CHAPTER 26
It’s late when Tomasetti and I arrive home. I’m standing at the kitchen counter, pouring rye into tumblers, when he comes through the door. I glance over my shoulder as he hangs his jacket on the coatrack. Then he’s behind me, his arms around me, and I feel his mouth against my neck.
“You hate rye,” he whispers.
“After today, I think I may have developed a taste for it.”
“I guess the good news is, we may just have our guy.”
I turn to him, put one of the tumblers into his hand.
He takes it, sips, looks at me over the rim, and gives me a half frown. “How about if I re-butterfly that cut for you?”
I sip, resist the urge to shiver as the rye burns its way down my throat. “Midnight snack first?”
“Back in the old days we would have forgone the food—”
“And the bandage—”
“And just finished the damn bottle of rye,” he says.
“And solved the case in the process.” I smile, but I’m only half kidding.
Neither of us had time to eat earlier, so we take a few minutes to put together a plate of cheese, crackers, and grapes. Tomasetti fills two glasses with ice water, and we meet at the kitchen table.
We clink our tumblers together and for a few minutes concentrate on the food. But I sense our thoughts zinging. Tomasetti never hesitates to speak his mind. Tonight, he’s contemplative.
“You pushed Fisher pretty hard,” he says after a moment.
“He deserved it.” I take another sip of rye, thankful for the burn this time, and the pleasant buzz pressing into my brain.
His gaze latches on to mine. “You don’t think he did it.”
“I don’t like Vernon Fisher. I think he’s a rapist and a smug little son of a bitch.” I sigh. “Tomasetti, I don’t think he murdered Aden Karn or Paige Rossberger.”
“Do you have someone else in mind?”
“I wish I did.”
He considers a moment. “The crossbow bolts are pretty damning, especially if they contain Karn’s DNA.”
“I know. And I can’t ignore that. I won’t. But it would have been incredibly stupid for Fisher to hide those bolts at his residence when he could have shot them into the woods, burned them, or even buried them.”
“You think someone planted them?”
“All I’m saying is that this was way too easy.” I look down at my tumbler of rye, think about refilling it. “That’s not to mention the fact that all of this came to fruition on the basis of an anonymous tip.”
His gaze sharpens on mine. “Any chance you can get any info on the caller?”
“Our phone system isn’t exactly cutting-edge. Believe it or not, that might work to our advantage in this case. We might be able to ascertain where the call originated. Margaret is working on it. Even then, the information may or may not be helpful.”
“I don’t have to tell you Rasmussen wants to run with Fisher.”
“Considering the amount of evidence against him, and everything we know about him, I think we should.” I wrap my hands around the glass, twirl the amber liquid inside. “But I don’t think we should close the investigation just yet. Does that make me crazy?”
“Crazy like a fox, maybe. There’s something to be said for a cop following her gut.”
“That’s kind of noncommittal,” I say. “You’re not a noncommittal kind of guy.”
“I like Fisher for this, Kate.”
“Do you think he murdered Paige Rossberger?”
He considers a moment. “You have all those young males out there, drinking every night, probably doing drugs, looking for trouble. According to Emily Byler, things get out of control on a regular basis. So one night, one of them calls a hooker. She shows up. There’s a disagreement. An argument ensues. Things get physical.” He grimaces. “It wouldn’t be the first time a woman in a vulnerable position paid the price.”
“I think someone planted those bolts. Someone not opposed to seeing Fisher fry.”
“Then you should follow your gut. Fisher is in custody; he’s not going anywhere. I sure as hell don’t have any sympathy for the guy.”
“It just feels a little too … tidy.” I reach for the bottle of rye and splash another two fingers into my glass. “I hope I’m wrong. I’m pretty good at that sometimes.”
Setting down his tumbler, Tomasetti takes both of my hands in his, waits until I look at him. “You’ve got good instincts, Kate. Follow them. Look at every piece. Shake it up. Mix it up. Turn it inside out. Do what you need to do because if you’re not one hundred percent convinced we’ve got the right guy, it’s going to eat at you.”
“I guess you know me pretty well.”
“Just between us, I like you pretty well, too.” Rising, he pulls me to my feet.
I smile at him and for an instant I feel like a fool because my vision blurs with tears. “You don’t agree with me and yet you’re telling me to pursue what I believe is right.”
“That sort of goes with the I-like-you part.”
I go to him, fall against him, put my arms around his shoulders. “I don’t make it easy, do I?”
“Well…”
Playfully, I punch his shoulder. “In three days, we’ll be married.”
“You’re not getting cold feet again, are you?”
“Not a chance.” I lay my head against his shoulder, loving the feel of him, the smell of him, the warmth of his body against mine. The knowledge that we are one.
“You don’t think we’re going to screw this up, do you?” I whisper.
“We got this,” he says. “Piece of cake.”
* * *
It’s difficult to focus on life—even momentous once-in-a-lifetime events—when someone else’s life has been taken. But for the living, life goes on. I spent the night caught in a fitful slumber, trying to reconcile my misgivings about the arrest of Vernon Fisher. First thing this morning, the BCI lab confirmed that the duct tape found at Fisher’s residence was from the same roll of tape used to bind Paige Rossberger’s body. By all appearances, Fisher murdered her during a night of sex and drugs. Whether someone else was involved remains to be determined.
When it comes to the motive for Karn’s murder, I can only speculate. Once Fisher crossed the indelible line into homicide, did a switch flip in his head? Did anger over the truck and his obsession with Emily Byler send him to Hansbarger Road, where he ended the life of the man standing in the way of everything he wanted?
There’s no doubt Fisher is a viable suspect. He had motive, means, and opportunity. We have indisputable circumstantial and physical evidence against him. The duct tape. The crossbow bolts found at his residence. In the coming days, the lab will likely link the DNA inside Page Rossberger’s body to Fisher, proving he either raped her or had sexual relations with her. All of it combined is a virtual arsenal of evidence any prosecutor would give his right arm for.
So why do I feel as if we got it all wrong?
“Because you’re getting married in two days and you’re a nervous wreck,” I mutter as I make the turn into the lane of my brother’s farm.