Tomasetti turns the Tahoe onto a patchwork of crumbling asphalt pocked with potholes. A row of walnut trees runs parallel with a derelict privacy fence, separating the park from a wheat field to the south. Opposite, two dozen mobile homes line the street like wrecked cars waiting for the crusher. Most of the homes are streaked with rust and black grime that’s run down from the roof. I see broken windows, flapping screens and one storm door hanging by a single hinge. Two mobile homes are missing the skirting that encircles the base to keep the plumbing from freezing in the wintertime.
Seeing this kind of poverty in my own backyard saddens me. My family and I were far from wealthy, but we weren’t poor, either. My parents always provided food and shelter, and instilled a sense of security. My life wasn’t ideal, but the problems I experienced had absolutely nothing to do with money.
“Dismal place,” Tomasetti comments.
“Wouldn’t want to live here when the temp dips below zero.”
“What’s the address?”
I glance down at my notebook. “Thirty-five Decker. I think it’s the last street.”
The final fringes of daylight fade as Tomasetti turns onto Decker. The lot numbers painted on the curb are faded, but we find number thirty-five at the end of the street. A handful of maple and sycamore trees surround a nicely kept mobile home, casting it into perpetual shadow. Fallen leaves the color of blood cover the yard and driveway. Some enterprising individual had built wooden steps and a deck off the front door. But time and the elements have bleached the wood to monochrome gray and eroded any semblance of prettiness. A black Chevy pickup with a big crease in the door is parked in the driveway.
“There’s the truck,” Tomasetti says.
I get out and head toward the front door. The steps creak as I ascend them, and I find myself hoping the wood holds. I knock and wait. In the driveway, Tomasetti peers into the truck windows. From where I stand, I see several beer cans in the truck bed. A toolbox. A length of nylon rope.
The door swings open, and I find myself facing a tall man with strawberry blond hair and a scruffy beard the color of peach fuzz. “Todd Long?” I ask.
His gaze flicks from me to Tomasetti, who’s coming up the stairs. “Can I help you?”
I show him my badge. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
He stares at my badge and his adam’s apple spasms twice. “Uh . . . what about?”
“A crime that was committed a few days ago.”
“I don’t know anything about a crime.”
Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I sigh. “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask you yet.”
He stares at me, his eyes blinking.
“Can we come in?” I ask.
I can tell he doesn’t want to let us in. But he can’t seem to come up with a good excuse for refusing. Reluctantly, he steps back and opens the door. “Sure.”
I step into the living room. The trailer is too cold for comfort and smells of cigarette smoke and burnt pizza. Todd Long is about six feet tall with a lean build and big, slender hands. His pale complexion and strawberry blond hair makes for a nice contrast with the navy Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt and faded jeans. His face is an interesting one with high cheekbones, a chiseled mouth that would put Marlon Brando to shame and eyes the color of a deep-water lake on a sunny day.
“What’s this all about?” His eyes flick from me to Tomasetti. He seems nervous. I wonder what he’s got to be nervous about.
“Someone reported seeing a truck like yours out by the Plank farm the night that family was killed,” Tomasetti begins.
“What?” Long’s face goes even paler. “Like mine? I wasn’t there.”
“You know about the murders?” I ask.
He turns slightly to face me, a deer being approached by wolves from different directions. “I heard about it on the news. That was some bad shit.”
“Where were you Sunday night?” Giving us only half of his attention, Tomasetti strolls into the kitchen.
“I was at the Brass Rail.” Fast answer with no hesitation.
“Can someone vouch for you?” I ask.
“Sure. I was with a buddy of mine.”
“Who?” Tomasetti asks. “We need names.”
“Friend of mine by the name of Jack Warner. The bartender might remember me, too.”
I pull out my pad and jot down the name. “What time were you there?”
“I got there at about nine. Stayed till closing.” His eyes flick from me to Tomasetti. “Look, I didn’t know those people. Hell, I don’t know any Amish folks. I sure as hell don’t have any reason to hurt ’em.”
In the kitchen, Tomasetti opens a couple of drawers, peeks inside. “Anyone borrow your truck recently?”
“No one borrows my truck.” He watches Tomasetti open the refrigerator. He wants to tell him to stop snooping; I see it in his eyes. But he doesn’t have the balls.
Tomasetti nails him with a hard stare. “I understand you’re on probation.”
Long blinks, runs slender fingers through tousled hair. “Yeah. I did something stupid a long time ago. Did my time.”
“You know you can go back to prison for lying to the cops, don’t you?”
“I don’t have any reason to lie to you guys. I was at the bar all night. I swear. You can check.”
Tomasetti shows his teeth. “We will.”
“Any particular reason you’re so nervous?” I ask.
Long swings around as if he’s expecting me to attack him from behind. “Cops make me nervous.”