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.”
“Spaghetti. Homemade sauce. My uncle Sergio’s recipe.”
“You don’t have an uncle Sergio.” I hand him a glass. “How’s everything?”
He takes a moment to turn down the flame and set the wooden spoon on a folded paper towel. When he faces me, his eyes are clear and deep and … at peace. “We found the girls. They’re home tonight. With their parents. Four days and he didn’t touch them.”
The words bring a smile to my face. “Chalk one up for the good guys.”
“Yeah.” He gives the pot another quick stir. “You try not to get caught up in things, but when kids are involved…”
“Hits close to home,” I say.
He nods. “This one did.”
“There’s something to be said about keeping the faith.”
“I think there’s a gentle admonishment in there somewhere.”
I hold on to my smile, but it feels thoughtful. “Back when I was a rookie, one of the old-timers told me something I never forgot. It went something like: ‘When a man loses his faith, he loses a piece of his humanity.’”
“Smart guy.”
I nod. “Keeping that part of yourself intact takes a lot of effort when you see the things we do, but we can’t ever give up hope, especially when our grip is precarious.”
“Said the wise woman.” Holding my gaze, he raises his glass and we clink them together.
“To happy endings.”
Smiling at each other, we sip. The wine is like baked plums and smoke on my tongue and the moment is magical. We stand there for a full minute, saying nothing, comfortable with the silence. With each other. And for the life of me I can’t stop looking at him. I can’t stop loving what I see. I want to reach out and stop this moment. Keep it forever.
“Any chance this frees you up to assist me?” I ask.
“I’ll get my case tied up tomorrow.” He sets down the wine, and, using potholders, dumps the steaming pan of pasta into a colander. “So where you at?”
“The land of zero progress.”
“Face meet wall.”
The investigation enters the space between us and I resent the intrusion. As if in unspoken agreement, we decide to hold it at bay a few moments longer. We’ll talk about it on our terms. We won’t let it darken this place where we stand.
We heap pasta and sauce onto plates and take them to the table. As we eat, I bring him up to speed on both cases.
“Do you think the two homicides are related?” he asks.
“Two murders inside a few days…” I sigh. “I can’t see how they’re not related, but what’s the connection? Karn and Rossberger were polar opposites. She was English. He was Amish. They didn’t run in the same circles. None of the same contacts. They lived in towns an hour apart. I can’t find a single person who knew both of them. No connected threads on social media.”
He sips wine, sets down the glass. “Tell me about Karn.”
“He was from a good family. Well-liked. Hard worker. No record. Not so much as a parking ticket. According to everyone I talked to, he was the epitome of a good kid. Until yesterday, anyway.” I tell him about my conversation with Christina Weaver.
“That’s an interesting development. Do you believe her?”
“I do. She was just fifteen years old when it happened. She didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to come forward. If I hadn’t pushed, if her mother hadn’t brought her to the station, I never would have been the wiser.”