An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(52)

Taking her time, she reaches into the pocket of her sweatshirt, pulls out a pack of Camels, and lights up. “If I had to guess, I’d say it was one of her men. These are some hard times and there are some rough men out there.” She cocks her head. “She didn’t put up with any crap, but a lot can go wrong when you lead that kind of life.”

“Did she have problems with any man in particular?” I ask.

“She never brought them here. I couldn’t handle it. Wouldn’t have it.” She sucks hard on the cigarette. “She told me she only dates safe guys.” She hefts a bitter laugh. “What else are you going to tell your mother, though, right?”

I nod, tuck my notebook into my pocket. “Would it be all right if we took a quick look around in her room?”

“If you think it’ll help you find who done it, knock your socks off.” Crushing out the cigarette butt, she rises and takes us down the hall. “That girl kept a messy room,” she says as she pushes open the door.

Paige Rossberger’s bedroom is barely large enough for the full-size bed beneath the window. I see a tangle of sheets. A pair of jeans on the floor. Sneakers tossed in the corner. A dresser and mirror are shoved against the wall to my right. There’s barely enough space for someone to walk between the furniture and bed.

“Still smells like her,” the woman says. “Still feels like she’s going to come back. Jesus, that hurts.”

I look over my shoulder at her, and for the first time, I see grief in her eyes. “I won’t take long, ma’am.”

“Take your time.”

She’s midway down the hall when I think of one more question. “Mrs. Rossberger? Did Paige have a vehicle?”

The woman stops and turns, her head cocked. “Drove an old Toyota. Altima, I think.”

“Do you know where the car is?”

“Haven’t seen it.”

“Make?” I ask. “Model?”

“All’s I know is that it’s red. Got a dented driver’s-side door.”

“Do you have any paperwork on the vehicle?” I ask. “Insurance? Title? Registration?”

“She wasn’t real big on paperwork.”

I make a mental note to search for the vehicle info so I can put out a BOLO.

When Rossberger is gone, I look at Glock. He shakes his head. “Keep your kids close,” he says quietly.

“And the rest of the world at arm’s length.” I look around the room. “Keep your eyes open for any paperwork on the vehicle.”

He nods. “I’ll start with the closet.”

I motion left. “I’ll take the dresser.”

I sidle between the bed and chest, step over a lone high heel to get to the dresser. A couple of drugstore perfume bottles sit prettily on the laminate surface. A hairbrush filled with blond hair. I lift the lid on a small box. A beaded necklace. Hoop earrings. Several odd-looking curved pieces of jewelry that are a half inch in length with small rose-gold pearls at each end, possibly for a navel or nose piercing. I replace the lid and move on to the dresser, methodically search each drawer. Underwear and bras. Athletic socks. Tshirts and shorts. Yoga pants. Nothing of interest.

I skirt the bed and go to a night table. I’m hoping to find a cell phone or diary or letter. Anything that might contain a name or phone number or address, but there’s nothing there. Paige didn’t have much. I open the final drawer. A small candle in a glass votive, its center burned down to nothing. Like the girl, I think, and I curb a wave of what I can only describe as sadness. It’s a terrible parallel to the life of the young woman who died long before her time.



* * *



It’s nearly ten P.M. when I park behind Tomasetti’s Tahoe and let myself in through the back door. I’m bone-tired. Beaten down by a lack of sleep, the ugliness of the things I saw today, and frustration. Every step forward has been countered by two steps back and I’ve hit a wall.

Time to call it a day, Kate.…

The kitchen is warm and bright and smells of garlic and bread and some spice I can’t quite place. Tomasetti stands at the stove with his back to me, stirring something in a pot, steam billowing. I take in the scene, ridiculously thankful to be home, and I feel some of the darkness pressing down on me melt away.

I haven’t talked to him since the wee hours this morning when he left the scene where Paige Rossberger’s body was discovered. It seems like a thousand years ago.

“Anyone ever tell you that you look good in an apron?” I tell him.

He glances at me over his shoulder. His face is not one that is easily read, but he looks … content. He’s wearing an apron that was a gift to me last Christmas and I’ve yet to wear. Whatever he’s cooking smells so good my mouth waters.

“I get that a lot,” he says.

“I bet.”

“Wine there.” He motions to a bottle and two glasses on the counter, the cork lying next to them. “It’s from Texas. Sangiovese.” He grins. “Drink at your own risk.”

“I always do.” I set my laptop case next to the door and cross to the counter, keeping an eye on his body language as I pour into our glasses.

“You get any sleep?” he asks.

“No.” I’m not ready to talk about work; I don’t want either case to intrude on this moment. So I sidle to the stove, look down at the pot. “Smells good.”