“I don’t think I’m going to be eating pork chops any time soon.”
Now it’s his turn to laugh, but it’s short-lived. “Nick Kester and his wife were taken into custody. Kester had a handgun in his possession, but not a rifle.”
“Reuben Kaufman did.”
“He knew you were getting close to figuring things out.”
“Ballistics will probably confirm he was the shooter, not Kester.”
I want to add something about closure and justice, but I’m not sure either of those things is the case. While a killer was taken into custody and three cases were closed, none of them entailed a happy ending for anyone involved. Especially little Lucy Kester, who was the only innocent in the bunch.
“Kate, have you been to the hospital?”
“I’m going to head over that way in a few minutes.”
He just sighs. “Look, I can drive down there if—”
“Tomasetti, I’m okay. Really. You can’t leave work to rescue me every time I get into a scuffle.”
“This was more than a scuffle. The fall alone—”
“I’ll have Glock drive me over to Pomerene. A quick X-ray, a wrap for my wrist, and I’ll be good to go.”
He falls silent. I know he’s not happy with the situation. But this is ground already covered, and I know he doesn’t want to rehash it, especially over the phone.
“I’ll be home before dark,” I tell him. “What do you say we meet out at the pond and catch a few fish?”
After too long a pause, he says, “I’ll buy the bait.”
“In that case, I’ll meet you at the dock,” I tell him, and disconnect.
CHAPTER 30
If someone were to ask me in January or February if I’m planning to spend the rest of my life living in northeastern Ohio—or anywhere in the Midwest for that matter—my answer would be something along the lines of Hell no! Are you nuts? Ask me the same question on an evening like this one, when the breeze is like silk on your skin, the frogs and crickets and the last of the birds launch into their end-of-day serenade, and the moon is a pale yellow sphere rising above the treetops to the east, I’d respond with Why would I ever want to live anywhere else? It’s evenings like this one that make those long winters worth the wait.
It’s dusk and I’m sitting in a lawn chair on the small wooden dock, looking out over the pond, and there’s no place else in the world I’d rather be. The cattails on the far side teem with dragonflies and a few early evening lightning bugs. A turtle snoozes on a rock a couple of feet from the bank. In the cottonwood tree on the north side of the pond, a male cardinal laments the end of the day. A glass of iced tea sweats atop the cooler next to a citronella candle. A six-pack of Killian’s Irish Red chills inside. I brought the bamboo fishing poles, both affixed with the requisite red-and-white bobbers. On the outside chance Tomasetti wants to show off his casting prowess, his rod and reel with the lure most likely to catch the big bass that’s been taunting him for weeks now is lying on the dock alongside the poles.
“Looks like you started without me.”
I startle at the sound of Tomasetti’s voice and turn to see him striding toward me. Long strides. Eyes intent on me. Worried about me, I think, but he doesn’t want me to see it, so I let it go. There’s enough light for me to see that he’s still wearing his work clothes—slightly wrinkled button-down shirt, creased trousers, and one of the ties he bought at Milano last time we were in Columbus. The tie is askew, telling me I’m not the only one who’s had a long day.
“Did you bring the bait?” I ask.
“Of course.” He holds up a container very much like one for Chinese food takeout. “Night crawlers.” He grins. “Nothing better for catching bass at night.”
“Does that mean we’re going to fish all night?”
“We could.”
“And play hooky tomorrow?”
“Best idea I’ve heard all week.”
I rise from my chair, open the cooler, and hand him a Killian’s. “You look like you could use this.”
“I can.” He takes the beer.
I see him looking at the wrap on my wrist, and it makes me feel self-conscious. “I think the big one has your name on it.”
“Hopefully, he’s hungry and feeling reckless tonight.” He sets the beer on top of the cooler without opening it. “Kate.”
Before I can speak, he strides toward me. His arms go around me and he pulls me close. “God, I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Me, too.”
“How’s the wrist?”
I fall against him, set my face against his shirt, breathe in his scent, and sigh. “Hurts like hell.”
“Well, that’s just like you to milk it, isn’t it?”
“You’re on to me, I guess.”
“Broken?”
“You know by now that I never do anything halfway.”
He pulls away slightly, putting just enough space between us to make eye contact with me. For an instant I avoid his gaze, then I look into his eyes.
“Bad scene today?” he asks.
“Yeah.”