“Look, I’m not trying to criticize the job my predecessor did or suggest that what my guys do isn’t important. I paid attention when your mom talked about the problems facing this place. And despite what I said a minute ago, I know it’s going to be a challenge to keep up with the kind of crime that a clash between poverty and gentrification tend to bring.”
“But it’s just not worth your time,” Gin observed coldly.
“Look—what do you want me to say?” Tuck shrugged. “I was raised in West Philadelphia, back when it wasn’t safe to walk to your car. My dad saw more action as a night security guard at a warehouse than I did in my first few years on the job. My mom kept one gun in a kitchen drawer and another in her makeup table. I have a certain . . . need for adrenaline, you might say. And an extremely low tolerance for bullshit.”
Gin watched him for a moment, trying to figure out where he fit into the world she knew. She had met more than a handful of renegades during her career, men—and the occasional woman—who worked in law enforcement because they craved the kind of excitement that came from high-speed pursuits and breaking up street races and gang disputes. They tended not to last long—and they usually went out on injury or disciplinary measures.
But Tuck didn’t seem like he fit into that category. He seemed neither reckless nor out to prove something. He seemed, in fact, like someone who meant to leave his mark on the world—and fair warning to those who would stand in his way.
“Well, you’re going to have to be careful,” she said. “People are watching you. They’re going to be looking for you to make missteps.”
“Like your boyfriend?”
Gin felt her face grow warm. “Not him. I mean, Jake’s stubborn, but he’s fair.”
“I read your whole case file. Not just the new entries . . . I read the whole thing, all the way back to when you were in high school. I know you were involved with Crosby back then. I know your father accused him of your sister’s murder, that it ended a thirty-year friendship with his father.”
“You didn’t need to read the file to learn all that. There are a lot of people in town who would have loved to tell you all about it.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m talking to you. You may have noticed I’m a fairly direct guy. I figure you could help me get the lay of the land. Advise me.”
“On how to make people like you?” Gin gave him a thin smile. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help to you there. I’m not exactly Miss Congeniality myself.”
“But you can help me avoid the pitfalls.” Some of the confidence evaporated from Baxter’s eyes. “Look, consider yourself a consultant, maybe. Help me understand the way things work around here. Help me learn to love this place—at least as long as I’m here.”
He focused his gaze on her, his bottle-glass-green eyes alive with emotion. He was standing a little too close, and Gin felt exposed, like he guessed things about her that she wasn’t ready to admit even to herself. Something dangerous arced between them, an awareness that stemmed from the emptiness she had been feeling ever since Jake started shutting her out.
But that was ridiculous . . . she and Jake were having ordinary couple problems; that was all. They were both under a lot of stress, and all they needed was for things to settle down, maybe take a few days off and go away somewhere. She ought to be with him now, figuring out how to help him navigate the crisis he was in—not offering her assistance to a man whose involvement could only spell more trouble for Jake.
“That doesn’t sound exactly proper,” she said firmly. “And I need to remind you that my loyalties lie with Jake. I won’t do anything to expose him to more suspicion.”
Baxter raised an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty bold statement, Gin. Especially if the body buried on land he currently owns turns out not to have been dead for a hundred years after all.”
Gin was caught off guard. Word that the uniform was Civil War era had rocketed around the Trumbull grapevine, despite the medical examiner’s decision to wait on the death certificate. It made a good story, after all. And it had deflected suspicion from Jake—giving him a break he badly needed.
“What makes you think that? After all, Fred Rappaport himself said that—”
“Don’t be coy, Gin,” Baxter said. “Condescension doesn’t suit you. I’ve had a fair amount of training. Look up my resume, if you like—I got a minor in forensic science from Penn State. I also still have friends in the ME’s office. So I know that any conclusions about the age of that body are premature, to say the least.”
“Okay, fine,” Gin allowed. “But you can’t be implying that Jake’s a suspect—”
“Now that’s a hell of a big jump to make. Still, that fire didn’t start itself. All I meant was, considering there’s an active investigation, you were probably right, and I should probably try making friends somewhere else.”
The feeling that took hold of Gin felt suspiciously like disappointment, even though she’d been the first one to raise a red flag.
“You might try to stay in touch with my mother,” she said. “I’m sure she would be happy to meet with you and advise you on . . . procedural matters. She has an exceptionally highly developed sense of civic responsibility.”
“Duly noted. But there’s still that other thing . . . strictly not job related. Unless your mother’s also coaching a basketball team, you’re still my best bet. For Cherie’s sake. Tell you what—if you’ll agree to it, I’ll pitch in when I can. And we’ll have a rule—no shop talk. No talk about work at all, just focusing on the game.”
Gin laughed. “Oh, all right. We’re meeting up at the Shoney Middle School gym this afternoon after school lets out.” She eyed his crisp shirt collar, which still bore the faint outlines of the packing folds. “And wear something you can run in.”
8
Gin stopped by the house to change clothes and grab a bite to eat before heading over to the middle school. Jake’s truck was gone, and he hadn’t left a note.
If Gin had to guess, she supposed he was probably at the office he leased in a modest brick one-story building down by the old processing plant that had once housed the steel company surveyor’s office. As part of her mother’s redevelopment scheme, it and a couple of other buildings had been converted to office spaces, outfitted with high-tech amenities and contemporary furnishings, and advertised to firms that were seeking less expensive space than was available in the city. Madeleine had exceeded her own goals for the fledgling office park: over 70 percent of the spaces were now occupied by tech startups and biotech consulting firms and the headquarters of a chain of gluten-free bakeries.
Madeleine had given Jake a great deal as one of her first tenants. His office was small, but it had floor-to-ceiling river views in two directions and featured the original hardwood floors, buffed until they were gleaming, and the original surveyor’s cabinet, which Jake had refinished and used for his client files.
Just maybe the office had been a form of apology for the years when nagging suspicions of Jake’s guilt in their daughter’s death had prevented Madeleine and Richard from mending fences with him.
But that was their business, not Gin’s. She could stop by the office, see Jake for herself, try to break down the chill that had formed between them . . . but there was a part of her that was still too irritated that he’d put her in this position.
After all, with the jobsite shut down at least temporarily, there was no reason he couldn’t be the one helping out with the girls. He knew how important the volunteer position was to her. Jake had played a few years of basketball before getting kicked off the team, and he could run passing practice or lead drills or at the very least help out with team meetings. The fact that he hadn’t volunteered to participate didn’t help her mood.
Gin took Jett for an easy run along the ridge, cutting her speed to accommodate the old dog’s pace, and made sure she had clean water and a fresh chew toy, then drove to the middle school. She’d arranged in advance to meet Olive by the sta
nds, and she could make out the girl’s long, swinging ponytail and hot-pink high-tops from across the parking lot.
“Hey, Lefty!” she called after she’d gotten her equipment bag from the trunk and jogged over.
Olive rolled her eyes and flicked her ponytail over her shoulder. “Stop trying, Gin, it isn’t happening. Besides, Lefty’s a boy’s name.”
“Not necessarily. You could be the first . . .” Noticing that the girl was preoccupied with something going on by the gym, she followed her gaze over to the double doors, where the rest of the team was gathering. Four girls clustered around their gym bags and backpacks, talking and laughing. Several paces away, a girl stood alone, watching them, a brand-new ball in her hands.
“Gin,” Olive interrupted. “Did you really tell Cherie Baxter’s dad she could be on the team?”
So that was Cherie. Gin’s heart slipped a little: the girl looked frightened, her big brown eyes uncertain and her mouth pulled into a tremulous pout. “Sure, honey, why wouldn’t I?”
“Uh, because she’s going to be terrible?”
“I hate to break it to you, not-Lefty, but you’re pretty terrible yourself. No offense, but you and all of your other teammates are pretty much unformed lumps of clay. At this point, any one of you could break out of the pack and become the star, including Cherie.”
“Gin.” Olive glared at her witheringly. “I’m not trying to be mean, but she’s special. And not in a good way. Not in an athletic way, anyway.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Gin said. “Can you be more specific?”
“Just talk to her, you’ll see,” Olive said. “But look. I’m nice to her, okay? So don’t make me like be her partner or whatever, like I know you’re probably going to. Please? I’ve got enough social issues of my own without that.”
She sounded so adult that Gin was torn between amusement and concern. She knew that Olive was receiving therapy to help her deal with her mother’s death, but the middle school social landscape was difficult enough even without additional complications. The tangle of emotions surrounding Christine’s role in Lily’s death would have been insurmountable if two innocent children weren’t involved. The town, showing their best side, had rallied around Olive and her little brother, Austen; their father had been offered support from all sides. The kindness of friends, neighbors, and strangers, as well as top-notch counseling assistance, had given Olive and Austen the opportunity to return to school without suffering censure because of what their mother had done.
But Gin knew how cruel kids could be even in the best of circumstances, how the importance of belonging could overshadow the efforts of teachers and parents. She understood the ease with which an awkward child could be shunned. She and Lily, lucky enough to have been born into one of Trumbull’s most prominent families, further gifted with social ease and pleasing personalities, had taken their luck for granted. And Gin was determined that, now that she was an adult, she would try to help those who hadn’t been as lucky.
“Let’s just go and say hello,” Gin suggested. “And then maybe you can introduce her to the rest of the girls.”
Olive groaned. “That’s exactly what I didn’t want you to do,” she said. “At least promise me that I’m not going to have to carpool with her.”
“We’ll see,” Gin said, leading the way. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tuck Baxter getting out of his car. He was wearing athletic pants and a faded gray sweat shirt with, improbably, an image of a Star Wars stormtrooper on the front. The sweat shirt had been laundered to faded softness and outlined his muscular torso. Gin cleared her throat and turned her attention back to the girls.
Nanette Springer had joined them, consulting a clipboard in her hand and sagging under the weight of her own bag. Her twins had potential to form the backbone of the team; Cora and Carla were sturdy, tall girls with a fondness for running, so Gin was hoping she could turn them into skilled players.
“Hey, Nanette!” she called. “We’ll be right there.”
Olive, resigned to her fate, went over to speak to Cherie Baxter and her father. Gin followed a few paces behind.
“Hi Cherie, I’m glad you decided to play on the team.”
“Okay,” the girl said shyly, toeing the dirt with her foot.
“I’m Olive Hart,” Olive said.
“I know.”
“I’m Tuck Baxter.” Tuck grinned, putting an arm around his daughter. “And I’m real glad to meet some of Cherie’s friends.”
“Cherie’s dad might help me run the practices when he has time,” Gin said. “I’m counting on him to get you in top shape for the season.”
“Do you want to come over with the rest of us?” Olive said in a voice that held very little enthusiasm while pointedly ignoring both adults.
“Okay,” Cherie said, a crooked smile blooming on her face.
“You can leave your things here. We’ll get them when they make us start. That’s a nice ball, by the way,” she added grudgingly.
“It is?” Cherie said. The ball was lying on top of her brand-new gym bag, but now she picked it up and twirled it on her palm. It looked comically oversized on her small hand.
The two girls wandered over to where the others were standing. Gin couldn’t help noticing that Olive walked a few paces ahead, as though she didn’t want to be seen with Cherie. Tuck watched them go, his smile slipping.
“That was nice of Olive,” he said, turning back to Gin. “Cherie . . . she’s had a hard time.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Gin said diplomatically.
“She’s globally delayed—born with fetal alcohol syndrome,” explained Tuck. “Her mother hasn’t been a part of her life, so it’s just been me and her ever since she was two months old. There’s nothing she can’t do if she puts her mind to it—that’s what I always tell her. It might take her longer, and she might have to do it her own way, but she’ll get there. But . . . ever since she started middle school, it’s gotten harder. The girls hit puberty and . . . well, it hasn’t been easy for her to make friends.”
“This team is inclusive,” Gin said, suddenly aware of how much she intended her words to be true. “I hope that playing basketball will be a good experience for everyone, including Cherie.”
Tuck’s phone buzzed, and instantly he tensed up, dropping his easygoing smile.
“Gotta get this,” he said, turning away. “Work.”
Gin left him at the edge of the court and joined the girls. She’d been glad to have the practice on her calendar as a distraction from her relationship issues as well as a chance to get a little exercise and spend time with Olive. And now that she had met Cherie, maybe she could play a small role in helping the girl fit in. Gin smiled to herself, remembering how earnestly her mother had tried to rope her into all of her volunteering jobs when she was a teen; like most adolescents, Gin wanted nothing to do with her mother’s agenda. But now that she was an adult, it looked like she was heading down the trail blazed by her mother, getting involved in the town’s future.
She would have to remember to thank Madeleine, one of these days.
Gin corralled the girls who’d showed up for the practice, noting that there were eleven of them—more than enough to field a team. Already the practice was going better than she’d dared hope. She got the girls to stand in a circle and started an ice-breaker exercise involving tossing the ball from one girl to another and calling out their names. She was happy to see that Olive threw the ball to Cherie, who almost fumbled it but broke into a huge grin when she managed to hang on.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder as she was cheering.
She turned to find Tuck standing there with a grim expression. “That was a courtesy call, from the county. I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, Gin . . . they’ve picked Jake up. They’re talking to him over at the station for the moment.”
“Jake?” Gin’s mind reeled, trying to take in this new development. “But why?”
Baxter was alre
ady shaking his head. “Maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea. You know I can’t . . . Look, I only told you as a courtesy. I need to get over there, though. I’m damn sure not letting them shut me out on this. Do I need to drop Cherie off at home on my way, or . . . I hate to ask, but do you think there’s any chance that someone could drive her? She seems to be having so much fun, and—”
“I’ll make sure she gets home,” Gin said woodenly. She needed a moment to process her reaction to the news, but it wasn’t fair to make Cherie suffer the fallout of events that had nothing to do with her.
“Thanks, Gin. Look, I know this is . . . complicated, but I really appreciate your help with her. This is the happiest I’ve seen her since school started. If you can just make sure she gets into the house, she’ll be fine on her own, but I’d sure appreciate it if whoever drives her sticks around to make sure she locks the door after she goes inside.”
“Tuck, I’ll take her myself.” She felt almost insulted that he would think she would do anything less. “I’ll text you when I leave, but I’ll walk her in and make sure she’s settled for the night. Is there something I can do for dinner?”
“She knows what to do. We cook on the weekend, and all she needs to do is heat up leftovers. She’ll clean up too.” He hesitated, suddenly seeming unsure of himself. “I give her fifty cents to clear the table and load the dishwasher. And another quarter if she lays out her clothes for tomorrow.”
“Seventy-five cents? I think I can spot you,” Gin said. “But if I were you, I’d hope the union doesn’t find out about those wages.”
Tuck looked like the weight of the world was pressing down on him, but he managed a fleeting grin. “I never said I was an easy man to work for.”
“Just go,” Gin said, returning the smile. “It’s handled.”
Instead of responding, Tuck shook his head and headed for the doors at a jog.
Gin turned back to the girls, who were doing a drill where they tossed a ball back and forth and then up the court. There were more dropped balls than clean catches, but the girls cheered each other on either way. Nanette shouted encouragement to each girl no matter how they performed, but she was keeping a surreptitious eye on Gin the whole time.
All the Secret Places Page 8