Enough, she scolded herself. Now was not the time to brood. Jake would be home any second, and the house would soon be filled with good friends.
She touched up her makeup and ran a comb through her hair. As she came back downstairs she forced herself to smile, and in the kitchen, she did a little twirl for Rosa.
“Ooh la la! Jake’s going to love those pants—your derriere looks great in them!”
“I certainly hope so,” Gin said, keeping her voice light. “Anything to convince him to spend more time at home!”
* * *
Brandon and Diane arrived moments later, followed by Doyle, who brought a potted chrysanthemum for Gin and a single red rose for Rosa. Before long, everyone had a glass of wine in hand and conversation was flowing.
Gin glanced at the clock often as she served the appetizers.
“Any word?” Rosa asked quietly, helping slice and plate the asparagus and mushroom tart Gin had selected at the bakery this morning.
“I tried his cell again—he’s not picking up.”
“He’s probably on the road,” Rosa said. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
“I just hope nothing else went wrong on the site,” Gin fretted.
“Oh, honey. They know what they’re doing. And you know that Jake would never cut corners or endanger any of his workers.”
Gin nodded. “I’ve held off as long as I could—if I don’t serve the eggplant soon, it’s going to taste like shoe leather.”
Brandon had come into the kitchen during this exchange. “Couldn’t help overhearing, Gin,” he said. “Listen, don’t be too tough on Jake. He’s under a lot of pressure to stay on schedule. But when it’s finished, the retreat’s going to give him a lot of visibility.”
Brandon and Jake had gone out for beers a few times, and Brandon had invited Jake to join his entrepreneurs’ networking group. Gin had encouraged Jake to take Brandon up on the invitation. I’ve never been a suit and tie guy, he’d said.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Gin said, handing Brandon dishes to carry to the table. “He wouldn’t be this late if he didn’t have a good reason.”
Determined not to let her anxiety ruin the party, she enjoyed a slice of tart with her guests. Conversation and laughter filled the room as she served the rest of the meal. When everything was on the table, Gin raised a glass and looked around at her friends over the flickering candlelight.
“To good friends,” she said huskily. “I know Jake will agree once he gets here … there is no one we’d rather have at our table.”
Everyone clinked their glasses and dug in. The eggplant had turned out beautifully, and people helped themselves to slices of fresh, crusty levain to sop up every bit of the savory sauce. Talk turned to one of Gin’s recent cases that had been in the news.
“How on earth did you figure it out?” Diane asked. “All they said on the news was that evidence from the autopsy led them to the wife.”
“The family is quite wealthy,” Gin said. “They probably put considerable pressure on the media not to release those details. They were, um, a bit unsavory.”
“Oh, do tell!” Doyle said, spearing a large bite with his fork.
Gin explained how the death of the prominent pastor had at first been attributed to his fall onto a spiked ornamental fence on the grounds of the couple’s stately home, which led to the puncture of several vital organs. During autopsy, however, it was found that there was insufficient internal bleeding to support that theory, meaning that he had been dead before the fall. Additionally, there was unexplained blunt force trauma to the skull. Eventually, the wife admitted to having fatally struck him with a crystal decanter, then dragging him outside and pushing his body onto the sharp spikes.
“That’s downright amazing,” Brandon said. “I have to say, Gin, your job is a lot more interesting than most people’s.”
Gin smiled. “Well thank you, but honestly, it’s not nearly as exciting as you might think. When I was a full-time forensic pathologist, I spent far more time on paperwork than I did in the autopsy room. And I probably spent just as much time in the courtroom, testifying, which is also less exciting than you might think.” She shrugged. “Then there’s dealing with the families, which can take time too. What can I say? Take what you see on TV and add hours and hours of waiting around in the courthouse and filling out forms and trying to contact family members, then throw in some bad coffee and endless county bureaucracy, and you’ve got a pretty good picture of what the job actually entails.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Rosa said, “because you know I have so much admiration for you—but why would anyone do your job? I mean, why not open up a nice little family practice and deal with living, breathing patients and, I don’t know, buy a sports car or vacation in Aruba?”
Gin took her time choosing her words, trying to craft the response that Rosa’s question deserved. “I actually feel … honored to perform my duty to the dead,” she said. “In my profession, you come to view death as being as natural as birth. You lose your fear of it, while at the same time recognizing that the deceased person’s friends and family are experiencing a terrible loss. It’s true that I often feel inadequate in the face of grief, but I know that I can make a real difference if I can give them the answers they need to understand what happened.”
“But it’s got to be depressing,” Brandon said. “I mean, especially when it’s people who’ve been in accidents, or the victim of crimes—one minute they’re leading their lives, and then next they’re lying on your table. Doesn’t that get you down?”
“Honestly … I think that being forced to face my own mortality every day has been a benefit. I definitely experience gratitude for my life after seeing some of the misfortune that befalls others. And besides, there’s a lot of satisfaction in solving the puzzle of what exactly happened to someone. It goes beyond our work with the courts and the police, especially because once we hand over our findings, we’re often out of the picture. It’s almost like—”
Gin hesitated, wondering if what she was about to say would sound too strange. “It’s like I’m in conversation with the dead, and I’m honoring them by keeping them company on this final part of their journey, before their bodies are buried or cremated. I guess our job is to be a sort of … steward, between life and death.”
“Please tell me to mind my own business if you’d rather not answer,” Diane said, “but has your job changed your views of what happens after death?”
“If you’re asking me if I’m religious—I suppose I am, in my own way. Or spiritual, at any rate. I grew up going to church every week with my parents, and I still go with them now and then. But what happens when the soul leaves the body is as much a mystery to me now as it was on my first day of medical school. I suppose I don’t consider it part of our realm of study.”
“That doesn’t stop some of these guys you see on TV,” Doyle quipped. “Call that eight-hundred number and for a small donation they’ll make a direct call to God on your behalf.”
The laughter around the table was interrupted when the front door suddenly flew open with such force that it banged against the wall. Two people stumbled in; in front was a young man with short dark hair, dressed in jeans and a gray hoodie too large for his slight frame. His clothes were dirty and he had a large red welt on his jaw, and one of his eyes was swollen almost shut. His arms were clasped behind his back—or no, Gin realized as he staggered into the living room, they were tied with a large black plastic zip tie.
And the man holding onto his collar, shoving him along, was Jake.
Jake was dressed for work in ripped and faded jeans, an old plaid shirt, and well-worn boots. His expression was hard and unreadable as he gave the young man’s collar a savage jerk, stopping him short.
“On the floor,” he snarled. “Face down. Don’t move. Gin, call Baxter.”
“What is going on?” Gin demanded, as the man sank wordlessly to his knees. “Who is this?”
“Thi
s,” Jake said, prodding the man with his boot so that he fell forward on his face, “is my mother’s killer.”
6
Everyone was talking at once. The stranger lay face down on the floor, saying nothing, and Jake stood inches from the man’s head with his arms crossed over his chest. Doyle stood protectively in front of Rosa, and Brandon was offering to help Jake, as if the task of subduing the underweight young man required two large, muscular men.
“What can I do?” Diane asked briskly. “Do you want me to call nine-one-one?”
“Let me handle that,” Gin said quickly. She already had her phone out and was dialing Tuck’s personal number. Since there didn’t seem to be any immediate danger, maybe there was a chance to get ahead of the potentially disastrous consequences of Jake’s actions. There would be time to ask him what he’d been thinking later. For now, she worried that Jake could be guilty of assault, since the young man on the floor was the only one who seemed to have sustained any injuries.
“Gin?” Tuck answered on the second ring. “Everything okay?”
“I—why do you ask?” Gin said, stalling while she tried to figure out how to describe the scene in her living room.
“You don’t make a habit of calling me on the weekend. It’s Saturday night, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Oh!” Despite the circumstances, Gin felt herself blush. Had she interrupted Tuck on a date? “I’m sorry, but there’s a … a situation here that I need, that, well, I’m not sure what to do.”
“Yeah?”
“Jake, uh, brought a man home who he says sold his mother the drugs she overdosed on.”
“What? How the hell did that happen?”
“I’m not really sure. He—they—just got here. And Tuck—” Gin drew a breath; there wasn’t any other way to say it. “Jake’s got him tied up. He’s not exactly here of his own free will.”
“Shit. What was he thinking? Okay, look, I’m on my way. I’m going to send an on-duty officer too; he might get there first. Are there weapons?”
“No, I don’t think so—”
“Injuries?”
“He, uh, bruising and minor contusions. I think there was a, um, scuffle.”
Tuck cursed. “You don’t need me to tell you this, but do nothing until we get there. Keep them apart. Who’s there with you?”
“Just some friends. They were over here for dinner—”
“Jake brought this guy home for dinner?”
“No, he just—he was supposed to be here hours ago. I don’t know what happened.”
This time her words were met with silence. When Tuck spoke again his voice was clipped. “Leaving now. Remember—do nothing.”
After Gin reassured the others that there was nothing they could do to help and that the authorities would soon be arriving, the dinner guests departed. Gin knew there was a good chance the police would want statements from them, but that would have to wait. Once the door closed behind them, Gin turned to Jake.
“Please tell me he didn’t get those injuries from you.”
“You’ve got to be kidding, Gin,” Jake retorted. “This guy pushes poison. He’s human garbage.”
The man on the floor had started quietly sobbing. He had to be in pain, but he didn’t fight.
“How do you even know he’s the one?”
A knock at the door cut her questions short. She opened the door to find Tuck in a pair of basketball shorts and a T-shirt, flip flops on his feet. Something sparkled on his forehead—a tiny fleck of silver. There were more sparkles in his eyelashes, totally at odds with his glowering countenance. His “date,” Gin realized, had probably involved a craft project with his daughter.
Beside him was a young officer who looked vaguely familiar to Gin. She read his nametag: Max Khatri.
“Please come in,” she said. “Our guests have gone home, so it’s just me and Jake. And, uh…”
“Back away from him, Crosby,” Tuck said, flashing his badge, making sure the young man on the floor got a good look.
Jake did as he was asked, though he didn’t bother to conceal his disgust. “This is the guy,” he said. “I’ve got video.”
“I’m going to untie you,” Tuck said, ignoring Jake. “Get up slowly, keeping your hands where I can see them. Then turn and put your hands on the wall with your feet shoulder-width apart.”
The young man complied, wincing slightly as Tuck sliced through the zip tie with his knife. He got to his knees first, rubbing the angry red marks on his wrists, then stumbled to his feet. Slowly, he turned around and shuffled to the wall, falling once more when he tripped over his own feet. Finally he managed to stand with his hands in place as Tuck had ordered.
“Go ahead, Max.”
Officer Khatri conducted a quick, efficient search, coming up with nothing other than the phone and wallet that had been in the pocket of the young man’s jeans.
“He’s good, sir,” Khatri said.
“Okay. What’s your name?”
“Jonah. Jonah Krischer.” His voice was reedy with fear.
Tuck turned to Jake. “Okay, Crosby, why don’t you tell us why you interrupted Jonah’s evening. Don’t leave anything out.”
“I saw him selling drugs,” Jake said angrily. “I’ve got it on video. On my phone.”
“Where was this?”
“Convenience store over by the power plant in Denton,” Jake said, with slightly less certainty. “Out back, by the dumpsters. There’s a homeless camp or something in the abandoned house next door.”
“I know the area,” Tuck said. “That’s not a homeless camp, it’s a trap house. If he really was dealing, he picked a good spot.”
“I took this off him,” Jake said, digging in his pocket. He took out a large ziplock bag containing a dozen bottles of pills.
“Jesus, Crosby, even if what you’re suggesting is true, you’ve completely contaminated it. It’s going to be fingerprint soup on there.”
Jake rolled his eyes. “What was I supposed to do, let him keep it?”
Tuck gestured at Khatri, who took the package from Jake.
“Bag that for forensics. Mr. Krischer, how about you tell me what happened this evening.”
“You’re going to listen to him?” Jake demanded incredulously.
“We’ll get back to you in a minute,” Tuck snapped.
“I, uh, came to see a customer of mine,” Krischer said. “He’d called to ask if I had any hydrocodone. Which, I mean, I swear to you I started with Adderall. For real.” He looked like he was about to cry. “I never meant to do more than that, honest. It just … it was a mistake, okay, a huge mistake and I’m sorry, but I don’t—I didn’t mean—”
“Just stick to the facts. You can save your editorializing for someone who’ll care,” Tuck said. “We’ve got enough to invite you down to the station for a visit. You too, Jake, since you’re so eager to give me an earful.”
Ignoring Jake’s silent fury, Tuck turned to the young officer. “Khatri, why don’t you give Mr. Krischer here a ride down to the station. And put the bracelets on him, just for fun.” He scowled in Jake’s direction. “Crosby, you can ride with me.”
* * *
Once the two police vehicles had pulled away, Gin was alone in the house. The remains of the dinner party looked forlorn; her guests had left so abruptly that it was as if they’d simply vanished, leaving the meal half-eaten. There was wine in the glasses, and the candles still flickered in their copper holders. The cobbler Gin had picked up from the bakery sat untouched on the counter alongside the cups she’d set out for after-dinner coffee.
After snuffing out the candles, Gin checked her phone and found a text from Rosa.
CALL ME!!!!
She picked up on the first ring.
“Oh my God, honey, how are you doing? Are the police still there? Is Jake all right?”
“I’m … kind of numb,” Gin admitted. “Earlier today, Jake told me he’d been detained on the job site. I never would have dreamed that
he would have gone looking for his mother’s dealer like that.”
“Catch me up—all you told me was that she’d been found dead in a likely overdose.”
Gin had been sparing with the details. Even though Rosa was a good friend, she knew that Jake was private about his life, particularly the more painful aspects of his past. Most people assumed that he’d lost both his parents; though there were still people in Trumbull who remembered that former Sheriff Crosby’s young wife had abandoned both him and their baby years ago, Gin hadn’t heard her mentioned in years.
“It’s—it was a shock, obviously.” Gin explained that Jake hadn’t confided in her that his mother had been in contact with his father. “I assumed that she’d simply disappeared, that no one had ever looked for her. I suppose that was naïve of me—every child in Jake’s shoes surely wonders about their birth parent.”
“It must have been awful for him to know that she’d chosen to leave. He probably felt completely abandoned. At least Antonio has his abuela and his cousins and aunt and uncle.”
Antonio was Rosa’s seven-year-old son from her first marriage to a man who’d left them both. Gin knew how hard Rosa worked to make sure her son knew he was loved.
Jake’s father had tried just as hard in his own way. But his job as police chief kept him away from home a lot, and there were no other relatives nearby to fill in the gaps. By the time Gin and Jake started dating in high school, the scars left by his mother’s departure had scabbed over, if they’d ever even properly healed.
“I tried to talk to him about it,” Gin fretted. “I suggested counseling—”
“A man like Jake would have a hard time accepting help, I bet,” Rosa said. “He is a wonderful man, but I see the way he keeps his feelings stuffed inside.”
In the Darkest Hour Page 4
