drinks. “Bottoms up.”
Feeling only slightly self-conscious, I down the shot. On the jukebox Led Zeppelin’s “Down by the Seaside” gives way to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “That Smell.” The alcohol chooses that moment to kick in. It makes me feel like a train clattering down rickety tracks, heading toward a ravine without a bridge. That’s when I remember I didn’t eat lunch, or dinner. Undulating waves of warmth wash over my brain. I go with it, but when I look up at the television above the bar, it dips left and right.
“Been here long?” Rasmussen asks.
“Too long, probably.” I smile, hoping it’s not as crooked as it feels.
“Been there, done that.”
I doubt that, too, but I nod. “Any word on the rifle or the Skoal can?”
“Tomasetti thinks we still might hear something today. He’s been on the phone with the lab up there, pushing them pretty hard.”
“I guess that means we probably shouldn’t drink too much.”
He looks at the three spent shot glasses in front of me and chuckles. “Guess that depends on your definition of ‘too much.’”
“Good point.”
He glances at his watch, shrugs. “Getting kind of late anyway. Don’t know if those lab people up there work overtime.”
“They do,” I say. “Especially if Tomasetti is pushing for something he wants.”
“He’s good at pushing, that’s for sure.”
An awkward silence ensues. I look toward the bar. McNarie is drying glasses, frowning at me. I frown back, look down at the bottle of beer in front of me, pick it up and drain it.
“You play pool, Chief?”
I glance at Rasmussen. He’s staring at me intently, the way men do sometimes when they’re thinking there’s a possibility they might get lucky, and I think,
“I’m not very good at it,” I reply, enunciating each word carefully to keep from slurring them.
“You’re probably better than you think.”
“No, I really suck. Honest.”
Smiling, he nods toward the pool table at the rear. “I’ll bet you ten bucks you can beat me.”
“You could throw the game to win the bet.”
“Twenty bucks, and I promise not to cheat.”
The next thing I know, he’s pulling me from the booth. I’m aware of his hand, large and hot and damp. The crisp, musky smell of his aftershave. My head is spinning like a top.
He shoves a cue at me, then proceeds to rack the balls. “You break, Chief.”
Having been a cop in a large metropolitan city, I’ve spent a good bit of time in bars just like this one. I’ve consumed more alcohol than I like to admit. I’ve even played a few games of pool. But it’s one pastime I never mastered. I take a moment to chalk the tip of the cue. Leaning forward, I set my hand on the felt and line up.
“Might help if you do it this way.” Rasmussen comes up beside me, nudges me aside. Bending, he demonstrates. “Like this. Keep your hand steady.”
“Okay.” He steps back, and I imitate him.
“Wait.”
He moves closer. I start to straighten to give him room, but he sets his hand on the small of my back. “Stay put.” Taking my hand, he usurps the cue, wraps his own fingers around it. “Hold it like this. See? You’ll have more control.”
Putting his arm around me, he takes my fingers and sets the cue in my hand. He’s standing too close. His hip is touching mine. I can feel his breath ruffling my hair, his shoulder pressing against mine.
He doesn’t know about Tomasetti and me. Maybe because we’re not exactly official, for a multitude of reasons. I’m debating whether to fill him in, when he whispers, “Take the shot.”
“What are we doing here?” I ask.
“Playing pool.” Mr. Innocent.
“I don’t think this has anything to do with pool.”
“Take the shot,” he repeats. “Go on.”
I thrust the cue forward. The shot feels good, solid. The balls disperse, clicking together and rolling across the felt.
“Not bad for an amateur.”
The baritone voice snaps me away from the game. I look up to see Tomasetti standing ten feet away, watching us the way a pit bull might watch some cocky terrier an instant before he tears it to shreds. I didn’t notice him walk in, and the sight of him standing there shakes me. The shoulders of his trench coat are wet and sprinkled with melting snow. As I take in his measure, his attention shifts to me. His expression is oddly amused. But his smile is cold, his eyes hard. Baggage, I think.
“Amateur, hell.” Oblivious, Rasmussen leans forward and takes a shot. “Did you see that break? Twenty bucks says I’m about to get my ass kicked.”
“As much as I’d like to bear witness to that, I’m going to have to pass.” Tomasetti tosses the sheriff a cool look. “While you two were in here getting shit-faced, I got a name from the prints on the Skoal can.”
I nearly drop my cue. Game forgotten, I prop it against the wall and cross to him. “What’s the name?”
His expression is still amused, but it’s laced with another emotion I can’t readily identify. Something hard and a little bit cruel. “William Steele.”
I know the name. “He goes by Willie,” I say. “Troublemaker. Small-time hood. Lives in an apartment over the furniture store in town.”
Rasmussen comes up beside me, standing a little too close. “Bigot?”
Tomasetti smiles, but his expression holds not a trace of humor.
Sidling away from Rasmussen, I answer for him. “He beat the hell out of a migrant worker a few years back. Steele was a minor at the time. Seventeen, I think. Judge gave him probation.”
“Looks like Willie didn’t learn his lesson,” Tomasetti says.
“Those prints place him at the scene,” Rasmussen states. “Anything else?”
Tomasetti’s expression isn’t friendly. “CSU picked up a couple of footwear imprints. If we can match one of them to his shoes, it would help seal the deal.” He turns his stare on Rasmussen. “Why don’t you go get the warrant so we can search his place. The chief and I will go pick him up.”
I can tell by Rasmussen’s reaction that he doesn’t appreciate being given orders, especially by an outsider— and in front of me. To his credit, he doesn’t balk, just reaches for his cell phone. “I’ll give Judge Siebenthaler a call and get out there.”
Tomasetti lifts his lip in a poor imitation of a smile, then he turns and strides toward the door.
CHAPTER 15
The cold air slaps me in the face when I go through the door. Tomasetti’s a few strides ahead, and I quicken my pace to catch up with him.
“You got an address on Willie Steele?” he asks.
“I know where he lives. But he’s probably at work right now. The oil-filter factory down in Millersburg.”
“Let’s go pick him up.”
We reach his Tahoe and climb inside. He doesn’t look at me as he starts the engine and pulls out of the parking space. The wheels spew gravel when he turns onto the street. Neither of us speaks as he heads toward town, cranking the speedometer well over the speed limit.
I’m usually pretty good at reading people—their moods, their frame of mind. Tomasetti is one of only a few
