“Which buddy is that?”
“The dude bought the truck from him.”
“Vernon Fisher?”
He snaps his fingers. “That’s the guy.”
No one had mentioned that Fisher and Karn were friends. I’d assumed their only connection was the truck. “They were friends?” I ask.
“Good friends. In fact, I had a beer with the two of them a couple times right here at the Brass Rail. Mostly, they hung out at that old gas station. Worked on cars. Drinkin’ and listening to music and shit. Then that whole truck thing happened and I think their friendship went down the toilet.” He takes me through the same story I heard from Vernon and Wayne.
“Did Vernon Fisher or anyone else make any threats against Aden?” I ask.
“All’s I know is that Fisher wadn’t happy with Aden or Graber when they repossessed that truck. He wanted his money back. Ruined their friendship, and I think they’d known each other since they were little kids. That’s all I know.”
CHAPTER 8
There’s a quiet inner joy that comes with arriving home. That moment when the rest of the world melts away and for a small snatch of time, you’re exactly where you want to be. It’s nearly ten P.M. when I park the Explorer next to Tomasetti’s Tahoe and shut down the engine. I called him twice over the course of the day. Usually, even if he’s in the midst of a case or caught up in meetings, he’ll at least text. Today, though I’m sure by now he’s heard about Karn’s murder, he didn’t respond. I try not to let that niggle at me as I grab my laptop case and start for the door.
The kitchen smells of cooked pasta and garlic. On the stove, a covered pot quietly burbles. Two place settings on the table. A wine bottle and opener on the counter next to the sink. Hefting my laptop case, I cross through the kitchen and living room toward the small bedroom we’ve transformed into a home office. I’ve case-related work to do this evening—mainly to catch up on all the things I didn’t have time to do today. First, I want to see Tomasetti. Share some conversation and a glass of wine. A quick dinner.
The office door stands open. The light is off. I’m midway to the desk and reaching for the lamp when I spot Tomasetti. He’s sitting at the desk, looking down at his laptop. A tumbler containing two fingers of whiskey sits comfortably on the blotter next to him. The blue glow of the monitor illuminates his face enough for me to see that whatever he’s doing isn’t pleasant. The clenched jaw. Tight mouth. The eyes I know so well and tell me so much, even when he doesn’t want me to know. He looks up, surprised, and makes an attempt to conceal the darkness I see in his features.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” he says, his voice rough.
“Didn’t mean to surprise you.” I set my laptop case on the floor at the side of the desk. “Working late?” I ask.
“Thinking mostly,” he says.
“Is everything okay?”
He hits me with a pointed frown, knowing he’s busted despite his halfhearted attempt to mislead me. “Everything’s fine.”
“Fine, huh?” I go to him. “Well, that’s good.”
Grimacing, he rises. I fall against him, put my arms around his neck.
“I’m glad you’re home,” he says after a moment.
“Me, too.” I close my eyes when his arms go around me. For the span of several seconds, we don’t speak. We soak each other in. Give what we can. Take what we need.
When he releases me, I switch on the banker’s lamp. He squints at the sudden light. “I’m sorry I didn’t return your call,” he says. “I heard about the murder.”
“A crossbow, of all things,” I say. “He was Amish. Just twenty-one years old.”
“You know him?” he asks. “The family?”
“The family,” I say. “Not well.”
But I can tell his mind isn’t on the murder of Aden Karn and for the first time since seeing the young Amish man lying in the road dead, it’s not the case that’s hammering on my brain, but Tomasetti.
“So are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?” I ask.
“I guess you’re not going to let me hang out in my cave and sulk.”
“Not a chance.”
His mouth curves, but it’s a tired and resigned facsimile of a smile that’s for my benefit. “You and I have been cops for a long time,” he says. “It’s what we do. Who we are. It’s what we know. Sometimes, I think it’s all we know.”
“A few individuals might even say we’re good at it,” I tell him.
He pauses, pensive, studying me. I stare back, saying nothing because I want him to continue. Because whether he realizes it or not, he needs to.
“Back when we were rookies,” he says, “experience was everything. Training was king and knowledge was the key to the universe. While those things are still true, with age comes the realization that sometimes you can know too much. All of the knowledge and training and experience we’ve amassed becomes baggage. And sometimes we know how a case is going to play out before it actually plays out.”
John Tomasetti is the strongest person I know. I watched him overcome the kind of tragedy that would have destroyed most of us. The murders of his wife and two children left a wound on his heart and disfiguring scars on his soul. And came within a breath of killing him. The injustice sent him hurtling into a black hole so deep no one thought he’d ever be able to climb out, least of all him. Somehow, he did.
“This is about a case?” I ask.
He nods. “I’m assisting on the Johnson kidnapping.”
I know the story. Even from the outside looking in, it’s a heartbreaker. I’ve not followed the investigation closely; I haven’t had time. But it’s dominated the news cycle. Two little girls, about the same ages as Tomasetti’s when they died, went missing in Cleveland four days ago.
“Two kids,” he says. “Walking home from school. They never made it. Parents called Cleveland PD in less than an hour of them being late. Cops found their books. Little pink backpack. Homework still inside. No sign of the kids.” He sighs. “I drew the short stick.”
I try to read him, but he’s good at keeping his emotions in check, keeping them buried. “That’s the toughest kind of case,” I say.
“Especially for the parents.”
“Any leads?” I ask.
“We got nothing.” He shakes his head. “From all indications, it was a stranger kidnapping.” An abduction by an unknown individual is the most dangerous kind. He knows it. I know it.
… sometimes you know too much …
Tomasetti is the kind of cop who pours everything he’s got into a case. He’s obsessive and intense; he’s to the point. Sometimes he’s not very nice. He’s driven, but he doesn’t get caught up in the drama. Not in an emotional way. It’s something both of us struggled with early in our careers, finally achieving the safe-distance state of mind only recently. That said, some cases hit harder than others. Parallels, I think, and I feel the pain of the connection spread in my chest.
“This case isn’t going to end well,” he says after a moment. “Not a stranger abduction. Not after four days.”