Griffin and Jillian had two boys now. Ages four and six, D.D. was learning. The youngest, Dylan, had taken a page out of his father’s book and was all football all the time. The six-year-old, Sean, had recently discovered cooking. As in last night he’d prepared rack of lamb for the entire family.
“With a pomegranate molasses marinade,” Griffin was finishing now, “though I suspect his mom helped him with that.”
“He’s six. How’d he even lift a roasting pan into the oven?” D.D. wanted to know.
“Oh,” Griffin said breezily. “He gets that from me.”
“And the hot oven…not a problem?”
“Jillian did the honors of taking it out. And she helped him sear the outside on the stove. But he found the recipe—”
“Where? At the back of his comic books?”
“He checked out a cookbook from the library. He’s a how-to kid. No fiction, but brings home books on how to plant gardens, how to engineer robots, how to build boats. Guess now it’s gonna be how to cook.”
“Rack of lamb. That’s amazing.”
“Hell, it was fabulous. I’m ready to start a college fund for Johnson and Wales.”
“I don’t know about cooking yet for baby Jack,” D.D. said. “But last night he threw up something that might pass for molasses.”
Griffin laughed. That was the great thing about parents and homicide cops—nothing ever grossed them out. She could tell diaper stories all day, and her fellow detectives would actually find that charming. D.D. wondered sometimes how normal people lived.
“Is he sleeping at all?” Griffin asked.
“No.”
“Try driving around?”
“No. Too afraid I’ll fall asleep.”
“What about during the day? Does he nap?”
“Some. When you’re holding him, or when he’s in his carrier, then he passes out cold.”
“Okay,” Griffin said briskly, “so Dylan wasn’t much of a sleeper when he was an infant. I’d take him for short drives in the car seat, get him wiped out. Then return home and place his carrier directly in his crib, with him still strapped in. Worked like a charm for weeks. Then pretty soon, we could just place him straight into the crib. Maybe being in the carrier helped get him acclimated to the crib? Hell if I know, but it worked.”
D.D. pursed her lips, nodded. “Sounds like something worth trying. Or I could just sign up for the funny farm now.”
At the last minute, she realized maybe she shouldn’t have said that. Given Griffin’s own past, that little incident with the Candy Man, Griffin’s ensuing mental breakdown, the medical leave from the state police.
Griffin just laughed again, sounding unruffled. D.D. took that as a sign his new family was working for him. She hoped so. Griffin was a good guy and great detective. If he was happy, maybe there was hope for the rest of them.
“So,” she declared, “as delightful as our children are, I’m actually calling you about a case. Randi Menke, murdered in Providence two years ago. Guess the state police became involved because you were already investigating the number one suspect for fraud.”
“Jon Menke,” Griffin said immediately. “Slimy bastard.”
“You think he did it?”
“Please, at the time I would’ve bet my career on it, which it turned out, would’ve cost me, given the second murder one year later.”
“Jackie Knowles,” D.D. filled in. “So you heard about that.”
“Only four dozen times. The friend…Charice, Chartreuse…”
“Charlene. Charlie.”
“That’s it.” Griffin snapped his fingers over the phone. “Charlie something something Grant. She visited our fine headquarters many times. Made her wishes for swift and immediate justice known.”
“What do you think?”
Another sigh. “Crap, it’s January eighteenth. Just three days to go. Well hell…” Griffin stopped murmuring, seemed to collect his thoughts. “Okay, so I can only speak to the Providence scene, and there wasn’t much to it. First responders arrived to a quiet house. Front door was closed but unlocked. In the family room, they found the body of a woman. She was lying there so peacefully, one of the guys dropped to start CPR. Wasn’t until he was leaning over her that he saw the bruises around her neck and realized she was dead.”