She makes no move to open the door. “I know my rights, Bud. I’m the parent and I want to know why you want to talk to my son.”
Tomasetti shoves his identification at her. “Because we asked nicely, and if we have to come back with a warrant, we won’t be so nice.”
She’s not impressed and doesn’t even glance at his credentials. “Who the fuck’re you?”
“I’m the guy who’s going to fuck you over if you don’t open the goddamn door.”
Goddard’s mouth sags open wide enough for me to see the fillings in his molars. Trina Treece doesn’t even blink. The flash of amusement in her eyes shocks me. Tomasetti is about as amusing as an autopsy. Most people do their utmost to concede to his wishes, especially if he’s in a nasty mood. He might be a cop, but he possesses an air of unpredictability that keeps even the densest individuals from crossing him. This woman doesn’t even seem to notice—and I don’t believe it’s because she’s dense.
She smirks at the sheriff. “Where’d you find this charmer?”
“If I were you, I’d just open the door,” the sheriff says tiredly. “We really need to speak with your son.”
“Well, hell, all right.” Her triceps flap when she swings open the door. “C’mon in. Wipe your damn feet.”
Tomasetti goes through the door first. He brushes by her without a word, his right hand never far from his holster, and he doesn’t bother wiping his feet. I go in next, swipe each shoe against the throw rug at the threshold. Goddard brings up the rear, and actually looks down while he diligently wipes his shoes on the rug.
The interior of the house is hot and stuffy and smells vaguely of fish. A swaybacked sofa draped with a dingy afghan separates the small living room from an even smaller dining area. A floor fan blows stale air toward a narrow, dark hall. A sleek high-def television is mounted on the wall. It’s tuned to an old Bugs Bunny cartoon, the volume turned low. From where I stand, I can see into a dimly lit kitchen with cluttered counters and a sinkful of dirty dishes. Beyond is a back door, its window adorned with frilly yellow curtains. A folded pizza box sticks out of the top of a stainless-steel trash can.
For a full minute, the only sounds are the rattle of the air conditioner and Trina Treece’s labored breathing.
“Where is he?” Goddard asks.
“I reckon he’s out back with that worthless old man of his.” But she’s looking at Tomasetti as if trying to decide which buttons to push and how hard to push them. Tomasetti stares back at her with a blank expression that gives away absolutely nothing. Oh boy.
A sound from the hall draws my attention. Two girls, about ten years old, peek around the corner at us. I see shy, curious faces and young eyes that have already seen too much.
Trina hauls her frame around. “I told you two idiots to stay in your room!”
Both girls have the same wild black hair as their mother. But all likeness ends there. The girls are thin and pretty and seemingly undamaged by the environment in which they live. Watching them, I can’t help but to compare these kids to the girls at the King farm. Innocent girls whose lives are filled with promise but whose future will be determined by the guidance they receive from their parents and the vastly different worlds in which they reside.
I think of all the life lessons that lie ahead for these two girls, and I wonder if they’ll be able to count on either parent to guide them through it. I wonder if they’ll survive.
“Who are these people, Mama?” the taller of the two girls asks.
“This ain’t your concern, you nosy little shit.” Trina crosses to the sofa, picks up an empty soda can, and throws it at the girl. The can bounces off the wall and clangs against the floor. “Now go get your damn brother. Tell him the fuckin’ cops are here.”
Next to me, Tomasetti makes a sound of reprehension, and I know he’s on the verge of saying something he shouldn’t. His face is devoid of emotion, but I know him well enough to recognize the anger burgeoning beneath the surface of all that calm, and I’m reminded that his own daughters were about the same age as these two girls when they were murdered.
“Let it go,” I whisper.
He doesn’t acknowledge the words, doesn’t even look at me. But he doesn’t make a move. I figure that’s the best I can hope for.