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