Tomasetti begins.
“What?” Long’s face goes even paler. “Like mine? I wasn’t there.”
“You know about the murders?” I ask.
He turns slightly to face me, a deer being approached by wolves from different directions. “I heard about it on the news. That was some bad shit.”
“Where were you Sunday night?” Giving us only half of his attention, Tomasetti strolls into the kitchen.
“I was at the Brass Rail.” Fast answer with no hesitation.
“Can someone vouch for you?” I ask.
“Sure. I was with a buddy of mine.”
“Who?” Tomasetti asks. “We need names.”
“Friend of mine by the name of Jack Warner. The bartender might remember me, too.”
I pull out my pad and jot down the name. “What time were you there?”
“I got there at about nine. Stayed till closing.” His eyes flick from me to Tomasetti. “Look, I didn’t know those people. Hell, I don’t know
In the kitchen, Tomasetti opens a couple of drawers, peeks inside. “Anyone borrow your truck recently?”
“No one borrows my truck.” He watches Tomasetti open the refrigerator. He wants to tell him to stop snooping; I see it in his eyes. But he doesn’t have the balls.
Tomasetti nails him with a hard stare. “I understand you’re on probation.”
Long blinks, runs slender fingers through tousled hair. “Yeah. I did something stupid a long time ago. Did my time.”
“You know you can go back to prison for lying to the cops, don’t you?”
“I don’t have any reason to lie to you guys. I was at the bar all night. I swear. You can check.”
Tomasetti shows his teeth. “We will.”
“Any particular reason you’re so nervous?” I ask.
Long swings around as if he’s expecting me to attack him from behind. “Cops make me nervous.”
“Why is that?” I ask.
“Because you guys charged in here like I did something wrong.” Long’s nervousness is giving way to indignation now. “I’ve kept my nose clean ever since I got out.”
“Do you own a firearm?” I ask.
He blinks at me. “I’m on probation.”
In my peripheral vision, Tomasetti rolls his eyes. “Is that a yes or no?”
“I sold my guns when I got busted. Needed the money to pay my lawyer.”
“What kind of guns?”
“Deer rifle. Revolver that belonged to my grandfather.”
I jot it in my notebook. “Who did you sell them to?”
“Pawnshop in Mansfield. I think I’ve still got receipts.”
“Dig them out,” I say. “We may need them.”
“Okay.”
“Do you work?” Tomasetti asks.
“I’ve been with the railroad for going on two years.”
“What about a girlfriend?” I ask.
“What kind of question is that?”
“One you have to answer,” Tomasetti snaps.
“No one regular.”
A thought occurs to me, so I jump in with the next question. “Do you know a guy by the name of Scott Barbereaux?”
Long makes a show of thinking. “I don’t know. Maybe I went to school with him.”
“You need to be more definitive,” I say.
He looks at me as if he’s not sure what the word means. “I think I did go to school with him.”
“Were you friends?” I ask.
Long shakes his head. “He was always sort of a jock. You know, played football and shit. I was . . . more of a hood, I guess.”
Tomasetti stares hard at him. “You telling us the truth?”
Long can’t hold his gaze, and fixes his eyes on the floor. “I don’t have any reason to lie. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“If I find out you told even one teeny weeny little lie,” Tomasetti says conversationally, “I’ll come back, and I’ll make you regret it. Are you clear on that?”
I see sweat on Long’s forehead and upper lip. His gaze meet’s Tomasetti’s then skitters away. “I got it.”
CHAPTER 16
Tomasetti slides into the Tahoe and pulls onto the street. “That guy’s sweating bullets.”
“Interesting reaction for an innocent man.”
“
“You think he’s involved in this?” I ask.
“Hard to tell. The guy’s a fuckin’ squirrel.” He glances my way. “What do you think?”
I find myself thinking of Mary Plank and the man she depicted in her journal. “I know perspectives vary— especially when it comes to a teenaged girl’s heart—but I don’t think Todd Long is the man she wrote about in her journal.”
Tomasetti arches a brow. “Not exactly tall, dark and handsome.”
“Not exactly.”
“You know what they say about love being blind.”
“Not
“I need a drink.”
The incident back at the Plank farm flashes in my mind, followed by a sharp snap of anger. “After what just happened at the farmhouse, you want a drink? Are you kidding me?”
He pulls into the parking lot of McNarie’s Bar and parks next to a vintage Camaro. “Look, it’s almost nine o’clock. You’ve been at it since when? The crack of dawn? Or maybe you didn’t sleep at all last night.”
The latter is closest to the truth, but I’m not going to admit it. Being with Tomasetti outside a work environment is dangerous business. Going with him for a drink promises to be downright catastrophic. “I need to get contact info on this Jack Warner guy, verify Long’s alibi,” I say.
“You can bet that jumpy son of a bitch broke his knuckles dialing his buddy the moment we walked out the door.” Swinging open the door, he slides out.
Cursing beneath my breath, I stay seated. He crosses in front of the Tahoe and opens my door. “Come on. Let’s get a bite to eat. We can talk about the case.”
“That’s not all we’re going to talk about,” I snap.
“You’re not going to psychoanalyze me, are you?”
I shake my head. “You’re a pain in the ass.”
“I believe that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”
McNarie’s Bar is a dive in every sense, replete with red vinyl booths, scarred Formica tabletops, and air so polluted it’s probably illegal in most states. But it also happens to be my favorite watering hole. The clientele are low key. The music doesn’t rattle my brain. The burgers are decent. McNarie, the bear-size barkeep and owner, is a good listener and a hell of a lot more discreet than most cops I know. After I closed the Slaughterhouse Murders case in January, I spent more than one evening shooting doubles in the corner booth. McNarie got me home safely every single time.
Tomasetti chooses a booth at the rear. Big Head Todd and the Monsters belt out their classic ballad
