“You’re bleeding.” Slabaugh pulls a couple of tissues from the box on the table and hands them to me.
“Thanks.” I blot at the burning sensation at my left temple, and the tissue comes away red.
“She’s obviously going to need psychiatric evaluation.”
All heads turn toward Colin Thornsberry, Salome’s attorney. He looks like he just survived a tornado—barely —and I wonder if this is his first brush with a violent offender. He’s looking at Salome as if he doesn’t want to get too close.
The door swings open and I see Glock standing there at the ready. His eyes sweep the room, lingering on me a moment and then going to Salome and Tomasetti. “Everything okay in here?” he asks.
“It is now,” I say, and start toward the door.
There’s a universal truth in law enforcement. It’s one I’ve struggled with for years and probably will for more years to come. Some cases turn out badly no matter how good the police work. Even though you make the arrest, get the bad guy off the street, and make the world a safer place, there is no justice done. The end result can be as sad and troubling as the crime itself.
In the case of the Slabaugh family, two Amish parents are still dead, along with an uncle who was trying to help. Two little boys will grow up without their mother and father and siblings. A seventeen-year-old boy is dead. And a fifteen-year-old Amish girl is probably going to prison, where an innocent baby will be born into a system that is far from perfect.
Justice took a pass on this one. I have no choice but to move on to the next, and hope for a better outcome. At least I have my hope. If that ever wanes, then I know it’s time for me to hang up my law-enforcement hat.
McNarie’s Bar is the last place I should be on a night like this, when I’m disheartened and thinking about things like a lack of justice and the end of hope. It’s not exactly the kind of mind-set that’s conducive to responsible drinking. I haven’t forgotten about Tomasetti’s warning to be careful with the booze. He doesn’t broach a subject like that without serious forethought. Maybe I’ll heed his advice, maybe not.
I’m into my second tonic and lime when movement at the door catches my attention. I look up and see Tomasetti and Rasmussen enter. The men saunter to the booth. Tomasetti slides in next to me. Rasmussen takes the seat across from us. I know they just came from the police station; there’s a certain kind of energy that comes with the end of a big case, especially one like this. They’ve gotten Salome handed off to the appropriate juvenile authorities and the immediate paperwork taken care of. For the first time in the course of my career, I’m glad I wasn’t there.
“I think I owe you an apology,” Rasmussen says without preamble.
I make eye contact with him. He’s talking about our exchange at the station. “You mean for telling me I was too emotionally involved in the case and that I was wrong about Salome?”
“That would be it.” He offers a white-flag smile, and I can actually see him swallowing his pride. “I was wrong about the girl, and I came down on you pretty hard. I was out of line.”
The words quash my earlier ire, leaving me feeling strangely deflated, and I reluctantly decide I like him again. “I wasn’t one hundred percent certain myself,” I admit.
Rasmussen’s eyes sharpen. “Are you saying the two boys didn’t confide and tell you they overheard Salome and Mose discussing the murders?”
“They told me Salome had put them in the pit and promised to come back for them.” I sigh, wondering if I’m going to have to defend my actions. “The rest was guesswork.”
“You didn’t have Mose’s prints on the ball,” Tomasetti says.
I shake my head.
“Big risk.”
“Calculated risk,” I reply. “But one I had to take because I felt she was a danger to the two boys.”
Rasmussen whistles. “Damn, Chief, that’s good.”
Tomasetti isn’t so easily pleased. “Could have backfired if Salome had stuck to her story.”
“I was counting on her losing her cool.”
Tomasetti looks at the sheriff. “In case you haven’t noticed, Kate’s good at provoking people.”
“I’ve noticed.” But he softens the words with a half smile and addresses me. “You’ll be happy to hear we cut Coulter loose.”
“How was he?” I ask.
“Relieved,” Tomasetti says.
“Seems like a genuinely nice guy,” Rasmussen puts in.
Tomasetti all but rolls his eyes. “Maybe he really
“Speak for yourself.” Rasmussen chuckles.
I smile, too, but I’m distracted, thinking about the case, about the kids, Salome and the baby.… “Any idea how the rifle got into Coulter’s closet?” I ask.
“Salome denied any knowledge,” Rasmussen tells me.
Tomasetti grimaces. “But she and Mose knew Coulter had done some work for their father. It’s common knowledge he’s an ex-con. All those kids had to do was plant it in Coulter’s house, and suddenly we have a suspect.”
McNarie hustles over to the table holding a tray containing two Killian’s Irish Red, two shot glasses—and a lone highball glass. A pack of Marlboro Lights peeks out of the top of his apron pocket.
I see Tomasetti eyeing the glass, wondering. “What are you drinking tonight, Chief?”
“Just tonic.”
He looks up at McNarie. “I’ll have the same,” Tomasetti says. “I’m driving. Kate’s on the wagon. And the sheriff was just leaving.”
Across from me, Rasmussen arches a brow, and I know he just connected the dots, made the link between me and Tomasetti. McNarie doesn’t even look surprised. His eyes skate to mine. I give him a minute nod, and he carries the tray back to the bar.
Noisily, Rasmussen clears his throat. “I just remembered I have something to do.”
“You sure you won’t stay for a drink?” Tomasetti asks.
“You asshole.” Grinning, the sheriff slides out of the booth.
Tomasetti rises and the two men shake hands. “Agent Tomasetti, it was a pleasure meeting you. Can’t thank you enough for your help.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” he says, and I wonder if Rasmussen knows he’s referring to me.
The sheriff glances my way, and I think I see a smile in his eyes as he turns and heads toward the door.
Tomasetti settles in across from me. “You think he got the message?”
“Hmmm, I don’t know. You were pretty subtle.”
We grin at each other across the table. I know he’s leaving tonight. And even though he’s so close that I can reach out and touch him, I already feel him slipping away. Already I miss him.
“How are you?” he asks after a moment.
“I’m okay.”
McNarie interrupts, setting two icy highball glasses on the table between us. When the barkeep leaves, Tomasetti says, “I’ve got to be back in Cleveland tomorrow morning.”
“I know.” My heart beats a little too fast. “I wish you could stay.”
“Me, too.”
We sip our tonic and listen to an old Chris Isaak song. Tomasetti breaks the silence. “If you’re not okay, I won’t leave. I’ll find a way to stay.”
Before realizing I’m going to do it, I reach across the table and set my hand over his. I meet his gaze. “I’m okay. I mean it.” Sighing, I add, “This was just a really sad case.”
“Salome played us all.” He shrugs. “We should have seen it coming.”
That makes me feel better, because he has the best instincts of anyone I know. “Sometimes the most difficult things to see are the ones right in front of us.”
“Hindsight sucks, doesn’t it?”
I nod, let the silence ride a moment. “How was Salome?”
He studies me, his eyes seeing more than I’m comfortable with. But I’m learning to let him see all of me—the
