what we have is too good to last.
I know my own heart, but so much of Tomasetti remains a mystery. Three years ago, he was married and had children. I don’t know if he was happy or discontent or, like the rest of us, somewhere in between. He rarely speaks of his past. But I know he loved them. I know he loved another woman and had children with her. And I know the loss of them nearly killed him.
Sometimes, when he’s untouchable, when I can’t reach him, I wonder if she’s the one he wants to be with. I wonder if he’s still in love with her. I wonder if I’m with him because she isn’t, if I’m competing with a dead woman.
The sound of my cell phone drags me from a deep and dreamless sleep. I fumble for it on the night table, flip it open, put it to my ear. “Burk-holder,” I rasp.
Even before I hear Tomasetti’s voice, I know it’s bad. When a cop is awakened in the middle of the night, it’s never good news.
“We’ve got a body,” he says without preamble.
I sit bolt upright, disoriented, my heart pounding. The room is pitch-black, and for an instant, I can’t remember where I am. Then the case rushes into my brain, the missing Amish teens, the blood on the road, and I’m out of bed and reaching for my clothes.
“Is it Annie?” I ask as I jam my legs into my slacks.
“I don’t know.”
“Give me five minutes.”
CHAPTER 10
The glowing red numbers of the alarm clock tell me it’s 3:53 A.M. when I go through the door. Tomasetti has already pulled the Tahoe up to the gravel area outside my cabin and is leaning against the passenger side’s front fender, talking on his cell phone. The night is humid and still, and I smell rain in the air.
He cuts his call short as I climb in. A moment later, he’s behind the wheel and we’re idling across the parking lot. “Hell of a way to start the day,” he growls.
“Tell me what you know,” I say.
“Not much. There’s no positive ID yet. But apparently, the victim is a young female.”
I think of a young life cut short, the parents who will be notified in the coming hours, the family that will be shattered by the news. I feel the familiar rise of outrage in my chest.
The tires spew gravel as we pull onto the highway. Beside me, Tomasetti scans the darkened storefronts and black shadows of the foliage as we cross a bridge and head toward town. He’s in cop mode, I realize, already hunting for the perpetrator.
“Where’s the body?” I ask.
“In a creek, evidently. Guy out fishing found her.”
I cringe at the thought. Murder is always horrific, but water somehow always makes it worse. In terms of evidence, it has just made our jobs exponentially more difficult. “Anyone on-scene?”
“Goddard’s en route.” He tosses me a grim look. “We’re closer.”
“Coroner?”
“There’s a team from Youngstown on the way.”
I glance at him. He looks grim and tired and not quite friendly. He’s not a good sleeper, and I suspect last night wasn’t any different.
We pass through Buck Creek and head north on a narrow two-lane road that cuts through a heavily forested area. A few miles in, we come to a rusty steel bridge. A big Dodge Ram is parked on a gravel turnout. Tomasetti parks behind the truck, kills the engine, and grabs a Maglite off the backseat. “There’s another one in the door panel.”
I find the flashlight and swing open my door. The night sounds—crickets and bullfrogs and nocturnal animals—emanate from the thick black of the woods.
Tomasetti is already walking toward the truck. “Where the hell’s the driver?” he mutters.
I look around, but there’s no one in sight. I set my hand on my revolver as we start toward the Dodge. Chances are, this call is exactly as it seems: a citizen who’s stumbled upon a terrifying scene. But we’re all too aware of the fact that where there is murder, there is also a murderer. More than one cop has been ambushed when he thought he was walking into a benign scene.
Lightning flickers on the horizon as I reach the truck. Tomasetti tries the driver’s door, but it’s locked. Using the Maglite, he checks the interior, sets his hand on the hood. “Still warm.”
I drop to my knees, shine my beam along the ground. “No one underneath.”
We’re checking the truck’s bed when I hear something large crashing through the brush on the other side of the bar ditch twenty yards away. At first, I think it’s some kind of animal—a rutting buck or a black bear—charging us. Adrenaline skitters through my midsection. I raise my sidearm and spin to face the path cut into the trees.
Tomasetti rounds the front of the truck and comes up beside me, his Glock leading the way. “Police!” he shouts. “Stop! Identify yourself!”
A man bursts from the darkness, stumbles, and goes to his hands and knees in the grass. Both Tomasetti and I take a step back as he scrambles to his feet and lunges toward us. I catch a glimpse of a bald head and a tan flannel shirt.
“Jesus Christ!” he cries as he uses his hands to scale the incline.
“Hold it right there, partner,” Tomasetti says. “I mean it.”
His voice is deadly calm, but the man doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s either high on drugs or terrified out of his mind. Considering the nature of the stop, I’m betting on the latter.
I maintain a safe distance as the man regains his footing and stumbles up the side of the bar ditch. He’s breathing so hard, he’s choking on every exhale. He’s slightly overweight and falls to his hands and knees in the gravel ten feet away.
Tomasetti dances back, keeps his weapon trained on the center of the man’s chest. “Get your hands where we can see them.”
The man is so out of breath, he doesn’t raise his hands. “For God’s sake, don’t shoot! I’m the one who called the cops.” He gulps air, chokes on his own spit, and begins to cough.
Scowling, Tomasetti lowers his weapon, but he doesn’t holster it. “What happened?”
“There’s a fucking dead body down there!” the man chokes out.
Tomasetti’s eyes dart to the woods. Using his left hand, he shines the beam of the Maglite on the trailhead. Nothing moves. It’s as if the forest has gone silent to guard the secrets that lie within its damp and murky embrace.
“Is there anyone else down there?” Tomasetti asks.
“I didn’t see no one except that fuckin’ body.” He coughs, taking great gulps of air. “Just about gave me a heart attack.”
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Danny . . . Foster.” The man raises his head and squints at us. “Who’re you? Where’s Sheriff Goddard?”
I pull out my identification and hold it out for him to see. “You got your driver’s license on you?”
He straightens and, still on his knees, digs out his wallet and thrusts it at me with a shaking hand.
Tomasetti comes up beside me and glances at the wallet, then frowns. “What are you doing down there?”
“F—fishing.”
“At four o’clock in the morning?”
“Well, I gotta be at work at eight,” he snaps.
Tomasetti holsters his sidearm, and I do the same.
The man looks from Tomasetti to me. “Can I get up now?”
“Sure,” I say.
He hefts his large frame and struggles to his feet. He’s a short, round man wearing oversize khaki pants, a flannel shirt, and a fishing vest. From ten feet away, I see that his crotch is wet.
“What happened?” Tomasetti asks.
