After the Storm

by Linda Castillo

  “I take it you got nothing from the Kaufmans or Klines?” he says.

  “A few lies, maybe.” I tell him about my conversation with Abigail Kline. “I think she’s the girl Nolt was seeing when he was killed.”

  “You think she knows what happened to him?”

  “I think she knows more than she’s letting on.” Frowning, I look down at the sheet of paper he brought in. “I just have to figure out what it is.”

  “Hewitt Hog Producers was owned by Homer Hewitt from 1982 until they closed down in September 1997,” he tells me. “Homer Hewitt filed for bankruptcy that same year. The company had amassed some EPA violations. Couldn’t fix them and eventually went belly up. Leroy Nolt worked there from May of 1985 up until he disappeared.”

  “Interesting timing,” I say. “What did he do there?”

  “He actually worked in the office and helped out with some heavy machinery work.”

  “Any problems between Hewitt and Nolt?”

  “Not that I could find.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  I notice a Florida address for Hewitt. “When did he move to St. Petersburg?”

  He glances down at his notes. “Four years ago.”

  I nod. “What’s the status on the property?”

  “Currently abandoned. There’s been some talk that the new owner is going to turn it into a turkey farm, but there’s nothing in the works.”

  “Thanks for giving up happy hour to put all this together.”

  He grins. “Anytime, Chief.”

  Movement at the door draws my attention. I glance up, half expecting to see Jodie. Surprise ripples through me at the sight of Tomasetti standing in the doorway. “Hi, Chief.” He looks at Skid. “Skidmore.”

  “Agent Tomasetti.” Skid rises and the two men shake.

  “Anything new on your John Doe?” Tomasetti divides his attention between the two of us, including Skid in the conversation.

  “I was just telling Chief Burkholder about that old hog operation down in Coshocton County.”

  Tomasetti arches a brow.

  I fill him in on the highlights. “Considering the marks left on those bones, I thought it might be worth a look around.”

  “I agree.” He gives Skid a pointed look. “Might be a good idea to take someone with you.”

  Skid clears his throat. “Sure, Chief, uh … just let me know and I’m there.”

  We fall silent. Realizing that’s his cue to leave, Skid moves closer to the door. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks.”

  He tips his head at Tomasetti and then he’s gone.

  For the span of several seconds, I stare at the door, part of me wishing Skid hadn’t left so quickly.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been such an egocentric son of a bitch,” he begins.

  “I don’t know what to say to that.”

  “You could tell me I’m off the hook, or maybe let me know I’m being a little hard on myself.” One side of his mouth curves into a smile. “Then we could go home and have makeup sex.”

  I return his smile, but mine feels halfhearted. “I know this has been hard for you.”

  “Harder for you, probably. I’m sorry.”

  I nod and look down at the reports spread out on my desk, not really seeing them.

  “How are you feeling?” I look at him, not sure if he’s referring to the shooting and ensuing accident last night or my pregnancy. Then he touches the place between his eyes to indicate the cut on the bridge of my nose.

  “Better.” The tension that had crept into my shoulders begins to unravel. “I’ve been wearing my sunglasses.”

  “For the record, you look good in purple.”

  “Tomasetti, you’re full of shit.”

  “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

  “Probably not the last, either.”

  “Yeah.” Sighing, he shoves his hands into his pockets. “I was in the area and I thought, if you have time, I’d take you to dinner.”

  “In the area, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You have pretty good timing, because I’m starving.”

  “In that case, why don’t you close that file and shut down your computer? I know just the place.”

  * * *

  Two hours later Tomasetti and I are seated at Pier W, one of Cleveland’s most elegant and renowned restaurants. Cantilevered atop the cliffs in Lakewood, west of the city, the restaurant offers a stunning view of a brooding Lake Erie and the skyline to the east.

  After leaving the station, we’d made a quick stop at the farm, where I showered and spent ten minutes tearing through my closet, searching for something to wear that didn’t include denim or have the Painters Mill PD insignia emblazoned in the fabric. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve worn a dress in the last decade. Luckily, I kept the one I wore to my mamm’s funeral five years ago. It’s a simple black shift with three-quarter sleeves and a hem that falls to the knee. I dusted off the pair of plain black pumps at the back of my closet. A touch of makeup, and I was good to go.

  “No place for my mini Magnum,” I’d told Tomasetti as I emerged from our bedroom.

  “I’ll keep mine handy.” But his eyes swept over me. “You look nice.”

  “Can’t do anything about the black eyes.”

  “They’ll probably earn me some dirty looks.”

  I snorted. “You know, Tomasetti, you clean up pretty good yourself,” I’d told him. “I mean, for an old guy.”

  He was laughing when we walked out the door.

  I’d expected some overpriced steakhouse or seafood restaurant in Wooster. Not for the first time, Tomasetti surprised me when we hit the interstate and zipped north toward Cleveland. Now we’re sitting across from each other at a round table draped with white linen. A votive candle flickers on the tabletop between us. To my left, a restless Lake Erie tosses whitecaps onto the rocky shore. Leaving us with menus, the waiter hustles away.

  “So is this a date?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure we’ve actually done this before.”

  “We haven’t.” He glances over at me. “We should have.”

  I look out across the silver shimmer of the lake. In the distance, I see the silhouette of a freighter against the horizon. Seagulls wheeling and circling overhead. Farther out, the hazy flash of lightning from a summer storm. I’m not easily dazzled. But tonight, with the mesmerizing power of the lake, and the man I love sitting across from me, I feel that rare sparkle inside.

  “If you’re trying to impress me,” I tell him, “you’re succeeding.”

  “I was still working for the division of police when I discovered this place. A lot of locals come here. It’s low-key with great service.” He glances down at his menu. “Damn good seafood.”

  I nod. “There’s a whole part of your life I don’t know much about. You don’t talk about it.”

  “You know the important stuff.”

  The waiter returns and we order our food. Grilled walleye for me. Lake perch for Tomasetti. After refilling our water glasses, he leaves us again.

  “Anything else come in from the sheriff’s office today on the shooter?” he asks after a moment.

  “The partial on the cartridge didn’t match up with anything on AFIS.”

  “So he’s never been arrested,” he tells me.

  “Nick Kester has a sheet as long as my arm.”

  “What about his wife? Maybe she loaded the rifle for him.”

  “She’s not a match.”

  “Doesn’t mean he didn’t get someone else to do it.”

  “I know.”

  He nods, thinking. “What about the John Doe you’re working on? The remains? Have you been pushing someone who might’ve pushed back?”

  “I’ve been asking questions.” I think about that a moment and shake my head. “Amish mostly.”

  “A lot of Amish have .2
2 rifles.”

  “True, but I can’t see any of them doing something like that.”

  “No one ever does.” He picks up his water glass. “Who are your suspects?”

  Pleased to be on comfortable ground, I tell him everything I know about the case. “I’m getting some odd vibes from Abigail Kline. I’m pretty sure she lied about the quilt. She lied about not having any new quilts for sale, because she didn’t want me to see that she embroiders her initials on them.”

  “People don’t lie without a reason.”

  “I can’t prove it, but I think she was the woman involved with Nolt when he disappeared.”

  “Why would she lie about it?”

  “That’s where things get complicated. Abigail Kline is Swartzentruber, which is one of the most conservative sects of the Amish. Leroy Nolt was New Order Mennonite, which is pretty much on the opposite end of the spectrum. It’s generally frowned upon for Amish people to marry outside their church district, particularly if the person they choose is from a more liberal congregation. The gap between some of the church districts is huge, and a relationship between the two of them would have undoubtedly caused big problems, especially for Abigail.”

  “You think she lied simply because she doesn’t want anyone to know she was involved with Nolt?”

  I nod. “That’s certainly a possibility.”

  “But you think there’s more to it.”

  “I don’t think she killed him,” I tell him. “But she might know who did.”

  “She’s protecting them?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does Jeramy Kline fit into all of this?” he asks. “Or does he?”

  “If Nolt’s death was the result of some sort of love triangle gone bad…” I let my brain run with that train of thought. “Abigail Kline has known Jeramy since she was a kid. She always knew she’d marry him. Everyone expected it, and in the Amish community those kinds of expectations are taken very seriously.” I look at Tomasetti. “What if Leroy Nolt came along and screwed it up for Jeramy?”

  “I think you have a viable motive for Jeramy Kline to want Leroy Nolt gone for good.”

  “I’ve not been able to link them.”

  “You have the initials on the quilt. And didn’t Nolt’s sister see them together?”

  “Maybe I could check with Rachel Zimmerman and see if she can ID Abigail. But it’s been thirty years.”

  “Worth a shot.”

  The waiter returns with our food. Water for me. A nice sauvignon blanc for Tomasetti. Conversation lags while we dig in. I nearly groan at the delectability of the fish. “Tomasetti, you scored some major points tonight.”

  “I thought this might do it.”

  After several minutes, he goes back to the case. “What about Abigail Kline’s father? If it’s frowned upon to marry into a more liberal sect, he might have a pretty strong motive for wanting to get rid of Nolt.”

  I nod, finish chewing, and swallow. “I’m looking at him, too. He’s old and frail. Had a stroke a few years ago.”

  “Was he raising hogs back then?”

  “Naomi Kaufman told me they’ve never raised hogs.”

  “Even the righteous have been known to lie to get their necks out of a noose.”

  I tell him about the missing surgical plate. “Might be interesting to take a metal detector to the pens at their farm. If Nolt died there, the surgical plate could be there, too.”

  “You got enough for a warrant?”

  “Enough to ask for one. Don’t know if I’ll get it.”

  “You could always ask for permission to take a look around. You’d be surprised the things people agree to when you ask nicely.”

  “I might just do that.”

  “Kate, is Jeramy Kline or old man Kaufman capable of pulling off the attack on you last night?”

  “Kline certainly is, but I’ve talked to him. I don’t think he knows anything about Nolt.”

  “Unlike his wife.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And Kaufman?”

  I shake my head. “He’s frail and in a wheelchair. There’s no way he could pull off a decent shot and then get away so fast.”

  It isn’t until after dessert that the conversation turns back to us. Tomasetti is no nervous Nellie—far from it. In fact, he’s got the nerves of a steel building. But throughout dinner, I’ve sensed he was holding something back, or wanting to broach a subject and waiting for just the right moment to do it. By the time our waiter serves coffee, I’m more nervous than he is because I have no idea what he wants to talk about. If it’s good or bad or somewhere in between.

  The waiter has just laid the check on the table between us and wished us a good evening, when Tomasetti reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Kate.”

  “You’re not going to blindside me, are you?” I ask.

  “Probably.” He tries to smile, but his lips twist into an expression that looks more like a grimace, and I think Uh-oh. “Probably going to screw it up, too.”

  We stare at each other for an interminable moment and then he asks, “Maybe we ought to consider making things a little more permanent.”

  “You mean, our living arrangements?”

  “I mean us.”

  It’s the last thing I expected him to say. I stare at him, my heart pounding so hard I can’t speak. I do the only thing I can and choke out a laugh.

  His brows go up. I see amusement in his eyes, and I’m glad he has a sense of humor, because I’m sure laughter wasn’t the reaction he was anticipating.

  “You know, Kate, I’m kind of putting myself out there.” His words are lighthearted, but his eyes reveal a thread of uncertainty.

  “I’m just … surprised. Tomasetti, we haven’t talked about this.”

  “We should have.” He shrugs. “Things are different now. I think we need to talk about where we go from here. Figure out where we stand.”

  “You sure you’re not just stepping up to the plate because you knocked me up and you’re a stand-up guy?” I say after a moment.

  “I’m asking the woman I love if she wants to marry me.”

  I reach across the table and take his other hand. I haven’t had so much as a sip of wine, but my head is spinning. “Tomasetti, I don’t want you to propose marriage for the wrong reason. Just two days ago you weren’t happy about my being pregnant. You weren’t happy with me for letting it happen.”

  “It caught me off guard. That’s all.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you.” I smile, but my cheek quivers, giving away more than I intended. “Marriage is … a huge step. I want to be sure we do it for the right reasons.”

  “I know what I want.”

  “Contrary to popular belief, you’re also capable of doing something completely selfless if it’s the right thing to do and it involves someone you love.”

  “Are you telling me you don’t want to get married?”

  “I’m telling you that maybe we need to give this some time. A few days. A few weeks. I don’t think we should rush into anything, especially now.”

  “You’re not letting me down easy, are you?”

  “Not a chance.”

  He nods slowly, holding my gaze. “Just so you know, Kate, I’m not going to change my mind. And I’m not going anywhere. You can count on me.”

  “I’m counting on that.” Leaning across the table, I brush my mouth across his. “Let’s go home.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “Kate. Hey. Wake up.”

  I startle awake to gray light seeping in through my bedroom window. For an instant, I’m disoriented. Tomasetti is standing next to the bed. It feels like the middle of the night, but he’s dressed. Button-down shirt. Creased trousers. Tie that’s slightly askew. My phone in his hand.

  I push myself to a sitting position. “What?” A glance at the alarm clock tells me it’s past 7:00 A.M. “I overslept,” I mutter.

  “Your phone was ringing.” He smiles and passes me my cell phone. “It’s your dis
patcher.”

  Because I’m accustomed to receiving middle-of-the-night calls, I always turn up my ringtone before going to bed. This is the first time in the history of mankind that I didn’t hear it ring. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Bending, he kisses me atop the head.

  Clearing the cobwebs from my throat, I take the call. “Mona?”

  “Chief, I’m sorry to bother you so early. But I thought you’d want to know.… I took a call from Abigail Kline last night. There was some kind of medical emergency out at their farm, and Jeramy Kline was transported to the hospital.”

  I swing my feet over the side of the bed. “What happened to him?”

  “She said he got sick and had some kind of seizure.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “The hospital wouldn’t give out info, but one of the paramedics confirmed the seizure. I know you were just out at the Kline place, so I thought you might want a heads-up.”

  “Thanks for letting me know. I’m going to drive over to the hospital now.”

  * * *

  Ask any cop if he believes in coincidence, and he’ll respond with a resounding hell no. That’s particularly true if said coincidence involves a current case. Normally, a citizen being rushed to the ER for some unexplained illness certainly wouldn’t warrant the attention of the police. But Jeramy Kline isn’t just an ordinary citizen. He may or may not be involved in a thirty-year-old mystery in which a man was killed. Is his jaunt to the hospital related in any way to the case?

  While I’m not convinced either of the Klines were directly involved in the death of Leroy Nolt, they are not above suspicion. They’re aware of my interest, and I know from experience that many times police attention can evoke a great deal of stress. If Jeramy is guilty of wrongdoing and fears I’m closing in, he wouldn’t be the first to hurt himself to avoid arrest and prosecution. I’m speculating, of course, and his trip to the ER might be as benign as a simple case of food poisoning. But I’ve learned to follow my gut, and this morning my gut is telling me the timing of this stinks.

  It’s after 8:00 A.M. by the time I reach Pomerene Hospital. I arrive at the nurse’s station outside the ER to find a young woman in pink scrubs pecking at a keyboard with long French-tipped fingernails. “Oh, hi, Chief.” She slants me a smile. “You’re becoming a regular around here.”