Breaking Silence (23 page)

I want to spare Salome the agonies of my own past, save her from making all the same mistakes I did. I want her to be happy and fulfilled. I can’t help but wonder:
Will she find those things with the Amish?
The question makes me realize just how much empathy I have for her. It makes me see a parallel I don’t want to see, a connection I don’t want to make.

Raising my beer, I make eye contact with McNarie. He gives me a nod, and I know another round of salvation is on the way. But it’s not going to arrive quickly enough to keep me from confronting a part of my past I haven’t yet faced, a demon taunting me with truths I can no longer avoid.

Salome is only a couple of years younger than the child I would have had if I’d decided not to have an abortion after Daniel Lapp raped me.

“Chief Burkholder.”

I’m so immersed in my thoughts, I didn’t notice the door opening. I didn’t see Sheriff Rasmussen walk in and head my way. Surprise and discomfort take turns punching me when I look up at him. It’s after hours; I have every right to be here. Still, all I can think is,
I’m busted.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Sure.” I try to smile, but my cheek muscles feel paralyzed. “You know what they say about drinking alone.”

“Yeah.” Chuckling, he slides onto the seat opposite me. “It’s not nearly as fun as drinking with someone else.”

He smells like cold air and sandalwood. We’re looking at each other, two contenders sizing each other up. He looks comfortable, glad to be here, ready to wind down with a beer. I feel as if I’ve been waylaid.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

Feeling like an idiot, I snuff out the cigarette. “I don’t.”

“Okay.” He says the word as if he understands. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t.

McNarie crosses to the booth and, without looking at me, sets two more Killian’s on the table between us, then slides a shot glass in front of me. Eyeing the shot glass, Rasmussen picks up his beer, tips it at me, and then drinks. “Bottoms up.”

Feeling only slightly self-conscious, I down the shot. On the jukebox Led Zeppelin’s “Down by the Seaside” gives way to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “That Smell.” The alcohol chooses that moment to kick in. It makes me feel like a train clattering down rickety tracks, heading toward a ravine without a bridge. That’s when I remember I didn’t eat lunch, or dinner. Undulating waves of warmth wash over my brain. I go with it, but when I look up at the television above the bar, it dips left and right.

“Been here long?” Rasmussen asks.

“Too long, probably.” I smile, hoping it’s not as crooked as it feels.

“Been there, done that.”

I doubt that, too, but I nod. “Any word on the rifle or the Skoal can?”

“Tomasetti thinks we still might hear something today. He’s been on the phone with the lab up there, pushing them pretty hard.”

“I guess that means we probably shouldn’t drink too much.”

He looks at the three spent shot glasses in front of me and chuckles. “Guess that depends on your definition of ‘too much.’”

“Good point.”

He glances at his watch, shrugs. “Getting kind of late anyway. Don’t know if those lab people up there work overtime.”

“They do,” I say. “Especially if Tomasetti is pushing for something he wants.”

“He’s good at pushing, that’s for sure.”

An awkward silence ensues. I look toward the bar. McNarie is drying glasses, frowning at me. I frown back, look down at the bottle of beer in front of me, pick it up and drain it.

“You play pool, Chief?”

I glance at Rasmussen. He’s staring at me intently, the way men do sometimes when they’re thinking there’s a possibility they might get lucky, and I think,
Uh-oh.
I’ve met him only half a dozen times in the year he’s been sheriff. He’s got a good reputation. Good cop. Honest. Single. He’s attractive, in a boy-next-door kind of way. When I look into his eyes, I don’t see much in the way of baggage. Not like Tomasetti anyway. It’s one of many things that binds us, makes us so compatible. Sometimes I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. It just is.

“I’m not very good at it,” I reply, enunciating each word carefully to keep from slurring them.

“You’re probably better than you think.”

“No, I really suck. Honest.”

Smiling, he nods toward the pool table at the rear. “I’ll bet you ten bucks you can beat me.”

“You could throw the game to win the bet.”

“Twenty bucks, and I promise not to cheat.”

The next thing I know, he’s pulling me from the booth. I’m aware of his hand, large and hot and damp. The crisp, musky smell of his aftershave. My head is spinning like a top.
Shit.
But I let him haul me to the pool table.

He shoves a cue at me, then proceeds to rack the balls. “You break, Chief.”

Having been a cop in a large metropolitan city, I’ve spent a good bit of time in bars just like this one. I’ve consumed more alcohol than I like to admit. I’ve even played a few games of pool. But it’s one pastime I never mastered. I take a moment to chalk the tip of the cue. Leaning forward, I set my hand on the felt and line up.

“Might help if you do it this way.” Rasmussen comes up beside me, nudges me aside. Bending, he demonstrates. “Like this. Keep your hand steady.”

“Okay.” He steps back, and I imitate him.

“Wait.”

He moves closer. I start to straighten to give him room, but he sets his hand on the small of my back. “Stay put.” Taking my hand, he usurps the cue, wraps his own fingers around it. “Hold it like this. See? You’ll have more control.”

Putting his arm around me, he takes my fingers and sets the cue in my hand. He’s standing too close. His hip is touching mine. I can feel his breath ruffling my hair, his shoulder pressing against mine.

He doesn’t know about Tomasetti and me. Maybe because we’re not exactly official, for a multitude of reasons. I’m debating whether to fill him in, when he whispers, “Take the shot.”

“What are we doing here?” I ask.

“Playing pool.” Mr. Innocent.

“I don’t think this has anything to do with pool.”

“Take the shot,” he repeats. “Go on.”

I thrust the cue forward. The shot feels good, solid. The balls disperse, clicking together and rolling across the felt.

“Not bad for an amateur.”

The baritone voice snaps me away from the game. I look up to see Tomasetti standing ten feet away, watching us the way a pit bull might watch some cocky terrier an instant before he tears it to shreds. I didn’t notice him walk in, and the sight of him standing there shakes me. The shoulders of his trench coat are wet and sprinkled with melting snow. As I take in his measure, his attention shifts to me. His expression is oddly amused. But his smile is cold, his eyes hard. Baggage, I think.

“Amateur, hell.” Oblivious, Rasmussen leans forward and takes a shot. “Did you see that break? Twenty bucks says I’m about to get my ass kicked.”

“As much as I’d like to bear witness to that, I’m going to have to pass.” Tomasetti tosses the sheriff a cool look. “While you two were in here getting shit-faced, I got a name from the prints on the Skoal can.”

I nearly drop my cue. Game forgotten, I prop it against the wall and cross to him. “What’s the name?”

His expression is still amused, but it’s laced with another emotion I can’t readily identify. Something hard and a little bit cruel. “William Steele.”

I know the name. “He goes by Willie,” I say. “Troublemaker. Small-time hood. Lives in an apartment over the furniture store in town.”

Rasmussen comes up beside me, standing a little too close. “Bigot?”

Tomasetti smiles, but his expression holds not a trace of humor.

Sidling away from Rasmussen, I answer for him. “He beat the hell out of a migrant worker a few years back. Steele was a minor at the time. Seventeen, I think. Judge gave him probation.”

“Looks like Willie didn’t learn his lesson,” Tomasetti says.

“Those prints place him at the scene,” Rasmussen states. “Anything else?”

Tomasetti’s expression isn’t friendly. “CSU picked up a couple of footwear imprints. If we can match one of them to his shoes, it would help seal the deal.” He turns his stare on Rasmussen. “Why don’t you go get the warrant so we can search his place. The chief and I will go pick him up.”

I can tell by Rasmussen’s reaction that he doesn’t appreciate being given orders, especially by an outsider—and in front of me. To his credit, he doesn’t balk, just reaches for his cell phone. “I’ll give Judge Siebenthaler a call and get out there.”

Tomasetti lifts his lip in a poor imitation of a smile, then he turns and strides toward the door.

CHAPTER 15

The cold air slaps me in the face when I go through the door. Tomasetti’s a few strides ahead, and I quicken my pace to catch up with him.

“You got an address on Willie Steele?” he asks.

“I know where he lives. But he’s probably at work right now. The oil-filter factory down in Millersburg.”

“Let’s go pick him up.”

We reach his Tahoe and climb inside. He doesn’t look at me as he starts the engine and pulls out of the parking space. The wheels spew gravel when he turns onto the street. Neither of us speaks as he heads toward town, cranking the speedometer well over the speed limit.

I’m usually pretty good at reading people—their moods, their frame of mind. Tomasetti is one of only a few people I can’t. I’ve tried on multiple occasions. Just when I think I’ve got him nailed, all those quirks figured out, he lets fly some stunner that has me rethinking everything I know about him.

I look out the window and give both of us a chance to settle. Not an easy task when it comes to Tomasetti. He looks relaxed, but he’s driving too fast. He didn’t like seeing me with Rasmussen. But I know Tomasetti has too much pride to succumb to petty male jealousy. Still, he’s a man, and some things are programmed so deeply, not even intellect or character can totally eradicate them.

I consider waiting him out, but his stony silence is beginning to make me uncomfortable. “How did you know where to find me?”

He glances at me and frowns. “You’re kidding, right?”

Nodding, I look out the window, then sigh. “Are we okay?”

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

He’s going to make me spell it out.
May as well put it on the table,
I think. “I wasn’t expecting Rasmussen to show up. He just did.”

“That’s fine. You’re a grown woman, Kate. You’re free to do whatever you want with whomever you want, whenever you want and as often as you like.”

“I’m really glad you pointed that out.” I glance at his profile, notice for the first time the tight set of his jaw. “So why are you pissed?”

“I’m not pissed.”

“Maybe we should talk about it.”

He takes his time responding. “You two looked pretty cozy. I didn’t like it. I’ll get over it. End of story.”

“It was just a friendly game of pool.”

“Did he hit on you?”

I shrug. “He was thinking about it.”

Tomasetti sends me a dark look.

I meet his gaze head-on. “You’re not one of those guys with trust issues, are you?”

“I just don’t like smart-assed cops crossing that line.”

“We haven’t really told anyone we’re … together.”

“Is that what we are?” he asks. “Together?”

“We haven’t talked about exclusivity.” I stammer the words, trying not to screw this up. I sense it’s an important moment. But I’m not much better at talking about my feelings than he is.

“We’re talking about it now.” He makes a turn, and I realize we’re pulling into the parking lot of the Farnam oil-filter factory. “For future reference, I don’t share.”

I nod, trying to appear calm, but inside my heart is pounding. This is as close to a relationship talk as we’ve ever had. “Just don’t go all caveman on me, okay?”

“I’ll try not to.”

“So does this mean we’re, like, going steady?”

He parks illegally at the building’s entrance, puts the Tahoe in park, shuts down the engine, and turns to me. “That means the next time Rasmussen puts his hands on you, you should tell him to fuck off.”

“Since he’s sheriff of this county, I’ll probably try to be a little bit more diplomatic.”

“As long as he gets the message.”

We leave the Tahoe and enter through a door below a sign marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY.
The factory is huge, has bright lights, and smells like a combination of rubber and paint. A security guard sitting in a booth eyes us through a window as we approach. Leaving the booth, he swaggers toward us. His badge says his name is Tony. He raises his hand like a traffic cop. “You’re going to have to get visitor passes from the office before you can come in here.”

Tomasetti tugs out his ID. “We already have our passes.”

The security guard stares at the badge, and for an instant I think I see longing in his eyes. “That’ll work.” He hikes up his pants. “What can I do for you?”

“We need to see Willie Steele,” I tell him. “He works here.”

“Willie? Sure. I saw him come in earlier.” He motions toward the booth. “I think he’s on line 7-W. Let me call, make sure he’s there.”

We wait while he makes the call. Beyond, huge machines rumble and grind and hiss. The second shift is in full swing. I see a young woman in blue jeans and an Ohio State sweatshirt feeding accordion paper into a massive cutting machine. At the end of the line, another person sends the cut papers down a conveyer belt.

The security guard emerges from his booth. “Okay, I just talked to the supervisor. Steele’s working tonight.” Tugging up his pants, he points. “I can’t leave my post. Just follow this walkway to where it tees, then go left. Line seven-W is midway down to the Paint Room there at the end. Lines are clearly marked. Willie’s on the glue wheel tonight. Supervisor’s name is Bob Shields. He’s expecting you.” Tony looks at me, and I see the burn of curiosity in his eyes. “What’d Willie do?”

“We just want to ask him some questions,” I reply.

He looks disappointed. “Let me know if you need any help with him. I never liked that guy.”

“Thanks,” I say.

The walkway is delineated with bright yellow tape. We follow it to the T junction, then turn left. Tony gave good directions, because midway to the end, we see a sign that says
7-W.
Beyond, a conveyer belt with huge steel bins on either side rumbles like some massive engine. The accordion papers I’d noticed when we walked in have been cut and formed into cylinders. Held together with springs, they’re moving toward a rotating contraption where metal disks are glued onto the top and bottom. The operator then places each cylinder back on the assembly line and they make their way toward a huge oven.