Текст книги "The Dead Will Tell: A Kate Burkholder Novel"

Автор книги: Linda Castillo

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

As I walk back to the dry warmth of my vehicle, the wind passing through the trees sounds very much like the cries of dying children.

CHAPTER 18

The first thing I notice when I pull into the gravel lane of the farmhouse is that Tomasetti left the porch light on for me. As I drive around to the rear, I see his Tahoe parked in its usual spot. Butterflies flutter in my stomach when I think of how we left things. I’m not sure what I’ll find when I go inside. I have no idea if he’s angry or sorry or somewhere in between. I don’t know if he’s seen Ferguson. Or if he listened to what I had to say.

I unlock the back door to see that the light above the stove is on. The kitchen smells of coffee and vanilla potpourri, and for an instant, I’m overwhelmed with a sense of homecoming. I’m standing just inside the door, taking off my jacket, when the light flicks on.

On the other side of the kitchen, Tomasetti stands at the doorway, looking at me. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

He’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. His feet are bare. Hair damp from a recent shower. I take a breath, and even from several feet away, I discern the scent of his aftershave.

“I could be,” I reply.

Amusement flashes in his eyes, but he doesn’t smile. “I brought home sandwiches from Leo’s Deli.”

Leo’s is a mom-and-pop eatery in Wooster, and in the last months has become our favorite “quick” dinner. “What kind?”

“Paninis. They’re in the fridge.”

I’m staring at him, but I can’t seem to stop. I’m not hungry and I couldn’t care less about the sandwiches, from Leo’s or elsewhere. What I do care about more than anything else in the world is this man standing before me. Instead of responding, I ask the one question I swore I never would. The one question that strips me bare. The one that requires the truth from him. A truth I fear because I know he’ll give it, no-holds-barred, and I have no idea what it will be.

“Do you love me, Tomasetti?”

He’s not an easy man to read, but I perceive surprise in the way his eyes dart away, in the way he shifts his weight away from me, as if there’s a part of him that would like nothing more than to slink back into the darkness and not deal with this. With me. But it’s too late to take back the words.

“You know I do,” he tells me.

“Actually, I don’t know or I wouldn’t have asked. Sometimes you say things, and I’m not sure you mean them.”

“I’ve never lied to you, Kate.”

“You haven’t lied. But you haven’t been completely honest, either.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means we’ve been dancing around some issues we need to deal with.”

When he says nothing, I feel the blood leave my head. A physical reaction that takes me a moment to identify. I’m scared, I realize. I’m afraid I’m not handling this the right way. That I’m going to say something wrong. That we’re going to somehow blow what we have and he’s going to walk away.

“Tomasetti, there’s a part of you that you refuse to share with me. A part you keep tucked away, unavailable. That’s not honest.”

“I told you about my past. I told you what I did. I told you I wasn’t going to be easy.”

“I don’t care about easy.”

He shrugs. “That’s the best I can do right now.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want all of you. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

“I’m not sure what we’re talking about here.”

“I don’t want to share you with them anymore.” Taking a step closer, I press my hand to my chest. “I’ll never rate and I’m not sure I’ll ever garner the kind of love you had for them.”

“That’s not true,” he says with some heat.

“I’m sorry you lost them. I’m sorry they were hurt and your life was devastated. But they’re gone now, and I’m here. I’m alive and I want to build a life with you. You have to choose.”

At first I think he’s going to turn around and walk away. Instead, he rounds the table and starts toward me. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t give me a clue as to what he’s thinking or feeling. His eyes are level on mine, but I don’t know if he’s going to rail against the words I’ve just thrown at him—or admit they’re true. My heart is like a drum against my ribs. My head feels light, a head rush from standing too fast. Sweat slicks the back of my neck and palms. For a crazy instant, I consider turning around and running out the door and into the night. But the intellectual side of my brain reminds me of what’s at stake. However it turns out, I need to finish it.

He touches my arms first, his fingers wrapping around my biceps. Then he’s pushing me backwards, one step, two. My back hits the doorframe, the knob bumping my hip with so much force that the picture on the wall rattles.

His eyes lock with mine. In the depth of his gaze, I see a jumble of emotions, none of which I can read. The kiss that follows isn’t gentle. Yet I sense the fragility of the moment, something intangible slipping from my grasp even as something else settles more securely inside me.

“You’re wrong,” he tells me.

“Prove it.”

As he lowers his mouth to mine, I experience a fleeting sense of defeat followed by the realization that I’m no longer in control of the situation—or my life. That maybe I haven’t been for a long time and I was a fool to believe I could maintain that grasp. It stuns me to realize I’m willing to accept that. For the first time in my life, I’ve relinquished my heart and given someone else the power to hurt me. The thought terrifies me because I know there’s a part of him I don’t trust not to do just that.

CHAPTER 19

Sleep is a precious commodity in the course of any homicide investigation, mainly because the first forty-eight hours are so crucial in terms of solving the case. I know better than to allow the things going on in my personal life to interfere with my job. But I have a feeling I’m not the first cop to let it happen anyway. Luckily, I’m pretty good at operating on little sleep and staying focused when I have other issues zinging around inside my head.

Tomasetti and I didn’t get much settled last night, not in terms of talking, anyway. We didn’t broach any of the topics I brought up. I didn’t ask for some magic solution and he offered none. We didn’t even talk about the case—and I would have very much appreciated his insights. Despite all of that, this morning I’m feeling optimistic that the kinks we’ve encountered will smooth out. I’m going to have to trust him and I’m going to have to be patient. Neither of those things comes naturally to me, so I’m going to have to work on them.

It’s 7 A.M., and I’m already buzzed on coffee and in that mental zone I find myself in when I’m embroiled in a case. In addition to the two homicides, I’ve been unable to account for Jerrold McCullough for nearly twenty-four hours. It’s possible he became frightened and left town. But I have a bad feeling in my gut.

Questions and scenarios pummel my brain as I climb into the Explorer. Ten minutes later, I’m on the gravel track that runs parallel with Painters Creek, heading toward McCullough’s place. I slow for the bridge, and I’m dismayed to see that the water is just a foot from the center span. There aren’t many homes in this area, but if any more rain falls, the road will be under water.

I park next to McCullough’s Riviera and cut the engine. I can see his house from where I’m sitting. The porch light is on, but there are no lights on inside. I hail Mona on the radio.

“I’m ten twenty-three Jerrold McCullough’s place.”

“Roger that, Chief.”

“Will you do me a favor and call the mayor. Tell him I think we’re going to have some flooding out here and we should probably put out some kind of bulletin to let folks know.”

“Will do.” She pauses. “Glock just brought in doughnuts. Do you want me to save you one?”

“That’s affirm.” Smiling, I get out.

The first thing I’m aware of is the roar of the water from behind the house. Painters Creek is usually a meandering stream with deep fishing holes and shallow crossings where the water trickles over rocks. This morning it’s latte brown and swollen to three times its normal size. The rain has stopped, but the sky to the west is black and ominous looking, telling me there’s more on the way. What I wouldn’t do for just one day of sunshine …

I pause to look through the driver’s-side window of the Riviera. I see a pile of magazines in the backseat. A Coke can on the floor. A Netflix movie that probably needs to be dropped at the post office. I take the same path Glock and I took last night, hopping between pieces of plywood and chunks of concrete to avoid the mud. I reach the porch and knock hard on the storm door. “Jerrold McCullough! It’s Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill PD. Come to the door, please. I need to speak with you!”

I shout the words not only to be heard above the roar of water, but because it’s still early and I know there’s a possibility McCullough is asleep. That would be a best-case scenario. I don’t believe he came home last night. I don’t believe he’s here now. I knock a second time, using the heel of my hand. Upon his arrival yesterday, Glock found the door open. But for security reasons, we locked it when we left.

When there’s no answer, I brave the mud and go around to the rear of the house. I pause at the living room window, cup my hands and try to see inside. But the curtains are pulled tight, so I continue around.

The sight of the creek gives me pause. The water has encroached thirty feet into the yard, swirling amid mammoth tree trunks, carrying debris—logs and branches and trash—as it rushes toward its end journey to Sugar Creek and the Tuscarawas River. And I know in my heart there’s no way McCullough would have left when flooding is a threat to his home. He’s an I’m-going-down-with-the-ship type, even if we’d called for a mandatory evacuation.

“Jerrold McCullough! Police Department!”

I look out across the water. Fifty feet away, a good-size log is jammed against a stand of trees that, so far, have withstood the force of the current. The branches have captured a sizeable amount of debris: leaves and brush and what looks like an old tire. Nearer, the wooden deck is inches from being completely submerged now. When the creek is at normal levels, the deck is twenty feet from the bank and the perfect place to lounge in a chair with a book or maybe barbecue brats and burgers. I know it won’t be long before the torrent gobbles it up and sends it downstream. I’m about to head back to the Explorer, when I notice something pale bobbing just beneath the surface a foot or two off the deck, and I get a bad feeling in my gut.

I edge closer to the water for a better look. The ground is muddy and slick and I know that even shallow rushing water can knock someone off their feet. I stop inches from the water’s edge and crane my head forward. The bad feeling augments to a hard rush of adrenaline when I see a pale face and silver flowing hair inches beneath the surface.

“Shit!” I stumble back at the grisly sight, slip in the mud, and end up on my ass.

Quickly, I scramble to my feet and grapple for my lapel mike. “Ten fifty-two.”

“Go ahead.”

“Adult male. In the water. Submerged.”

“You still at the McCullough place?”

“That’s affirm.”

“Fire and rescue’s on the way, Chief.”

The preservation of life is always the first priority in any emergency situation. But I know it’s too late for the paramedics to help. The victim is completely submerged, and I know that soon I’ll be dealing with a dead body. Worse, I’m pretty sure the victim is Jerrold McCullough.

CHAPTER 20

Tomasetti left his office in Richfield at 10 A.M. and headed directly to northbound I-77. Without the hindrance of rush hour traffic, he arrived at the Cuyahoga County Corrections Center in less than thirty minutes. Inmate visitation is designated by sex and last name, but Tomasetti had obtained special permission for today’s visit. It didn’t hurt that he’d gone to the police academy with the associate warden, who’d cleared it through director of corrections. He wasn’t above using his connections to get what he wanted.

He’d been inside many correctional facilities in the course of his career. They all had the same feel, a closed-in space that smelled of dirty shorts, industrial-strength cleaner, and high school cafeteria food. All of it permeated with an overt sense of desperation, the knowledge of men incarcerated and the awareness that most of them are violent.

The walls were painted an institutional two-tone gray. To his left was the control center, a reception office of sorts with a bullet-resistant barrier window and security transaction tray. A uniformed corrections officer sat inside, his thick fingers pecking at a keyboard.

Tomasetti approached the window and leaned close to catch the officer’s attention.

“Sign in.” Without looking up, the officer dropped a clipboard with a sheet attached to the tray and shoved it toward Tomasetti. “If you’re preregistered, I just need two forms of ID.”

Tomasetti removed his badge and set it in the tray. “I think this’ll do it.”

The corrections officer, whose name tag read D. NELSON, finally looked up. He didn’t seem too impressed by Tomasetti’s credentials. “If you have a firearm on your person, you’ll need to check it with the officer in the cage.”

“No problem.” Tomasetti signed his name and filled in the date, leaving off the part about his being with BCI, and shoved the clipboard back to the officer.

The man glanced at it, looked at Tomasetti, and then picked up the phone. “Have a seat,” he said, and motioned toward a row of waiting-room chairs that lined the opposite wall.

Tomasetti took the nearest chair, using the time to check his e-mail and voice mail—none of which were from Kate. Two minutes later, a buzzer sounded. He looked up to see his old academy mate, Stan McCaskill, standing at the door, looking at him as if he wasn’t quite sure who he was.

“I’ll be damned,” he said. “John Tomasetti.”

“Hey, Stan.” Tomasetti rose and crossed to him, extended his hand. “It’s been a while.”

“Twenty years, give or take.” He opened the door wider, ushering Tomasetti inside. “What are you doing these days?”

“I’m with BCI.”

He nodded approvingly. “So what’s your business with Kinnamon?”

“Cold case I’m about to close.” Tomasetti tapped the file at his side. “Just need to ask a few questions, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

They went through a windowless steel door, down a tiled hall, and then reached the cage, a glassed-in office where two corrections officers controlled the door locks and access to the interior of the jail. McCaskill set a blue form on the security transaction tray and shoved it toward the other man.

The man inside looked down at it and then gave Tomasetti a quick once-over. “You’ll need to check your firearm here.”

“Sure.” Once again, he placed his badge in the tray. Then he removed his weapon from his shoulder holster and set it in the tray as well.

The officer tore off a ticket and sent it back to him. The locks on the door across the room snicked open.

“Here we go.” McCaskill took him through it and motioned Tomasetti into a small interview room. “You need audio? Escort?”

Tomasetti shook his head. “Just Kinnamon.”

“I’ll get him for you.”

The room was like a hundred other interview rooms Tomasetti had been in over the years. Twelve feet square. Gray walls. Windowless. Not even an observation window. Institutional tile floor. Air temp hovering somewhere around sixty-two degrees. Discomfort helped to thwart stonewalling. The table was four feet long and a couple of feet wide with an off-white Formica surface that was etched with scratches from lawyer’s briefcases. A single Fuck You was carved into the corner. Three cheap blue sled chairs covered with stain-resistant fabric that wasn’t that stain resistant surrounded the table.

There was a camera mounted in the corner, just below ceiling level. No glowing eye, but that didn’t mean someone didn’t have video running. But there was no intercom. No phone. No visible wires. None of those things guaranteed the conversation he was about to have with Vince Kinnamon was private or wouldn’t be secretly recorded. Tomasetti wasn’t exactly the trusting type, but there was no way around the risk.

McCaskill didn’t keep him waiting. Tomasetti had barely settled in when the door opened and the corrections officer produced Kinnamon. “Step inside,” he said.

Tomasetti took the other man’s measure as he shuffled in. Orange prison jumpsuit. Off-brand sneakers. No chains or restraints. Tomasetti had met him a couple of times over the years, but if it hadn’t been for the name tag embroidered into the fabric, he would have been hard-pressed to recognize him. The inmate shuffling into the interview room looked nothing like the man who’d once owned a five-thousand-square-foot house in Edgewater. Three months in jail had taken a heavy toll. He’d dropped sixty pounds. His once-tanned face had the telltale prison pallor. The only thing that was the same were his eyes. They were black as tar and radiated a cunning that could raise the hairs on the necks of even the most seasoned cops. Today, those eyes revealed nothing of what he was thinking as they latched on to Tomasetti.

Up until his arrest, Vince Kinnamon had been a dangerous man. A killer with a weakness for hard drugs, a penchant for violence, and no conscience to keep him from acting on the most primal of urges. The Cleveland PD suspected him in a plethora of crimes ranging from heroin distribution to murder. Kinnamon’s luck ran out three months ago, when he’d been busted by the feds for laundering money through his Downtown Cleveland bar, The Red Monkey. He’d been put before a federal grand jury, which had quickly handed down an indictment. He’d been incarcerated and, deemed a flight risk, denied bail while he awaited trial. Rumor had it that even in prison, Kinnamon was still connected. Still powerful. Tomasetti was counting on both those things.

McCaskill gestured toward the chair on the opposite side of the table from where Tomasetti was sitting. “Kinnamon. Sit down. There.” He turned his attention to Tomasetti. “How much time you need?”

“Ten minutes max.”

The corrections officer pointed at a button that resembled a doorbell set into the wall. “Just hit the buzzer when you’re through, and we’ll come get him.”

“Thanks again.”

The door clicked shut. Without looking at Kinnamon, Tomasetti opened the file and looked down at the blur of black and white that had nothing to do with the purpose of his visit today.

“You don’t look like a fed,” Kinnamon said.

“They treating you okay here at County?” Tomasetti asked the question without looking up.

“Fucking hacks. They treat all the inmates like shit. What’s it to you?”

“When’s your trial?” Tomasetti flipped a paper. “May?”

“June.”

He looked away from the file, made eye contact with Kinnamon. “Looks like the feds have you by the balls this time, Vince. Money laundering. They take that shit seriously.”

Kinnamon regarded him across the table, saying nothing.

“How did they get you, anyway?” he asked.

“Some fucking rat.” Kinnamon waved off the question. “I still don’t know who you are.”

“Let’s just say I’m the bearer of interesting news.”

Kinnamon stared at him, saying nothing at first, but he wasn’t doing a very good job of concealing his interest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You heard Joey Ferguson’s conviction was overturned, didn’t you?”

“I heard. Good for him. What does that have to do with me?”

“How do you think he managed that?”

“The Cleveland cops are a bunch of fuckups.”

For the span of a full minute, neither man spoke. The only sound came from the jiggle of Kinnamon’s foot against the chair. Tomasetti could feel the other man’s curiosity, his misery, his desperation.

“Official word is he got off on a technicality,” Tomasetti said. “But I heard Joey Ferguson walked because he turned over on you. He ratted you out. Fucked you over.” He leaned back in his chair and contemplated Kinnamon. “That means he gets the house on the lake. A pretty wife. The kids. And a boat. You get life in a six-by-six-foot cell.”

The other man said nothing. But Tomasetti didn’t miss the color that climbed up his neck or the way the muscles in his jaws quivered with tension. “Who the fuck are you? And why would you come in here and tell me that shit? You got some beef with Ferguson?”

Tomasetti closed the file and got to his feet. “Good luck with your trial.”

Kinnamon hissed something, but Tomasetti pressed the call button, shutting him out. When the door opened, he left the room without looking back.