Pray for Silence

CHAPTER 16

Tomasetti slides into the Tahoe and pulls onto the street. “That guy’s sweating bullets.”

“Interesting reaction for an innocent man.”

“Innocent being a relative term.”

“You think he’s involved in this?” I ask.

“Hard to tell. The guy’s a fuckin’ squirrel.” He glances my way. “What do you think?”

I find myself thinking of Mary Plank and the man she depicted in her journal. “I know perspectives vary—especially when it comes to a teenaged girl’s heart—but I don’t think Todd Long is the man she wrote about in her journal.”

Tomasetti arches a brow. “Not exactly tall, dark and handsome.”

“Not exactly.”

“You know what they say about love being blind.”

“Not that blind.” For the first time I notice we’re not heading toward the station. “Where are you going?”

“I need a drink.”

The incident back at the Plank farm flashes in my mind, followed by a sharp snap of anger. “After what just happened at the farmhouse, you want a drink? Are you kidding me?”

He pulls into the parking lot of McNarie’s Bar and parks next to a vintage Camaro. “Look, it’s almost nine o’clock. You’ve been at it since when? The crack of dawn? Or maybe you didn’t sleep at all last night.”

The latter is closest to the truth, but I’m not going to admit it. Being with Tomasetti outside a work environment is dangerous business. Going with him for a drink promises to be downright catastrophic. “I need to get contact info on this Jack Warner guy, verify Long’s alibi,” I say.

“You can bet that jumpy son of a bitch broke his knuckles dialing his buddy the moment we walked out the door.” Swinging open the door, he slides out.

Cursing beneath my breath, I stay seated. He crosses in front of the Tahoe and opens my door. “Come on. Let’s get a bite to eat. We can talk about the case.”

“That’s not all we’re going to talk about,” I snap.

“You’re not going to psychoanalyze me, are you?”

I shake my head. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

“I believe that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

McNarie’s Bar is a dive in every sense, replete with red vinyl booths, scarred Formica tabletops, and air so polluted it’s probably illegal in most states. But it also happens to be my favorite watering hole. The clientele are low key. The music doesn’t rattle my brain. The burgers are decent. McNarie, the bear-size barkeep and owner, is a good listener and a hell of a lot more discreet than most cops I know. After I closed the Slaughterhouse Murders case in January, I spent more than one evening shooting doubles in the corner booth. McNarie got me home safely every single time.

Tomasetti chooses a booth at the rear. Big Head Todd and the Monsters belt out their classic ballad “Bittersweet” as I slide in across from him. Trying not to fidget, I catch McNarie’s eye and motion him our way.

“Nice,” Tomasetti comments. “You know the bartender.”

“Small town. Everyone knows everyone.”

“Uh-huh.”

The big man crosses to us and puts his hands on his hips. “Every time I see you two together I know there’s some serious shit going down.” He’s got a full beard that hangs off his chin like a wool sock. Matching white brows ride low over red-rimmed eyes. “You know who did it yet?”

“We’re working on a couple of angles,” I reply.

“Bad medicine, killing a whole family like that.” He shakes his head. “And Amish, too. Kids. Just can’t see it.”

“You hear anything, McNarie?”

“Not a goddamn thing. People are fuckin’ scared, locking their doors.” He glances back at the bar where a woman clad in denim waits for service. “You want the usual, Chief?”

I nod, embarrassed by the fact that I spend enough time in here to have a usual.

McNarie shifts a heavy-lidded gaze to John. “What about you?”

Tomasetti has the gall to look amused. “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”

The barkeep hustles away. Tomasetti smiles at me. “The usual, huh? You’re busted.”

I look at him. Really look at him for the first time since he stepped into my office a few hours ago. I’ve known him for ten months now, and John Tomasetti has always been a little rough around the edges. But his face is more angular than usual. I know he’s forty-two years old—eleven years older than me—but he looks even older. His eyes have seen a lot of things, and it shows in a way that has nothing to do with age. I see so much in his face, sometimes it’s painful. Sometimes he’s downright scary to look at.

To say that he has issues would be an understatement. I know about some of his demons. Most he won’t talk about. Like the night a drug dealer by the name of Con Vespian tortured his wife and two little girls, then burned them alive. A lot of people wouldn’t have survived that kind of loss. Tomasetti did; he still breathes and eats and walks and sleeps. But there’s living, and then there’s merely existing. I think Tomasetti falls into the latter group. I know he spends a great deal of time trying to claw his way out of some deep, dark hole.

He’s one of those cops who skates a thin line. He drinks too much. A few months ago, he was mixing prescription drugs. It’s a hazardous means of escape, especially for a cop. We both know the only reason he still has a job is because he’s damn good at what he does. I wonder how long that will last.

“So how are you really doing?” I ask after a moment.

“Let’s just say I’m a work in progress.”

McNarie appears and sets two Killian’s Irish Red beers and two shot glasses in front of us. Tomasetti gives me a knowing smile, and we down the shots first. The bite of vodka on my tongue makes me shudder.

“When are you going to come clean with your superiors at BCI?”

He glances at his watch. “I have a feeling they’ve probably figured it out by now.”

“How are you going to handle that?”

“You mean how will it affect your case?”

“That’s not what I meant.” But we both know if we don’t play our cards right, his unofficial status could become an issue.

He shrugs. “I’ll lay low. Help you with the BCI end of things.”

“All those friends in low places must come in handy.”

“Kate, there’s no law against my being here. I want to work. I need to work. I may not be official, but I can help.”

The vodka begins to knead my brain with its magic fingers and my earlier annoyance fades to a vague and fuzzy restlessness. The kind I feel when I know I should be doing one thing and I’m off doing another. Like now.

Leaning back in the booth, he peels the label from the beer bottle. He’s got great hands. Strong with long fingers, blunt-cut nails and calluses. I stop short of remembering the way those hands feel against my skin . . .

“I don’t want you to risk your job because you’re worried about me,” I say.

He picks up the Killian’s and sips. “I’m here because I want to be.”

“To work.”

One side of his mouth curves. “Right.”

On the jukebox, “Bittersweet” gives way to Clapton’s “Cocaine.” I wonder if booze is Tomasetti’s cocaine. I wonder if he’s mine.

“I’m probably not very good at the whole being supportive thing,” I say.

“You’re better than you know.” He smiles. “Better than my shrink.”

I look at him over the top of my beer. “So how are we going to handle all this?”

He raises his beer and looks at me over the top. “I think we should just take it one day at a time and see what happens.”