“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something I’ve missed.” I shrug. “Something about the family.”
Both men nod, knowing that some crimes are that way. Solving them takes time, as well as persistence, perseverance, patience. You need to trust your instincts enough to follow them blind, listen to something as intangible as your gut.
“We can talk about this a little bit more tomorrow.” Rasmussen slides out of the booth and tosses a few bills on the table. “It’s past my bedtime.” He looks at me. “Good to see you, Kate.” He turns his attention to Tomasetti. “See you in the morning.”
I watch Rasmussen walk away, but my attention is focused on Tomasetti. Tension creeps down the back of my neck and spreads into my shoulders.
“How are you, Kate?” His voice is deep and intimate, and I feel the rumble of it all the way to my stomach.
“I’m good.” I look at him. John Tomasetti has a powerful presence. Even more so from my perspective, because my feelings for him are fervent. We’re close, but sometimes I sense some unexplained chasm between us, unmapped territory, which feels vast tonight. “You could have told me you were coming.”
He smiles. “You mean warned you?”
I smile back. “That, too.”
“I called.” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Then I got busy with Rasmussen. Didn’t want to call you when I was in the car with him.”
“Might have been awkward.”
“Kind of like now.” He softens the words with a smile.
I can’t help it; I laugh. “But we’re so good at awkward.”
“We’re good at a lot of things.”
“Just not surprises.”
“Even when they’re nice.”
Silence falls and Tomasetti lets it ride. I try going with it. I peel the label on my empty bottle. I listen to the music. Usually, silence doesn’t bother me. John and I have been through a lot together; I don’t need conversation to be comfortable. This is one of those times when the silence is like a tuning fork against a broken bone.
When I can stand it no longer, I ask, “How’s the move going?”
“I’m all moved in. Nice digs, by the way.”
“Have you found a place in Cleveland?”
He nods. “Rented a house by the lake.”
“Nice.”
But we’re both dancing around the real subject. The fact that he’s living back in the city where his family was murdered. A city where a lot of people—the cops included—suspect he went rogue and executed the men responsible. I want to ask him how he’s dealing with all that, but some inner voice warns me to tread lightly, give him some space.
McNarie arrives and sets two more Killian’s on the table between us. Frowning at me, Tomasetti slides the pack of cigarettes and lighter across the table toward McNarie. Smoothly, the old barkeep picks them up and drops them in his apron pocket. I give Tomasetti points for not lecturing me on all the dangers of smoking.
“Been here long?” he asks.
“About an hour.”
“You look tired.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m drunk.”
“I’ve noticed.” He sips his beer. “I guess the question is: Why?”
It’s an honest question—one I should probably be asking myself. But then, Tomasetti is one of the most honest people I’ve ever known. He asks the hard questions, even when he knows the person he’s asking probably doesn’t want to answer. He also gives honest answers, even when you don’t want to hear the truth. It’s not easy being his friend; it’s not easy caring for him. But he’s got me on both counts and then some.
When I don’t respond, he lets me off the hook, moves on to a topic we’re both more comfortable with. “Tell me about Adam Slabaugh.”
I recap everything I know about the formerly Amish man. “There was some bad blood between the brothers.”
“Other suspects?”
“The kids mentioned a day laborer, but nothing’s panned out. We canvassed…” I shrug, let the words trail.
“Uncle going to get custody of the kids?”
“Probably. Against the wishes of the bishop.” I’m leaning back in the booth, staring at my beer. I can feel Tomasetti’s eyes on me, probing and poking, and I sense the hard questions coming on.
“Four Amish kids,” he says. “Dead parents. Makes it tough.”
“Kids always make it harder.” But then, Tomasetti already knows that.
“Last few cases you’ve worked have been tough, Kate.”
I look at him. The smile that emerges feels rigid on my face—like if it gets any tighter, the facade will shatter and what I’m really feeling will come pouring out. At the moment, I’m not even sure what that is. “I’m handling it.”
“I guess that’s why you’re here, drinking shots and smoking cigarettes.”
“Maybe it is.” I look at him, let some attitude slip into my voice. “You going to lecture me now, Tomasetti?”
“That would be hypocritical of me.”
“That’s one of the things I like about you.”
“You mean aside from my animal magnetism?”
“You know when to keep your mouth shut.”
“I believe that’s the most touching thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
Smiling, he finishes his beer. We listen to an old Lou Reed song about Sweet Jane. The young couple at the rear finish their pool game, shrug into their coats, and head for the door. The football game on the tube ends and the local news comes on.
“I’ve been a cop for a long time, Kate. I’ve worked a lot of cases. Been to a lot of dark places.”
I look at him, not ready to get serious, not wanting to hear what he’s going to say next. The urge to spout off something silly and meaningless is strong, but the look in his eyes stops me.
“Whether you want to admit it or not, all of those things take a toll,” he says.
“Tomasetti…”
He raises a hand to quiet me. “All I’m telling you is, if you want to talk about anything, I’m here.”
Some of the ice that has been jammed up inside me melts. The knot that’s been in my chest all day loosens. “I’ll let you know.”
CHAPTER 8
The sun hovers like a fluorescent orange ball above the treetops to the east when I arrive at the station. The storm that rolled through last night is nothing more than a purple line of clouds moving off to the east. The weather system left two inches of snow behind, just enough to cover the tree branches and make the streets slick.
I drank too much last night, and I have the hangover to prove it. Tomasetti followed me home, fixed me a can of soup, then put me to bed. Part of me had wanted him to spend the night, had expected him to ask. He didn’t. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I hate to admit it, but my female ego is smarting this morning.
I find Mona sitting at the dispatch station, surfing the Internet, a lollipop sticking out of her mouth. She looks up when I enter and pulls out the lollipop. “Morning, Chief.”
“Please tell me you made coffee.”
“Figured you’d be in early. It’s hazelnut.”
I prefer plain old Colombian, but I’ve learned to choose my battles when it comes to Mona’s quirks. “As long
