difficult decision to put her down once she lost her appetite and couldn’t rise from her bed without pain. Since then, Gin had felt Jett’s absence keenly; since she worked mostly from home, she missed the companionship.
What should we make for the dinner party? She would have asked the old dog. Since moving in with Jake nearly a year ago, she had slowly grown comfortable enough to add her own touches to the place, to hang a few pieces of her own art and mix her playlists in with his. Though Jake had been a bachelor for many years and had come to enjoy cooking, they fell into a comfortable routine of taking turns. Until now, though, Jake always took the lead when company came over. This weekend would be the first time Gin would be in charge.
The invited guests had been her friends first: Rosa Barnes, an old schoolmate with whom she’d renewed her friendship last year, was coming with Doyle Grynbaum, whom she had been dating for several months. And Brandon Hart, the widower of one of Gin’s childhood friends, was bringing his girlfriend Diane.
Gin scrolled through recipes on several cooking websites before deciding on a menu to showcase the flavors of spring: eggplant parmesan, a salad of baby lettuces and herbs and peas, and strawberry shortcake. Nothing too ambitious, and if she ran into trouble, she could always call her mother. In addition to being the mayor of the town of Trumbull, Pennsylvania, Madeleine Sullivan was an accomplished hostess and cook.
Gin wrote up a grocery list and planned her errands for the next few days: visits to the farmers market that her mother had launched in the town’s revitalized downtown, a new little wine shop that offered tastings and local vintages, her favorite bakery for a savory tart to serve as an appetizer. Her enthusiasm grew as she looked forward to hosting the other two couples, who’d been introduced but didn’t know each other well. With any luck, the evening would cement their friendship and kick off a summer of enjoyable social events.
Evenings such as the one she had planned were something she suspected other couples did routinely, but Gin had spent the last two decades pursuing an arduous education to become a pathologist. She’d then completed a demanding residency at the Cook County Medical Examiner’s office in Chicago, before finally being hired on staff. As the years went by, Gin honed her skills and developed a specialty in advanced decomposition after doing two tours as a Red Cross volunteer, working to identify victims of war crimes in the mass graves in Srebrenica. None of that had prepared her for the social life that other young people took for granted, and other than a few fleeting romantic relationships that failed to flourish from a lack of attention, Gin had never had time for a large social circle.
With the shopping list complete, Gin stepped into the shower and took her time under the luxuriant spray. Jake had built this house himself, and had lavished attention on every detail—from the stone tile to the window that gave views onto the woods behind the house, the burnished fixtures, the falling-rain shower showerhead. When she was done, she dried off with a plush, oversized towel.
Her phone rang as she was slathering rich lotion onto her legs, inhaling the heady scent. She glanced over at the display screen, expecting her mother; instead, it was a number she hadn’t seen in months.
Tuck Baxter, Chief of Police.
She hesitated before picking up the phone. Tuck had only taken the chief position last November. The position had been vacated earlier in the year when Chief Crosby—Jake’s father—was killed in the course of the investigation into the death of Gin’s sister, Lily. Perhaps because of the circumstances of Crosby’s death, the department had been slow to welcome Tuck. But that hadn’t stopped him from implementing tough new policies that were meant to raise the level of professionalism of the force. After Crosby’s easygoing style, the changes weren’t universally appreciated.
But that wasn’t the only reason Gin had put some distance between her and Tuck. He’d been involved in the investigation of the body discovered on Jake’s job site last fall—an investigation that had focused briefly on Jake himself. There was no love lost between the two men, even though Tuck hadn’t hesitated to arrest the true murderer when her identity came to light, thereby exonerating Jake.
The lingering chill between them, Gin had to admit, was mostly because of her. And that was a matter on which she had some very mixed feelings—feelings she didn’t like to examine too closely.
She shook her head, attempting to clear out the unhelpful thoughts, and picked up the phone. “Hello, this is Gin,” she said, attempting to sound cool and professional.
“Hey Gin. Tuck Baxter.”
“Tuck. Nice to hear from you. What can I do for you?”
Did she imagine it, or was there a hesitation before Tuck spoke again? “I’m actually just following up on the matter of Marnie Bertram’s death. Everything I’m about to tell you, I already spoke to Jake about. He … ah, look, Gin, as you probably know, calling you like this is a
bit, um, irregular. So I’d appreciate it if you could consider this just a casual call between friends, rather than any sort of official communication.”
“Of course, Tuck.” Gin was aware of the rules in place for protecting the confidentiality of matters relating to a death, even in cases where there was no investigation into cause.
“In the past, with someone like Marnie Bertram, with a string of minor offenses behind her and a documented history of drug abuse, we wouldn’t bother with an autopsy. But there’s some evidence of an uptick in opiate-related deaths in the area. There’ve been fourteen overdose deaths in the county in the past five weeks, and Wheeler’s leaning on Narcotics to find the source. She’s assigned Reggie Clawitter to head up the investigation.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Gin said. The surge in opiate overdoses was a nationwide problem with no ready solution, and communities everywhere were desperately grappling with a threat that seemed to have exploded to the front lines. “I hear from my colleagues in Cook County that they’re experiencing a similar surge.”
“Wheeler’s pretty worried about public perception. She doesn’t want to appear unconcerned.”
“Chozick has instituted changes in how we report overdose on death certificates,” Gin said, referring to the Allegheny County Chief ME. “It used to be that you’d see deaths certified as simply acute or multi-drug intoxication. But now we’re much more specific. We list everything—like ‘acute intoxication due to the combined effects of diazepam, alcohol, and heroin’—as much detail as possible.”
“Yeah, it’s a hard truth,” Tuck sighed. “Anyway, Wheeler’s made it clear that every overdose needs to be investigated, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to insist on an autopsy on this one.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Gin murmured, while wondering what this meant for her mother and for the town of Trumbull. As mayor, Madeleine was well versed in the inner workings of local politics—to some degree, at the county level and even beyond—as in the case of the upcoming election for Allegheny County Sheriff. Captain Maureen Wheeler hadn’t gone public yet with her intention to run, as the election was still eighteen months away, but her ambitions weren’t exactly secret, either. “She must be desperate to get a handle on this before it takes more lives.”
“Yeah, no shit. Nobody wants to get labeled the next Fulton County.” Philadelphia had long been known as the city with the highest death rate for opiate-related overdoses, but the sparsely populated southern county had recently edged it out as the crisis moved out of the cities and into rural areas. “I hate to say it, Gin, but Marnie Bertram’s death is going to be getting a lot of attention. We’ll keep it out of the media the best we can, of course, but inside the department—that’s another story.”
Gin had a feeling she knew what Tuck was leading up to. “You said you told Jake all of this,” she ventured tentatively. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to him today. He’s working on a project up in Trafford—he’s been staying up there three days a week.”
“Yeah, that’s what he said.” There was another pause. Gin could picture Tuck gathering his thoughts; he preferred to speak with precision. “Jake tells me that he wasn’t close to his mother. I understand they didn’t really have much of a relationship. Nevertheless … he is her next of kin, so there is likely to be a need for his involvement, even if it’s just for documentation and the eventual return of the remains.”
“Let me guess,” Gin said quietly. “He didn’t want to hear that.”
Tuck cleared his throat. “His exact words were, ‘Send me a fucking bill.’ I told him he’d have to make arrangements with the mortuary, but he made it clear he didn’t want any more involvement than necessary.”
Gin winced; she could imagine Jake saying it. “You’ve got to understand, Tuck, I think Jake’s … working through a lot of anger.”
Tuck’s laugh was short and bitter. “That’s one way to put it. Listen, Gin, I’m not without sympathy here. I figure Jake’s entitled to feel whatever he wants about this. And I really am sorry that I can’t keep him out of it entirely.”
“I appreciate that. And … I think Jake does, too. Jake’s not the kind of man to say it, but this is affecting him deeply.”
“Yeah,” Tuck said. “To be honest, I think I might handle something like this about the same way. Which is why I thought, well, I wondered if I could talk you into attending the autopsy. I know it’s not your area, and you’d just be observing. No consulting obligation, obviously, especially since it’s going to be pretty straightforward, unless there’s something we’ve all missed.”
“I’m not sure what I could add,” she said carefully. “Any of the staff pathologists are likely to have as much, or more, experience as I do with drug-related deaths.”
“Yeah, I get that. The truth is … it’d be a favor to me as much as anything. Bruce and Liam Witt caught the case and, well, you know how that’s going to go over. Let’s just say I was hoping your presence might smooth the way to interdepartmental cooperation again.”
Senior Homicide Detective Bruce Stillman and his younger partner, Liam Witt, had been involved not only in the investigation that took place on Jake’s worksite last fall, but also in the case of Gin’s sister, Lily. It was the discovery of her remains that had prompted Gin to take the leave of absence from the Cook County Medical Examiner’s office, which had eventually turned into her permanent move back to her hometown.
Wheeler had probably assigned the pair because of the experience they’d amassed in Trumbull, but the decision had a downside. From the start, Bruce had suspected Jake in Lily’s murder, and had pursued his case relentlessly, right up until the true killer was identified. Despite establishing Jake’s innocence in that case, Bruce pushed hard when evidence on Jake’s job site pointed to his possible involvement—even when there were other, likelier suspects.
Now that Jake had been cleared twice, Gin hoped that Bruce would finally give him the benefit of the doubt. But nothing about the detective’s typically boorish behavior suggested he’d be extending an olive branch any time soon.
“Jake’s mother is dead,” Gin said, tempering her exasperation. “Surely even Bruce will show some sensitivity in a case like this.”
“Yeah, you’d think so.” After a beat, Tuck added, “I hate to ask this of you, but the truth is that I need to get some wins on the board. As you know, not everyone was behind me for this job. Wheeler’s been keeping pretty close tabs, and the post is provisional for six months. Which is coming up pretty damn fast.”
“You really think there’s any question that Captain Wheeler will make it permanent?” Gin asked, surprised. “I’m sure my mother would be glad to give you a glowing review. She was telling me that the city’s crime statistics have improved since you got here. A twenty percent decline in violent crime? That’s pretty impressive.”
“Or it could easily be cyclical, or due to increased patrols, or any number of things.” Tuck sighed audibly. “We both know that these things can be spun any way the brass wants to spin them. And I just thought that maybe, if you showed up on this one, you could keep the tone a little more professional and we could get all the moving pieces to keep moving. Anything we can do to speed up the tox reports, and show that Trumbull PD is taking this crisis seriously—I’ll take it.”
“Of course.” Gin could do this, both as the favor Tuck was seeking, and because she knew firsthand how devastating in influx of heroin would be to Trumbull. She hadn’t witnessed the gradual rebirth and renewal of her hometown, only to see it sink back into despair. “I have to admit, I’m glad to hear that you’re willing to fight for your job … and by extension, for Trumbull. I take it this means you’ve been happy here these last few months?”
“Yeah, definitely.” Tuck’s tone relaxed. “Cherie and I have been settling in really well. One of our neighbors has taken a shine to her, and stays with her sometimes when I can’t be home. She’s sort of a grandmother to Cherie—something she hasn’t re
ally had before.”
“Oh, I’m so glad to hear that.”
“You know, I’ve missed seeing you since basketball season ended. Cherie says she sees you around school. She’s been bugging me about some girls-in-science thing—that have anything to do with you?”
Gin laughed. “Um, I guess so—I’ve applied to lead an initiative at the middle school—it’s called Girls Rock Science. It’s meant to encourage girls to prepare for careers in the sciences. It’s only part-time, a few hours a week in the classroom and then after-school programs that I would be responsible for developing and leading.”
“Wow, it sounds like it’s right up your alley. And if you’re half as good at it as you were at coaching, well, I’d say they’ve got the right woman for the job.”
“Tuck Baxter, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to butter me up,” Gin said. She’d grown fond of Tuck’s daughter Cherie during the basketball season when she’d led her eighth-grade team to a dubious two-seven season. “It’s okay—I already said yes to attending the autopsy, so you can drop the charm offensive.”
“Hell, Gin, if charm worked on you, I’d already—hey, strike that,” Tuck said. “Forgive me. No need to dredge up the past. I’m just glad you said yes.”
“Me too,” Gin said, feeling her face warm. It had undoubtedly been inadvertent, but Tuck had brought her back to some complicated memories; when they’d first gotten acquainted last fall, Tuck had expressed an interest in her that went beyond a professional relationship. He’d made it known that if Jake should ever be out of the picture, he wanted in.
And Gin had to admit that she’d had feelings for him as well. During that difficult time with Jake, she’d come closer than she should have to taking their relationship into dangerous territory.
“So you’ll let me know when the autopsy’s scheduled?”
In the Darkest Hour Page 2