Some cases are more complicated than others. It’s not that the perpetrators are unduly cunning; most are as mindless as the crimes they commit. More often than not, it’s the relationship dynamics of the cops involved that throw an investigation into turmoil. To my misfortune, the Plank case promises to become as complex as the DNA we’re hoping will solve it. It’s dredged up a part of my past I’ve been running away from for seventeen years. A past I knew I would eventually have to face.
I’m thinking about the choices I made as a fourteen-year-old girl, and the demons born of those choices, as Tomasetti and I head back to the police station. He hasn’t spoken to me since we left the bar. The silence is uncomfortable, but I prefer it. I think he does, too. Or maybe the silence is safer than talking. God knows I’m no expert on men, but I’m pretty sure he wants to spend the night with me. I’m not sure I have the resolve to refuse if he presses.
It’s almost ten P.M. when Tomasetti pulls the Tahoe into a visitor slot outside the police station and kills the engine. Hands on the steering wheel, he stares straight ahead. “Come with me to the motel.”
Temptation tugs at me. He’s a meticulous lover, and it would be so easy to lose myself in that for a few hours. I want to blame my indecision on the vodka. But the debate rioting inside me is a lot more complex than an alcohol-fuzzed brain. It scares me because I’m pretty sure what I’m feeling won’t be appeased by an orgasm.
“I can’t.” I don’t look at him, but I feel his eyes on me.
“I guess I’m still wondering if we’re . . .”
“Maybe that’s the problem. We haven’t defined what we are.”
“We have a relationship,” he says.
I finally meet his gaze. “Based on what?”
“Mutual respect. Admiration.” He smiles. “Really great sex.”
“What about friendship?” I say. “Trust?”
“That, too.”
In that instant I know if I don’t get out of there, I’m not going to leave, so I reach for the door handle. “I have to go.”
He grasps my arm. “Don’t give up on us.”
“I haven’t.” Opening the door, I slide out then bend to look at him. “See you tomorrow.”
I’m one of those people who can get by on little sleep. Probably a good thing since I’m a functioning insomniac. Tonight, I don’t know if it’s the case or Tomasetti that has my brain tied into knots. Probably a little bit of both.
After leaving him at the station, I was too keyed up to go home, so I called Mona and got the lowdown on Jack Warner, Long’s alibi. He owns Backwoods Construction Company, a small firm that specializes in designing and building log cabins. He’s divorced. No minor children. No record—not so much as a speeding ticket. I don’t have high hopes of gleaning any particularly helpful information. Still, the alibi needs to verified, and since I can’t sleep, I might as well work.
It’s ten-thirty P.M. now, and I’ve been parked on the street outside Warner’s house for half an hour. I knocked on the door when I first arrived, but there was no answer. Facing an empty bed at home and the temptation of Tomasetti back at the motel, I decided to wait for Warner.
He lives in a nifty little A-frame cabin with lots of glass and rustic detail. The house sits on about two acres; the trees are so thick I can barely see the porch light from the street. The lot backs up to Painters Creek—one of the most coveted areas in town—and is probably worth a small fortune.
As I study the property, I find myself thinking about Todd Long. The contrasts between Warner and Long are striking. Long is an ex-con who spends his days schlepping shit into railroad cars and his nights in a trailer. Warner, on the other hand, owns a construction business and lives in one of the nicest houses in town. What’s the connection? Are they just bar buddies? Friends? Acquaintances?
I’m thinking about calling it a night when headlights wash over my car. A sleek black BMW convertible pulls into Warner’s driveway. It doesn’t elude me that Mary Plank had been seen getting into a dark-colored car. A moment later, the house lights blink on. Firing up the engine, I turn in and park.
As I start toward the front door, the forest around me comes alive with a cacophony of crickets and frogs from the creek. Somewhere nearby, an owl screeches. Moths and other flying insects circle the porch light. I ascend the wooden steps and knock. Warner answers almost immediately.
The first thought that strikes my brain is that he’s a nice-looking man. I guess him to be about thirty years old with dark brown hair and eyes the color of espresso. He has the tanned skin of someone that spends a good bit of time in the sun. He’s not exactly buff, but the size of his arms tells me he lifts weights. He wears a navy polo shirt with a designer emblem on the pocket. Jeans faded to perfection. Boat shoes with no socks.
“Jack Warner?” I hold up my badge.