Pulling out my cell, I add the name to my notes. “I’ll let Tomasetti know.”
She tightens her mouth, her gaze holding mine. “Kate, I don’t know if he’ll talk. Even if he does, I don’t know if he’ll tell the truth. I have no idea how much he knows.”
“If he’s the best witness you’ve got, we don’t have a choice but to approach him.”
* * *
A dark heart sees the things that an honest one is blinded to by the nature of its own goodness.
I was fifteen years old the first time I heard those words. They were uttered by my datt, who was less philosophical than my mamm and rarely offered up the kind of admonition that didn’t involve the denial of a meal or, when I was younger, a couple of smacks with a switch. In this particular instance, I’d accused an Amish friend of stealing a tube of lipstick from me—an item I shouldn’t have had in my possession to begin with. My datt believed that I had seen in her what I myself was guilty of.
I didn’t like hearing those words, but I understood them and I knew he was right because I’d shoplifted that lipstick from the pharmacy just a week before. I never forgot the adage—or the way it worked on my fifteen-year-old conscience.
No cop ever wants to believe that their fellow officers are capable of breaking the same laws they’ve been sworn to uphold. That a member of the law enforcement community would stain the reputation of all cops is an affront. What Gina became involved in offends me. It grates against everything I believe about the institution to which I’ve devoted my life. Yet here I am, putting my own reputation at risk to help her. What does that say about me?
At five P.M., Gina and I share dinner with Adam and the children. The food is a uniquely Amish compilation of home-cured ham, fried potatoes, and canned beets. The children are curious about their English visitors. They’re too well behaved to ask all the questions I see on their faces. But their eyes are watchful, their ears wide open.
The routine of being in an Amish home—the sights and smells, the chores, the reciting of the Prayer before Meal—is achingly familiar. It’s not that I want to be Amish again. I made the decision to leave a long time ago and it was the right one for me. Still, being here brings with it a certain nostalgia, makes me miss the closeness I’d once shared with my family.
Gina’s presence adds yet another facet to the mix. She was a big part of my past, our relationship a time of rapid growth and profound change. Looking back, I can’t help but acknowledge the sense of things lost there, too.
At nine P.M. Adam and Lizzie come into the living room and offer me a pillow and two blankets—along with a place on the sofa—for the night. By ten o’clock the house is quiet and dark, the only sounds coming from the creak of the rafters, and the wind tearing around the windows, a beast trying to find its way inside. Adam has retired to his bedroom upstairs. Gina has been in the sewing room for about an hour. Alone in the living room, snuggled beneath the blankets on the sofa, I call the station only to find out from my dispatcher, Mona, that Painters Mill has lost power.
“The manager at Quality Implement told me there was a run on generators,” she says. “This afternoon they were down to writing rain checks.”
Quality Implement is the local farm store, a fixture in the community, and the only retailer that carries generators and woodstoves and the like. The next-closest retailer is in Millersburg, which is an impossible drive.
“Call Harry Morgan first thing in the morning and see if he’ll set up a temporary shelter at the VFW Hall,” I tell her. Harry is a Vietnam War vet who manages the VFW Hall in Painters Mill. When disaster strikes the community, whether it’s a tornado or flood or winter storm, Harry can always be counted on to jump in and lend a hand. Two years ago, he opened up the VFW Hall to victims of the tornado that plowed through Painters Mill, setting out dozens of sleeping cots and blankets, opening the restroom for showers, and recruiting some of the best cooks in the county for hot meals—and a little bit of love.
“If people don’t have heat, they’re going to need a warm place to sleep and something to eat until the power is back on, especially if they’re elderly or have young children.”
“Will do, Chief. If I’m not mistaken, I think Harry has the cots and blankets left from that blizzard three years ago.”
“Call the Holmes-Wayne Electric Co-op and get an update on when the power will be restored.”
“I’m waiting for a callback now.”
“Who’s on patrol tonight?”
“T.J.,” she tells me.
“Make sure he’s got tire chains and a winch. Tell him not to take any chances. If he gets stuck, no one will be able to reach him for a while.”
“You got it.”
“Mona?”
“Yeah, Chief?”
“If you can’t get home in the morning, I can ask Tomasetti to take you. He’s got a snowmobile.”
“I thought I might bed down in the cell downstairs,” she says, referring to the single jail cell in the basement. “Just in case Lois or Jodie can’t make it in.”
A thread of warmth stirs in my chest. Not for the first time, I’m pleased I promoted Mona to patrol officer, a position she’s been transitioning to for weeks now, and will take on full time as soon as I can find a replacement. I’m thankful to have such a dedicated team of officers working for me. “Thank you. Let me know if you need anything.”
I call Tomasetti next. “Electricity is out at the farm,” he says by way of greeting. “I’ve got the generator going and built a fire. So far so good.”
I think about the farm where we live and try not to acknowledge the swirl of homesickness. The old house is drafty and creaky, and though we’ve put a tremendous amount of work into it, it’s an ongoing project. Even so, it’s homey and warm, and the six acres upon which it sits are as stunningly beautiful in the snow as they are at the height of summer.
“Good thing you cut all that wood last weekend,” I say.
“My rotator cuff is still thanking me.” He pauses. “You guys without power there?”
“Um … no idea.”
He laughs. “I suspect the Amish will fare a hell of a lot better than the rest of us when the apocalypse comes.”
“Any news on Colorosa?” I ask.
“I talked to a few cops I know in Columbus.” He pauses. “Kate, I’m hearing some things about her.”
“Like what?”
“She’s got a few marks against her. She’s been disciplined several times. A couple years ago, some cash went missing in the course of a bust. Three thousand dollars. Colorosa was part of the chain of custody. Evidently, someone pointed a finger at her. There was an inquiry. Nothing was ever proven, and no formal charges were ever filed, but the money wasn’t recovered and was never accounted for.”
Disappointment moves through me. I close my eyes, trying not to let the news shake my already tenuous faith in Gina. “I’ve got a name for you.” I tell him about Jack Tyson. “Gina seems to think he may be willing to come forward.”
“I’ll see what I can find out about him.”
“Did ballistics come back on the weapon that was confiscated at Gina’s house the night of the raid?” I ask.