Gone Missing

by Linda Castillo

  He grasps my biceps, and then my back is against the wall. His mouth trails kisses down my throat. His hands fumble at my belt and my robe falls open. His hands find my breasts. I hear myself gasp as callus-rough palms brush against sensitive skin. I’m having a difficult time catching my breath.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny voice shouts a warning. It tells me anything that feels this good can’t possibly be real or true or lasting.

  I don’t listen.

  He’s got the robe off my shoulders when I realize if I don’t stop this right now, we’re going to have sex either on the floor or on my desk, neither of which appeals.

  I sidle right. Tomasetti follows and we stumble down the hall and into my bedroom. Dropping my robe on the floor, I draw back the covers and get into bed. Clothes rustle as he works off his shirt and steps out of his trousers.

  And then he’s sliding into bed beside me. The familiar rush of what I can only describe as joy fills me when he puts his arms around me. My worries about Annie King and Sadie Miller and the case that has refused to come together fade into the background. And for a short time, we shut out the rest of the world. We take refuge in each other’s arms and this safe harbor we’ve built.

  I wake, to find Tomasetti standing beside the bed, naked, his hair still wet from a shower. I have no idea how long I’ve been sleeping.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, stretching.

  “I’ve got to go,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost five. I’m late.”

  But he climbs into the bed beside me. I snuggle against his shoulder, reveling in the solid warmth of him, the feel of his arm around me, the smell of soap and aftershave and his own distinct scent.

  “There’s never enough time,” he says.

  “You’re always sneaking away in the middle of the night.”

  “Not by choice. I’ve missed you.”

  Surprised by the seriousness of his tone, I raise up on an elbow and look at him. “Same goes.”

  “We could make this a little more permanent.”

  Shock rattles through me with such force that for an instant I can’t speak. “What do you mean?”

  He surprises me by laughing. “For God’s sake, Kate, don’t look so terrified.”

  I feign punching his shoulder. “I’m not.”

  He sobers, looks away, then finally meets my gaze. “I found a house,” he says. “In Wooster. It’s old and big, with four bedrooms and a barn. It’s set on a couple of acres with a pond and lots of trees.”

  The statement hits me like ice water splashed in my face. “Wooster?” I repeat dumbly as my brain struggles to sift through the implications.

  “It’s less than an hour from the Richfield office. An easy commute for me. And thirty minutes from Painters Mill.”

  “You want to buy a house?”

  “I want to live with you,” he says firmly, but he’s watching me carefully. “The house doesn’t matter, Kate. It doesn’t matter where we live. We can rent. What ever you want.”

  “That’s a big step, Tomasetti.”

  “It is. But we have something good.” His expression softens and he kisses my temple. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”

  I try to laugh, but my throat is too tight. “I didn’t know you were thinking about . . . moving in together.”

  “It would allow us to spend more time together.” He shrugs. “Less commuting for me.”

  “More time for sex,” I say with a laugh.

  “There is that.”

  I stare at him, trying to digest everything he’s just laid on me. Admittedly, there’s a part of me that’s excited and flattered at the prospect of living with this man who is such a big part of my life, a man I admire and am wildly attracted to. But another part of me is terrified it would change things, bring something unwanted to a relationship that’s good the way it is.

  Knowing Tomasetti has enriched my life in ways I never imagined. In ways I never believed possible. I’m a better person because of him. I try harder because I know he will judge me, and I can’t bear the thought of not measuring up. In a world that’s stingy with friendship and trust, I’ve found a deep well of both with the most unlikely of sources.

  I’ve never been in love, but I’m pretty sure I’ve found that with Tomasetti. I love him every way a woman can love a man. I love the part of him that is damaged and complex and difficult.

  Does he love me? He’s never said the words. He’s never given me any indication as to the seriousness of his feelings for me. But is that proclamation some kind of unspoken prerequisite to shacking up? I don’t know the answer to that, either.

  What I do know is that three years ago, Tomasetti went through a horrific ordeal when his wife and children were murdered. He’s come a long way since. He’s recovered as much as a man can after something like that. But is he ready to love another woman?

  “You’re thinking awfully hard,” he says.

  “I’m trying not to screw this up.”

  “Nothing to screw up,” he tells me. “Either you want to live with me or you don’t.”

  “It’s not quite that black and white,” I tell him. “We’re in a good place right now. I don’t want to ruin that.”

  Leaning close, he brushes his mouth against my cheek and slides from the bed. “You don’t have to decide in the next ten seconds. I have to go.”

  I watch as he steps into his trousers, jams his arms into the same shirt he wore the night before. “Tomasetti—”

  “I left the rental parked in your driveway.” He doesn’t look at me as he buttons the shirt and cuffs. “I’m going to need the Tahoe.”

  “Keys are on the counter by the fridge.” I sit up, find my robe at the foot of the bed, and slip it on.

  “Go back to sleep.” He starts toward the hall.

  “Tomasetti.” I follow him, barefoot, knotting the belt as I go. “We need to talk about this.”

  I catch him in the kitchen just as he snags the keys off the counter. “I get it, Kate. It’s okay.”

  “I’m terrible at this,” I blurt. “I’m a coward.”

  “No you’re not.” He opens the door, pauses with his back to me. “On both counts. I have to go.”

  “I need to know if we’re okay,” I say.

  “We are,” he tells me, and closes the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 17

  I arrive at the station just before 7:00 A.M. Mona is sitting at the dispatch station with her headset around her neck and a grape Popsicle sticking out of her mouth. She’s wearing a pink-and-red-striped shirt with a black skirt that’s barely long enough to cover her . . . equipment. Black-tipped fingernails move deftly over her keyboard. She did something with her hair, but I can’t put my finger on exactly what.

  She glances up when I walk in and smiles. “Morning, Chief.” She hands me a massive stack of pink message slips. “Sorry. They’ve been piling up since about six.”

  “You looked different yesterday,” I tell her as I page through messages.

  “Hair.” She indicates her head. “Added some burgundy.”

  “I like it.”

  She beams. “Any news on the Miller girl?”

  “Hoping something will break today.” I start toward my office, mentally reviewing all the things I need to get done, but an afterthought stops me and I turn back to Mona. “Are you busy?”

  “If you can call a Popsicle busy, I’m swamped.”

  I start toward her desk, pulling my note pad from my pocket. “Can you research something for me?”

  Her eyes light up, and I forgive her for the mini skirt. “I’d love to.”

  I reach her desk and flip through my pad. Finding the sheet I’m looking for—a page on which I’ve written down the names of everyone involved with the disappearances—and I tear it from the pad. “Take these names and hit a few search engines. See what pops.”

  “You looking for anything in particular?�
��

  “A written confession on some blog would be nice,” I mutter.

  She hefts a laugh. “That might be just a tad optimistic, Chief.”

  I motion toward the paper in her hand. “Some of the people on the list aren’t directly related to the disappearances, but I still want to look at them.” Sometimes those are the people whose names eventually make their way to the top.

  “Tax records?” she asks.

  “Sure. Anything you can think of.”

  “When do you need it by?”

  “Yesterday.”

  I spend an hour catching up on administrative tasks and following up on queries I put out the previous day. The CSU working the scene where Mandy Reiglesberger saw Sadie Miller calls at 8:00 A.M. and informs me the blood found at the scene is indeed human. As is usually the case, the lab is backlogged and the blood typing and DNA will take a few days. But at least now I’m relatively certain we’re dealing with a crime scene. Not the news I wanted to start my day off with.

  Tomasetti calls midmorning and I relay the news.

  “Damn.” He sighs. “I wanted to let you know we executed the search warrant for Stacy Karns’s house and property. Get this: We found a photograph of Annie King.”

  Shock punches me hard. “Karns shot the photo? It’s his work?”

  “He’s not talking. But it looks like his style. You know, black and white and kind of noir. There’s a definite sexual element.”

  “That son of a bitch lied to us.”

  “Makes you wonder what else he lied about, doesn’t it?”

  “It makes me wonder if he had a relationship with her.”

  “Does he have an alibi for the night Sadie Miller disappeared?”

  “He’s not talking. Asked for a lawyer. We’re waiting for him now.”

  “Bastard.” I realize I’m grinding my teeth and make myself stop. “That makes him look guilty. Like he’s hiding something.”

  “I don’t know if it will stick, but we took him into custody on an obstruction charge. He’s cooling his heels here at the county jail.”

  I think about what this means in terms of the case, in terms of finding Sadie. “Tomasetti, the photo you found. Is it pornographic?”

  “She’s topless. Her back is turned to the camera, but part of one of her breasts is visible.”

  Fury stirs in my chest, but I tamp it down. I can’t afford to let those emotions out of their cage. I know from experience they can suck the energy right out of you. “So we’ve got him,” I say harshly. “Even if we can’t get him on murder, we’ve got him on child porn.”

  “Second offense, so he’ll do time,” he tells me. “As soon as I get a scan of the photo, I’ll e-mail it to you.”

  “An underage Amish girl.” I spit the words. “What kind of man does something like that?”

  “Pedophile. Sociopath. Self-important prick. Take your pick. If I get the chance, I’ll take a shot at him for you.”

  “I hate to admit it, but you’re actually making me feel better.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “What really pisses me off about this is that he’ll use this as publicity to promote his photographs and books.”

  “Nothing we can do about that.”

  “Do you think he killed Annie King?” I ask.

  The miles between us hiss; then he says, “I don’t know. Initially, I didn’t think so. I still don’t, really. But, Kate, that photograph and the fact that he lied to us are hard to ignore.”

  The connection between Karns and Annie King is undeniable. So why don’t I feel better about it? “Have you found a connection between Karns and any of the others?”

  “Nothing yet, but we’ve confiscated his computer. We’ve got a lot of material to comb through.”

  The silence that follows lingers an instant too long and I sense our thoughts have ventured back to this morning. “What about you, Kate?” he asks. “Everything okay there?”

  “The CSU finished processing the scene.” I’m well aware that he wasn’t asking about the case, but I fall back into cop mode anyway. Safer ground, I realize, and not just for me. “There wasn’t much.” Thinking of the blood, I sigh. “The traffic-accident specialist tried to piece together what might have happened, but he didn’t have enough for a definitive scenario. He suspects the victim may have been struck by a vehicle and received abrasions from the asphalt.”

  At this point, that’s a best-case scenario, but neither of us says it.

  “Are you driving up here?” he asks.

  “I hate to leave with Sadie still missing, but I’m spinning my wheels here.”

  “Kate . . . I wanted to tell you I know I shouldn’t have laid all that on you this morning,” he says. “I mean about moving in together.”

  “It’s okay,” I say quickly. “You just caught me off guard.”

  “Bad timing on my part.”

  “It was just . . . unexpected. Things are a little muddled for me right now. I mean with the case. I think I just need a little space.” I cringe, hating the way the words sounded, wishing I could somehow take them back.

  He sighs. “They’re getting ready to interview Karns. I’ve got to get in there.”

  In that instant, more than anything else in the world, I want to be there. I want to be with Tomasetti. I want to be there when they question Karns. If the man is guilty of murdering Annie King, there’s a high probability he’s involved with the disappearance of Sadie Miller.

  “Tomasetti?”

  “Yeah?”

  A hundred words dangle on my tongue. I want to say something that will make all of this awkwardness between us go away. I want to let him know we’re okay, that things really aren’t muddled and the problem is that I suck at honest communication, especially when there’s so much at stake.

  “I’m thinking about it,” I blurt.

  The statement needs no explanation. “Okay,” he tells me.

  I close my eyes. “Let me know how it goes with Karns.” And I hit END before he can respond.

  I’ve barely hung up when my cell goes off. I look down and see Auggie’s name on the display and groan inwardly. For several seconds, I debate whether to answer, because I already know the direction in which the conversation will go.

  “Kate, look, I just wanted to let you know I’ve talked to the county attorney about the charges against Bradford.” He begins the conversation as if my only thought in the world is the state of his son’s life. “I also spoke with Judge Seibenthaler. They suggested I speak with you. I thought we could discuss it and perhaps get the charges bumped down.”

  “Auggie, I’ve got my hands full with the Sadie Miller case.”

  “I’m not asking you to drop the charges. . . .”

  He drones on as if I’m not there, and I realize that no matter how I handle this, I’m going to lose. I hit END, grab my keys off the desk, and leave my office.

  In the reception area, I find Glock standing at Mona’s station. “I could shoot him for you,” he offers without preamble.

  “Might not go over too well with the town council,” I say.

  Mona snorts. “On the other hand, it might help get that new budget passed.”

  “You know I could charge both of you with conspiracy to commit murder, right?”

  The three of us break into laughter, and another layer of stress sloughs off my back.

  “You heading back to Buck Creek?” Mona asks.

  I tell them about my conversation with Tomasetti and the photo found at Stacy Karns’s home. “I hate to leave with the Miller girl still missing. But it looks like Karns might be our guy.”

  “She could be in Buck Creek,” Glock puts in.

  I sigh. “How do you feel about putting together some volunteers and searching the woods near her house again?”

  “I’m all for it. I think Rasmussen is trying to get some dogs out there again, too.”

  I turn my attention to Mona. “Anything interesting on any of those names?”

&
nbsp; She looks up from her computer and shakes her head. “The only thing I’ve found so far is a piece from The Early Bird newspaper. Apparently, the Mast farm is historical. One hundred and fifty years ago, it was a stop on the Underground Railroad.”

  “Probably not too helpful in terms of the case.”

  “Interesting, though,” Glock puts in.

  Mona hits a few keys. “I’m just getting started, so maybe something will pop.”

  I start toward the door, wishing I could be as optimistic. “Call me if you need anything.”

  Two hours later, I’m in the Explorer, heading north on Ohio 44. I’m ten minutes from Buck Creek when my cell phone chirps. I glance down, half-expecting to see the mayor’s name on the display. I’m relieved to see it’s Mona.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Hey, Chief, I wasn’t sure if I should bother you with this, but I think I found something interesting on that Amish couple in Monongahela Falls.”

  “The Masts?”

  “Did you know they lost a daughter, Rebecca?”

  “I know their son disappeared.”

  “Right. Noah. I was reading about the son when I found another story the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette did, like, ten years ago.”

  “What happened to the daughter?” I ask.

  “She went missing. Local PD conducted a search and found a suicide note in her room.”

  “Suicide?” In the back of my mind I wonder why the Masts didn’t mention it.

  “A year before Noah Mast disappeared,” I say, my mind scrambling to make sense of the news, draw some kind of connection. “Did they find her body?”

  “Four months later, when they dragged a nearby lake.” More keys click. “Evidently, she’d jumped through an ice-fishing hole on Mohawk Lake. Official manner of death was suicide.”

  Tomasetti and I drove past the lake on our way to the Mast farm.

  “Do you think this is relevant?” she asks. “I mean, connected to the missing teens or that murdered girl?