“No.”
“What was your last name before you were adopted?”
“Hochstetler.”
I pull out my note pad and jot down the name. “So Salome is your first cousin?”
He shrugs. “I guess.”
All I can think is that a first cousin is too close for a sexual relationship. That’s not to mention the problem with her age, and the baby. “You’d better be telling the truth,” I say. “You know we’re going to check.”
“It’s true.”
For a moment, the only sound comes from the rain tapping on the windows. Then I’m aware of the hiss of the mantle, the high-wire buzz of tension in the room.
After an uncomfortable silence, Tomasetti asks Mose, “Where’s the rifle that was in the mudroom?”
The question echoes off the walls like a gunshot. I watch Mose, concentrating on his body language, his eyes, anything that might divulge a lie.
“You mean Datt’s hunting rifle?” The boy appears surprised by the question. “It’s by the stove in the mudroom.”
“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. “Er is ganz ab.” He’s quite out of his mind.
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?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t know yet.”
“What do you think about Ricky Coulter?”
“I think someone wants us to think he took the rifle and the money and murdered the Slabaughs.”
“You think the killer is trying to frame him?”
“Only he didn’t realize you saw that rifle.”
“Makes sense.” I don’t want to say aloud the next logical question, but I know it’s one that must be asked. “Do you think Mose is capable of killing two people who practically raised him?”
“I don’t know, Kate. Kids…” Shrugging, he lets the word trail. “This business with Salome … if he can sleep with his own sister, what else is he capable of?” Tomasetti’s gaze sharpens on mine. “Does he know she’s pregnant?”
“She says no.”
He considers for a moment, and I know he’s still thinking about Mose. “Sometimes even a good kid can do really bad things if his back’s against the wall.”
“But why kill them?” I say. “Why not just steal some money and run away?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t want to leave.” Another shrug. “Maybe he wanted the farm.”
“Tomorrow, I’ll check out Mose’s story on the adoption. See if everything lines up.”
Nodding, he reaches for the shot, raises it, and downs it in a single gulp. “Who else do we have?”
“Coulter,” I say. “I don’t think he did it.”
“Or else he’s a pretty convincing liar. I don’t think we should rule him out.”
I think about Coulter for a moment. The vehemence with which he defended himself. The tears. His wife and children. “It’s getting harder and harder to tell the good guys from the bad guys.”
Tomasetti stares into his empty glass. “Something like twenty-five percent of the population are sociopaths. People who don’t have a conscience. Lying is second nature to them.”
“That’s a scary thought.”
“Keeps us in business.”
“True.” But all the jagged elements of the case are running through my head. “There’s also the hate-crime angle.”
He twirls the shot glass between his fingers. “Maybe we just need to find the connection.”
The jukebox spits out an old Nirvana rocker. I can feel the alcohol working its dark magic on my brain now, smoothing down the rough edges. I don’t need booze to think, but sometimes it helps me cut through the clutter that accumulates in the course of a day like today.
“Maybe it’s like you said,” I tell him. “The murders were secondary. Someone went into the Slabaugh barn with a hate crime in mind. They went in to rob or vandalize, or both.”
“Or kill the livestock,” Tomasetti puts in.
“They know the Amish won’t go to the police or identify them.” The theory gains momentum in my mind, and I run with it. “So these haters are in the barn. Slabaugh and his brother show up. There’s a scuffle. Things get out of control. The intruder shoves one of them into the pit.”
“Or one of them falls during the confrontation.”
“The second brother goes into the pit to help the first, succumbs to the gas.”
“Or the second brother gets close to the edge of the pit and the intruder shoves him in.”
“That would explain Slabaugh’s head wound.”
Tomasetti considers that for a moment. “What about the wife?”
“Accidental. Rachael comes out a few minutes later with the kids and finds the two men in the pit. She succumbs to the gas while trying to help them and falls in herself.”
“Kids’ stories back that up?”
I nod, trying to put all the disjointed pieces together. “It’s a viable theory.”
He swigs beer, eyeing me over the top of the bottle. “Let’s go back to Coulter a sec.” He looks down at his beer, and I know he’s trying to work through the details of it, just as I am. “Takes a lot of effort to frame someone.”
“He’s the perfect candidate. He’s worked for Slabaugh. He’s been to the house.” I shrug. “He’s an ex-con. All of that is pretty much common knowledge in a small town.”
“That makes him vulnerable. They plant the rifle, knowing we’ll follow up on the connection.”
“How’d they plant the rifle in Coulter’s house?”
“Maybe they broke in. Hell, maybe the Coulters don’t lock their doors. Some folks don’t around here. The killer went in through an unlocked door or window. I’ll check with the wife to see if she remembers anything.”
We fall silent. But it’s a comfortable silence. We sip our beers, thinking, listening to the music. After a while, Tomasetti says, “How are you holding up, Chief?”
“I’m fine.” The words come out a little too fast, and we both notice. I’m not very good at talking about myself, even worse about discussing my feelings. Maybe it’s because over the years I’ve honed my ability to keep secrets, raised it to an art form.
“Cases like this can take a toll on a cop,” he says. “Especially if you care.” He pauses. “You care, Kate.”
“That’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“When we first met, I was the one who had my shit together. You were pretty much a walking disaster.”
“An attractive walking disaster.”
That makes me smile, and I’m thankful I have Tomasetti to help me keep things in perspective.
His gaze sharpens on mine. “So talk to me.”
I’m careful about the information I reveal to other people. I don’t like anyone knowing too much about what’s inside my head. Or, God forbid, in all those deeper, darker recesses. But Tomasetti isn’t just other people. He’s a friend. My lover. I trust him. I know about his past, he knows most of mine, and we’ve been through a lot together. But old habits die hard, and I find myself wanting to close the lid on the can he’s trying to open.
“I’ve guess I’ve sort of put these kids on a pedestal,” I admit. “Because they’re Amish. All of it’s gotten kind of tangled up inside me.”
“Hmmm. Sounds like you might be human. Have you had that checked?”
That makes me smile, because I know he feels a lot more than he lets on. He smiles back, far too comfortable with all this, and leans back in the booth to watch me squirm.
McNarie brings two more beers. Tomasetti passes him a couple of bills and slides a Killian’s across the table to me.
“You came down pretty hard on Mose tonight,” I say.
“He deserved it.”
“You lost your temper with a kid. That’s not like you.”
“That’s exactly like me.” He tips the bottle and takes a drink. “I wanted to knock his fucking block off.”
“Maybe I’m not the only one who has some emotional stake in this case.”
Something flashes in his eyes, some dark emotion I can’t quite identify. A warning, telling me not to go there. “My kids were girls,” he says after a moment. “Younger, but still…”
The statement shocks me. In all the months I’ve known Tomasetti, he’s never broached the subject of his family. What little I know, I’ve had to pry out of him. It happened back when he was with the Cleveland Division of Police. There was a home invasion. His wife and two young daughters were raped, murdered, and then burned when the house was torched—all this the result of a career criminal seeking revenge. I know Tomasetti spent some time in a psychiatric hospital, but he got through it. He holds his emotional cards close to his chest. Keeps the rest of it locked down tight, off-limits even to those he trusts.
What happened to his family is always in the backwaters of my mind. Only now do I realize that dealing with these Amish kids has brought that part of his past to the forefront, too. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I know that. I didn’t mean to dredge—”
“You didn’
t,” he says easily. “It’s bound to come up from time to time.”
I don’t know what to say. Copping out, I take another drink of beer, look down at the bottle in my hands.
“Donna would have been eleven this year. Kelly would have been ten.” He shrugs. “When I saw Mose in the loft with Salome, I wanted to take his head off.”
“You were a father.”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “It seems like a lifetime ago. But I still think about it. What it was like. What happened to them. I still miss them every day.”
“I can’t imagine how hard that was.”
He shifts in the booth, and I know he’s ready to move on to another subject. Any other subject. “So how is Salome going to fare as far as the Amish? I mean being pregnant and unmarried. That’s got to be frowned upon.”
“Fornication is a pretty serious offense,” I tell him. “But the Amish won’t turn her away. That’s not to say it’ll be easy for her. Salome will have to confess her mistake while kneeling before the congregation.” I shrug. “Of course, there will be gossip. There always is. But the Amish will support her and her baby.”
“That’s something,” he says.
“Sometimes I think that’s the best we can hope for.”
CHAPTER 13
The blast of the phone yanks me from the best sleep I’ve had in weeks. Even before I’m fully awake, I’m keenly aware of Tomasetti lying next to me, his body warm and solid against mine. He doesn’t move, but I know he’s awake. We’re both light sleepers. Disoriented, I look around, shove the hair from my eyes. The face of the alarm clock tells me it’s just after 3:00 A.M. We’ve been asleep less than an hour.
I grab the phone. “Yeah,” I croak.
“Chief, sorry to wake you, but I got a ten-seventy out at the Hartzler place.”
That’s the code for a fire. I sit up. “Anyone hurt?”
“Ed Hartzler is missing.”
“Shit.” I fumble for my robe, shrug into it. “Fire department en route?”
“I called them straight away.”
“I’m ten-seven-six.”
Dropping the phone into its cradle, I rush to the closet, fling open the door, yank the light cord.
“What is it?”
I turn and see Tomasetti’s silhouette. In the dim light slanting into the room from the closet, I see him walking toward me. A small thrill races down my spine when I realize he’s still naked. We’ve been together like this a dozen times now, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing him without his clothes.