Pray for Silence

by Linda Castillo

  I get out and head toward the front door. The steps creak as I ascend them, and I find myself hoping the wood holds. I knock and wait. In the driveway, Tomasetti peers into the truck windows. From where I stand, I see several beer cans in the truck bed. A toolbox. A length of nylon rope.

  The door swings open, and I find myself facing a tall man with strawberry blond hair and a scruffy beard the color of peach fuzz. “Todd Long?” I ask.

  His gaze flicks from me to Tomasetti, who’s coming up the stairs. “Can I help you?”

  I show him my badge. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  He stares at my badge and his adam’s apple spasms twice. “Uh . . . what about?”

  “A crime that was committed a few days ago.”

  “I don’t know anything about a crime.”

  Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I sigh. “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask you yet.”

  He stares at me, his eyes blinking.

  “Can we come in?” I ask.

  I can tell he doesn’t want to let us in. But he can’t seem to come up with a good excuse for refusing. Reluctantly, he steps back and opens the door. “Sure.”

  I step into the living room. The trailer is too cold for comfort and smells of cigarette smoke and burnt pizza. Todd Long is about six feet tall with a lean build and big, slender hands. His pale complexion and strawberry blond hair makes for a nice contrast with the navy Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt and faded jeans. His face is an interesting one with high cheekbones, a chiseled mouth that would put Marlon Brando to shame and eyes the color of a deep-water lake on a sunny day.

  “What’s this all about?” His eyes flick from me to Tomasetti. He seems nervous. I wonder what he’s got to be nervous about.

  “Someone reported seeing a truck like yours out by the Plank farm the night that family was killed,” Tomasetti begins.

  “What?” Long’s face goes even paler. “Like mine? I wasn’t there.”

  “You know about the murders?” I ask.

  He turns slightly to face me, a deer being approached by wolves from different directions. “I heard about it on the news. That was some bad shit.”

  “Where were you Sunday night?” Giving us only half of his attention, Tomasetti strolls into the kitchen.

  “I was at the Brass Rail.” Fast answer with no hesitation.

  “Can someone vouch for you?” I ask.

  “Sure. I was with a buddy of mine.”

  “Who?” Tomasetti asks. “We need names.”

  “Friend of mine by the name of Jack Warner. The bartender might remember me, too.”

  I pull out my pad and jot down the name. “What time were you there?”

  “I got there at about nine. Stayed till closing.” His eyes flick from me to Tomasetti. “Look, I didn’t know those people. Hell, I don’t know any Amish folks. I sure as hell don’t have any reason to hurt ’em.”

  In the kitchen, Tomasetti opens a couple of drawers, peeks inside. “Anyone borrow your truck recently?”

  “No one borrows my truck.” He watches Tomasetti open the refrigerator. He wants to tell him to stop snooping; I see it in his eyes. But he doesn’t have the balls.

  Tomasetti nails him with a hard stare. “I understand you’re on probation.”

  Long blinks, runs slender fingers through tousled hair. “Yeah. I did something stupid a long time ago. Did my time.”

  “You know you can go back to prison for lying to the cops, don’t you?”

  “I don’t have any reason to lie to you guys. I was at the bar all night. I swear. You can check.”

  Tomasetti shows his teeth. “We will.”

  “Any particular reason you’re so nervous?” I ask.

  Long swings around as if he’s expecting me to attack him from behind. “Cops make me nervous.”

  “Why is that?” I ask.

  “Because you guys charged in here like I did something wrong.” Long’s nervousness is giving way to indignation now. “I’ve kept my nose clean ever since I got out.”

  “Do you own a firearm?” I ask.

  He blinks at me. “I’m on probation.”

  In my peripheral vision, Tomasetti rolls his eyes. “Is that a yes or no?”

  “I sold my guns when I got busted. Needed the money to pay my lawyer.”

  “What kind of guns?”

  “Deer rifle. Revolver that belonged to my grandfather.”

  I jot it in my notebook. “Who did you sell them to?”

  “Pawnshop in Mansfield. I think I’ve still got receipts.”

  “Dig them out,” I say. “We may need them.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you work?” Tomasetti asks.

  “I’ve been with the railroad for going on two years.”

  “What about a girlfriend?” I ask.

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “One you have to answer,” Tomasetti snaps.

  “No one regular.”

  A thought occurs to me, so I jump in with the next question. “Do you know a guy by the name of Scott Barbereaux?”

  Long makes a show of thinking. “I don’t know. Maybe I went to school with him.”

  “You need to be more definitive,” I say.

  He looks at me as if he’s not sure what the word means. “I think I did go to school with him.”

  “Were you friends?” I ask.

  Long shakes his head. “He was always sort of a jock. You know, played football and shit. I was . . . more of a hood, I guess.”

  Tomasetti stares hard at him. “You telling us the truth?”

  Long can’t hold his gaze, and fixes his eyes on the floor. “I don’t have any reason to lie. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “If I find out you told even one teeny weeny little lie,” Tomasetti says conversationally, “I’ll come back, and I’ll make you regret it. Are you clear on that?”

  I see sweat on Long’s forehead and upper lip. His gaze meet’s Tomasetti’s then skitters away. “I got it.”

  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.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Some cases are more complicated than others. It’s not that the perpetrators are unduly cunning; most are as mindless as the crimes they commit. More often than not, it’s the relationship dynamics of the cops involved that throw an investigation into turmoil. To my misfortune, the Plank case promises to become as complex as the DNA we’re hoping will solve it. It’s dredged up a part of my past I’ve been running away from for seventeen years. A past I knew I would eventually have to face.

  I’m thinking about the choices I made as a fourteen-year-old girl, and the demons born of those choices, as Tomasetti and I head back to the police station. He hasn’t spoken to me since we left the bar. The silence is uncomfortable, but I prefer it. I think he does, too. Or maybe the silence is safer than talking. God knows I’m no expert on men, but I’m pretty sure he wants to spend the night with me. I’m not sure I have the resolve to refuse if he presses.

  It’s almost ten P.M. when Tomasetti pulls the Tahoe into a visitor slot outside the police station and kills the engine. Hands on the steering wheel, he stares straight ahead. “Come with me to the motel.”

  Temptation tugs at me. He’s a meticulous lover, and it would be so easy to lose myself in that for a few hours. I want to blame my indecision on the vodka. But the debate rioting inside me is a lot more complex than an alcohol-fuzzed brain. It scares me because I’m pretty sure what I’m feeling won’t be appeased by an orgasm.

  “I can’t.” I don’t look at him, but I feel his eyes on me.

  “I guess I’m still wondering if we’re . . .”

  “Maybe that’s the problem. We haven’t defined what we are.”

  “We have a relationship,” he says.

  I finally meet his gaze. “Based on what?”

  “Mutual respect. Admiration.” He smiles. “Really great sex.”

  “What about friendship?” I say. “Trust?”

  “That, too.”

  In that instant I know if I don’t get out of there, I’m not going to leave, so I reach for the door handle. “I have to go.”

  He grasps my arm. “Don’t give up on us.”

  “I haven’t.” Opening the door, I slide out then bend to look at him. “See you tomorrow.”

 
I’m one of those people who can get by on little sleep. Probably a good thing since I’m a functioning insomniac. Tonight, I don’t know if it’s the case or Tomasetti that has my brain tied into knots. Probably a little bit of both.

  After leaving him at the station, I was too keyed up to go home, so I called Mona and got the lowdown on Jack Warner, Long’s alibi. He owns Backwoods Construction Company, a small firm that specializes in designing and building log cabins. He’s divorced. No minor children. No record—not so much as a speeding ticket. I don’t have high hopes of gleaning any particularly helpful information. Still, the alibi needs to verified, and since I can’t sleep, I might as well work.

  It’s ten-thirty P.M. now, and I’ve been parked on the street outside Warner’s house for half an hour. I knocked on the door when I first arrived, but there was no answer. Facing an empty bed at home and the temptation of Tomasetti back at the motel, I decided to wait for Warner.

  He lives in a nifty little A-frame cabin with lots of glass and rustic detail. The house sits on about two acres; the trees are so thick I can barely see the porch light from the street. The lot backs up to Painters Creek—one of the most coveted areas in town—and is probably worth a small fortune.

  As I study the property, I find myself thinking about Todd Long. The contrasts between Warner and Long are striking. Long is an ex-con who spends his days schlepping shit into railroad cars and his nights in a trailer. Warner, on the other hand, owns a construction business and lives in one of the nicest houses in town. What’s the connection? Are they just bar buddies? Friends? Acquaintances?

  I’m thinking about calling it a night when headlights wash over my car. A sleek black BMW convertible pulls into Warner’s driveway. It doesn’t elude me that Mary Plank had been seen getting into a dark-colored car. A moment later, the house lights blink on. Firing up the engine, I turn in and park.

  As I start toward the front door, the forest around me comes alive with a cacophony of crickets and frogs from the creek. Somewhere nearby, an owl screeches. Moths and other flying insects circle the porch light. I ascend the wooden steps and knock. Warner answers almost immediately.

  The first thought that strikes my brain is that he’s a nice-looking man. I guess him to be about thirty years old with dark brown hair and eyes the color of espresso. He has the tanned skin of someone that spends a good bit of time in the sun. He’s not exactly buff, but the size of his arms tells me he lifts weights. He wears a navy polo shirt with a designer emblem on the pocket. Jeans faded to perfection. Boat shoes with no socks.