Page 53 of Outsider

We turn to see Gina standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, her eyes skating from me to Tomasetti. She’s taken note of his expression, too, and detected the tension coming off him.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Jack Tyson is dead,” he tells us.

It takes my mind a moment to recall the name. Tyson is the young patrol officer Gina thought might come forward to corroborate her story.

“What?” I’m aware of her taking a step back, her hand going to her chest, her expression stricken. “My God. Jack?” She utters the words as if she thinks Tomasetti is lying to her, playing some cruel joke. “But … how? When did it happen?”

“Early this morning,” Tomasetti says. “He was on duty. Sitting in his cruiser. Three A.M. Someone ambushed him. Came up behind him. Shot him six times through the driver’s-side window.”

Gina utters a nasty curse, bends slightly, then slaps her palm against the doorjamb. “Jack. Jesus.”

“Did they get the shooter?” I ask Tomasetti.

He shakes his head. “No.”

Gina strides into the living room, visibly shaken, her expression distraught. “Of course they didn’t. For God’s sake, think about the timing.” She smacks her hand against the jamb again. A turbulent mix of anger and shock pours off her, echoes in her voice. “I talked to Jack just a few days ago. He was thinking about getting involved. To help me. He was going to—”

“I was supposed to meet him tomorrow.” Tomasetti cuts her off, unsympathetic.

“Did anyone else know about the meeting?” I ask.

“Not unless Tyson told someone.” He looks at me. “I don’t think he’d do that. When I talked to him, he wasn’t even comfortable talking on the cell. I got the impression he wanted to keep all of this private.”

He looks at Gina. “How close were you to Tyson?”

“We were friends,” she says. “Went out for beers a couple times. I didn’t know him well. But I liked him. He was a good guy.”

“How involved was he in all of this?”

“As far as I know, he wasn’t. But he’d seen some things over the last year or so.”

“Like what?” Tomasetti asks.

“We never got that far.”

“How far did you get?” I ask.

“We talked about Bertrand and Mercer for the first time a few days before they came for me. He said he hated what was going on. He’s the one who told me they were looking at me. I owe him for that. We talked about … getting some kind of proof. Taking it to someone we trusted.”

She stops speaking, divides her attention between me and Tomasetti. “Someone found out he talked to me. That’s why they killed him.”

Tomasetti scowls at her. “Who?”

“I gave you the names. Bertrand. Mercer. Half a dozen other guys in the unit. Or else they got some hired guns to do their dirty work for them. Take your pick.”

She raises both hands and sets her fingers against her temples as if everything that’s been said is too much to absorb. “Tyson was one of the good guys. He’s got a wife. Kids. He was only thirty-two years old. I can’t believe those sons of bitches killed him.”

She moves closer to Tomasetti, her uninjured hand clenched, and lowers her voice. “They need to be stopped. If you’re not up to the task, say the word.” She puts a finger a few inches from his face, her voice dropping into a whisper. “And I’ll do it myself.”

Tomasetti all but rolls his eyes. He doesn’t relinquish ground. “Calm down,” he tells her.

“Don’t tell me to fucking calm down,” she snaps.

I hear movement in the kitchen and look past her. Lizzie and Annie stand in the doorway, watching us, their eyes wide, mouths agape. It’s as if they’re frozen in place, unable to tear their eyes away from the drama unfolding before them.

Sending Gina a warning look, I start toward the children. “Girls, would you mind going to the cellar and grabbing a couple jars of green beans for tonight?”