“Oh, Tuck,” Gin laughed. “That’s wonderful. I’d offer to go with you, but I’d hate to deprive you of the full experience. You should get a pedicure, at least.”
This time, his horrified recoil looked real. “I’d sooner have someone pull my nails out with pliers. Look, at first I thought it was a dumb idea, but Cherie’s noticed that a lot of the girls are beginning to experiment with makeup and nail polish and so forth. And she wants to get her hair cut like Olive’s. I don’t know … I guess there’s a part of me that wishes I could shield her from all that.”
“I understand the impulse. But I think it’s great that you’re helping her fit in as she’s getting older.”
“And then I’m on the hook for dinner at Shady’s,” Tuck added, naming a family restaurant popular with kids, with an expansive arcade and a menu featuring pizza and burgers.
“So you’re having wings for lunch? Sounds like you’re spoiling for a heart attack,” Gin teased. “Maybe you should see if Cherie wants to run a 5K with you next.”
“Hey, Sullivan, there’s nothing wrong with my heart,” Tuck growled. “I’m ready to prove it to you any time—just say the word.”
“I’ll have to take a rain check,” Gin smiled. “Some of us still have to work.”
Funny thing, how his risqué teasing didn’t offend her as much as it once had. Only because she was tired of scolding him, Gin told herself.
But as she sipped at her soda, she wondered if it was time to accept that she enjoyed it.
* * *
Tuck and Gin had agreed that she should pre-emptively offer to share everything about the autopsy with Bruce in an attempt to see if he might open up to her about any new developments in the investigation, rather than waiting for him to review the report, but it was the end of the week before he got back to her after she left him several voice mails.
“Hey, Sullivan, you called?” he said, as though days hadn’t passed.
Gin felt her face warm, wondering if it was possible to speak to the man without becoming frustrated. “Look, I was calling because—well, because I have concerns about this case.”
“Which part? Dead guy number one? Dead guy number two? I read the report, by the way—that’s some freaky shit. Or are you still hung up on Jake’s junkie mom?”
“All of it. The connections between them. I’m glad to hear you at least think they’re all connected somehow.”
“Oh, I didn’t say that. Far as I’m concerned, Marnie Bertram might as well have put a gun to her own head when she ate that bottle of pills. Douglas Gluck was already dead, so the only question there is why somebody decided to interrupt his eternal rest. And Brian Dumbauld? I looked into his case history after I got the report. He isn’t exactly going to get a key from the city for his contributions to the community. Look, I hate to be blunt here, Gin, but I’m not sure where you think I’m going to find support for following up on this guy, given that we’re running on empty in the manpower department. I mean, yeah, the case is open, but I can’t justify throwing resources at it. I’m sorry to say it, but dead junkies aren’t very high on anyone’s list.”
“Yes, but you’re a homicide investigator,” Gin said, exasperated. “And at least one of those was likely a homicide. I haven’t exactly heard about any other new murders that could be taking up your time, so…”
“Gin. You want me to spell this out for you? You’d have to be living under a rock not to know how serious Wheeler is about her upcoming campaign. Everyone’s expecting her to make the official announcement next week. She’s heavily favored to win, and then Goldman will be promoted to captain to take her place, leaving a big fat hole where Special Ops lieutenant used to be.” He paused, and Gin could imagine the self-satisfied smirk that was his signature expression. “See where we’re going with this?”
“You’re hoping to be promoted to that post,” she said.
“Which means that I need to show I’ve got the chops for it. The leadership potential.”
“I haven’t exactly noticed,” Gin said drily.
Bruce snorted. “If you did more than play in the corpse sandbox, you’d know that I’ve been heavily involved in the narcotics investigation. The one that has caught the public’s attention. The one that Wheeler’s going to be talking about at her announcement speech.”
“Thank you for making this all crystal clear,” Gin said. “You’re worried about how you’re going to look up there at her side, and to hell with everything else on your plate.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been provoked enough to curse at a colleague.
“Everyone you mentioned—they’re dead,” he said flatly. “They don’t care. And they don’t have loved ones to care, either. Look, Gin, I’ll probably never convince you of this, and I don’t know why I even give a flying fuck, but I care about my job. I do good work. Ask your buddy Tuck if you don’t believe me. And I’m going to be able to do a lot more good once I’m running Special Ops.”
Could he be telling the truth? Or was this evidence of a dark, manipulative side of Bruce—a man who seized opportunities wherever he found them, regardless of the cost to others?
“Let me see if I can change your mind,” Gin said instead.
“I doubt you can, but sure, give it your best shot.”
Gin described her conversation with Logan, explaining how she’d been studying his social media. To her relief, he didn’t seem to care that she’d endangered herself by attending the protest, and seemed intrigued by Logan’s relationship with Jonah and their shared fascination with violent computer games.
“This Dead Lands 2,” Bruce said. “I’ll look into it, but even if it’s as violent as you say, it’s just a game. If we had to check into every kid who’s hooked on first person shooter games, we’d never do anything else.”
“The point is that there’s data to support a link between violent gaming and increases in aggressive behavior, and just as important, a decrease in prosocial behavior, empathy, moral engagement—in other words, the sort of profile behind a lot of violent crime. Add to that Logan’s family’s economic woes, his social disenfranchisement—”
“Yeah, you’ve got yourself a little serial killer, right? Sorry, Gin, that’s sounding a lot like a Hollywood movie.”
“Don’t you think it’s relevant that he and Jonah were friends?” Gin asked in frustration. “It never made much sense that Jonah would simply stumble on a body ten miles from where he lived. This suggests he was at the cabin for some other reason. Meaning that at the very least he lied about how he discovered it—and suggests that the boys were involved somehow.”
“And this means … what, exactly, for me?”
“I think we should talk to Jonah again. At the very least, he might be able to give us some insight into Logan’s activities. And I know where he is tonight—the jazz band is playing at the senior center.”
“Right.” Bruce barked a laugh. “His dad will be thrilled with us showing up. Pluck his kid right out of a sanctioned school activity—nice. Besides, Gin, I realize you probably spend your Friday evenings watching masterpiece theater and reading medical journals, but I’m off the clock in about ten minutes. And I’ve got a really, really important date.”
Gin squeezed her eyes shut in frustration. “Bruce … please. This could be an important opportunity—and I can help. If Jonah has information he’s reluctant to share, I’ve had psychological training, I can—”
“If I wanted assistance from a professional, why wouldn’t I just call the departmental psychiatrist?” Bruce interrupted her. “Sorry to have to point it out, but you don’t get a lot of practice with head shrinking since all your patients are dead.”
Progress, Gin thought—he hadn’t flat out refused. “Because, in the first place—it’s Friday night. Like you said, Dr. Tanenbaum probably has a date with masterpiece theater and her medical journals. And in the second place—you traded away your chance to nail Jonah for the drug charges, which would have fit right into Wheeler’s
campaign—and this might be your chance to bring him back in. If we can show that he’s involved with the grave tampering or the death of Brian Dumbauld, the immunity deal’s off, and you can focus attention on the opiate crisis. Which in turn will help your own chances for advancement.”
Bruce didn’t reply for a moment. Gin could hear his slightly adenoidal breathing. “Hang on,” he said abruptly. “I’ve got another call.”
Gin waited; as the moments ticked by, she wondered if Bruce had actually hung up on her. After what seemed like ages, he finally came back on the line. “It’s your lucky night,” he said. “My date canceled on me. So I find that I’ve got a little free time.”
“You’re not going to regret this,” Gin said.
She desperately hoped she was right.
23
As Gin was buying two tickets from the parent volunteers manning the desk at the senior center, Bruce came up beside her. The parking lot had been full of cars, and parents and friends chatted as they waited to buy tickets.
“Enjoy the concert, you two,” the cheerful middle-aged blond said, handing Gin her change.
Gin realized she thought she and Bruce were a couple. He was still wearing his work clothes, though he’d removed his jacket and loosened his tie. He wasn’t a bad looking man, but his manners were so offensive that Gin had to resist the urge to correct the ticket taker’s mistaken impression.
“So, we’ll approach him after the concert?” Gin asked as they entered the auditorium.
“Fuck that—I didn’t give up my Friday night to listen to a bunch of screeching and wailing. The band’s just going to have to deal with being a man down in the horn section. Come on, this probably leads backstage.”
Gin followed Bruce through a door, up a ramp and into the backstage area, where teens milled around warming up and tuning their instruments. Girls and boys alike wore a uniform of jeans and black shirts, some of them accessorizing with outlandish ties and hats and Mardi Gras beads.
“There’s our boy,” Bruce said, not bothering to keep his voice down. Gin had spotted him too. He was standing in a corner by himself with his arms folded over his chest, and the expression on his face could only be described as a smirk as he watched the other students milling around. He looked arrogant, unapproachable—far different from the first time she’d seen him, when Jake had dragged him home.
Bruce didn’t bother to keep his voice down. “Hey, Jonah, how about you hang up the sax and come with us for a chat?”
“What do you want?” Jonah asked, plucking a sheaf of sheet music from a nearby stand. “I already told you guys everything I know. My dad’s lawyer says I don’t have to talk to you anymore.”
“What’s this about?” a thirtyish man with a lot of product in his hair asked as he approached them. “Who are you?”
“Detective Bruce Stillman, Allegheny County Police Bruce flipped his badge with an air of boredom, then nodded in Gin’s direction. “I brought her along in case things get out of hand. She’s a real pit bull—I wouldn’t give her any reason to get cranky.”
Imagine that, Gin thought. Bruce had a sense of humor.
The badge seemed to have done the trick. “You can’t come back here,” the band director said, uncertainly. “We’re moments away from the performance.”
“And I’m sure it’ll be memorable,” Bruce said. “Maybe there are some talent scouts in the audience and you’ll be playing Carnegie soon. Don’t worry, we’ll find somewhere quiet to talk.”
Jonah had dropped the aloof manner and was packing his saxophone into his case. To Gin, it looked like he might be considering bolting. Bruce seemed to have drawn the same conclusion. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll give you a clue—the easy way is you coming with us before that hot flute player over there figures out we’re not here to give you a scholarship to Juilliard.”
Jonah hefted the case and scowled. “Can we please just get this over with?”
Gin and Bruce filed out with Jonah between them, through the gauntlet of the curious gazes of his peers. He stumbled twice, and Gin couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.
“So what now? Are you dragging me to the station again?”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Bruce said. “I thought we’d go visit the cemetery. We can go in my car—county picks up the tab for gas, and nobody’s going to hassle us.”
Gin said nothing. The cemetery was an inspired choice—if Jonah actually knew anything about how Dumbauld’s body ended up in Gluck’s grave, and Gluck ended up near the cabin. They rode in silence, Jonah silent in the backseat. Several times, Gin turned to look at him, trying to decide if he was angry or frightened or some combination of the two, but he’d resumed his implacable smirking. She tried to imagine him having the wherewithal to follow her to Greensboro, set up an obstacle, drug her, and somehow transport her to the plant, and decided the idea was ludicrous; he was still a kid, plagued with acne and nervous around his teachers.
The gates of the cemetery looked more imposing at night. One of the lights near the offices was burned out, intensifying the foreboding atmosphere. As Bruce cruised slowly along the paved cemetery road, a parked car started up and hurriedly exited. Kids, Gin figured, using the cemetery for a little privacy to make out or get high.
Even knowing exactly where they were going, the grave site was still a grim shock. The area was still ringed with crime scene tape, the surrounding lawn rutted and torn where the CSI team had set up. The small mound of dirt the two workmen had excavated still sat on the plywood sheet. Since their visit, a tarp had been stretched over the open grave. As they followed Bruce to the edge of the hole, Gin could see that it was empty, the weak moonlight battling the black void.
“Take a good look,” Bruce said, in a friendly tone. “I know that pile of dirt doesn’t look like much, but the gravediggers showed me where most of it ended up, in the woods over there. You know, you don’t realize how hard it is to move that much dirt around, especially with soil being damp. My pops used to make me and my brother help him out with his rental houses on the weekends—we replaced a whole foundation when I was thirteen. Jacked that fucker up on piers while my dad yelled at us. Damn, that was a shit ton of dirt, too.”
Jonah said nothing, his hands jammed in his pockets, looking around the cemetery.
“Nothing like you guys have it now,” Bruce went on. “Playing for the stiffs on a Friday night—and then, what, an after-party at some kid’s house? Get your hand up that redhead’s skirt, from the way she was looking at you. You hit that already?”
“Don’t be disgusting,” Jonah said. Gin had to admire Bruce’s ability to provoke a response from him.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Bruce said. “Got to keep your nose clean, you’re probably going to spend the weekend studying for the SAT, right? Daddy’s got plans for you. Nothing but the best for his kid.”
“You’re wrong about him,” Jonah muttered. “My father doesn’t love me. He only wants to change me.”
“Jonah,” Gin said, deciding that it was time to change the course of the conversation. “I talked to Logan Ewing. He shared some … disturbing things.”
Jonah lifted his head slowly, his mouth set in a tight line. “Logan? The kid from my prep class? He’s a freak. He’s the one you should be talking to, not me. Whatever he said about me, it’s probably just part of his pathetic need for attention.”
“But you’re here and Logan isn’t. Humor us, Jonah—if you know anything about the body you discovered near the cabin, now’s the time to share it.”
“Is this where you scare me straight or something? If I don’t toe the line, I’ll end up here, something like that?”
“Why, would that convince you?” Bruce asked.
“Probably not. My dad’s been telling me I’ll end up in jail or dead before I’m twenty, so I’ve had a chance to get used to it.” In a quieter voice, he added, “It would almost be a relief.”
“Why a relief?�
� Gin asked, while Bruce rolled his eyes. “Are you saying you sometimes think about harming yourself?”
“You sound like my shrink,” Jonah said, in possibly the most empty, despairing tone Gin had ever heard.
“Before you decide you’re too angsty to live, consider what happened to that guy,” Bruce said. “That body you took us to, at the cabin? Poor guy was minding his own business, being, like, dead, and somebody came out here and dug him up. This is his address, right here.” He pointed at the hole. “He was all nice and fixed up for the funeral, and whoever took him out messed that all up. He isn’t a pretty sight any more, believe me.”
Jonah was trying to maintain his attitude of defiance, but Gin could see his composure slipping. He looked rather queasy, actually.
“Was he … uh, like, rotting?” he asked.
“Well, you saw him, didn’t you?”
Jonah shook his head emphatically. “All I saw was the part of this black trash bag that wasn’t buried, and the … the arm sticking out. With no hand. I only went close enough to make sure it really was, you know, what it looked like. And then I … uh.”
“Ran away, right?” Bruce said with disgust. “Couldn’t handle it. Probably cried like a girl all the way home.”
“Bruce,” Gin cautioned him with some exasperation. “I’m not actually sure how this line of questioning is helping…?”
Bruce brushed her comment away. “Just getting the lad softened up. Making you more receptive to what we have to say. Right, my friend?”
“Whatever,” Jonah mumbled morosely.
“The thing I don’t get, that maybe you can help me out with, the whole time your dad’s pushing the ivy league thing, you’re trying to set yourself up as some kind of baller, right? Stealing his prescription pad, writing scripts, selling that shit to your friends. But that wasn’t enough for you. What happened, did you get bored? Because cutting into someone else’s territory, going up against established dealers—don’t you watch TV? You didn’t think about what happens to dealers who try to take over someone else’s corner?”
In the Darkest Hour Page 22