I’m crying. Giant, wracking sobs that rip out of me with a force that makes my entire body shudder.
Relinquishing control of your emotions is the ultimate bad form for a female cop. Especially a female in a position of command. I need to get a grip. Suck it up and get the hell back in there. Start the paperwork that will close this godforsaken case once and for all.
But I’m in no condition to go back inside. I can’t face my team. I’m too raw. Too far gone. Already over that precipice and tumbling down the mountain. I know Tomasetti will take care of any evidence that needs to be sent to the lab. The paperwork can wait until in the morning. Climbing into my Explorer, I back blindly onto the street and head for the nearest haven I can find.
CHAPTER 21
I find refuge at McNarie’s Bar. I didn’t know where I was going until I turned into the gravel lot. It’s the last place I ought to be. Not only am I the chief of police and still in uniform, but I’m in no frame of mind to be anywhere near alcohol. Or other living creatures. I suspect Tomasetti might be out looking for me, so I park in the rear lot, out of sight.
I’m not a self-destructive person. I learned that lesson at a relatively young age. But at some point during the drive from the police station to the bar, I stopped thinking. I stopped being reasonable. I stopped being so goddamn responsible. Sometimes none of those things make a damn bit of difference. Just look at the Planks.
It’s seven P.M. when I walk in the front door. Happy hour has given way to the pool players and football- game watchers and the guys that just want to get out of the house for a little peace and quiet. It’s another kind of peace I’m shooting for tonight.
I go directly to the small booth at the rear. The one in the corner where the tulip light is burned out and the only people who pass by are the ones heading into the alley for a snort or into the restroom because they’ve had too much to drink. I suspect McNarie keeps that corner dark on purpose.
An old Red Hot Chili Peppers’ song rattles from the jukebox as I settle in, facing the door. McNarie doesn’t make me wait. He sets a bottle of Absolut, a shot glass and a Killian’s Irish Red on the table in front of me. “You need the glass or are you going to drink straight from the bottle?”
“Better go with the glass,” I say. “Don’t want to start any rumors about the chief of police seeking solace in a bottle.” The fact that my state of mind is so obvious disturbs me.
I reach for my wallet, but McNarie stops me. “This one’s on the house, Chief.” He sets a pack of Marlboro Reds and a Bic next to the bottle.
“You don’t have to—”
“I just heard you got the fucker responsible for killing that family. Nice work.”
If only it were that simple. I thank him anyway, figuring I can make good with the tip.
He stares at me a moment, nods once. That’s all. No questions. No morbid curiosity to sate. No phony concern. No lectures. McNarie is one of the reasons I come here. He lets me be. Tonight, I appreciate that more than he could know.
I break the seal before he even reaches the bar. By the time he picks up his towel and glass and resumes drying, I’ve already poured. The first shot goes down badly, makes me shudder, but then they always do. The second shot is easier. The third slides down my throat like liquid gold.
Brooding over a case is a counterproductive use of time for a cop. I should be feeling celebratory. A mass murderer is dead. A sort of primal justice has been served. I should be whooping it up with the guys. Slapping them on the back for putting in the hours and getting the job done. They should be here with me, toasting the death of a predator. Then I think of the Plank family and it hits me again that none of this can be undone.
Or maybe it’s not the case at all that’s bothering me. Maybe it’s my own past that haunts me tonight. Maybe I’ve finally acknowledged all those jagged parallels between myself and Mary Plank. Parallels I didn’t want to see. Things I thought were buried, but will never really die.
I’m midway through my first cigarette when I see Tomasetti come through the door. He looks out of place here with the words
He makes his way to the booth and slides in across from me. I smoke, watching him, wishing I hadn’t drank that third shot. An alcohol-fuzzed brain is a huge disadvantage when it comes to dealing with Tomasetti. He can be unpredictable and difficult, and I’m pretty sure I’m in no shape to deal with either.
“I guess it would be stupid for me to ask how you found me,” I begin in way of greeting.
He catches McNarie’s eye and gestures toward the shot glass. “I went by your house first.”
“Not many places to hide out in this town.”
“I guess the real question is why you’re hiding.”
I’m saved from having to answer when McNarie sets down a fresh shot glass, a second beer, and hustles back to the bar.
Tomasetti fills both shot glasses and downs his in a single gulp.
“I thought you’d stopped drinking,” I say.
“I have, for the most part.” He smiles down at his glass. “Just not tonight. But then this isn’t about me, Kate.”
Since I’m the last person I want to talk about, I say nothing.
Tomasetti doesn’t give me respite. “Your guys are wondering what’s up with you.” He sets down the glass. “I guess I’m wondering the same thing.”
“It was a tough case.”
“It’s over. You did a good job. The whole department did.”
“The Planks are still dead. Those girls were still tortured.”
“Kate.” A thin layer of impatience laces his voice. “You’ve been a cop long enough to know that sometimes bad things happen to good people. It’s out of your control. You gotta let go or it will drive you nuts.”
Even though my brain warns me away from more alcohol, I pick up the shot glass and drink it down. “I’m too hammered to talk about it.”
“Sometimes that’s the best time to talk.”
“Not for me.”
He turns thoughtful. “Is it because they were Amish?”
I take a moment to study my glass, realizing I’m not sure how to answer. How can I put my emotions into words that will make sense to this man who sees the world in stark black and white? I’m not sure I want to open that Pandora’s box because I don’t know what will come flying out.
“You’re probably the most levelheaded woman I’ve ever known,” he says. “Getting caught up like this isn’t like you.”
I look at him over the top of my beer. “More your style, isn’t it?”
He gives me a self-deprecating smile. “Why don’t we save my analysis for next time?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Don’t apologize. Honesty is one of the things I like about you.”
“I thought you liked my legs.”
“That, too.”
He gives me a half smile, and we sip our beers. The turmoil inside me eases. The silence becomes slightly more tolerable. Almost comfortable. He shatters it with his next question. “Is this about what happened to you seventeen years ago?”
My flinch is slight, but I know he saw it because his eyes sharpen. I can feel his gaze scratching at my shell, a predator trying to get to the soft meat inside.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“There are some parallels.”
I’m aware of my heart beating in my temples. The familiar clenching of my gut. It shocks me that even after
