Let Darkness Come (2 page)

A
wintry wave of grief shivers the skin on Antonio Tomassi's arms as he stares at the body of his dead son. Beside him, Jason keeps murmuring, “How? How could this happen?” but Antonio cannot think or reason. Shock has engulfed him in its numbing wake, and he can barely maintain an upright posture.

He places his hand on Jeffrey's lifeless shoulder and feels a shudder move through his core. No parent should ever have to experience this kind of cold.

The baby-faced assistant in the lab coat hugs his clipboard. “The M.E. will want to do an autopsy. It's routine in matters like this.”

When a perfectly healthy young man stops breathing for no apparent reason, he means.

“How could this happen?” Jason asks again. “How does a guy like Jeff die in his sleep? He was fit, he worked out—”

The youngster shrugs. “We can't say until we have the autopsy and toxicology results. It would help us to know if he had any preexisting medical conditions….”

“He was strong,” Jason insists. “My brother was in perfect health.”

“Diabetes.” Antonio pries the word from his unwilling tongue. “Jeffrey had diabetes.”

“But that was under control,” Jason argues. “He hasn't had any health problems in years. Jeff knew how to manage his condition.”

“If he was getting worse, his wife would have said some
thing.” Antonio focuses on his only surviving son. “Did you see Erin? Is she here?”

Jason jerks his chin toward the door. “She's curled up in a chair out there. In shock, if you ask me.”

Antonio exhales softly. He can't blame his daughter-in-law for being stupefied by this unexpected turn of events. No one was more alive, more bursting with energy and potential, than Jeffrey Tomassi, Illinois state senator and potential U.S. congressman. No man in Chicago had a brighter future, but in the space of a heartbeat it had…vanished. Why?

The intrusive idiot in the white coat clears his throat. “We'll release the autopsy results as soon as we know something. Toxicology reports, however, can take up to six weeks—”

“I won't wait that long.” Antonio fixes the youngster with a hot stare. “I want those results as soon as possible.”

“But the reports usually take a couple of months. There's a backlog at the lab, and things are going to get worse, especially with the holidays approaching.”

“I am Antonio Tomassi,” Antonio says, buttoning the top button on his overcoat, “and you will have the medical examiner call me as soon as those reports come in. I will not rest until I know what killed my son.”

K
ate steps through the doorway and deposits a grilled chicken salad on Briley's desk. “Fifteen bucks should cover it,” she says, holding out her hand. “And yes, I tipped the delivery guy.”

Briley pulls a five and a ten from her wallet and drops the money into Kate's palm. “Thanks, that looks good.” She takes the lid off the salad and pops a crouton into her mouth. “Delicious. Just a hint of garlic.”

“By the way—” Kate glances at Briley's computer “—are you keeping up with your e-mail?”

“Why?”

“Franklin just sent a memo to everyone working on the Bishop case. He's scheduled most of the witness interviews for Friday. I have to pull all the documents you'll need.”

Briley winces. “This Friday?”

“At 8:00 a.m. in the conference room. And if you don't finish on Friday, he wants you to come in on Saturday.”

Briley exhales an exasperated sigh and flips the pages on her desk calendar. “Another Saturday down the tubes. Bad enough that the associates here are expected to work twelve-hour days—”

“Pay those dues with a smile, honey. Put in your hours, write out a few hundred legal briefs, and bankroll your retirement. When you're a partner, you can play golf and put
your
underlings to work.”

“I wish I had your confidence.”

Kate slips away as Briley's cell phone rings. She glances
at the caller ID and smiles as she snaps the phone open. “Hey there. I was beginning to think this day was going to be a total bust.”

Timothy Shackelford's warm voice draws her gaze to the photo on the corner of her desk. “Your boss giving you a hard time?”

“No harder than usual. But it looks like I'll be working Friday night. Either that, or I'll have to work Saturday.”

“Bummer. Now I'll have to impress some other woman with my charm and good looks.”

“That's what I like about you, Shackelford—your boundless optimism.” She grins at his framed picture. “By the way, how's
your
client?”

“Sleeping like a baby. I'm beginning to think he's traded cocaine for Rozerem. Whenever he gets a little shaky, he pops a pill and goes to bed.”

“I thought sober companions were supposed to keep their clients
away
from drugs.”

“The nonprescription variety, sure. But I've already told Dax that after tomorrow, there'll be no more sleeping in daylight hours. But I didn't call to talk about him—I called to ask if you've heard the news.”

Something in his voice sends a ripple of apprehension through her bloodstream. “What news?”

“Jeffrey Tomassi passed away. Turn on your TV—the reports are on every local channel.”

Briley snatches a wincing breath. Last night she and Timothy attended a fundraiser for the charismatic state senator. The event appeared to be a huge success, and no man ever looked healthier or more like a winner than Jeffrey Tomassi.

She reaches for the remote in her desk drawer and powers on the small set on a shelf of her bookcase. “Do they suspect foul play?”

“They haven't said. But I'll bet that house is crawling with detectives right now.”

Briley clicks until she sees a somber newscaster standing
outside a three-story brownstone. She lowers the remote, knowing that she's found the right station. “I'll call you later,” she tells Timothy, distracted by the story unfolding before her eyes.

T
he sun has begun to melt black patches into the frost-filigreed roof by the time the driver pulls up to the brownstone in Lincoln Park. Antonio Tomassi steps out and ducks beneath the yellow crime-scene tape, then holds it as his daughter-in-law follows. Erin hasn't spoken since leaving the medical examiner's office. Her blue eyes are glazed, her face pale, her long hair mussed. She is still wearing satin pajamas beneath her flannel robe, and she hasn't stopped shivering since they left the building.

A uniformed cop hurries toward them. “I'm sorry, sir, but we can't have you disturbing the area until we've finished our investigation.”

Antonio gestures to the dazed woman at his side. “I'm Antonio Tomassi, and this is my daughter-in-law. I'm taking Erin to my house, but first she needs to get a few things.”

The cop frowns and grips his belt. “Wait here and let me get the lead detective. They're almost finished dusting for prints.”

Erin lifts her head. “Is someone inside? Jeffrey doesn't like strangers in the house.”

Antonio grips her arm and leads her to the garden bench beneath a skeletal maple. “Let's get out of the way, my dear. We'll sit until the detective comes out.”

“All right.” She obeys as meekly as a lamb, keeping her hands in her pockets.

He sits beside her, grateful that she has finally decided to speak. Perhaps she can help him make sense of this madness.
“Erin,” he begins, “what can you tell me about this morning? When you got up—” his voice breaks “—what happened?”

Her eyelids droop as a cold wind rattles the leafless branches overhead. “I woke up,” she says, a quaver in her voice. “I woke up and Jeffrey was still asleep. I didn't want to bother him, because he didn't have any appointments until later. I went into the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and walked into the kitchen for some toast. After making breakfast, I put Jeffrey's on a tray and carried it into the bedroom. He was still sleeping, so I left the tray on the dresser. Later, when I heard the clock strike nine o'clock and realized Jeffrey was still asleep, I knew I should wake him up. He and Jason play racquetball, you know, every Wednesday morning.”

Antonio nods as a lump swells in his throat. “Go on.”

She closes her eyes again. “I went in and shook him, but the minute I touched him I knew something was wrong. His face was blue, and his skin…felt like rubber. I stepped back and picked up the phone to call 911. The woman asked if Jeff was breathing, and I said I didn't think so. She asked if I knew how to do CPR, and I said I thought I could, but she'd better send someone. I tried to pump his chest, but it didn't work. The next thing I knew, men were pounding on the door, so I let them in.”

“Did he act sick last night? Did he complain of a headache, anything?”

Her eyes fly up at him like a pair of bluebirds flushed from a shrub, then she looks away. “He was fine last night. He was…strong enough.”

Antonio drops his hand to her arm as an older man in a blue overcoat comes out of the house and walks toward them. He studies Antonio and thrusts his hand forward. “Mr. Tomassi? I'm Mark Malone, Homicide.”

Antonio nods, pleased that the fellow knows his name. “Detective, do you know my daughter-in-law? Erin Tomassi.”

The cop looks at Erin, his eyes crinkling in sympathy.
“I'm terribly sorry for your loss, ma'am. I'd be happy to let you inside, but first I was wondering if you had a moment to answer a few questions.”

Erin blinks, then glances at Antonio. “Do I?”

He pats her arm. “You will always have time to cooperate with the police. I'll wait until you're finished, then we'll gather your things and get you settled at the house. We're going to take care of you.”

Erin smiles her thanks as the detective pulls a small notebook from an inner coat pocket and flips it open. “Mrs. Tomassi, Dispatch has a record of your 911 call placed at 9:05. According to the EMTs first on the scene, your husband was unresponsive when they arrived. The medical examiner has tentatively put the time of death at around 2:00 a.m.”

Erin shudders, as if she can't bear to know she spent most of the night sleeping beside a dead man.

The detective licks the tip of his pen, then props one foot on the end of the garden bench. “I hate to intrude at a time like this, but I need to know—had your husband been under any kind of professional care?”

Erin widens her eyes. “Like…a doctor?”

“A therapist, perhaps? A psychologist or counselor?”

Antonio opens his mouth to protest, but the detective cuts him off with a sidelong glance.

Erin shakes her head. “Jeffrey wasn't the sort to unburden himself in front of anyone.”

“So he wasn't seeing a counselor?”

“No.”

“Did he ever mention suicide?”

“No!”

“Has anyone in the family ever committed suicide?”

She glances at Antonio, then shakes her head. “Never.”

“Was your husband a heavy drinker?”

“Not really. We were out last night at a fundraising event, but he had very little to drink. Maybe one glass of wine, early in the evening.”

“Was he on any medication?”

“Only his insulin. He's a diabetic.”

“To your knowledge, did he ever use recreational drugs?”

“No, he did not.” Her voice is uninflected, pushed through the pale face she wears like a mask. “Jeffrey was a committed public servant. He would never want to set a bad example by using drugs.”

“Any change in his routine lately? Any deviation in sleeping habits, eating routines, a lack of interest in his work?”

“No.”

“Any loss of interest in his favorite activities or his family?”

She closes her eyes. “No. I doubt you could find a more attentive and involved man than Jeffrey.”

“Involved in his work?”

“Involved in everything. He never did anything by half measures.”

The detective scribbles something in his notebook, then looks up. “Anything unusual happen before you two went to bed last night? Did he say or do anything out of the ordinary?”

A one-sided smile tugs at the corner of Erin's mouth as she looks away. “We came home, we got dressed for bed, we reviewed the evening. After that, I wasn't feeling well, so I took a couple of pills and went to bed. Next thing I knew, it was morning.”

“What kind of pill?” the cop asks.

“Oh…sleeping pills. Ambien. When I'm hurting, the pills help me sleep.”

The detective makes another note and offers Antonio a grim smile. “Thank you for your cooperation. I'm sorry to ask a lot of questions at a time like this, but it's routine in situations of unattended death.”

Unattended death
…The words tighten a new knot in Antonio's throat. He wouldn't let one of his dogs die an unattended death, yet his beloved son had died without comfort, without hope. Had Jeffrey awakened in pain? Had he been able to speak? Had he called for help, for his father?

He looks at his daughter-in-law, whose pale cheeks have been reddened by the cold. Why didn't Erin hear anything? She's such an attentive wife, a good girl for Jeffrey. Surely she would have awakened if he'd struggled or called out—

But he can't think about those things now. If he does, he'll buckle like a marionette with cut strings and be no good to anyone. Erin needs him now; so do Jason and the girls.

He'll consider how and why Jeffrey died when he's prepared to do something about it.

But he
does
need to speak to this detective. He stands and steps toward the front gate, then motions for Malone to move closer. When the man approaches, he turns his back to Erin and lowers his voice. “Have you found any sign of an intruder? Do you suspect foul play?”

Malone tucks his notebook away. “I really can't say at this point.”

“There are security cameras, you know. Jeffrey was quite vigilant about security.”

“Yes, sir. We saw the cameras aimed at the front and back entrances, so we looked for the control center and found it in a closet. I've skimmed the tapes, but I saw nothing unusual.”

“What about the alarm? They had a good system.”

“They did, and the alarm wasn't tripped. We found no signs of an intruder at the doors or windows, so right now I'd say we're looking at a natural death. But the medical examiner won't be able to confirm that until after the autopsy.”

Antonio digests this news in silence, watching as men and women in blue jackets stride in and out of the house, many of them carrying bins filled with plastic bags, all neatly labeled. Within those bags he sees syringes, insulin bottles, scraps of paper, a comb, and toothbrush. They're doing a lot of work for a so-called natural death, but then, Jeffrey was not an average citizen. He maintained a high profile, and people who rise above the crowd can't help but tempt others to take potshots at them.

As the wind blows the scent of wood smoke over the
street, he turns his attention back to the detective. “Those questions you asked Erin…do you think my son might have committed suicide?”

The cop lifts his chin. “Do you?”

“Not a chance. Jeffrey had everything to live for, and he loved life.”

“I understand he was preparing to run for higher office?”

“He felt he'd grown stagnant as a state senator. We were certain he could win a seat in Congress, so we were testing the waters. Quite successfully, I might add.”

“Enemies?”

Antonio frowns. “Jeff's opponents squared off against him in the courts of public opinion. He never mentioned anyone more threatening than those rabid radio talk show hosts.”

The detective shrugs. “I don't see any reason to suspect foul play. But we'll know more once we review the medical examiner's report.”

The man turns, as if to walk away, but Antonio catches his arm. “You and your team—you did a thorough search, right? Got everything you needed?”

“For a man who doesn't believe his son had enemies, you seem convinced that something's amiss.”

“I'm not convinced,” Antonio says. “But if the autopsy reveals that someone
did
harm my son, I don't want you to miss a thing. If someone murdered my boy, I want that person to pay.”