people I can’t. I’ve tried on multiple occasions. Just when I think I’ve got him nailed, all those quirks figured out, he lets fly some stunner that has me rethinking everything I know about him.
I look out the window and give both of us a chance to settle. Not an easy task when it comes to Tomasetti. He looks relaxed, but he’s driving too fast. He didn’t like seeing me with Rasmussen. But I know Tomasetti has too much pride to succumb to petty male jealousy. Still, he’s a man, and some things are programmed so deeply, not even intellect or character can totally eradicate them.
I consider waiting him out, but his stony silence is beginning to make me uncomfortable. “How did you know where to find me?”
He glances at me and frowns. “You’re kidding, right?”
Nodding, I look out the window, then sigh. “Are we okay?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
He’s going to make me spell it out.
“That’s fine. You’re a grown woman, Kate. You’re free to do whatever you want with whomever you want, whenever you want and as often as you like.”
“I’m really glad you pointed that out.” I glance at his profile, notice for the first time the tight set of his jaw. “So why are you pissed?”
“I’m not pissed.”
“Maybe we should talk about it.”
He takes his time responding. “You two looked pretty cozy. I didn’t like it. I’ll get over it. End of story.”
“It was just a friendly game of pool.”
“Did he hit on you?”
I shrug. “He was thinking about it.”
Tomasetti sends me a dark look.
I meet his gaze head-on. “You’re not one of those guys with trust issues, are you?”
“I just don’t like smart-assed cops crossing that line.”
“We haven’t really told anyone we’re … together.”
“Is that what we are?” he asks. “Together?”
“We haven’t talked about exclusivity.” I stammer the words, trying not to screw this up. I sense it’s an important moment. But I’m not much better at talking about my feelings than he is.
“We’re talking about it now.” He makes a turn, and I realize we’re pulling into the parking lot of the Farnam oil-filter factory. “For future reference, I don’t share.”
I nod, trying to appear calm, but inside my heart is pounding. This is as close to a relationship talk as we’ve ever had. “Just don’t go all caveman on me, okay?”
“I’ll try not to.”
“So does this mean we’re, like, going steady?”
He parks illegally at the building’s entrance, puts the Tahoe in park, shuts down the engine, and turns to me. “That means the next time Rasmussen puts his hands on you, you should tell him to fuck off.”
“Since he’s sheriff of this county, I’ll probably try to be a little bit more diplomatic.”
“As long as he gets the message.”
We leave the Tahoe and enter through a door below a sign marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. The factory is huge, has bright lights, and smells like a combination of rubber and paint. A security guard sitting in a booth eyes us through a window as we approach. Leaving the booth, he swaggers toward us. His badge says his name is Tony. He raises his hand like a traffic cop. “You’re going to have to get visitor passes from the office before you can come in here.”
Tomasetti tugs out his ID. “We already have our passes.”
The security guard stares at the badge, and for an instant I think I see longing in his eyes. “That’ll work.” He hikes up his pants. “What can I do for you?”
“We need to see Willie Steele,” I tell him. “He works here.”
“Willie? Sure. I saw him come in earlier.” He motions toward the booth. “I think he’s on line 7-W. Let me call, make sure he’s there.”
We wait while he makes the call. Beyond, huge machines rumble and grind and hiss. The second shift is in full swing. I see a young woman in blue jeans and an Ohio State sweatshirt feeding accordion paper into a massive cutting machine. At the end of the line, another person sends the cut papers down a conveyer belt.
The security guard emerges from his booth. “Okay, I just talked to the supervisor. Steele’s working tonight.” Tugging up his pants, he points. “I can’t leave my post. Just follow this walkway to where it tees, then go left. Line seven-W is midway down to the Paint Room there at the end. Lines are clearly marked. Willie’s on the glue wheel tonight. Supervisor’s name is Bob Shields. He’s expecting you.” Tony looks at me, and I see the burn of curiosity in his eyes. “What’d Willie do?”
“We just want to ask him some questions,” I reply.
He looks disappointed. “Let me know if you need any help with him. I never liked that guy.”
“Thanks,” I say.
The walkway is delineated with bright yellow tape. We follow it to the T junction, then turn left. Tony gave good directions, because midway to the end, we see a sign that says 7-W. Beyond, a conveyer belt with huge steel bins on either side rumbles like some massive engine. The accordion papers I’d noticed when we walked in have been cut and formed into cylinders. Held together with springs, they’re moving toward a rotating contraption where metal disks are glued onto the top and bottom. The operator then places each cylinder back on the assembly line and they make their way toward a huge oven.
A man with curly blond hair approaches us. Wearing black slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looks more like a waiter in some upscale restaurant than an assembly-line supervisor. “Can I help you?”
We show him our badges. “We need to speak to Willie Steele,” I say.
“He do something wrong?” Shields asks.
“We just want to talk to him,” Tomasetti responds.
“Let me pull him off the glue wheel. Gotta get the break operator to replace him or things’ll pile up. Can you hang on a sec?”
Frowning, Tomasetti looks at his watch.
I smile inwardly. “We’ll wait.”
Shields rushes over to his desk, slides to a stop with the verve of a figure skater, picks up the phone. I see him looking at the man working the rotating machine, and I recognize the guy as Willie Steele. “That’s him right there,” I tell Tomasetti.
“Big guy.”
I think of the beating Mose took. “Big coward. Let’s see how tough Mr. Steele is when we haul him to the station.”
I see amusement in Tomasetti’s eyes. “I’ll give you the honors.”
“Hopefully, he knows I used to be Amish.”
“This is going to be a lot more fun than I thought.”
Shields comes back looking harried. “Break operator is on the way. Can you hang for a couple of minutes?”
Tomasetti sighs, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. I’m about to reply, when I notice Steele looking at us. He’s frozen, his mouth open. The cylinders moving down the conveyer belt begin to pile up in front of him, and I realize he’s thinking about running.
The woman working next to him notices and stands up. “Hey!”
“We just got made,” I hiss.
Steele bolts.
“Shit,” I hear Tomasetti mutter, and then I’m running toward Steele.
“Halt! Police!” I shout. “Willie Steele! Stop!”
At the assembly line, a dozen faces turn to watch me as I sprint past them. Twenty feet ahead, Steele knocks over a stool, tosses a trayful of cylinders at me. “Fuck!” he shouts.
For such a big guy, he’s fast and agile. I’m running full out, but he’s still pulling away. Tomasetti is slightly
