Page 48 of Sworn to Silence (Kate Burkholder #1)

I feel like a wounded animal that’s gone to its cave to lick fatal wounds as I carry my box of belongings through the door. Around me, the house is silent and cold and reminds me of how empty my life will be without my job. The repercussions of my termination have started to sink in.

When I was eighteen years old and announced I would not be joining the church, the Amish bishop put me under the bann .

My family wouldn’t take meals with me. It wasn’t done to injure, but in the hope I would come to my senses and live the life God had planned for me.

I felt banished and alone. Neither of those things were enough to sway my decision to leave, but it had hurt.

Today, I feel much the same way. Abandoned.

Betrayed. I should be worried about more practical matters like the loss of income and health insurance.

I should be concerned by the fact that my career has taken a major hit and there are no job prospects within fifty miles.

I’ll be forced to sell the house and move.

All of these concerns are dwarfed by my growing obsession with this case.

I set the box on the kitchen table. I spot my legal pad lying on top and resist the urge to pull it out. I want to continue working the relocation angle, but it’s going to be tough without resources.

A scratch at the window above the sink interrupts my thoughts.

I look up to see the orange tabby glaring at me from the sill.

I try not to think about the parallels between the unwanted stray and myself as I cross to the door and open it.

The cat bursts in with a waft of cold air and a confetti swirl of snow.

I go to the refrigerator, pour milk into a bowl and pop it in the microwave.

“I know.” I set the bowl on the floor. “We’re fucked. ”

I consider having my first drink of the day, but I know getting shitfaced before noon will only make things worse.

Instead I walk to the bedroom, exchange my uniform for jeans and a sweatshirt, and grab my laptop off the dresser.

Settling at the kitchen table, I fire up the computer and start with the Holmes County Auditor Web site.

It’s tedious work that will probably net nothing more than eyestrain and a stiff neck.

But at least it will keep me occupied. The last thing I want to do is sit around and wallow in self-pity or, God forbid, go into full self-destruct mode.

By noon I’m frothing at the mouth with frustration. When I can stand the silence of the house no longer, I turn on the television to some mindless afternoon fare and return to my computer. At one o’clock, I pour myself a double shot of Absolut and drink it down like lemonade on a hot day.

I call Skid, but get voice mail. I had assigned him the task of checking snowmobile registrations for the two-county area. I wonder if he’s gotten wind of my termination and decided he doesn’t have to answer my calls. I’m in the process of dialing his home number when Pickles calls.

“I can’t believe those goddamn pencil-pushers,” he begins without preface.

“What’s going on there?”

“Detrick is making hisself right at home in your office. Mona says if he starts bringing in those fuckin’ animal heads from the taxidermist and mounting them on the walls, she’s going to quit.”

“FBI there? ”

“SAC arrived a few minutes ago. Some wet-behind-the-ears dipshit with a master’s degree in ass-kissing and the common sense of a beagle. Detrick is practically sucking his dick.”

I get a good belly laugh out of that despite my dark mood.

“I’m glad one of us thinks this is funny,” Pickles grumbles.

“I’m just glad you’re mad for me.”

“Department ain’t going to be the same without you, Kate. You gonna fight it?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.” I think of Tomasetti, but I don’t ask about him. I can’t help but wonder if he had a hand in this. “How’s Glock holding up?”

“He hates this shit, but he’s hanging in there. I swear if his wife wasn’t about to spit out a baby he’d tell those pencil necks to go fuck themselves.”

“How about you?”

“I’m thinking after this I might retire for good. Nothing I hate more than having to answer to a bunch of suits.”

I pause. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

“Hell yes, you can.”

“Go to Skid’s cube. See if you can find the list of snowmobiles registered in the two-county area. Scan it and fax it to me, will you?”

“I can do that.”

It’s a comfort knowing I have someone inside the department I can count on. In the back of my mind I wonder if Mona will copy the file for me. “What else is going on?”

“Glock is sending everyone out to recanvass. It’s a good call, but they’re batting zero, Chief.”

I want to remind him I’m no longer chief, but it feels inordinately good to be called that right now. “Thanks, Pickles.”

“My pleasure.”

I hang up and go back to my laptop. To my surprise, the Coshocton County clerk has e-mailed me the names of people who sold property from 1993 through 1995.

There are seventeen names. I want to run the entire list through OHLEG for a cross-check.

I wonder if my OHLEG account has been disabled.

Curious, I pull up the site and enter my user name and password.

I let out the breath I’d been holding when the law enforcement main menu appears.

I go directly to OHLEG-SE, the search engine, and enter the names.

I do the same with SORN, Ohio’s Sex Offender Registration and Notification database.

It’s a long shot, but you never know when you might catch a break.

Knowing I’m in for a long wait on my inquiries, I go to the Holmes County Auditor Web site and begin the tedious process of searching for people who sold or transferred property from 1993 through 1995.

It’s probably a waste of time; even if my suspicions are correct and the killer changed locales, he could have rented an apartment.

He could have owned property in another county.

Or the property could be listed under the name of a family member.

The variables are seemingly endless. That’s not to mention the small problem that I’m no longer a cop.

Even if I do find some connection, I’m going to have a hard time doing anything about it.

I stumble through the Web site, netting a total of four names.

A knock at the door startles me. In the living room, I put my eye to the peephole to see John Tomasetti standing on the porch with his collar turned up against the cold.

White specks of snow cover his shoulders.

His expression is grim. Taking a deep breath, I open the door.

His eyes meet mine, then skim the length of me. “I’d ask how you’re doing, but that glass in your hand gives it away.”

“How much did you have to do with it?” I ask.

“I’m not that big a hypocrite.”

“The timing is just coincidence, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Here’s a newsflash for you, Agent Tomasetti. I don’t believe you.”

He frowns, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Can I come in?”

“I think the smartest thing you can do is leave. ”

“No one’s ever accused me of being smart.”

I give him a withering look.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not the enemy here.”

“You stabbed me in the back.”

“Someone filed a complaint against you. Considering that scene in your office yesterday, I’d say Johnston is a pretty good guess.”

He’s right; Glock told me as much. But it’s not enough to quell my anger. I don’t feel like being reasonable and I don’t know who to trust.

“If I had spilled your secret to the town council,” John says, “you can bet your ass you’d be in some interview room surrounded by a bunch of gnarly cops asking nasty questions about the whereabouts of a missing Amish man.”

I step back and open the door. “Why are you here?”

He enters the foyer and closes the door behind him. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

I look down at my glass. It’s empty. I want to refill it, but I don’t want him to know my frame of mind has deteriorated to that low point. “You could have used the phone.”

“I’m sorry about the job.”

“Do me a favor and don’t apologize, okay?”

Nodding, he shrugs off his coat. He expects me to take it, but I don’t, so he carries it to the sofa and tosses it over the arm. “You can fight the termination, you know. There’s an appeal process.”

“Probably not worth it.”

He starts toward the kitchen and I realize he’s spotted my laptop and notes. I follow, wishing I’d put things away before letting him in. I don’t want him to know I’m still working the case.

His eyes take in the scene and he frowns. “You’re not one of those obsessive cops who can’t let go, are you?”

“I just like to finish what I start.”

“And maybe I’m a well-adjusted, middle-aged man.” Shaking his head, Tomasetti goes to the cupboard and pulls out a glass .

“Why don’t you make yourself at home?” I say.

Holding my gaze, he crosses to me, invading my space slightly, and takes my glass from my hand.

At first I think he’s going to take it away.

Instead he sets both glasses on the table.

I watch, fascinated, as he pours three fingers of vodka into each glass, then passes mine back to me. “So, are you okay, or what?”

“I’d feel better if you kept me in the loop.”

“I’ve got a penchant for breaking the rules, anyway.”

“No one has to know.”

“The truth usually comes out sooner or later.” He raises his glass. “Believe me, I know.”

I clink my glass to his and down the drink.

The vodka burns all the way to my stomach.

My already fuzzy head goes fuzzier. I look at Tomasetti, really look at him, and a weird quiver of attraction goes through me.

I’m not sure if it’s because he’s my best link to this case or if it’s something a hell of a lot more complicated.