Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

Tears fill his eyes, but he doesn’t let them spill. “Joe never had anyone to look out for him when he was alive. Not me. Not Edward. Now it’s too late. What an epic fail.”

I hold my ground, watching as the two men join the rest of the mourners.

“It’s not too late,” I whisper.

*

I stayed for the graveside service, watching most of it from a distance. It left me feeling depressed and unsettled. It was too brief, the minister reading just a single hymn. By the time the first shovel full of dirt was tossed onto the casket, the mourners were already heading to their buggies. Duty done. Time to call it a day. Good-bye, Joseph.

It’s not yet noon when I climb into the Explorer and pull onto Jug Street. I’d decided to heed my own good judgment and head back to the farm. Maybe take a nice, long, exhausting run to work off some of the melancholy that’s been dogging me. But my mind isn’t on home or running or even my job. I can’t stop thinking about Joseph King, the circumstances of his life and death and those final hours we spent together in the farmhouse.

Joseph never had anyone to look out for him.

Jonas King’s words ring hard in my ears as I head toward Wooster.

“Shut up, Jonas,” I mutter.

I’m southbound on Ohio 44 when I realize I can’t go back. I make a sudden turn into the parking lot of a heavy equipment dealership. I sit for a moment, reminding myself I’m on restricted duty; it doesn’t help. Gravel spews from beneath my tires as I make a U-turn and head east instead of west.

The last thing any cop welcomes is some yahoo from another jurisdiction coming in and questioning his work. Of course, I’ll do my best not to be obvious about it, but that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Forty-five minutes later I’m idling down Lake Shore Drive on the west side of Mosquito Lake near Cortland when I spot the street number on the mailbox. I make the turn into a neat asphalt drive and park in front of the attached two-car garage. The house is a split-level brick built back in the sixties. It’s quiet and nicely kept with a dozen or so massive maple trees in the front. A row of lilac bushes that will be covered with blooms in the summer delineate the property line to the south. A hedge of barberry bushes runs the length of the driveway and adds yet another layer of privacy.

I go to the front porch, walk past two Adirondack chairs, and knock on the storm door. I wait, listening for a radio or television, but no one answers.

“Crap,” I mutter, wishing I’d called before making the drive. But I know why I didn’t; I wanted to catch the former detective off guard and unprepared. So much for best-laid plans.

I’m nearly to the Explorer when I decide to check the backyard. I’m pretty sure this property backs up to the lake. With Tucker being retired, there’s a decent chance he might be outside working in the garden or something.

I go around to the side, walk past a gazebo and a shed. The backyard is huge and backs up to a wooded area. It’s unfenced, so I start across the grass toward what looks like a trailhead. It takes me just a few minutes to reach the lake. It’s a pretty spot with an abundance of birds and sixty-foot-tall trees. The water is as smooth as glass. A corpulent man wearing khakis, a fishing hat, and sunglasses is standing on the bank, fishing.

“Catching anything?” I ask as I approach.

He glances at me over his shoulder and continues reeling. “You should have seen the largemouth bass I just tossed back in. Had to be six pounds of him.”

Sensing a fish story, I smile. “Why’d you throw him back?”

“Never liked fish,” he tells me. “But I damn sure like to catch them.”

Upon reaching him, I extend my hand. “I’m Kate Burkholder, the chief down in Painters Mill.”

Eyes narrowed, he wipes his hand on his pants. “Nice to meet you, chief of police Kate Burkholder. I have a feeling you’re not here to check my fishing license.”

We shake. His grip is firm, but not too tight. Hands callused and dry. Slow, easy release. He’s about sixty years old with a kindly face and grandfather eyes. I can tell by the way he looks at me that while he possesses the countenance of some harmless senior citizen, the part of him that is a cop is alive and well.

“If you have a few minutes, I’d like to talk to you about the Joseph King case,” I tell him.

“Joe King, huh? Read about what happened.” Holding the line with his left forefinger and thumb, he draws back and casts beautifully. “You’re the cop spent some time with him in the house with the kids?”

I nod, watch the spinning lure catch the sunlight a couple of feet beneath the surface. “Joseph asked me to look into his case.”

“Did he now? Huh. So that’s why you’re here.”

“I’m here because I know some cases have two files: a sanitized file and a street file.”

That gets his attention, like a dog that’s been deemed too old to fetch, but still can’t take his eyes off the ball. Tucker finishes reeling in the lure, leans the pole against a tree, and goes to the small cooler at his feet. “Want a beer? It’s cold.”

“No thanks.”

“I know it’s only noon, but I’m retired, so…” I wait while he pops the top on a Budweiser and drinks deeply. “Geauga County not share the file with you?” he asks.

“Some of it,” I say vaguely. “Wasn’t much there.”

He slants me a look, a sly smile overtaking his expression. “That photo of you and King didn’t help, did it?”

I look out over the water, embarrassed, saying nothing.

“Then again, cooperation and the sharing of information isn’t exactly a hallmark of the detective unit.”

“Mr. Tucker, I just want to get your take on the investigation. Your observations about the case as a whole. If you’re pleased with the outcome.”

He takes his time answering, seeming to consider every word before speaking. “Joseph King was a son of a bitch. He was a drunk. Irresponsible. Spent money like it was going out of style. Treated his wife and kids like shit. Didn’t deserve any of them if you ask me.”

It doesn’t elude me that none of those things have anything to do with the actual case. My curiosity piqued, I wait.

“I was a sheriff’s deputy for thirty years, Chief Burkholder. I was ready to retire long before I actually did. But I took the time to get my finances in order and all that.” He grins. “Get all that gnarly love-for-the-job crap out of my system.”

His grin falters and he turns thoughtful. “I wanted three things to happen when I retired. I wanted to do so with a clear conscience. I wanted to wake up every morning and have breakfast with my wife. And I wanted to spend my afternoons fishing this lake.

“My wife died of cancer right before I retired.” Shaking his head, he looks out over the lake. “One out of three ain’t exactly great.” He shrugs. “Still get to fish every day, anyway.”

I give him a moment to say more, but he doesn’t. He finishes the beer, reaches down and pops the tab on another. In the distance, I hear the whistle-like call of some large water fowl. He looks toward the sound and tells me, “That’s the tundra swan. Been watching them all spring. Beautiful animals.”