I watch the game and listen to the jukebox and think about the Slabaugh case. I think about family dynamics and my mind moves on to the kids. Mose, just seventeen years old and doing his best to fill his father’s shoes. Salome, only fifteen and trying desperately to keep the family together. And then there’s Ike and Samuel, little boys who should be out on Miller’s Pond playing ice hockey and building snow forts. Instead, they’re crying for their dead mamm and datt and a future that’s as uncertain as the outcome of this case.
I think of Adam Slabaugh, a widower living alone, an Amish man excommunicated from his church and family, an uncle estranged from his niece and nephews. Loneliness can be a powerful force in a person’s life, especially if they’ve lost something precious. Adam lost his wife. Is he cold-blooded enough to murder his own brothers and his sister-in-law in order to gain custody of the children?
I’m midway through my second Killian’s when the door swings open. I glance up absently to see two men enter with a gust of wind and a swirl of snow. Surprise ripples through me at the sight of a Holmes County Sheriff’s Office parka. McNarie’s is a far cry from a cop bar. It’s unusual for any law enforcement to stop in, especially this time of night. Mild surprise transforms to something a hell of a lot more powerful when I recognize the second man. Long black coat, tall frame with an athletic build, dark hair shot with gray at the temples.
John Tomasetti makes eye contact with me at about the same time recognition kicks in. The jolt of his gaze runs the length of my body—an odd mix of shock and guilt and a thread of pleasure that goes all the way to my toes.
Motioning for the bartender to bring drinks, he crosses to my booth and looks down at me. “Hey, Chief.”
“Don’t tell me you just happened to be in the neighborhood,” I manage to say.
“Something like that.”
He’s looking at me a little too closely with those hard, dark eyes, eyes that invariably see too much—things I don’t want to share. It’s a struggle not to squirm beneath that gaze.
Sheriff Mike Rasmussen saunters to the booth. “Chief Burkholder.”
Rising, I shake hands with him. “Sheriff.”
Rasmussen slides into the bench across from me.
Tomasetti sticks out his hand. “Nice cave you’ve got here, Chief.”
I accept the handshake. “Welcome back to Painters Mill, Agent Tomasetti.”
“I take it you two know each other,” Rasmussen says.
One side of Tomasetti’s mouth curves, and he slides in next to me. “We do.”
I’ve known John Tomasetti for almost a year now. We met during the Slaughterhouse Killer investigation last January. He’s a good man, a good cop, and a powerful force to me and everyone around him. That case was an intense time for both of us, and somehow we ended up not only lovers, but friends. In the months since, our relationship has evolved, deepened, and I can honestly say the connection we share goes beyond anything I’ve ever experienced with another human being. But neither of us is very good at the relationship thing. We use our jobs as a guise to see each other, but we’ve been discreet; few people know we’re involved.
“I tried to return your call,” I say to the sheriff.
“Probably better to brief you in person anyway,” Rasmussen says.
McNarie arrives at the table, sets three Killian’s in front of us, then hustles away.
“What brings you to Painters Mill?” I direct the question to Tomasetti. What I really want to ask is: Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?
“Sheriff Rasmussen requested our assistance.” He motions toward the sheriff. “I’ll defer to him to give you the details.”
Leaning forward, Rasmussen sets his elbows on the table and clasps his hands in front of him. “I know you’re well aware that in the last couple of months there’s been an increase in crimes against the Amish, Kate.”
“I am.”
“I just read the report you filed on the burning buggy incident.”
I look from Tomasetti to Rasmussen, wishing I hadn’t done those two shots. I’m at a distinct disadvantage here. The alcohol has rendered my IQ somewhere between that of a toddler and a German shepherd. While I’m pretty sure Rasmussen hasn’t noticed, I’m utterly certain Tomasetti has.
“These crimes qualify as hate crimes, Kate.” Rasmussen gives Tomasetti a pointed look. “I know your department is tied up with the Slabaugh thing, so I contacted BCI.”
“Isn’t a hate-crimes designation usually federal?” I ask.
“Hate crimes are against the law no matter which agency does the investigating.” Tomasetti shows me his teeth. “I drew the case.”
“We wanted an agent who was familiar with the area,” Rasmussen interjects. “Since Agent Tomasetti has worked in Painters Mill before, I thought he was the best person for the job.”
I nod. “We worked the Slaughterhouse Killer case last year. A couple of months ago, we worked the Plank murder case.”
“I remember,” the sheriff says. “Nasty business.” Rasmussen looks from me to Tomasetti and then back to me. “Agent Tomasetti and I met for dinner earlier. We were talking about the hate-crime issue, and we thought with your being formerly of the faith, you might be able to lend a hand with the Amish,” Rasmussen says. “I’m batting zero because none of the victims will press charges.”