Part 4 (1/2)

He tips his hat and the two men start toward their respective vehicles.

I glance at my watch, surprised to see it's almost 3:00 A.M. ”You want body shops or farms?” I ask Glock.

”Body shops.” He grins. ”Amish don't trust me for some reason.”

”That's because you cuss too much.”

He grins. ”Now that makes me feel misunderstood.”

”Hit every body shop or auto shop that does collision work, including anyone who works out of a home shop or keeps a can of Bondo on his workbench. If someone brings in a vehicle with a messed-up grille, I want to know about it.”

”I'm all over it.”

”I'll get Skid and Pickles to cover these farms in the morning.”

We saunter to the place where the accident happened and look in both directions. The gra.s.sy shoulder is trampled from all the traffic and muddy where the fire department flushed away the biohazard. The tractor that hauled away the dead horse left deep ruts. I think about the hit-and-run driver and something scratches at the back of my brain.

”Where was he going anyway?” I say, thinking aloud.

”If he was headed west,” Glock replies, ”he was on his way to Painters Mill. Millersburg, maybe.”

”If he was stinking drunk, where was he coming from?”

Our gazes meet. ”The Bra.s.s Rail,” we say in unison.

The Bra.s.s Rail Saloon is a couple of miles down the road; the scene of the accident is smack dab between that bar and Painters Mill. It's one of the area's more disreputable drinking establishments. If you want to get drunk, fight, buy dope, or get laid-and not necessarily in that order-The Bra.s.s Rail Saloon is one-stop shopping.

”Probably a long shot.” But I can't quite dispel the rise of dark antic.i.p.ation that comes with the possibility of that all-important first lead.

”Unless the bartender remembers someone leaving in a souped-up truck five minutes before the accident.”

”Stranger things have happened.” I fish my keys out of my pocket. ”Let me know what you find out from the body shops, will you?”

”You bet.”

I leave him there, frowning and looking just a little bit worried.

I swing by the house for a shower and a few hours of sleep. I don't notice the blood on my s.h.i.+rt until I'm standing naked in the bathroom and look down at my uniform heaped on the floor. I'm usually pretty mindful of any kind of biohazard, but I don't remember when I picked it up. I don't know whose it is.

I look down at my hands and see dried blood on my palms and beneath my nails and cuticles. That's when it strikes me this blood represents the death of a man I've known most of my life. The deaths of two innocent children. The injury of a third child. And the h.e.l.l of grief for a woman who was once my best friend.

Unnerved, I turn to the sink, grab the bar of soap, and scrub my hands with the single-minded determination of a mysophobe. When my flesh is pink, I twist on the shower taps as hot as I can bear and spend the next fifteen minutes trying to wash away the remnants of the accident, seen and unseen.

By the time I pull on a tee-s.h.i.+rt and sweat pants, I feel settled enough to call Tomasetti. I want to believe I'm calling him because he's a good investigator. Because he'll offer some gem of advice. Because he's great to bounce ideas with and he rarely fails of give me something I can use. But the truth of the matter is I need to hear his voice. I want to hear him laugh, hear him say my name. Or maybe I just need him to help me make sense of this.

I walk into the kitchen. The wall clock tells me it's three thirty in the morning; I shouldn't bother him at this hour. Like me, Tomasetti's an insomniac. Sleep is tough to come by some nights. For a moment, I sit there debating. In the end, my need to talk to him overrides decorum. I grab my cell phone off the counter where it's charging, pour myself a cup of cold coffee, and punch in his number.

He picks up on the second ring. ”I was just thinking about you.”

I can tell he was sleeping, and that he's withholding his usual upon-wakening grumpiness. His voice, so calm and deep, fills me with a sense of optimism and reminds me that the good things in life balance out the bad.

”You were asleep,” I tell him.

”This might come as a shock to you, but a man can actually think about a woman while he's sleeping.”

”So you were mult.i.tasking.”

He pauses. ”Is everything all right?”

He asks the question with the nonchalance of someone inquiring about the weather, but he knows something's wrong. I don't like it, but he worries about me. Because I'm a cop. A woman. Or maybe because he knows how easily those you care about can slip away.

I stick to cop-speak as I tell him about the hit-and-run, using terms like ”hit-skip” and ”juveniles.” I don't mention my past friends.h.i.+p with Mattie or that I'd known both of them since I was a kid. I don't tell him that when I close my eyes I see the faces of those dead children.

I don't have to; he already knows.

”How well did you know them, Kate?” he asks.

To my horror, tears sting my eyes. Though he can't see me, I wipe frantically at them, as if somehow he'll know.

”Mattie was my best friend,” I blurt. ”I mean, when we were kids. I knew Paul, too. Back when he was a skinny Amish boy with a bad haircut. We lost contact after I left, but those days were-” I fumble for the right word.

”Formative.” He finishes for me.

”I never had that kind of friend again.”

”Until I came along.”

I laugh and it feels good coming out. ”I knew you were going to make me feel better.”

”Is there anything I can do?”

”Not really. Holmes County is the primary agency.”

”You notified NOK?”

There are times when silence is louder than words. This is one of those times. But I know if I speak, he'll know I'm an inch away from going to pieces.

”Are you okay?” There's nothing casual about the question this time. He knows I'm not okay and he's trying to figure out what to do about it.

”This is going to sound corny, but I think I needed to hear your voice.”

”My shrink would probably call that some kind of breakthrough.”

”For me or you?”

”Both of us.”

I laugh, but I can't think of a comeback.