Ferguson smirked. “Don’t you love the criminal justice system?”
Tomasetti was across the room before the other man could set the glass down. Vaguely, he was aware of Ferguson’s eyes going wide. He took a step back, opened his mouth as if he couldn’t believe Tomasetti was actually going to cross the invisible line that had been drawn. Tomasetti slapped the glass from his hand. The tumbler thudded dully on the floor. He clamped his other hand around Ferguson’s throat, digging his fingers into the flesh, and shoved him against the bar.
“You cut a deal, Joey?” Tomasetti ground out. “Is that what you did?”
Ferguson clawed at Tomasetti’s hand. “Can’t … do … this,” he choked out. “You’re … cop.”
Crushing the other man’s throat with his fingers, Tomasetti leaned so close, he could smell the whiskey on his breath, the stink of fear coming off his skin. He could feel Ferguson’s pulse raging beneath his fingertips and he marveled at how easy it would be to kill him. He squeezed harder, long-buried rage driving him toward a precipice and inevitable drop.
Tomasetti put his mouth an inch from the other man’s ear. “I haven’t forgotten what you did.”
Ferguson made a strangled sound, his mouth gaping, tongue protruding. His face turned purple. Veins throbbed at his temples. He slapped at Tomasetti, but his blows were ineffective.
All Tomasetti could think was that he wanted him dead. Gone. In hell, where he belonged. It would be so easy to cross that line.
But this wasn’t like before. Far from it, because for the first time since the deaths of his wife and children, Tomasetti had something to lose. Thoughts of Kate and the life they’d built flashed in his mind. He knew if he took this any further, he would lose her and destroy everything he’d worked so hard to build.
Ferguson went slack. Tomasetti released him. The other man went to his knees, leaned forward, sucking in great gulps of air. “You son of a bitch,” he croaked.
Giving himself a hard mental shake, Tomasetti stepped back. He watched impassively as the other man got to his feet. He saw the imprint of his fingers on his throat, but there was no satisfaction. No sense of justice.
“You fuck.” Ferguson’s hands fluttered at his throat. His face was red. He was breathing hard, glaring at Tomasetti, murder in his eyes. “You’re a cop. You can’t come in here and assault me.”
“You’re right.” Tomasetti let his mouth twist into a smile. “I can’t.” He started toward the door.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ferguson snarled.
Tomasetti twisted the knob, let the door roll open. “Enjoy the rest of your party.”
CHAPTER 8
By the time I reach the station, the rain is pouring down so hard, I drive past my designated parking spot and have to back up to turn into it. Flipping up the hood of my jacket, I hightail it to the door. The interior is dry and smells of heated air and paper dust laced with nail polish. It’s after 5 P.M.; Despite my fatigue, I’d been entertaining thoughts of heading back to the farm, if only for a shower and to check on Tomasetti, but there are a few more things I need to tie up before I can call it a day.
“Hey, Chief.” Jodie Metzger, my second-shift dispatcher, is sitting at the phone station, a magazine spread out on the desk in front of her.
“Hi.” I stop at her desk and glance down to see her quickly stash the nail polish in a drawer. “I like the blue.”
She grins sheepishly as she hands me a stack of messages.
My conversations with Hoch Yoder and the Seymours dog me as I walk to my office and unlock the door. While I have no concrete proof that any of them were involved in the murder of Dale Michaels, I can’t discount the connections.
I’ve barely made it to my desk when my cell phone vibrates. I glance down and see BCI LAB on the display and snatch it up quickly. “Burkholder.”
“Hi, Chief. This is Chris Coleman with the lab. I have some preliminary info for you.”
“Anything on the blood in the car?”
“We’re still processing the car, but we do know the type is O positive. There was quite a bit, actually, so he may have sustained the gunshot wound right before being put into the trunk or maybe even while he was in the trunk. DNA is going to take a few days. Sorry for the delay, but things are stacked up here.”
“Prints?”
“All over the place. We were able to match Michaels’s. We should have the rest tomorrow sometime.”
“What about the tire marks?”
“We picked up a successful tread. I scanned them into the computer, and we were able to match it to Michaels’s Toyota.”
I’d been hoping the tread would implicate an as-of-yet unidentified vehicle, and I try not to be disappointed. “Did you guys look at the wooden doll yet?”
“We did. There’s not much there. No prints we could pick up. Blood is the same type as the victim’s.”