An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(68)
“She was innocent. A kid. Pliable. In love with him. He was the first male to pay attention to her. She trusted him.” I think of all the things he took from her, the things she won’t be able to get back, and I find myself thinking that if Aden Karn wasn’t dead, I’d want to kill him myself.
Back off, Kate.…
“He betrayed her in the worst possible way,” I say.
“The names of the men involved would have been nice to have,” he says.
“She’ll never tell. She wants to forget it ever happened. Tomasetti, there’s a big part of me that understands that.” I slap my hand against the tabletop. “She’s holding on by a thread.”
“I guess the question now is what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. Damn it. Something, for God’s sake.”
He stares at me, holding my gaze so that I can’t look away. “I know you too well to be concerned about you doing something you shouldn’t.”
“If there was ever a time when that would be warranted…” I blow out a breath, release some of the high-wire tension inside me. “The entirety of this case, I thought Karn was a wholesome Amish kid whose life was cut short. I wanted to find the bastard responsible and I wanted to hang him up by his balls.”
“Then you find out Aden Karn was a morally corrupt son of a bitch.”
There’s a moment of quiet.
“This development adds an interesting dimension to the case,” he says slowly. “It may open some new avenues in terms of motive, anyway.”
I was so angry, so emotional, that my brain hadn’t yet gone there. Alas, the danger of what can happen when a cop feels too much. “Someone, who ostensibly cared about Emily Byler, found out that Karn and his sleazy friends raped her. And they killed him for it.”
My mind grinds through that a moment. “We need to find out if there were any other girls or women who didn’t come forward.”
“What about Andy Byler?”
I shake my head. “He just found out tonight.”
“Let’s take a closer look at Rossberger’s associates. See if we can find a boyfriend or male friend. Father. Someone who found out what happened and sought revenge.”
We fall silent. The only sound comes from the drip of rain off the roof outside.
I lift my cup, look at him over the rim. “Have you ever worked a case and thought maybe the victim deserved what he got?”
“Karn isn’t the first morally bankrupt victim whose death you’ve investigated.”
“He’s one of the most vile.” I look away, find myself looking at the floor where Emily had stood. I see the mud from her shoes.
“I know you well enough to know you’ll do your job whether you like or respect or detest your victim.”
“I don’t want to be that hardened cop. The one who doesn’t feel anything. The one who doesn’t care. The one who looks at everyone as if they’re a criminal. But, Tomasetti, this case … It’s got me by the throat.”
“You’re not hardened, Kate. You’re not cynical. You’re pissed. Because you care. There’s a difference.” With a half smile he adds, “Cynicism is my job, remember?”
When I don’t respond, he adds, “This isn’t the first time you’ve put your victim on a pedestal. Remember: You don’t fight for them because of who they are. You fight for them because of who you are.”
I blow out another breath, send some of the anger out with it. “Thank you for saying that.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. “You going to be okay with all of this?”
“Yeah.”
When he smiles, I feel some of the weight lifted off my shoulders and not for the first time I’m reminded of everything he’s brought to my life, and why I love him so unconditionally.
“Thank you for talking me off the ledge,” I tell him.
“It’s nothing a decent bartender couldn’t have done.” He shrugs. “They solve most of the world’s problems, you know.”
“If you ever retire, some bar owner is going to snap you up.”
For a moment, we smile at each other. Then he gets to his feet and pulls me up to face him. “Too bad we can’t play hooky today,” he murmurs.
“No way we can pull that off.”
He leans into me, slides his arms around my waist, and presses his mouth to mine. “On the other hand.” He looks down at me. “It’s not yet five thirty in the morning.”
“Which means I need to get going.”
“Or it might mean we have an hour or so to kill before our cell phones start ringing.”
“You’re already dressed.” I straighten his tie, flick the knot with my forefinger. “You’re wearing your good suit today.”
“Fuck the suit,” he says, and sweeps me into his arms.
CHAPTER 23
I’m sitting in the Explorer in front of the Vernon Fisher’s gas station, windows down, watching the sun rise and listening to a cardinal chip from atop the maple tree a few yards away. I’m thinking about Aden Karn and Emily Byler, the masks people wear, and how those masks contrast with the personas they present to the rest of the world. I’ve always believed I have good instincts when it comes to seeing any darkness that lurks in the hearts of men. I’m loath to admit it, but I’d been wrong about Karn—and blind to a slew of possibilities in terms of motive.