Running evidence up to the GBI lab in Macon was little more than courier work in the big scheme of things, but Lena was glad to have the assignment. Jeffrey had said she could take the day to cool down, his euphemism for getting her temper under control. Frank Wallace and Lena were butting heads over the same problem that had haunted their partnership from the beginning. At fifty-eight years old, Frank wasn’t thrilled to have women on the force, let alone one as a partner. He was constantly leaving Lena out of investigations, while she was constantly trying to force herself back in. Something would have to give. As Frank was two years from retirement, Lena knew she would not be the one to bend first.
In truth, Frank was not a bad guy. Other than suffering from the kind of crankiness brought on by old age, he seemed to make an effort. On a good day, she could understand that his overbearing attitude came from a deeper place than his ego. He was the kind of man who opened doors for women and took his hat off indoors. Frank was even a Mason at the local lodge. He was not the kind of guy who would let his female partner lead an interrogation, let alone take point on a house raid. On a bad day, Lena wanted to lock him in his garage with the car running.
Jeffrey was right about the trip cooling her down. Lena made good time to Macon, shaving a full thirty minutes off the drive courtesy of the Celica’s V-6. She liked her boss, who was the exact opposite of Frank Wallace. Frank was all gut instinct, while Jeffrey was more cerebral. Jeffrey was also the kind of man who was comfortable around women and did not mind when they voiced their opinions. The fact that he had from day one groomed Lena for her job as detective was not lost on her. Jeffrey did not promote her to meet some county quota or make himself look better than his predecessor; this was Grant County, after all, a town that had not even been on the maps until fifty years ago. Jeffrey had given Lena the job because he respected her work and her mind. The fact that she was a woman had nothing to do with it.
“Shit,” Lena hissed, catching the flash of blue lights behind her. She slowed the car, pulling over as the Civic passed her. The Yankee beeped his horn and waved. It was Lena’s turn to give the Ohioan a one-finger salute.
The Georgia highway patrolman took his time getting out of his car. Lena turned to her purse in the backseat, rummaging around for her badge. When she turned back around, she was surprised to see the cop standing just to the rear of her vehicle. His hand was on his weapon, and she kicked herself for not waiting for him to come to the car. He probably thought she was looking for a gun.
Lena dropped the badge in her lap and held her hands in the air, offering, “Sorry,” out the open window.
The cop took a tentative step forward, his square jaw working as he came up to the car. He took off his sunglasses and gave her a close look.
“Listen,” she said, hands still raised. “I’m on the job.”
He interrupted her. “Are you Detective Salena Adams?”
She lowered her hands, giving the patrolman a questioning look. He was kind of short, but his upper body was muscled in that way short men have of overcompensating for what they lacked in height. His arms were so thick they wouldn’t rest flat to his sides. The buttons of his uniform were pulled tight against his chest.
“It’s Lena,” she offered, glancing at his name tag. “Do I know you?”
“No, ma’am,” he returned, slipping on his sunglasses. “We got a call from your chief. I’m supposed to escort you back to Grant County.”
“I’m sorry?” Lena asked, sure she hadn’t heard correctly. “My chief? Jeffrey Tolliver?”
He gave a curt nod. “Yes, ma’am.” Before she could ask him any further questions, he was walking back to his car. Lena waited for the patrolman to pull back onto the road, then started off after him. He sped up quickly, edging up to ninety within minutes. They passed the blue Civic, but Lena did not pay much attention. All she could think was, What did I do this time?
4
Though the Heartsdale Medical Center anchored the end of Main Street, it was not capable of looking nearly as important as its name would imply. Just two stories tall, the small hospital was equipped to do little more than handle whatever scrapes and upset stomachs couldn’t wait for doctors’ hours. There was a larger hospital about thirty minutes away in Augusta that handled the serious cases. If not for the county morgue being housed in the basement, the medical center would have been torn down to make way for student housing a long time ago.
Like the rest of the town, the hospital had been built during the town’s upswing in the 1930s. The main floors had been renovated since then, but the morgue was obviously not important to the hospital board. The walls were lined with light blue tile that was so old it was coming back into style. The floors were a mixed check pattern of green and tan linoleum. The ceiling overhead had seen its share of water damage, but most of it had been patched. The equipment was dated but functional.
Sara’s office was in the back, separated from the rest of the morgue by a large glass window. She sat behind her desk, looking out the window, trying to collect her thoughts. She concentrated on the white noise of the morgue: the air compressor on the freezer, the swish-swish of the water hose as Carlos washed down the floor. Since they were below ground, the walls of the morgue absorbed rather than deflected the sounds, and Sara felt oddly comforted by the familiar hums and swishes. The shrill ring of the phone interrupted the silence.
“Sara Linton,” she said, expecting Jeffrey. Instead, it was her father.
“Hey, baby.”
Sara smiled, feeling a lightness overcome her at the sound of Eddie Linton’s voice. “Hey, Daddy.”
“I’ve got a joke for you.”
“Yeah?” She tried to keep her tone light, knowing humor was her father’s way of dealing with stress. “What’s that?”
“A pediatrician, a lawyer, and a priest were on the Titanic when it started to go down,” he began. “The pediatrician says, ‘Save the children.’ The lawyer says, ‘Fuck the children!’ And the priest says, ‘Do we have time?’ ”
Sara laughed, more for her father’s benefit than anything else. He was quiet, waiting for her to talk. She asked, “How’s Tessie?”
“Taking a nap,” he reported. “How about you?”
“Oh, I’m okay.” Sara started drawing circles on her desk calendar. She wasn’t normally a doodler, but she needed something to do with her hands. Part of her wanted to check her briefcase, to see if Tessa had thought to put the postcard in there. Part of her did not want to know where it was.
Eddie interrupted her thoughts. “Mom says you have to come to breakfast tomorrow.”
“Yeah?” Sara asked, drawing squares over the circles.
His voice took on a singsong quality. “Waffles and grits and toast and bacon.”
“Hey,” Jeffrey said.
Sara jerked her head up, dropping the pen. “You scared me,” she said, then, to her father, “Daddy, Jeffrey’s here—”
Eddie Linton made a series of unintelligible noises. In his opinion, there was nothing wrong with Jeffrey Tolliver that a solid brick to the head would not fix.
“All right,” Sara said into the phone, giving Jeffrey a tight smile. He was looking at the etched sign on the glass, where her father had slapped a piece of masking tape over the last name TOLLIVER and written in LINTON with a black marker. Since Jeffrey had cheated on Sara with the only sign maker in town, it was doubtful that the lettering would be more professionally fixed anytime soon.