I go directly to the small booth at the rear. The one in the corner where the tulip light is burned out and the only people who pass by are the ones heading into the alley for a snort or into the restroom because they’ve had too much to drink. I suspect McNarie keeps that corner dark on purpose.
An old Red Hot Chili Peppers’ song rattles from the jukebox as I settle in, facing the door. McNarie doesn’t make me wait. He sets a bottle of Absolut, a shot glass and a Killian’s Irish Red on the table in front of me. “You need the glass or are you going to drink straight from the bottle?”
“Better go with the glass,” I say. “Don’t want to start any rumors about the chief of police seeking solace in a bottle.” The fact that my state of mind is so obvious disturbs me.
I reach for my wallet, but McNarie stops me. “This one’s on the house, Chief.” He sets a pack of Marlboro Reds and a Bic next to the bottle.
“You don’t have to—”
“I just heard you got the fucker responsible for killing that family. Nice work.”
If only it were that simple. I thank him anyway, figuring I can make good with the tip.
He stares at me a moment, nods once. That’s all. No questions. No morbid curiosity to sate. No phony concern. No lectures. McNarie is one of the reasons I come here. He lets me be. Tonight, I appreciate that more than he could know.
I break the seal before he even reaches the bar. By the time he picks up his towel and glass and resumes drying, I’ve already poured. The first shot goes down badly, makes me shudder, but then they always do. The second shot is easier. The third slides down my throat like liquid gold.
Brooding over a case is a counterproductive use of time for a cop. I should be feeling celebratory. A mass murderer is dead. A sort of primal justice has been served. I should be whooping it up with the guys. Slapping them on the back for putting in the hours and getting the job done. They should be here with me, toasting the death of a predator. Then I think of the Plank family and it hits me again that none of this can be undone.
Or maybe it’s not the case at all that’s bothering me. Maybe it’s my own past that haunts me tonight. Maybe I’ve finally acknowledged all those jagged parallels between myself and Mary Plank. Parallels I didn’t want to see. Things I thought were buried, but will never really die.
I’m midway through my first cigarette when I see Tomasetti come through the door. He looks out of place here with the words big city cop written all over him. He’s got attitude and style with a little bit of bad-ass thrown in. Most cops dress like slobs. Suiting up is one of many things Tomasetti does well. The charcoal suit looks custom; the color plays nicely off the five-o’clock shadow. Pale blue shirt. Expensive tie. He holds his ground for a moment while his eyes adjust to the dim interior. His expression shifts when he spots me. I stare back, feeling busted, not sure if I’m pleased that he’s here or annoyed because my zen of misery has been interrupted.
He makes his way to the booth and slides in across from me. I smoke, watching him, wishing I hadn’t drank that third shot. An alcohol-fuzzed brain is a huge disadvantage when it comes to dealing with Tomasetti. He can be unpredictable and difficult, and I’m pretty sure I’m in no shape to deal with either.
“I guess it would be stupid for me to ask how you found me,” I begin in way of greeting.
He catches McNarie’s eye and gestures toward the shot glass. “I went by your house first.”
“Not many places to hide out in this town.”
“I guess the real question is why you’re hiding.”
I’m saved from having to answer when McNarie sets down a fresh shot glass, a second beer, and hustles back to the bar.
Tomasetti fills both shot glasses and downs his in a single gulp.
“I thought you’d stopped drinking,” I say.
“I have, for the most part.” He smiles down at his glass. “Just not tonight. But then this isn’t about me, Kate.”
Since I’m the last person I want to talk about, I say nothing.
Tomasetti doesn’t give me respite. “Your guys are wondering what’s up with you.” He sets down the glass. “I guess I’m wondering the same thing.”
“It was a tough case.”
“It’s over. You did a good job. The whole department did.”
“The Planks are still dead. Those girls were still tortured.”
“Kate.” A thin layer of impatience laces his voice. “You’ve been a cop long enough to know that sometimes bad things happen to good people. It’s out of your control. You gotta let go or it will drive you nuts.”
Even though my brain warns me away from more alcohol, I pick up the shot glass and drink it down. “I’m too hammered to talk about it.”
“Sometimes that’s the best time to talk.”
“Not for me.”
He turns thoughtful. “Is it because they were Amish?”