Page 16 of Outsider

“What’s it for?”

Keys click over the line. “All I can tell you from what I’m seeing here is that she was under investigation. The rest of it is sealed.”

“That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” he says slowly.

For the span of several heartbeats the only sounds are the wind pummeling my vehicle, the tap of snow against the windshield, and the occasional bark of my police radio.

I tell him about the couple killed in the course of the no-knock warrant. “She’s given me names. She claims to have dates and amounts. And an audio recording that may or may not be helpful.”

“Kate, you need to stop what you’re doing, while you still can. Turn around. Take her to Pomerene. I’ll meet you there, and we’ll get this figured out.”

“Tomasetti, what if she’s telling the truth? She believes she wasn’t supposed to survive the raid last night.” Even as I speak the words, I realize how improbable they sound. As if I’m too involved to see the situation clearly and listening to my emotions instead of my common sense.

“That’s an extremely serious allegation, Kate. If she’s going to come forward, she’d better have something to back it up.”

The line hisses between us, reminding me of the distance that’s both literal and figurative. “Have you heard anything? Rumors? Gossip?”

You’re grasping at straws, Kate, a little voice whispers in my ear.

“Columbus doesn’t fall in my region, but I can make some calls. You got any names for me?”

I recite them from memory. “There are others, too. Street cops. Patrol mostly. She claims to have taken all of this to Frank Monaghan. He’s deputy chief now, over the Investigative Subdivision.”

The silence stretches, expanding into a high-wire tension that wasn’t there before.

“I know who he is,” Tomasetti says after a moment.

Something in his voice sends a prickly sensation across the back of my neck. “You know him?”

A brief hesitation and then, “I know of him.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means I can’t talk about it.”

I’m ever cognizant that there are certain topics that, due to his position with BCI, Tomasetti isn’t at liberty to discuss. I would never ask him to cross that line. I’m okay with those kinds of boundaries and I’ve no problem honoring them. Though Painters Mill falls within his region, confidentiality has never been an issue. Until now.

“Tomasetti, what am I supposed to do with that?”

A too-long beat of silence ensues and then he makes a sound of frustration. “Let me look into a couple of things.”

“And in the interim?”

“See if you can get that damn pseudo-vet out there to look at her gunshot wound.”

I start to say something else, but he hangs up on me.

What should have been a ten-minute drive ends up taking nearly an hour. By the time I make the turn into the lane of Joe Weaver’s “clinic” I’m sweating beneath my coat. I can’t stop thinking about my exchange with Tomasetti. The mention of Frank Monaghan changed the tone of our conversation and added a tension that wasn’t there before. All of it gives credence to Gina’s claim that not everything is as it should be within the Columbus Division of Police.

I power the Explorer through a series of drifts, fishtail sideways as I roll up to the hangar-size Quonset hut. Joe Weaver comes to the door as I tromp through deep snow. I reach a small, covered porch and he ushers me inside.

“There is an emergency?” He looks past me to the Explorer, wondering if I’ve got a sick dog or cat lying on the front seat in need of treatment. If only the situation were that simple.

“No emergency,” I tell him as I stomp snow from my boots.

He’s wearing insulated coveralls that are unzipped enough that I can see the front of his blue work shirt and suspenders. He’s in what I guess to be his late thirties, with longish brown hair and the typical beard of a married Amish man.