anything that might divulge a lie.
“You mean
“No, it’s not.”
“Then I don’t know where it is. Someone must have moved it.”
Frannie breaks in. “Perhaps Solly did something with it in the days before his death.”
“The rifle was there yesterday,” I say. “I saw it.”
“That means someone in this house moved it,” Tomasetti says. “Or took it.”
I look at Frannie and repeat the same question I posed to Nicholas earlier. “Has anyone visited the house?”
“Polly McIntyre brought a cherry pie for the children,” she says. “Bishop Troyer was here.”
Tomasetti nails Mose with another hard look. “If you touched that rifle, now would be the time to tell us.”
“You’re not in any trouble,” I add. “We just need to know about the rifle.”
“I didn’t touch it,” he says.
I think of Salome’s pregnancy. “Maybe you needed money, decided to sell it.”
“I didn’t touch the gun,” Mose replies defensively.
We haven’t revealed to anyone that we found the rifle at Ricky Coulter’s house or that Coulter is sitting in a jail cell on a probation-violation charge.
Tomasetti looks at me from across the table. “Did you ask Salome about the rifle?”
“She doesn’t know anything,” I reply.
Tomasetti’s gaze lingers on mine a moment too long; then he offers Mose a dark look. “Did you take that rifle, Mose?”
“No.”
“Did you plant it in Ricky Coulter’s house?”
Mose comes up out of his chair. “I don’t even know who that is!”
“Sit down,” I snap.
Across from me, Nicholas and Frannie exchange anxious glances.
Mose lowers himself back into the chair. “Stop jacking with me! I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Tomasetti sighs. “No one ever does anything wrong,” he says drily.
I turn my attention to Nicholas and his wife. “You’ll be staying here with the children the rest of the night?”
“Yes, of course,” Nicholas replies.
I look at Mose. “You’re coming with us. Go upstairs and pack an overnight bag.”
“What?” He comes out of the chair again. “An overnight bag? Why?”
“Because you’re going to stay with Bishop Troyer and his wife tonight.”
“I can’t leave my family!” he cries. “Not now. They need me!”
“You mean Salome, don’t you?” Tomasetti asks.
“No!”
I cut in before the exchange becomes even more heated. “Taking Salome into the loft was wrong, Mose. You know that. We can’t let you stay here.”
“We love each other!” he shouts. “I’m going to marry her!”
Across the table from him, Frannie gasps. “
Glaring at his wife, Nicholas raps his knuckles hard against the table and rises abruptly.
I give Mose a warning look. “You need to calm down.”
“You can’t do this!” Too enraged to listen, he slams his fist against the tabletop, his wild gaze darting from Frannie to Nicholas. “Don’t let them do this!”
Shaking his head, Nicholas walks into the living room.
Tomasetti isn’t the least bit impressed by the younger man’s wrath. “Go pack a bag, or we’ll take you without it. As far as I’m concerned, you can spend the rest of the week in those clothes.”
By the time Tomasetti and I hand over a very disgruntled Mose to the bishop and his wife, it’s after midnight. We’re in the Explorer, heading back to town. The only sound comes from the back-and-forth slap of the wipers as they wage war against the seemingly endless drizzle.
I’m bone-tired, but I can tell by the tension running through me that I won’t sleep. I want to think it’s the Slabaugh murder case that’s weighing heavy on my shoulders. But I’m honest enough with myself to acknowledge my dark mood has more to do with Mose and Salome. It’s a terrible predicament, but even more so for the younger kids. When you’re Amish, your family is the center of your universe. I feel their pain and upheaval all the way to my bones. I care about them, I realize. Too damn much, if I want to be honest about it.
Caring is a dangerous thing when you’re a cop. Police work requires a cool head and objectivity. It requires balance. Care enough so that you’re not cynical, but be able to step away and make the hard choices when you need to. I’m not doing a very good job with the stepping away part of it. I know better than most that a cop who lets his heart get tied up in a case is the biggest kind of fool. It’s a precarious and vulnerable state, and I wish I could shake it.
On impulse, I pull into the parking lot of McNarie’s Bar. Neither of us speaks when I shut down the engine. We know why we’re here. We walk inside with the unspoken mutual agreement that we’re going to talk about the case, the hate crimes, we’re going to talk about the kids, we’re probably going to drink too much, and we’re probably going to end up at my place.
We find a booth at the rear. We’ve barely settled in when McNarie approaches with a tray containing four shot glasses and two Killian’s Irish Reds. “Judging from the long faces, I figured this is going to be a double-shot night.”
Tomasetti picks up his glass. “You’re an astute man, McNarie.”
“A student of the human condition,” the old barkeep replies, and then hustles away.
The place is hopping. Usually, I prefer it quiet. Talk is cheap in small towns, especially if you’re a high-profile public servant, and Painters Mill is no exception. Tonight, however, I’m glad for the people and noise. It reminds me that life goes on and there are a lot of happy people out there. The world is bigger than I am. Bigger than the things going on inside my head.
We clink our glasses together and down the vodka. I revel in the burn, realize I’m eager for the next shot, anxious to blur all the sharp edges of my thoughts.
Leaning back in the booth, Tomasetti picks up his Killian’s and contemplates me. “Hell of a scene at the Slabaugh place tonight.”
I peel at the label on my beer bottle. “Salome’s pregnant.”
Tomasetti isn’t easily shocked, but I can tell by the way he’s staring at me that this news does the job. “Shit. How far along?”
“Two months.”
“Is Mose the father?”
“She says so.”
“Jesus.” He tips the beer, takes a long pull. “Fifteen years old.”
“And Amish.” I sigh. “At the very least, Mose will be placed with a separate family. I hate the thought of the little ones being separated.”
“Most of the time, things like that are out of our control.”
“Doesn’t make it any easier.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
I pick up another shot glass and knock back the vodka. It slides down more easily than the first. Already I feel the foggy pull of the booze, and I know if I order a third shot, it will go down even easier. “What do you think about the rifle?”
“Someone’s lying.”
“Who?”
