The bodies had been discovered by Daisy’s maid, a woman named Gladys O’Donaghue, who had gone screaming into the streets. She’d been found nearly a half mile away, hysterical, at the corner of Chapel and High. Even after a calming dose of brandy, she’d had little information to offer the authorities. The crime seemed an obvious one; only the motive offered any kind of intrigue. There were theories that Daisy had been pregnant by another man but her family had hushed it up in the wake of the murders to avoid further scandal. One commenter suggested that North had been driven mad by mercury poisoning because of the time he’d spent near Danbury’s hat factories. The simplest theory was that Daisy wanted to break off the engagement and North wouldn’t have it. His family wanted an infusion of capital from the Whitlocks—and North wanted Daisy. She’d been a favorite of the local society columns and known as flirtatious, bold, and sometimes inappropriate.
“I like you already,” murmured Alex.
Alex scrolled past maps to both Daisy’s and North’s graves and was trying to zoom in on an old newspaper article when Turner arrived at the station.
He hadn’t bothered with an overcoat. Apparently he didn’t intend to stay long. Even so, the man could dress. He wore a simple, staid charcoal suit, but the lines were sharp, and Alex saw the careful touches—the pocket square, the thin lavender stripe on the tie. Darlington had always looked good, but effortlessly so. Turner wasn’t afraid to look like he tried.
His jaw was set, his mouth a pinched seam. It was only when he spotted Alex that his mask of diplomacy dropped into place. His whole bearing changed, not just his expression. His body went loose and easy, unthreatening, as if actively discharging the current of tension that animated his form.
He sat down beside her on the bench and rested his elbows on his knees. “I need to ask you not to show up at my place of work.”
“You didn’t answer my texts.”
“There’s a lot going on. I’m in the middle of a homicide investigation as you know.”
“It was that or go to your house.”
That live-wire tension sprang back into his body, and Alex felt a jolt of gratification at being able to rile him.
“I suppose Lethe has all of my particulars on file,” he said. Lethe most likely did know everything from Turner’s Social Security number to his tastes in porn, but no one had ever offered Alex a look at the file. She didn’t even know if Turner lived in New Haven proper. Turner checked his phone. “I have about ten minutes to give you.”
“I’d like you to let me talk to Lance Gressang.”
“Sure. Maybe you’d like to run his prosecution too.”
“Tara wasn’t just connected to Tripp Helmuth. She and Lance were dealing to members of Scroll and Key and Manuscript. I have names.”
“Go on.”
“They’re not something I can disclose.”
Turner’s face was still impassive, but she could feel his resentment building with each moment he was forced to indulge her. Good.
“You come to me for information but you’re not willing to share yours?” he asked.
“Let me talk to Gressang.”
“He is the chief suspect in a murder investigation. You understand that, right?” A disbelieving smile had crept up his lips. He really thought she was stupid. No, entitled. Another Tripp. Maybe another Darlington. And he would like this version of her better than the one he’d met at the morgue. Because this version could be intimidated.
“All I need is a few minutes,” she said, adding a whiny note to her voice. “I don’t actually need your permission. I can make the request through his lawyer, say I knew Tara.”
Turner shook his head. “Nope. As soon as I leave this meeting I’m calling him and letting him know there’s a crazy girl trying to insert herself into this case. Maybe I’ll give him a look at the video of you running around Elm Street like some kind of fool.”
A bolt of shame shook Alex as she thought of herself writhing in the middle of the road, cars swerving around her. So Sandow had shared the video with Turner. Had he shared it with anyone else? The thought of Professor Belbalm seeing it made her stomach churn. No wonder the detective was doubly smug with her today. He didn’t just think she was stupid. He thought she was unhinged. Even better.
“What’s the big deal?” Alex said.
Turner’s fingers flexed on the immaculately pressed legs of his suit. “The big deal? I can’t just sneak you in there. All visitors to a jail are logged. I have to have a good official reason to bring you there. His attorneys have to be there. The whole thing will have to be recorded.”
“You’re telling me cops always follow the rules?”
“Police. And if I bent the rules and the defense found out, Lance Gressang would get away with murder and I’d lose my job.”
“Look, when I went up to Tara’s place—”
Turner’s gaze snapped to her, eyes blazing, all pretense of diplomacy gone. “You went to her house? If you crossed that tape—”
“I needed to know if—”
He shot to his feet. This was the real Turner: young, ambitious, forced to dance to make his way in the world and sick of it. He paced back and forth in front of the bench, then pointed a finger at her. “Stay the fuck away from my case.”
“Turner—”
“Detective Turner. You are not going to mess with my case. I see you anywhere near Woodland, I will fuck your life so hard, you’ll never walk straight again.”
“Why are you being such a hard-ass?” she whined, cribbing a line from Tripp.
“This isn’t a game for you to play. You need to understand how easy it would be for me to take your life apart, to find a little stash of weed or pills on you or in your dorm room. Get that.”
“You can’t just—” Alex began, eyes wide, lip wobbling.
“I’ll do whatever I have to do. Now get out of here. You have no idea the line you’re walking, so do not press me.”
“I get it, okay?” Alex said meekly. “I’m sorry.”
“Who did Tripp say he saw with Tara?”
Alex didn’t mind sharing the names. She’d meant to from the start. Turner needed to know that Tara had been dealing to students who weren’t in her phone logs, using a burner or a phone Lance had hidden or destroyed. She looked down at her gloved hands and said quietly, “Kate Masters and Colin Khatri.”
Kate was in Manuscript but Alex barely knew her. The last time she’d spoken to her had been the night of the Halloween party, when she and Mike Awolowo had begged her not to tattle to Lethe about drugging Darlington. She’d been dressed as Poison Ivy. But Colin she knew. Colin worked for Belbalm and he was in Scroll and Key. He was cute, tidy, as preppy as they came. She could imagine him relaxing with an outrageously expensive bottle of wine, not hotboxing with town goods. But she knew from her time at Ground Zero, appearances could be deceiving.
Turner smoothed his lapels, his cuffs, ran his hands over the clean sides of his head. She watched him put himself back together, and when he smiled and winked it was as if the angry, hungry Turner had never been there. “Glad we had this chat, Alex. You let me know if there’s anything at all I can do to help you out in the future.”
He turned and marched back toward the hulking form of the police station. She hadn’t liked whimpering in front of Turner. She hadn’t liked being called crazy. But now she knew what street Tara had lived on, and the rest would be easy.
Alex was tempted to go directly to Woodland and find Tara’s apartment, but she didn’t want to try to do her snooping on a Sunday, when people would be home from work. It would have to wait until tomorrow. She hoped that whoever had sent the gluma after her thought she was still laid up at the Hutch—or dead. But if they were watching her, she hoped they’d seen her talking to Turner. Then they’d think the police knew what she knew, and there’d be no point to shutting her up. Unless somehow Turner is in on all of it.