Page 37 of Sworn to Silence (Kate Burkholder #1)

“What do you do there? ”

“Look, I got a clean record there.” He points at Tomasetti. “I don’t want you cops fuckin’ things up for me.”

Tomasetti slaps his hand away. “Answer the question.”

“I’m the sticker.”

“What’s a sticker?” I ask.

“I stick the steer in the neck after he’s stunned.”

“You cut its throat?”

“I guess you could put it that way.”

“You like doing that?” Tomasetti asks.

“It pays the bills.”

Something crunches beneath Tomasetti’s shoe as he steps into the living room. “You gotta go to school for that?”

Starkey glares at him. “Fuck you.”

“Dwayne,” I snap. “Cut it out.”

He looks at me as if I’m dense. “That guy’s an asshole.”

“I know.” I’m aware of Tomasetti moving around the living room, but I never take my eyes off of Starkey. “Where were you Saturday night?”

“I don’t remember.” His attention is on Tomasetti, and I wonder if Starkey has something to hide.

For the first time anger stirs. Two women are dead and this filthy little man is doing his utmost to make our job as difficult as possible. Leaning over, I smack the side of his head with my open hand, forcing his attention to me.

“You can’t hit me like that,” he says.

“Then pay attention. Where were you Saturday night?”

“I was here. Rebuilt the transmission on the El Camino.”

“Was anyone with you?”

“No.”

“Were you here all night?”

“Yeah.”

“You ever been to the Brass Rail? ”

“Everyone’s been to the Rail, man.”

“When’s the last time you were there?”

“I dunno. A week ago.” His brows knit. “A week ago Sunday.”

“How well did you know Amanda Horner?”

“I don’t know no Amanda Horner.” He’s starting to look nervous, like he’s finally taking this seriously. “You guys can’t pin no murder on me. I didn’t do it.”

“You raped a woman fourteen years ago.”

“The little bitch lied, man.”

A burst of anger goes through me. Before I even realize my intent, my hand shoots out and I slap him open-handed. “Watch your mouth.”

He rubs his cheek. “That chick was a tease. Drunk. Fucked up on coke. She wanted it.”

“She was twelve.”

“I didn’t know that! I swear. She looked like a grown-up woman. Tits out to fuckin’ here.” He makes a slashing sign a foot from his chest. “And she wadn’t no virgin like she claimed.”

Disgust ripples through me. My temper hammers at the door, but I don’t let it out. “How well did you know Ellen Augspurger?”

“Don’t know her neither.”

“If I find out you’re lying, I’ll come down on you so hard you’ll wish you were back in prison.”

“I swear I don’t know her. Either of them.”

“You on probation?”

“What do you think?”

“You like porn?” Tomasetti breaks in.

Starkey cranks his head around. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

“Kiddie porn? You keep it in the house?”

“I don’t do that shit.”

“No, I’ll bet you’re an S I see it in his eyes. Part of me wishes he would try.

“Kate.”

I barely hear John’s voice over the drum of my heart. I know losing my temper is counterproductive. I tell myself I’m pushing Starkey because I want him rattled. The problem is that while Dwayne Starkey is a lowlife piece of scum, I don’t think he’s the man we’re looking for.

I jolt when Tomasetti’s hands come down on my shoulders.

I know he can feel the tremors running through me.

I don’t look at him. “Easy, Chief,” he says quietly, then steps up beside me and holds a computer disk out for Starkey to see.

“Nice desktop you’ve got, Dwayne. Big-ass monitor.

I’ll bet the graphics are killer. How much memory you got in that thing? ”

“What’re you doing in my bedroom, man?” Starkey whines like a schoolboy who’s just been told he’s going to be paddled. “He’s not allowed to look through my shit.”

I shrug, but I want to punch Tomasetti. One badly behaved cop is enough.

“It was in plain sight.” Tomasetti looks up from the disk. “ Delilah’s Double Date . Huh. I think I missed that one.”

“Ain’t no law against X-rated movies,” Starkey says.

“That depends on how old the stars are.” I look at the disk. “Delilah looks kind of young.”

“Just a kid,” Tomasetti agrees.

Starkey jabs a finger at the disk. I see grime beneath his nails. “I bought that good and legal.”

“What else do you have on your computer?” I ask.

“I ain’t got nothin’ I shouldn’t have. I’m fuckin’ rehabilitated.”

Tomasetti shakes his head. “We just want to know about the women.”

“Don’t know those kilt women, man.”

I jab my finger in his face. “Put your coat on.”

Starkey’s eyes go wide. “You can’t take me to jail! I ain’t done nothin’!”

“You’re going to show us your barn, Dwayne,” Tomasetti snaps. “Put on your coat or I’ll drag you out there without it.”

The barn is a dilapidated structure one windy day away from becoming a pile of rubble. Starkey takes Tomasetti and me down the unshoveled sidewalk. I notice footprints in the snow and I wonder why he goes to the barn when he doesn’t own livestock.

I get my answer when he slides open the door and we step inside.

A yellow El Camino, its paint as glossy as the day it was driven off the showroom floor, sits on cinder blocks with its hood open.

Four aluminum wheels lean against a support beam.

Beyond, a lawn chair squats next to a rusty fifty-gallon drum.

From atop the drum, a radio blasts an old Eagles song.

An aluminum pie tin overflows with cigarette butts .

“Nice place,” Tomasetti says.

“This is where I was Saturday night.” Starkey points at the El Camino. “That there’s the car I been working on.”

“You into junkers?” Tomasetti asks.

“That ain’t no junker, man. She’s a classic.”

I move deeper into the barn, find myself looking for a snowmobile. I check the dirt floor for track marks, but find nothing. The air smells of moldy earth and motor oil. I spot a tarp in the corner, cross over and lift it. Dust motes flare and a circa 1965 John Deere tractor looms into view.

Disappointment presses into me. I wanted Starkey to be our man.

He’s a convicted rapist. A pedophile. A man with an appetite for porn and God only knows what else.

But his height tells me he’s not the man who attacked me in the woods last night.

He doesn’t fit the profile. He’s not organized.

Not highly intelligent. As desperately as I want to solve this case, my gut tells me he’s not the killer.

I stride toward the men and point rudely at Starkey. “Don’t leave town.”

“I’m on parole. What do you think I’m going to do? Take a fuckin’ Hawaiian vacation?”

I start toward the door. “Let’s go.”

I reach the Tahoe first and climb in. In the relative warmth of the cab, I suddenly feel as if I haven’t slept for a week. A dull ache hammers at the base of my skull.

Tomasetti pulls out of the driveway and heads toward town. I stare out the window at the bleak landscape and try not to let the heat and low hum of the engine lull me to sleep.

“He’s not our guy,” Tomasetti says without looking at me.

“I know.”

“Most serial killers have an above-average IQ.”

“Rules out Starkey.” I glare at Tomasetti. “Next time you feel like going Dirty Harry, do it on your own time, okay?”

He looks at me as if I offended him. “You’re the one who hit him. ”

“I smacked him upside the head to get his attention.”

“You kicked his chair out from under him.” Shrugging, he returns his attention to the road. “I was impressed.”

I catch myself grinning. Under different circumstances, I might have liked John Tomasetti.

I may not agree with his tactics, but I know he had my back in there.

Before I can analyze further, he makes a quick turn into the parking lot of McNarie’s Bar.

It’s one of two drinking establishments in Painters Mill, a dive replete with red vinyl barstools, half a dozen booths and a jukebox from 1978 with all the original music selections.

“What the hell are you doing?” I demand.

“I could use a drink.” He swings open the door and gets out.

“A drink ?”

He slams the door.

I shove open my door and slide out. “It’s ten o’clock in the morning. We have work to do.”

Glancing at his watch, he keeps walking. His stride is so long, I have to jog to keep up. “Damnit, John, we need to get back to the station.”

“This won’t take long.”

I stop beside a rusty Toyota pickup, and watch him disappear inside. I look around the deserted parking lot, too pissed to notice the cold or the clouds gathering in the west.

“Starkey was right,” I mutter as I start toward the door. “He’s an asshole.”