I pull out my notebook. “Does this girl have a name?”
“Tammi Guyer.”
I write it down. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“Because I don’t have any proof. No offense, Kate, but you haven’t exactly been receptive to some of the things I’ve told you.”
I say nothing as I tuck the notebook back into my pocket. But I’m keenly aware of the chill at the base of my spine. Not for the first time, I think about Adam and the children. And I realize the one thing I am utterly certain of is that I don’t want them involved in any of this.
CHAPTER 16
Tomasetti arrives a little later in the afternoon. I meet him at the front door, pleased to see him and hoping for news as I invite him inside. I’ve been stuck out here for a couple of days now and, phone calls and one short visit aside, I’ve missed him.
“Did anyone ever tell you you look good in that snowsuit?” I ask.
I know the instant he takes off the helmet that he’s got news and it isn’t good.
“Where’s Colorosa?” he asks.
“I’m right here.”
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?”
The words seem to snap Gina from her fugue of anger. Glancing at the children, she strides to the sofa and drops onto it. She leans forward, places her elbows on her knees, and stares down at the floor.
Lizzie nods, her eyes flicking past me toward Gina. More interesting things going on here, but she’s too well behaved to linger.
“I thought we might make my famous green beans and ham hock tonight,” I say. “Go on now.”
Taking a final look at Gina, the girls retreat to the kitchen. As they clamber down the steps to the cellar, I go back to the living room. No one has spoken. Tomasetti stands next to the front window, looking out at the snow. Gina is still sitting on the sofa, elbows on her knees, her eyes on the floor.
Tomasetti addresses me. “I didn’t make my meeting with Denny,” he tells me, referring to his superior at BCI. “Even with tire chains, I couldn’t reach the interstate. We chatted on the phone, but he wouldn’t give me much. All I can tell you is that BCI is looking at this. If the FBI isn’t involved already, they will be soon.”
Gina raises her gaze to Tomasetti. “You know what’s going to happen next, right? The fine men and women of the vice unit are going to ‘find’ the person responsible for gunning down Jack Tyson. That suspect will not survive the arrest. The evidence against him will be overwhelming. The ensuing investigation will be short and the case will be closed and forgotten.”
Thinly veiled fury boils in the depths of her eyes. It’s tightly controlled at the moment. But I know Gina; I’ve seen that iron fist of control unravel. She’s not the kind of person to forgive and forget. She holds on to those volatile emotions. When she unleashes them, look out.
Tomasetti returns her stare, silent, giving her nothing in terms of response.
“Where does this leave us?” I ask.
He shrugs. “We let BCI and the FBI do their jobs,” he tells me. “I’ll talk to Denny when I can make it to Columbus. Keep digging around on my end.”