Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

Today, I feel much the same way. Abandoned. Betrayed. I should be worried about more practical matters like the loss of income and health insurance. I should be concerned by the fact that my career has taken a major hit and there are no job prospects within fifty miles. I’ll be forced to sell the house and move. All of these concerns are dwarfed by my growing obsession with this case.

I set the box on the kitchen table. I spot my legal pad lying on top and resist the urge to pull it out. I want to continue working the relocation angle, but it’s going to be tough without resources.

A scratch at the window above the sink interrupts my thoughts. I look up to see the orange tabby glaring at me from the sill. I try not to think about the parallels between the unwanted stray and myself as I cross to the door and open it. The cat bursts in with a waft of cold air and a confetti swirl of snow. I go to the refrigerator, pour milk into a bowl and pop it in the microwave. “I know.” I set the bowl on the floor. “We’re fucked.”

I consider having my first drink of the day, but I know getting shitfaced before noon will only make things worse. Instead I walk to the bedroom, exchange my uniform for jeans and a sweatshirt, and grab my laptop off the dresser. Settling at the kitchen table, I fire up the computer and start with the Holmes County Auditor Web site. It’s tedious work that will probably net nothing more than eyestrain and a stiff neck. But at least it will keep me occupied. The last thing I want to do is sit around and wallow in self-pity or, God forbid, go into full self-destruct mode.

By noon I’m frothing at the mouth with frustration. When I can stand the silence of the house no longer, I turn on the television to some mindless afternoon fare and return to my computer. At one o’clock, I pour myself a double shot of Absolut and drink it down like lemonade on a hot day.

I call Skid, but get voice mail. I had assigned him the task of checking snowmobile registrations for the two-county area. I wonder if he’s gotten wind of my termination and decided he doesn’t have to answer my calls. I’m in the process of dialing his home number when Pickles calls.

“I can’t believe those goddamn pencil-pushers,” he begins without preface.

“What’s going on there?”

“Detrick is making hisself right at home in your office. Mona says if he starts bringing in those fuckin’ animal heads from the taxidermist and mounting them on the walls, she’s going to quit.”

“FBI there?”

“SAC arrived a few minutes ago. Some wet-behind-the-ears dipshit with a master’s degree in ass-kissing and the common sense of a beagle. Detrick is practically sucking his dick.”

I get a good belly laugh out of that despite my dark mood.

“I’m glad one of us thinks this is funny,” Pickles grumbles.

“I’m just glad you’re mad for me.”

“Department ain’t going to be the same without you, Kate. You gonna fight it?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.” I think of Tomasetti, but I don’t ask about him. I can’t help but wonder if he had a hand in this. “How’s Glock holding up?”

“He hates this shit, but he’s hanging in there. I swear if his wife wasn’t about to spit out a baby he’d tell those pencil necks to go fuck themselves.”

“How about you?”

“I’m thinking after this I might retire for good. Nothing I hate more than having to answer to a bunch of suits.”

I pause. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

“Hell yes, you can.”

“Go to Skid’s cube. See if you can find the list of snowmobiles registered in the two-county area. Scan it and fax it to me, will you?”

“I can do that.”

It’s a comfort knowing I have someone inside the department I can count on. In the back of my mind I wonder if Mona will copy the file for me. “What else is going on?”

“Glock is sending everyone out to recanvass. It’s a good call, but they’re batting zero, Chief.”

I want to remind him I’m no longer chief, but it feels inordinately good to be called that right now. “Thanks, Pickles.”

“My pleasure.”

I hang up and go back to my laptop. To my surprise, the Coshocton County clerk has e-mailed me the names of people who sold property from 1993 through 1995. There are seventeen names. I want to run the entire list through OHLEG for a cross-check. I wonder if my OHLEG account has been disabled. Curious, I pull up the site and enter my user name and password. I let out the breath I’d been holding when the law enforcement main menu appears. I go directly to OHLEG-SE, the search engine, and enter the names. I do the same with SORN, Ohio’s Sex Offender Registration and Notification database. It’s a long shot, but you never know when you might catch a break.

Knowing I’m in for a long wait on my inquiries, I go to the Holmes County Auditor Web site and begin the tedious process of searching for people who sold or transferred property from 1993 through 1995. It’s probably a waste of time; even if my suspicions are correct and the killer changed locales, he could have rented an apartment. He could have owned property in another county. Or the property could be listed under the name of a family member. The variables are seemingly endless. That’s not to mention the small problem that I’m no longer a cop. Even if I do find some connection, I’m going to have a hard time doing anything about it.

I stumble through the Web site, netting a total of four names. A knock at the door startles me. In the living room, I put my eye to the peephole to see John Tomasetti standing on the porch with his collar turned up against the cold. White specks of snow cover his shoulders. His expression is grim. Taking a deep breath, I open the door.

His eyes meet mine, then skim the length of me. “I’d ask how you’re doing, but that glass in your hand gives it away.”

“How much did you have to do with it?” I ask.

“I’m not that big a hypocrite.”

“The timing is just coincidence, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Here’s a newsflash for you, Agent Tomasetti. I don’t believe you.”

He frowns, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Can I come in?”

“I think the smartest thing you can do is leave.”

“No one’s ever accused me of being smart.”

I give him a withering look.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not the enemy here.”

“You stabbed me in the back.”

“Someone filed a complaint against you. Considering that scene in your office yesterday, I’d say Johnston is a pretty good guess.”

He’s right; Glock told me as much. But it’s not enough to quell my anger. I don’t feel like being reasonable and I don’t know who to trust.

“If I had spilled your secret to the town council,” John says, “you can bet your ass you’d be in some interview room surrounded by a bunch of gnarly cops asking nasty questions about the whereabouts of a missing Amish man.”

I step back and open the door. “Why are you here?”

He enters the foyer and closes the door behind him. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

I look down at my glass. It’s empty. I want to refill it, but I don’t want him to know my frame of mind has deteriorated to that low point. “You could have used the phone.”

“I’m sorry about the job.”

“Do me a favor and don’t apologize, okay?”

Nodding, he shrugs off his coat. He expects me to take it, but I don’t, so he carries it to the sofa and tosses it over the arm. “You can fight the termination, you know. There’s an appeal process.”

“Probably not worth it.”

He starts toward the kitchen and I realize he’s spotted my laptop and notes. I follow, wishing I’d put things away before letting him in. I don’t want him to know I’m still working the case.

His eyes take in the scene and he frowns. “You’re not one of those obsessive cops who can’t let go, are you?”

“I just like to finish what I start.”

“And maybe I’m a well-adjusted, middle-aged man.” Shaking his head, Tomasetti goes to the cupboard and pulls out a glass.

“Why don’t you make yourself at home?” I say.

Holding my gaze, he crosses to me, invading my space slightly, and takes my glass from my hand. At first I think he’s going to take it away. Instead he sets both glasses on the table. I watch, fascinated, as he pours three fingers of vodka into each glass, then passes mine back to me. “So, are you okay, or what?”

“I’d feel better if you kept me in the loop.”

“I’ve got a penchant for breaking the rules, anyway.”

“No one has to know.”

“The truth usually comes out sooner or later.” He raises his glass. “Believe me, I know.”

I clink my glass to his and down the drink. The vodka burns all the way to my stomach. My already fuzzy head goes fuzzier. I look at Tomasetti, really look at him, and a weird quiver of attraction goes through me. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s my best link to this case or if it’s something a hell of a lot more complicated.

He’s not a handsome man. Not in the traditional sense. But the package as a whole is appealing in a dangerous and unconventional way. I could take any one facet of his face and call it ordinary. But when you put all of them together, there’s nothing ordinary about him. He’s all dark shadows and sharp angles and secrets as taboo as my own.

“I plugged the crime signature data into VICAP,” he says, “but nothing viable has come back.”

“VICAP wasn’t widely used, particularly by small towns, until recently.”

“I know that.”

“So maybe you could broaden the search criteria. I’d like to have a look at what comes back myself.”

“And I thought you let me in because you’re starting to like me.”

“Now you know I have an agenda.”

His laugher is a deep, musical sound and I realize it’s the first time I’ve heard it. “I guess it’s a good thing I don’t have a fragile male ego.”

“Will you do it?”

“We could probably work something out.”

“That kind of answer could be construed as sexual harassment.”

“It could be. But you’re no longer on the payroll.”

My heart rate is up. I feel light-headed. I want to blame both of those things on the vodka, but I’m honest enough with myself to admit it has more to do with the man.

He finishes his drink and starts toward me. He has the most unnerving stare of anyone I’ve ever met. Only when my rear presses against the counter do I realize I’m backing up. That I’m filled with an edgy anticipation that’s part cognitive, part physical. I stop analyzing when he reaches me. Setting his hands on the counter on either side of me, he locks me in.

“What are you doing?” I manage.

“Screwing things up, probably.”

“You’re good at that, right?”

“You have no idea.” Dipping his head, he leans close and presses his mouth to mine. Shock and pleasure vibrate through my body on contact. His lips are firm and warm. I feel his quickened breaths against my cheek. I’m tempted to open and take this to the next level, but some ingrained protective instinct I’ve developed over the years won’t let me. In terms of passion, the kiss doesn’t amount to much. But with regard to impact, I feel as if I’ve just been hit with a burst of machine gun fire.

I don’t remember reaching for him, but my arms find their way around his shoulders. Tension quivers in the hard mass of muscle beneath my hands. He deepens the kiss, his tongue probing, sliding between my lips. I take him in and revel in his taste. I smell the pine and musk scent of his aftershave. Need coils and flexes inside me. I’m keenly aware of the hard length of his penis against my pelvis, and I go wet between my legs.