Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

“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.”

CHAPTER 21

Corina Srinvassen couldn’t wait to get on the ice. She’d fantasized about it all through her eighth-grade history class. Through literature class, health class with Mr. Trump where they learned about STDs, lunch with Lori Jones and study hall beneath the watchful eye of Mrs. Filloon aka Scary Bitch.

When the three-twenty bell rang, Cori hit the door running. She planned her routine on the long bus ride home. She was going to try the double twist today. She was alone, after all; no one to laugh at her if she fell on her butt. By four-fifteen she’d changed clothes and slipped out the door before her mother could stop her.

The sky hovered heavy and low as she trudged through the woods toward the pond. The ice would be rough today. That happened when snow fell, melted and refroze. There was no way around Mother Nature’s quirks. One of these days Cori was going to have the money to go to an indoor skating rink in some fancy mall. The kind that was surrounded by swanky shops and the Zamboni kept the ice as smooth as glass.

Slinging her skates over her shoulder, Cori crested the hill and Miller’s Pond loomed before her like a big tarnished nickel. She ran down the embankment toward the lacing stump and kicked off her boots. Cold snaked through all three pairs of socks, and by the time she’d laced up, she was shivering. Pulling on her mittens, Cori wobbled down the bank, stepped onto the ice and pushed off. The rough surface didn’t slow her down. In that instant she was Michelle Kwan. The winter-dead cattails were adoring fans brought to their feet by the grace and beauty of the young skater from Painters Mill, Ohio.

A pang of excitement went through Cori with that first, heady rush of speed. Closing her eyes, she raised her arms like a ballet dancer and took flight. She was one with the ice. A bird in an endless sky, spinning and dipping and free-falling to her heart’s delight. She wasn’t sure how long she skated. When Cori looked around, the sky had darkened even more. Snow, she thought as her skates bumped along the frozen shore. She was trying to find the best spot to try her double twist when the low rumble of an engine interrupted. Curious, she skated to the north end of the pond and trudged up the earthen dam. A short distance away, she caught a glimpse of a snowmobile disappearing into the woods. Weird, she thought, and wondered why someone would drive all the way out here and then leave so quickly.

She was about to resume skating when something in the snow drew her eye. A garbage bag, she realized. The snowmobile guy had dumped a bag of trash. Stupid litterbug. Then she remembered her friend Jenny telling her about people dumping kittens. She hated animal abusers even more than litterbugs.

Not wanting to take the time to remove her skates, Cori walked awkwardly over the tufts of frozen mud. Her blades clanked against the ground as she made her way across the dam and down the embankment. There was no way her mom would let her keep a whole litter of kittens. She could probably give one to Lori; her mom liked cats.

A few yards from the bag, Cori noticed something red spilled in the snow. It looked like paint, but her stomach suddenly felt funny, like when you woke up at night from a bad dream. That was when she remembered the kids on the bus making up scary stories about a dead woman. Her mom had told her not to go to Miller’s Pond today. She’d told her she didn’t want her on the ice alone. But Cori knew that wasn’t the real reason, and she wished she hadn’t sneaked away.

Pulling out her cell phone, Cori started toward the bag. Every now and then she looked toward the woods to see if there was anyone there. She listened for the snowmobile’s engine. But no one was there. Twenty feet away, recognition kicked her brain. Horror like she’d never before known in her young life sent a scream pouring from her throat. Seeing a real-life dead body was nothing like in the movies.

Cori stumbled back, tripped on her skates and went down hard on her butt. “Ohmigod!” She scrambled to her feet. Her finger shook when she hit the speed dial button for home. “Mom! I’m at the pond! There’s a dead lady!”

“What?” Somewhere far away, she heard her mother’s voice. “Oh God, Cori. Honey, get out of there!”

“I’m scared!”

“Run, honey. Take the path. Stay on the phone. Daddy and I are coming.”

Too afraid to stop and remove her skates, Cori took off as fast as her feet would carry her toward the long path home.

I’ve been in McNarie’s Bar more times than I care to admit. When I was sixteen, I had my first taste of Canadian Mist from some biker who was either too stupid or too drunk to realize I was a minor. I smoked my first Marlboro in the ladies’ room with Cindy Wilhelm that same year. Had my first kiss from Rick Funderburk in the back seat of his Mustang in the parking lot when I was seventeen. I probably would have had sex that night had my father not shown up in the buggy and dragged me home. It doesn’t take long for a determined Amish girl in full self-destruct mode to unlearn the values her parents had so painstakingly instilled.

As an adult, I’ve stopped in a time or two. The bartender, a gorilla-size, red-haired man I know only as McNarie, is a good listener. He has a decent sense of humor and makes one hell of a vodka and tonic.

I push open the door and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior. I smell cigarette smoke and that old-beer reek common to bars. I spot Tomasetti slouched in a booth. An empty shot glass and two full ones sit on the table in front of him. I’m not surprised.

A stout woman behind the bar eyes me like a dog watching some stray slink into its yard. I give her a nod and start toward the booth.

Tomasetti looks up when I approach. “Glad you could make it, Chief. Have a seat.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Having a drink. I ordered one for you, too.”

“We don’t have time for this.” I look down at the shot glass and resist the temptation to splash it in his face. “Take me back to the station.”

“We need to talk.”

“We can talk at the station.”

“More private here.”

“Goddamn you, Tomasetti.”

“Sit down. You’re drawing attention to yourself.”

Despite my efforts not to, I’ve raised my voice. A combination of stress, lack of sleep, and a subtle, crawling fear have gotten the best of me. “Take me back to the station. Right fucking now.”

He picks up the shot glass and hands it to me.

I ignore it. “I swear to God I’ll call your superiors. I’ll file a complaint. You and your bad attitude will be out the door so fast you won’t know which end is up.”

“Calm down,” he says, “I ordered a couple of sandwiches. If you want to get them to go, that’s fine.”

I walk to the bar and lean toward the saloon doors that lead to the kitchen. “We’d like those sandwiches to go!” I call out.

A young man who looks too dirty to be anywhere near food comes out and gives me a nod. I go back to the booth and slide in across from Tomasetti.

“You like riddles, Chief?”

“Not particularly.”

“I’ve got one I could use your help with.”

I look at my watch.

“There’s this cop,” he says. “Pete.”

I ignore him.

“Pete’s a good cop. Experienced. Smart. Anyway, there’s this killer loose in the town where he’s a cop. This killer has already murdered two people. Pete knows he’s going to do it again.”

I glare at him. “Are you going somewhere with this?”

“I’m getting to the riddle part.” He picks up the shot glass, drinks it down, and eyes me over the rim. “The twist is that sixteen years ago there were four murders with exactly the same MO committed in this town. And then, bam! the killer disappeared off the face of the earth. Why would this cop, Pete, refuse to believe the killer from sixteen years ago is back? He’s a reasonable guy. What are the odds that two killers with exactly the same MO would haunt this same town? Why would Pete be reluctant to ask for assistance from other law enforcement?”

I want to give him a smart-assed reply, but for the life of me I can’t think of one. “Maybe Pete thinks the killer is a copycat.”

He nods as if considering, but I know he’s not. “When I tell this riddle, most people think Pete’s hiding something.”

“Like what?”

“That’s what makes this such a good riddle.” He shrugs. “I was hoping you could help me get inside his head and figure it out.”

I feel my pulse throbbing at my temples. I remind myself there’s no way he could know what happened, but the reassurance is little comfort. I’ve underestimated John Tomasetti. He isn’t just a figurehead with a badge. He’s a cop with a cop’s suspicions and the resolve to get to the bottom of those suspicions no matter what it takes.

“I’m not very good at riddles,” I say.

“I think Pete’s hiding something.” He shrugs. “I thought he might come clean if the right person asked.”

All I can think is How does he know? “You’re full of shit, Tomasetti.”

He smiles, but it’s the cunning smile of a shark. A big one with bottomless black eyes, sharp teeth and an unfailing killer instinct. Leaning back in the booth, he studies me as if I’m some lab experiment gone wrong. “So how did you go from being an Amish farm girl to a cop? That’s one hell of a leap.”

The quick change of topic throws me, but only for an instant. “Just trying to buck the system, I guess.”

“Anything in particular inspire you?”

I’m saved from having to answer when my phone chirps. “I gotta take this,” I say and hit the Talk button.

“We-got-another-body!” Lois’s voice blasts over the line like a foghorn.

I stand so abruptly, I bump the table and knock over a glass. “Where?”

“Miller’s Pond. Petra Srinvassen’s girl was skating out there and found it.”

I’m out of the booth and running toward the door. I hear Tomasetti behind me, his boots heavy against the floor.

“Are they still at the pond?” I hit the door with both hands. I barely notice the dark sky or the cold as I run toward the Tahoe.

“I think so.”

“Tell them to be careful. Tell them not to touch anything or disturb any tracks. I’m on my way.”

CHAPTER 22

John had always been a suspicious son of a bitch. Once upon a time that was one of the traits that made him a good cop. He didn’t give a damn where those suspicions took him. He’d arrest his own grandmother if she crossed the line. He supposed that was why it came as a shock to realize he didn’t like the suspicions creeping over him when it came to Kate Burkholder.

Experience had taught him that people let you see only what they wanted you to. Whether they succeeded in that all too human art of deception depended on a couple of things. How good an actor they were. And how good you were at judging character. John had always considered himself a damn good judge of character.

By all accounts, Kate Burkholder seemed like a straight shooter with just enough edge to make the hard choices when the chips were down. But John sensed a thin layer of ambiguity beneath that girl-next-door exterior. She might project an air of moral resolve, but his gut was telling him there was more to the formerly Amish chief than met the eye. If it hadn’t been for the note, he might have let it go. Now, he couldn’t. He was pretty sure she was hiding something. But what? The question rolled around inside his head like a lone die as he jacked the speedometer to eighty.

“Right at the stop sign,” she said.

He braked hard and made the turn, tossing a sidelong glance at Kate. “You might want to get on the horn and get some of your guys out there,” he said. “Our man might still be in the vicinity.”

Shaking herself as if from a dream, she hit her lapel mike and quickly set up a perimeter. “Turn left.” She directed him to a narrow back road that had yet to see a snowplow. John drove too fast and the Tahoe obliged by fishtailing around a curve.

“Slow down.”

“I got it.”

“I don’t want to end up in the ditch,” she said testily.

“I don’t do ditches.” The Tahoe bumped over a snowdrift. John slowed for a turn, caught sight of the Dead End sign ahead and let off the gas.

“Here. Stop.”

The Tahoe skidded to a halt two feet from the weathered wood guardrail. Tomasetti scanned the area. No cars. No tracks. “How far to the scene?”

“Quarter mile.” She pointed. “There’s a path through the woods.”

“We’ve got to hoof it?”

“Shortest route.”

“Shit.”

They disembarked, both pausing to look for tire tracks. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here,” he said.

“There’s another road on the other side of the field.” She fumbled the radio on her lapel. “Glock. I’m 10-23. Hogpath Road. Use Folkerth. If this guy’s still around you might be able to cut him off there. Watch for tracks.”

Kate led him to the mouth of a path cut into the trees.

“There’s another way in?” he asked.

“If you have a snowmobile and wire-cutters, you could go in from any direction and not be seen.”

With Kate in the lead, they set off at a jog. At one time in his life, John had been in good physical condition. He’d lifted weights and run ten miles a week. But the self-destructive lifestyle he’d indulged in for the last two years had taken a toll. A hundred yards in, he was breathing hard. Another fifty and he got a stitch in his side that felt more like a heart attack. Kate, on the other hand, seemed to be in her element. Long strides. Good form. Arms pumping in perfect cadence with her feet. A runner, he thought. He noticed something else about her, too. The tempo of her footfalls actually increased the closer they got to the scene.

Around them, the trees and snow cast them into a weird black-and-white twilight. John tried to listen for their quarry, but all he heard was the roar of blood in his ears and his own labored breathing. Just when he thought he was going to have to stop, the trees opened to a clearing. Beyond, a large frozen pond reflected a slate sky. Three people huddled a few feet from the bank. A man in a denim jacket, a woman in a down coat and a girl wearing ice skates.

Kate pointed. “That’s them.”

“Any reason we should be suspicious of them?”

Shaking her head, she started toward them. “They’re a nice family.”

John knew even nice families kept secrets.