Let Darkness Come (3 page)

D
rawing a jagged breath, Antonio rubs the tense muscles at the back of his neck and approaches the morgue. For more than a week, he has been waiting for the autopsy results. As an exercise in courtesy he has refused to badger the chief medical examiner, but he has also spread the word that he would appreciate timely answers to the questions of how and why Jeffrey died. If the reason for Jeffrey's death lies in a genetic health problem, Jason might be affected, too. The boys, after all, are twins.

The baby-faced assistant who escorted Antonio into the morgue last week greets him in the waiting room and leads him to the medical examiner's unimpressive office. “Wow,” the idiot says, lingering after Antonio takes a seat. “I've never seen toxicology results come back so fast. You must have friends in really high places.”

Antonio swallows his irritation and crosses his legs at the ankle, waiting for the M.E. to arrive. Insensitive creatures like the man in the doorway have no business working with the public; they should be confined to interaction with computers and cadavers. Let them impress lab rats with their painfully obtuse observations, but keep them away from grieving fathers who can't understand why fools survive and the brilliant die young.

He looks up, distracted, when the door opens and a fresh wave of formaldehyde-scented air flows into the room. The chief medical examiner enters, followed by a man with a
familiar face. “Detective,” Antonio says, standing. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

The cop shakes his hand. “I wish we were meeting under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Does your presence mean I'm about to hear bad news?”

“Mr. Tomassi, I'm James Drew.” The M.E. gestures toward the chair. “If you'll have a seat, I'd like to share my findings. I've asked Detective Malone to join us because he has news, as well.”

Antonio draws a deep breath and sinks back into the proffered seat. The detective slides a stool from beneath a counter and perches on the edge, notebook in hand.

The M.E. pulls a folder to the center of his desk and laces his fingers. “First, Mr. Tomassi, let me say how sorry I am to be in this position. I was acquainted with your son, and knew him to be a man of great strength and moral courage.”

Antonio struggles to swallow over a suddenly tight throat. “Thank you.”

“That's why—” Dr. Drew opens the folder “—it's hard for me to share this report. Your son was in excellent physical condition, as you've assured us, but the toxicology report indicated elevated vitreous insulin.”

“What—” Antonio pauses to steady his voice. “What does that mean, exactly?”

The M.E. folds his hands again. “The vitreous is the clear, jellylike substance found between the eye's lens and retina. Insulin overdose is almost impossible to prove, because insulin breaks down in the body postmortem. Even the vitreous fluids will not reveal an overdose of insulin unless the fatal dose was massive—an unfortunate exception which does apply to your son's case.”

Antonio lifts his hand to his mouth, taking a moment to compose himself. “My son would not have made a mistake with his injection. He knew how to use a meter, he knew to be careful. He's been giving himself insulin injections for years.”

Drew presses his lips together. “That's what I suspected.
Since the dosage that killed your son was probably more than fifty units, I must conclude that the injection and the overdose were intentional.”

Antonio shakes his head. “Jeffrey wouldn't kill himself. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he didn't realize what he was doing—”

“His blood-alcohol level was consistent with what his wife told Detective Malone. He had very little to drink that night. And we found no indication of other drugs in his system.”

Unable to make sense of this news, Antonio presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Did you double-check your results? Repeat the tests, or whatever you had to do?”

“We were extremely thorough.” Dr. Drew softens his voice. “And that's why I've asked Detective Malone to meet with us. Because insulin overdose is so hard to prove, it's virtually impossible to establish whether a fatal dose was self-inflicted without a detailed scene investigation and careful police work. The detective has some information he'd like to share with you.”

Feeling as though he has aged ten years in the past five minutes, Antonio turns his attention to the quiet policeman. Silence sifts down like a snowfall, a dense quiet broken only by the shush of cars moving on the street. The detective props his notebook on his bent knee, then looks squarely into Antonio's eyes. “Mr. Tomassi, it's my duty to inform you that our investigation has led us to believe your daughter-in-law may have had a hand in your son's death. In the bathroom trash can we found a syringe marked with fingerprints we assume to be hers. In a basket beneath the vanity we found your son's insulin supply. One half-empty bottle also bore this second set of fingerprints.”

Antonio stares at the cop, his heart drumming in his rib cage. “You can't believe that Erin—”

“I'm sorry to have to tell you that we have officers on their way to your home. They're carrying a warrant for Erin Tomassi's arrest.”

E
rin looks up from her book when the housekeeper raps on the guest-room door. “Yes?”

“Visitors for you, Mrs. Tomassi. They're waiting downstairs.”

“Thank you.”

She pulls herself off the settee and moves to the mirror, staring at the wan face that seems to have nothing in common with the woman she once was. Jeffrey's been gone nine days; the funeral is a faded memory. Any day now, feeling should begin to creep back into her fingers and toes, energy should return to her step. How long has it been since she experienced an unexpected surge of happiness? How long since she felt alive?

She picks up the brush on the dresser and runs it though her hair. Her oval face is plain and unpainted, a look her husband would never have approved.

But Jeffrey is no longer here to express his opinions.

She runs her hands over the sweatpants she slept in and checks the T-shirt she found in a dresser drawer. She doesn't look much like a politician's wife, but that's okay. At this moment, she's nothing to anyone. A nobody.

Reporters surrounded her at the funeral, and for a few days they loitered outside the gates of this house, peering into cars and rummaging through garbage cans in search of anything that might qualify as news. But then Antonio called a press conference and said the family would wait for the results of the police investigation before making any further
comments. Thankfully, the photographers disappeared and the phone stopped ringing.

Erin steps into the hallway and descends the stairs. Who could be calling? Who knew she was here? She has few friends of her own, and since the funeral, Jeff's friends have vanished.

At the bottom of the stairs, she turns into the great room. A man and woman are standing by the fireplace, both of them wearing overcoats and scarves. The woman is studying the photographs on the mantel, while the man seems more interested in the elk's head on the paneled wall.

They turn in her direction when a floorboard creaks under her sock-clad feet.

“Erin Tomassi?” the man asks in a voice that is all business.

“Yes.”

“We're Detectives Hoff and Lorning from the Eighth Precinct. We're here with some follow-up questions about your husband's death.”

Erin offers a tentative smile and gestures to the sofa. “Won't you have a seat?”

The woman—Erin isn't sure if she's Hoff or Lorning—perches on the edge of a wing chair. “Mrs. Tomassi,” she says, glancing at a small tablet she's pulled from her coat, “you told another investigator that your husband was a diabetic.”

“That's right.”

“Did he use an insulin pump or syringes?”

“Syringes. He was used to them.”

“He kept those in your master bathroom?”

“In a bin beneath the sink. I'm sure your investigators found them.” She shifts her gaze to the man. “Why this sudden interest in Jeff's medication?”

As relentless as a bloodhound, the woman continues. “Did he store insulin in any other location?”

Erin blinks. “Why would he? I suppose he might keep a bottle in his car or at his office, but I don't know that for certain. At home he kept all his supplies in the bathroom.”

“Did your husband administer his own injections?”

Erin glances from the woman to the man, whose features have hardened in a disapproving stare. “Yes. Needles make me queasy.”

“Did he ever ask you to inject him?”

“No. He wouldn't.”

“Why not?”

Erin spreads her hands, unable to explain. “I don't know. I don't think he trusted me to do it right.”

The male detective reaches inside his coat pocket and pulls out a zippered storage bag. “Mrs. Tomassi, do you recognize this item?”

“I don't know—May I see it?” The cop stands and walks forward, dangling the clear bag in front of Erin's eyes. She reaches for it and feels a pang of panic when she realizes he is not going to let her hold it. Why doesn't he trust her?

The bag contains a drinking glass, the small size typically used for juice. She turns the plastic until she can see the
T
etched in the glass. “This looks like one of our juice glasses.”

“This was taken from your bathroom,” he says, indicating a frosted panel where someone has written
Master Bath
on the plastic. “Do you recall who last used this glass?”

“Me, I suppose. Jeffrey didn't use a glass in the bathroom, because he was always dropping things.”

“So the fingerprints on this glass—they're yours?”

“Unless someone else touched it.”

The two cops exchange looks, then the woman pulls a folded paper from her jacket and holds it aloft. “Erin Tomassi,” she says, “we have a warrant for your arrest. You have the right to remain silent—”

Erin scrambles to her feet. “There's been some kind of mistake.”

“Ma'am?” The housekeeper moves into the arched doorway, her eyes dark and narrow. “Why are the reporters outside again?”

“—and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Erin steps toward the housekeeper. “Call Antonio,” she says, horror snaking down her spine as the man pulls handcuffs from his belt. “Tell him everything that's happened. Tell him I did not kill Jeffrey.”

“You have the right to an attorney during questioning—” the woman continues.

Erin winces as the man slaps the cuffs on her wrists. “I don't know why you're doing this. Didn't you hear me? I didn't kill my husband.”

“—and if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided without cost.”

When the male detective takes hold of Erin's arm, she leans in the opposite direction. “I'm not dressed to go out. I'm not even wearing shoes!”

“You won't need 'em,” the woman answers, taking Erin's other elbow. “The jail issues footwear to all incoming prisoners.”

Erin takes a deep, quivering breath to calm the panicked pulse beneath her ribs. “Hurry,” she calls to the housekeeper as the cops lead her toward the front door. “Please have Antonio call someone. I need a lawyer.”

B
riley has just stepped out of the pink-marble ladies' room at Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton when another associate nearly runs her over in the hallway. Jim Myers is carrying a stack of files under one arm and focused on the paper clutched in his free hand.

“Hey!” After stepping out of Jim's way, she peers over his shoulder and spies the
Chicago Tribune
's online masthead on a printout. “What's so interesting?”

He looks up, his eyes flashing when he recognizes her. “Did you hear the latest about the Tomassi case?”

“What?”

“They just arrested the wife.”

“Wow.” She crosses her arms and leans one shoulder against the wall. “Any word on the cause of death?”

“Nothing in this update, but we'll probably be among the first to hear.”

“How's that?”

“Didn't you know? Tomassi keeps a couple of our real estate attorneys on retainer, and the firm represented the family in a civil suit back in '96. They won three-point-something million in damages.”

Briley whistles. “What kind of case was it?”

“Libel, I think. Anyway, the Chicago papers learned not to publish rumors about the Tomassis.”

She laughs. “You make them sound like the Mafia.”

Jim glances right and left, then leans closer. “I wouldn't
say that too loudly, if you know what I mean. The family business is respectable, but I wouldn't want to dig into their books. What we don't know can't hurt us.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Watch what you say. And by the way, these files are for you.”

Briley stares, dumbfounded, as he dumps his burden into her arms.

“The case involves three teenage girls charged with battering a classmate over tickets to an Oprah taping. Franklin thinks you should be first chair on this one.”

“Why, because I have breasts?”

“Maybe because you used to be a teenage girl. All I know is, he wants you to look over the files and talk to the state's attorney. See if you can plead them out as a group.”

She makes a moue. “What if I don't
want
to deal with an overblown catfight?”

He grins. “Come on, Counselor, remember your oath to help the defenseless and oppressed.”

With that sorry jibe ringing in her ears, Briley carries the files to her office and dumps them on her desk. Three years of practicing law in a respected firm has brought her—what? A good income, sure. Steady work. Approving smiles from the woman next door. But what good has she actually accomplished?

She used to dream about making a difference in the world, but three years of dealing with criminal defendants has taught her that the practice of law would be far more enjoyable if she didn't have to deal with so many guilty people.

Her father dealt with people every day, and he loved his work until the day he died. She'd thought she could honor his altruistic example by practicing law, but the unending parade of remorseless clients has dulled her idealism.

Serving others is a noble goal, but a lawyer who hopes to make a real difference is doomed to eternal frustration.

 

Because Dax Lightner is having lunch with a producer, Timothy is free for a couple of hours. Delighted by this unexpected opportunity, Briley slips into a restaurant booth and smiles across the table. “It's so good to see you in daylight,” she says, reaching out to catch Timothy's hands. “I can't believe I have you all to myself for an entire meal.”

“Or at least until Dax and his producer have a falling-out,” Timothy says, grinning. “My man's been a bit touchy the past few days.”

“Is he really as bad as all that?” Briley struggles to keep any trace of annoyance from her voice. “I mean, he's been out of rehab for what, three weeks now?”

“Which only means the confidence rush is over.” Timothy's eyes darken as they search her face. “And you know addicts. It only takes an instant for someone to slip.”

“You've never slipped.”

“I have a good support system. But even here in Chicago, Dax is surrounded by people who'd do anything he asks, including getting him another fix.” Timothy shakes his head, sending a sheaf of dark blond hair into his eyes. “I seem to be the only person willing to tell him no.”

“You're paid to tell him no. And I wish the man would develop a little backbone, because it's awful not being able to see you as much as I want to.”

“Come on, give the guy a break.” Timothy squeezes her fingers, then releases her hands. “You should meet him sometime. I think you'd like him.”

Briley snorts. “Like I'd have anything to say to a British movie star. I don't hang out with people who grace the cover of…well,
People
.”

“Not everyone in rehab is an A-lister. Most are just like me and you.” His mouth twists in a crooked smile. “You know what they say—if you want to bake a cake, you have to crack a few eggs.”

“Who on earth says
that?
”

“I do. I made it up. I'm trying to say that if you want to make a difference, sometimes you have to make a mess.” When she doesn't respond, he smiles and spreads his hands. “You know—when you crack the egg, the runny part and the yolk splash all over the counter.”

Briley shakes her head. “Remind me never to bake a cake with you.”

Timothy picks up the menu and scans the front cover. As the waitress at the next table scrapes food from a plate, he lifts his gaze: “What's good at this place?”

Ignoring his obvious attempt to change the subject, Briley lowers her voice. “I know you want to help your client. I love that you're the kind of man who wants to help others. But honestly, Tim, how long are you going to take these gigs? When you're working, we can only see each other in bits and snatches.”

He drops his menu. “I thought you'd understand. You work long hours.”

“But they're dependable.”

“Surely you have legal emergencies.”

“A well-run case never results in dire situations. One thing I learned from my father's example is that you can't let people eat you alive. You have to set boundaries. You have to compartmentalize. Otherwise people will take and take until you have nothing else to give.”

Compassion struggles with humor on his strong face as he studies her. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

“Of course.”

“If I'd been mingling at that benefit on the
front
side of rehab, I don't think you'd have looked at me twice. I wasn't worth much when I was using, and I didn't believe in anything but my next fix. But once I got clean, I was able to find myself again. And then I found you…and you're one of the reasons I've been able to stay clean.”

Briley blinks away a sudden rush of tears. Timothy is
always waylaying her with some sweet declaration when she has something important to discuss.

“You're not clean because of me,” she insists. “You're clean because you're a strong person. You have character.”

“So do you.” He picks up his menu again. “So does Dax, though he doesn't realize it yet. The man needs someone in his life who cares more about his future than his next movie.”

Briley props her elbow on the table and drops her chin into her hand, realizing that the conversation has hit a dead end. Timothy is determined to save the addicts of Chicago, one soul at a time, and there's nothing she can do about it. At least not during lunch.

She scans her menu. “I was going to suggest we have a picnic this weekend, but I might have to interview a witness on Saturday.”

“See? You work as much as I do.”

“But I'm doing it under protest. You seem to enjoy spending time away from me.”

“I've heard enough.” He shoves the menu aside as he leans toward her, his eyes bright with frustrated affection. “I adore you, Briley Lester, but sometimes I wonder if we're going to make it. You're brilliant and you're beautiful, but you're also infuriating.”

She leans forward until her lips are almost touching his. “I'm not beautiful, but thank you. And we
are
going to make it, because in at least one way we're very much alike—neither of us likes to quit.”