“I hear them three Amish folks drowned in that pit didn’t get down there all by themselves.” Without looking at me, he sets a shot glass filled to the rim with Absolut and a Killian’s Irish Red on the table.
“That’s what the coroner says.” I reach for the shot glass first and down the vodka in a single gulp. The burn rips down my throat like a fireball. Shuddering, I set the empty glass on the table.
McNarie refills it without prompting. “You know who done it?”
“Not yet.” I give him my full attention. He’s got small brown eyes set in a big puffy face. The white beard partially conceals a scar that bisects his right cheek and runs downward toward his chin. It looks like someone slugged him with a bottle and McNarie never bothered with stitches. I ran a check on him when I first started coming here. Ten years ago, he did a year in prison for felony assault. A few years later, he did two more years on a felony weapons charge and possession of a controlled substance. He’s kept his nose clean since.
He lives on an old run-down farm north of Millersburg and rides his Harley into Painters Mill nearly every day, weather permitting. He owns this place and does a good business. He’s behind the bar every time I come in. I like to think this man is proof that the system works and that he’s been rehabilitated. Or maybe he just decided it was easier to make a living inside the law.
“You hear anything?” I ask.
He sets a pack of Marlboro Lights and a lighter on the table. “No one’s talking about it.”
I think about the escalation of violence against the Amish, decide to ask him about that, too. “Did you hear about the burning buggy incident today?”
“I heard.”
“Anyone bragging about it?” I smile, but it feels wan on my face. “Or have a sign taped to their back that says ‘I Did It’?”
His chuckle sounds like the growl of some rogue lion. “A few days ago, a couple of young guys come in—longhaired types. Laughin’ their asses off ’bout doing some shit to an Amish person.”
My heartbeat trips a couple of times. “You know their names?”
“Never seen ’em before.”
“You get specifics on what they did?”
He shakes his head. “Just caught snatches of what they was saying.”
“Do you know what they were driving?”
Another shake. “No, but I’ll keep my eye out.”
I watch him walk away, wishing he hadn’t left the Marlboros, because I know I’m going to smoke them.
Settling into the booth, I sip the beer and light the first cigarette. I watch the twenty-something couple play pool at the rear. They laugh and flirt, and for some reason that makes me feel old. Go home, Kate, that small voice of reason whispers. I silence it, down the second shot, then light another cigarette.
I watch the game and listen to the jukebox and think about the Slabaugh case. I think about family dynamics and my mind moves on to the kids. Mose, just seventeen years old and doing his best to fill his father’s shoes. Salome, only fifteen and trying desperately to keep the family together. And then there’s Ike and Samuel, little boys who should be out on Miller’s Pond playing ice hockey and building snow forts. Instead, they’re crying for their dead mamm and datt and a future that’s as uncertain as the outcome of this case.
I think of Adam Slabaugh, a widower living alone, an Amish man excommunicated from his church and family, an uncle estranged from his niece and nephews. Loneliness can be a powerful force in a person’s life, especially if they’ve lost something precious. Adam lost his wife. Is he cold-blooded enough to murder his own brothers and his sister-in-law in order to gain custody of the children?
I’m midway through my second Killian’s when the door swings open. I glance up absently to see two men enter with a gust of wind and a swirl of snow. Surprise ripples through me at the sight of a Holmes County Sheriff’s Office parka. McNarie’s is a far cry from a cop bar. It’s unusual for any law enforcement to stop in, especially this time of night. Mild surprise transforms to something a hell of a lot more powerful when I recognize the second man. Long black coat, tall frame with an athletic build, dark hair shot with gray at the temples.
John Tomasetti makes eye contact with me at about the same time recognition kicks in. The jolt of his gaze runs the length of my body—an odd mix of shock and guilt and a thread of pleasure that goes all the way to my toes.
Motioning for the bartender to bring drinks, he crosses to my booth and looks down at me. “Hey, Chief.”
“Don’t tell me you just happened to be in the neighborhood,” I manage to say.
“Something like that.”
He’s looking at me a little too closely with those hard, dark eyes, eyes that invariably see too much—things I don’t want to share. It’s a struggle not to squirm beneath that gaze.
Sheriff Mike Rasmussen saunters to the booth. “Chief Burkholder.”
Rising, I shake hands with him. “Sheriff.”
Rasmussen slides into the bench across from me.
Tomasetti sticks out his hand. “Nice cave you’ve got here, Chief.”
I accept the handshake. “Welcome back to Painters Mill, Agent Tomasetti.”
“I take it you two know each other,” Rasmussen says.
One side of Tomasetti’s mouth curves, and he slides in next to me. “We do.”
I’ve known John Tomasetti for almost a year now. We met during the Slaughterhouse Killer investigation last January. He’s a good man, a good cop, and a powerful force to me and everyone around him. That case was an intense time for both of us, and somehow we ended up not only lovers, but friends. In the months since, our relationship has evolved, deepened, and I can honestly say the connection we share goes beyond anything I’ve ever experienced with another human being. But neither of us is very good at the relationship thing. We use our jobs as a guise to see each other, but we’ve been discreet; few people know we’re involved.
“I tried to return your call,” I say to the sheriff.
“Probably better to brief you in person anyway,” Rasmussen says.
McNarie arrives at the table, sets three Killian’s in front of us, then hustles away.
“What brings you to Painters Mill?” I direct the question to Tomasetti. What I really want to ask is: Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?
“Sheriff Rasmussen requested our assistance.” He motions toward the sheriff. “I’ll defer to him to give you the details.”
Leaning forward, Rasmussen sets his elbows on the table and clasps his hands in front of him. “I know you’re well aware that in the last couple of months there’s been an increase in crimes against the Amish, Kate.”
“I am.”
“I just read the report you filed on the burning buggy incident.”
I look from Tomasetti to Rasmussen, wishing I hadn’t done those two shots. I’m at a distinct disadvantage here. The alcohol has rendered my IQ somewhere between that of a toddler and a German shepherd. While I’m pretty sure Rasmussen hasn’t noticed, I’m utterly certain Tomasetti has.
“These crimes qualify as hate crimes, Kate.” Rasmussen gives Tomasetti a pointed look. “I know your department is tied up with the Slabaugh thing, so I contacted BCI.”
“Isn’t a hate-crimes designation usually federal?” I ask.
“Hate crimes are against the law no matter which agency does the investigating.” Tomasetti shows me his teeth. “I drew the case.”
“We wanted an agent who was familiar with the area,” Rasmussen interjects. “Since Agent Tomasetti has worked in Painters Mill before, I thought he was the best person for the job.”
I nod. “We worked the Slaughterhouse Killer case last year. A couple of months ago, we worked the Plank murder case.”
“I remember,” the sheriff says. “Nasty business.” Rasmussen looks from me to Tomasetti and then back to me. “Agent Tomasetti and I met for dinner earlier. We were talking about the hate-crime issue, and we thought with your being formerly of the fai
“Or even report the crime,” Tomasetti adds.
“You can add Kaufman to that list.” I recap my exchange with Kaufman at the scene. “He denied anything had happened and basically refused to talk to me.”
“Nice.” Rasmussen sighs in obvious frustration. “How the hell do these Amish assholes expect us to get these idiots off the street if they don’t cooperate?” He catches himself and mutters, “No offense, Kate.”
“None taken.” But it makes me smile. “The Amish want to be separate from us. They want to be left alone.” I shrug. “They haven’t yet learned they can’t do that completely when the rest of us live in such close proximity.”
“It takes two to tango,” Tomasetti says.
Rasmussen adds, “That makes the Amish easy pickin’s if someone wants to mess with them.”
“Exactly,” I agree. “There are probably quite a few more crimes that have been committed, but we don’t know about them because they were never reported.”
“And there’s not a whole lot we can do without a complainant,” Rasmussen says.
“Sooner or later, someone’s going to get hurt,” Tomasetti adds.
I nod. “Probably sooner at the rate we’re going.”
“We pulled stats for Holmes and Coshocton counties,” Rasmussen says. “Even though the numbers are skewed because so many of these crimes go unreported, in the last two months there’s been a marked escalation.” He sighs. “Because most of the incidents were mischief-type crimes, local law enforcement hadn’t taken aggressive action.”
I tell them about the two men McNarie mentioned earlier.
“Could be our guys,” Rasmussen says.
“Or part of a concerted effort,” I add. “A group.”
Tomasetti nods. “Considering the escalation in such a short period of time, I’m betting on the latter. Some hate group. Loosely organized. Young Caucasian males, ages fifteen to twenty-five.”
Something unpleasant scrapes at the edge of my brain. I don’t want to let it in, look at it. But it’s there, nagging at me like an arthritic joint: my conversation with Pickles about the Slabaugh case. “It would be a huge escalation with regard to the level of violence, but do you think it’s possible the Slabaugh murders are hate-related?” I give them the particulars of the case.
“I suppose it’s possible.” Rasmussen’s voice is slightly incredulous. “Different MO.”
“Suspects?” Tomasetti asks.
I tell them about Adam Slabaugh. “He doesn’t have an alibi.”
“Pretty strong motive,” Tomasetti says. “The kids.”
Rasmussen leans back in the booth, taking it all in. “So maybe this is all one big fucked-up case.”
“I don’t know,” I say. Both men look at me. “The Slabaugh case feels different. I think there’s something else there we’re not seeing.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something I’ve missed.” I shrug. “Something about the family.”
Both men nod, knowing that some crimes are that way. Solving them takes time, as well as persistence, perseverance, patience. You need to trust your instincts enough to follow them blind, listen to something as intangible as your gut.
“We can talk about this a little bit more tomorrow.” Rasmussen slides out of the booth and tosses a few bills on the table. “It’s past my bedtime.” He looks at me. “Good to see you, Kate.” He turns his attention to Tomasetti. “See you in the morning.”
I watch Rasmussen walk away, but my attention is focused on Tomasetti. Tension creeps down the back of my neck and spreads into my shoulders.
“How are you, Kate?” His voice is deep and intimate, and I feel the rumble of it all the way to my stomach.
“I’m good.” I look at him. John Tomasetti has a powerful presence. Even more so from my perspective, because my feelings for him are fervent. We’re close, but sometimes I sense some unexplained chasm between us, unmapped territory, which feels vast tonight. “You could have told me you were coming.”
He smiles. “You mean warned you?”
I smile back. “That, too.”
“I called.” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Then I got busy with Rasmussen. Didn’t want to call you when I was in the car with him.”
“Might have been awkward.”
“Kind of like now.” He softens the words with a smile.
I can’t help it; I laugh. “But we’re so good at awkward.”
“We’re good at a lot of things.”
“Just not surprises.”
“Even when they’re nice.”
Silence falls and Tomasetti lets it ride. I try going with it. I peel the label on my empty bottle. I listen to the music. Usually, silence doesn’t bother me. John and I have been through a lot together; I don’t need conversation to be comfortable. This is one of those times when the silence is like a tuning fork against a broken bone.
When I can stand it no longer, I ask, “How’s the move going?”
“I’m all moved in. Nice digs, by the way.”
“Have you found a place in Cleveland?”
He nods. “Rented a house by the lake.”
“Nice.”
But we’re both dancing around the real subject. The fact that he’s living back in the city where his family was murdered. A city where a lot of people—the cops included—suspect he went rogue and executed the men responsible. I want to ask him how he’s dealing with all that, but some inner voice warns me to tread lightly, give him some space.
McNarie arrives and sets two more Killian’s on the table between us. Frowning at me, Tomasetti slides the pack of cigarettes and lighter across the table toward McNarie. Smoothly, the old barkeep picks them up and drops them in his apron pocket. I give Tomasetti points for not lecturing me on all the dangers of smoking.
“Been here long?” he asks.
“About an hour.”
“You look tired.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m drunk.”
“I’ve noticed.” He sips his beer. “I guess the question is: Why?”
It’s an honest question—one I should probably be asking myself. But then, Tomasetti is one of the most honest people I’ve ever known. He asks the hard questions, even when he knows the person he’s asking probably doesn’t want to answer. He also gives honest answers, even when you don’t want to hear the truth. It’s not easy being his friend; it’s not easy caring for him. But he’s got me on both counts and then some.
When I don’t respond, he lets me off the hook, moves on to a topic we’re both more comfortable with. “Tell me about Adam Slabaugh.”
I recap everything I know about the formerly Amish man. “There was some bad blood between the brothers.”
“Other suspects?”
“The kids mentioned a day laborer, but nothing’s panned out. We canvassed…” I shrug, let the words trail.
“Uncle going to get custody of the kids?”
“Probably. Against the wishes of the bishop.” I’m leaning back in the booth, staring at my beer. I can feel Tomasetti’s eyes on me, probing and poking, and I sense the hard questions coming on.
“Four Amish kids,” he says. “Dead parents. Makes it tough.”
“Kids always make it harder.” But then, Tomasetti already knows that.
“Last few cases you’ve worked have been tough, Kate.”
I look at him. The smile that emerges feels rigid on my face—like if it gets any tighter, the facade will shatter and what I’m really feeling will come pouring out. At the moment, I’m not even sure what that is. “I’m handling it.”
“I guess that’s why you’re here, drinking shots and smoking cigarettes.”
“Maybe it is.” I look at him, let some attitude slip into my voice. “You going to lecture me now, Tomasetti?”
“That would be hypocritical of me.”
“That’s one of the things I like about you.”
“You mean aside from my animal magnetism?”
“You know when to keep your mouth shut.”
“I believe that’s the most touching thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
Smiling, he finishes his beer. We listen to an old Lou Reed song about Sweet Jane. The young couple at the rear finish their pool game, shrug into their coats, and head for the door. The football game on the tube ends and the local news comes on.
“I’ve been a cop for a long time, Kate. I’ve worked a lot of cases. Been to a lot of dark places.”
I look at him, not ready to get serious, not wanting to hear what he’s going to say next. The urge to spout off something silly and meaningless is strong, but the look in his eyes stops me.
“Whether you want to admit it or not, all of those things take a toll,” he says.
“Tomasetti…”
He raises a hand to quiet me. “All I’m telling you is, if you want to talk about anything, I’m here.”
Some of the ice that has been jammed up inside me melts. The knot that’s been in my chest all day loosens. “I’ll let you know.”
CHAPTER 8
The sun hovers like a fluorescent orange ball above the treetops to the east when I arrive at the station. The storm that rolled through last night is nothing more than a purple line of clouds moving off to the east. The weather system left two inches of snow behind, just enough to cover the tree branches and make the streets slick.
I drank too much last night, and I have the hangover to prove it. Tomasetti followed me home, fixed me a can of soup, then put me to bed. Part of me had wanted him to spend the night, had expected him to ask. He didn’t. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I hate to admit it, but my female ego is smarting this morning.
I find Mona sitting at the dispatch station, surfing the Internet, a lollipop sticking out of her mouth. She looks up when I enter and pulls out the lollipop. “Morning, Chief.”
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