“Bittersweet” as I slide in across from him. Trying not to fidget, I catch McNarie’s eye and motion him our way.
“Nice,” Tomasetti comments. “You know the bartender.”
“Small town. Everyone knows everyone.”
“Uh-huh.”
The big man crosses to us and puts his hands on his hips. “Every time I see you two together I know there’s some serious shit going down.” He’s got a full beard that hangs off his chin like a wool sock. Matching white brows ride low over red-rimmed eyes. “You know who did it yet?”
“We’re working on a couple of angles,” I reply.
“Bad medicine, killing a whole family like that.” He shakes his head. “And Amish, too. Kids. Just can’t see it.”
“You hear anything, McNarie?”
“Not a goddamn thing. People are fuckin’ scared, locking their doors.” He glances back at the bar where a woman clad in denim waits for service. “You want the usual, Chief?”
I nod, embarrassed by the fact that I spend enough time in here to have a usual.
McNarie shifts a heavy-lidded gaze to John. “What about you?”
Tomasetti has the gall to look amused. “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”
The barkeep hustles away. Tomasetti smiles at me. “The usual, huh? You’re busted.”
I look at him. Really look at him for the first time since he stepped into my office a few hours ago. I’ve known him for ten months now, and John Tomasetti has always been a little rough around the edges. But his face is more angular than usual. I know he’s forty-two years old—eleven years older than me—but he looks even older. His eyes have seen a lot of things, and it shows in a way that has nothing to do with age. I see so much in his face, sometimes it’s painful. Sometimes he’s downright scary to look at.
To say that he has issues would be an understatement. I know about some of his demons. Most he won’t talk about. Like the night a drug dealer by the name of Con Vespian tortured his wife and two little girls, then burned them alive. A lot of people wouldn’t have survived that kind of loss. Tomasetti did; he still breathes and eats and walks and sleeps. But there’s living, and then there’s merely existing. I think Tomasetti falls into the latter group. I know he spends a great deal of time trying to claw his way out of some deep, dark hole.
He’s one of those cops who skates a thin line. He drinks too much. A few months ago, he was mixing prescription drugs. It’s a hazardous means of escape, especially for a cop. We both know the only reason he still has a job is because he’s damn good at what he does. I wonder how long that will last.
“So how are you really doing?” I ask after a moment.
“Let’s just say I’m a work in progress.”
McNarie appears and sets two Killian’s Irish Red beers and two shot glasses in front of us. Tomasetti gives me a knowing smile, and we down the shots first. The bite of vodka on my tongue makes me shudder.
“When are you going to come clean with your superiors at BCI?”
He glances at his watch. “I have a feeling they’ve probably figured it out by now.”
“How are you going to handle that?”
“You mean how will it affect your case?”
“That’s not what I meant.” But we both know if we don’t play our cards right, his unofficial status could become an issue.
He shrugs. “I’ll lay low. Help you with the BCI end of things.”
“All those friends in low places must come in handy.”
“Kate, there’s no law against my being here. I want to work. I need to work. I may not be official, but I can help.”
The vodka begins to knead my brain with its magic fingers and my earlier annoyance fades to a vague and fuzzy restlessness. The kind I feel when I know I should be doing one thing and I’m off doing another. Like now.
Leaning back in the booth, he peels the label from the beer bottle. He’s got great hands. Strong with long fingers, blunt-cut nails and calluses. I stop short of remembering the way those hands feel against my skin . . .
“I don’t want you to risk your job because you’re worried about me,” I say.
He picks up the Killian’s and sips. “I’m here because I want to be.”
“To work.”
One side of his mouth curves. “Right.”
On the jukebox, “Bittersweet” gives way to Clapton’s “Cocaine.” I wonder if booze is Tomasetti’s cocaine. I wonder if he’s mine.
“I’m probably not very good at the whole being supportive thing,” I say.
“You’re better than you know.” He smiles. “Better than my shrink.”
I look at him over the top of my beer. “So how are we going to handle all this?”
He raises his beer and looks at me over the top. “I think we should just take it one day at a time and see what happens.”
CHAPTER 17
Some cases are more complicated than others. It’s not that the perpetrators are unduly cunning; most are as mindless as the crimes they commit. More often than not, it’s the relationship dynamics of the cops involved that throw an investigation into turmoil. To my misfortune, the Plank case promises to become as complex as the DNA we’re hoping will solve it. It’s dredged up a part of my past I’ve been running away from for seventeen years. A past I knew I would eventually have to face.
I’m thinking about the choices I made as a fourteen-year-old girl, and the demons born of those choices, as Tomasetti and I head back to the police station. He hasn’t spoken to me since we left the bar. The silence is uncomfortable, but I prefer it. I think he does, too. Or maybe the silence is safer than talking. God knows I’m no expert on men, but I’m pretty sure he wants to spend the night with me. I’m not sure I have the resolve to refuse if he presses.
It’s almost ten P.M. when Tomasetti pulls the Tahoe into a visitor slot outside the police station and kills the engine. Hands on the steering wheel, he stares straight ahead. “Come with me to the motel.”
Temptation tugs at me. He’s a meticulous lover, and it would be so easy to lose myself in that for a few hours. I want to blame my indecision on the vodka. But the debate rioting inside me is a lot more complex than an alcohol-fuzzed brain. It scares me because I’m pretty sure what I’m feeling won’t be appeased by an orgasm.
“I can’t.” I don’t look at him, but I feel his eyes on me.
“I guess I’m still wondering if we’re . . .”
“Maybe that’s the problem. We haven’t defined what we are.”
“We have a relationship,” he says.
I finally meet his gaze. “Based on what?”
“Mutual respect. Admiration.” He smiles. “Really great sex.”
“What about friendship?” I say. “Trust?”
“That, too.”
In that instant I know if I don’t get out of there, I’m not going to leave, so I reach for the door handle. “I have to go.”
He grasps my arm. “Don’t give up on us.”
“I haven’t.” Opening the door, I slide out then bend to look at him. “See you tomorrow.”
I’m one of those people who can get by on little sleep. Probably a good thing since I’m a functioning insomniac. Tonight, I don’t know if it’s the case or Tomasetti that has my brain tied into knots. Probably a little bit of both.
After leaving him at the station, I was too keyed up to go home, so I called Mona and got the lowdown on Jack Warner, Long’s alibi. He owns Backwoods Construction Company, a small firm that specializes in designing and building log cabins. He’s divorced. No minor children. No record—not so much as a speeding ticket. I don’t have high hopes of gleaning any particularly helpful information. Still, the alibi needs to verified, and since I can’t sleep, I
