I’m standing at the front window, watching snow pile up on the sill, trying not to worry about Tomasetti making the drive, when I hear the whine of an engine. At first, I think the sound is Adam using some piece of equipment—a generator or snowblower—but then I catch a glimpse of a headlight and realize there’s a vehicle coming up the lane.
I’m wondering how the driver got past my Explorer when I see that it’s not a car or truck, but a snowmobile. A moment later a figure emerges from the white wall of snow. A man clad in a safety-orange and black snowsuit and helmet. I recognize the way he moves and feel a smile emerge as I open the door.
“You look like a well-dressed abominable snowman,” I say as Tomasetti takes the steps to the porch.
“That’s what all the lady Bumbles tell me.” Grinning at his usage of the cartoon character’s name, he unfastens the helmet and slips it from his head. “Been a long time since I drove a snow machine. Just about took out a mailbox on the corner.”
“Mailbox would have bested you.” I step back and he comes through the door.
“You underestimate the thickness of my skull.” Tomasetti enters the living room and works off his gloves.
The insulated suit is encrusted with snow. He looks down at his boots, at the snow that’s fallen onto the braided rug.
“There’s a mudroom,” I tell him.
“Lead the way.”
He follows me through the living room and kitchen and into a narrow space where half a dozen pairs of boots line the wall. Above, hooks set into the wall hold coats and scarves.
“There’s a woodstove in the corner.” I motion toward the old potbellied stove. “You can hang up that suit and it should dry pretty fast.”
He unzips the suit, steps out of it, and hangs it on the hook nearest the stove. I take in the sight of him as he toes off the boots. Faded jeans. Henley waffle-weave shirt covered with a flannel shirt. Dark, direct gaze already on mine.
“Where’s Colorosa?” he asks.
“Sleeping.” I motion toward the kitchen. “Have a seat. Adam made coffee. I’ll go get her.”
I enter the darkened sewing room to find Gina sleeping soundly. In light of her injured shoulder, the last thing I want to do is wake her, but I don’t have a choice.
“Gina.” I go to her, set my hand on her arm, and shake her gently. “Hey.”
She startles abruptly, springs to a sitting position, cries out in pain, and falls back onto the cot. “You scared the shit out of me,” she snaps.
“Get dressed. We need to talk.”
She stares at me, her breathing elevated; then she nods. I watch as she gingerly rolls from the cot and sits up. She’s wearing the same turtleneck and jeans. Dark hair a tangled mass about her shoulders. Socks on her feet, boots tucked beneath the cot.
I look around, spot the flannel shirt she’d been wearing on the back of a chair, and hand it to her. “It’s cold.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.” She slips it on slowly, wincing with each movement of her shoulder. “How long was I out?”
“A couple of hours. How are you feeling?”
“Like a snowplow ran over me.”
Before leaving, Joe Weaver fashioned a homemade sling for her arm. She reaches for it, fumbles to get it over her head, so I cross to her and help her slip her arm into it.
“Amish vet knows his stuff. I don’t think I thanked him, after.”
“I did,” I tell her.
She reaches for the knitted beanie on the table, pulls it onto her head. Jams her feet into her boots. “This house,” she says. “These people. Their clothes. I feel as if I’ve stepped into a time warp.”
“In some ways, you have.” I think about it a moment. “I don’t want them involved in this. The only reason you’re here now is because I can’t get you anywhere else at the moment.”
She nods. “As long as I don’t have to wear a damn bonnet, the Pilgrims and I will get along just fine.”
She follows me down the hall and into the kitchen. Tomasetti is standing at the sink, looking out the window. He turns when we enter the room, his expression impassive.
Gina eyes him suspiciously as she crosses to him, shakes his hand. “You must be John Tomasetti.”
Introductions are made and then she asks, “Kate filled you in?”
“She relayed to me the story you told her,” he returns evenly.
Moving with the sluggishness of a centenarian, she goes to the table, pulls out a chair, and gingerly lowers herself into it. Her face is pasty and pale, her lips are dry, her hands are not quite steady.
The three of us are alone in the house. Adam and the children went to the barn twenty minutes ago to check on a cow that’s about to calve. A single propane floor lamp in the corner casts minimal light, so I go to it and crank up the mantle. The room brightens marginally. I pour coffee into two mugs, hand one to Gina, and take the chair adjacent to her.
Facing us, Tomasetti leans against the counter, his eyes on Gina, and crosses his arms. “You know there’s a warrant out for your arrest.”
“I figured that out when they busted down my door at three A.M.” Using her left hand, she sips coffee. “So, what’s the warrant for?”
Tomasetti doesn’t respond, doesn’t look away from her. “You’ve got one chance to tell me what led up to this,” he tells her. “This is it. I need the truth. All of it. Do you understand?”
“I want immunity,” she says.
He laughs nastily. “You’re asking the wrong person.”
“I need some kind of guarantee.”
“You’re not going to get it from me,” he says with heat. “We’re all you’ve got. We are your best hope. At this point, I’d say we’re your only hope.” He glances at his watch. “If you’d rather take your chances with the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department, I will accommodate you. I will put you on that snowmobile and take you myself. Right now. Are we clear?”
She slants me a where-the-hell-did-you-find-this-guy glower, then looks down at the tabletop. Over the next minutes, she relays the same story she told me earlier.
He pulls out a small notebook. “I need names.”
“Damon Bertrand. Ken Mercer. They’re part of the vice unit. Frank Monaghan is—”
“I know who he is.” He scribbles on the pad. “Tell me about the vice unit.”
“It’s an elite group. The men I mentioned are its golden boys. They’re making a lot of busts. Good busts. Getting recognized. Riding high. Making the unit—and the department—look good. They get a lot of kudos from the brass. The media loves them. They’re heroes. Untouchable.” She shakes her head. “Even before I came on board there were rumors.”
“What rumors?”
“That there are a few bad eggs in the unit. That we have patrol cops and detectives shaking down drug dealers and pimps and anyone else they have something on. We’re talking money. Property. Cars. Boats. Sex. You name it. I know a couple of cops were under investigation a while back, but it never went anywhere and the higher-ups didn’t seem to be too worried about it.”
“How do you know they were under investigation?” Tomasetti asks.
“Rumor mostly. Internal Affairs was asking a lot of questions.”
“Did IA talk to you?”
“No.”
“How involved are you?”
Her eyes skitter away from his. Not for the first time I get that scratchy sensation on the back of my neck. Something there, a little voice whispers in my ear, and with every beat of silence that follows, I can practically hear the nails being driven into her proverbial coffin.
When she doesn’t respond, I say her name. “Answer the question.” What didn’t you tell me?
“I screwed up,” she snaps. “I … took some cash. I looked the other way while other cops did the same thing—and worse.”
Tomasetti makes a sound of disgust. I feel that same sentiment burning in my chest. Tension slices the air between us. For the span of several minutes no one speaks.
She played you, that little voice whispers, but I slam the door on it, shut it up.
Gina rakes the fingers of her uninjured hand through her hair. “First time, it happened during a bust. Team went in with a warrant. It was dicey. A lot of adrenaline. There was a bunch of cash laid out on the kitchen table. Thousands of dollars. All of it unaccounted for. Instead of logging it into evidence, the cops divvied it up.”
“Who?”
“Bertrand and Mercer.”
“Did you report it?”
Her mouth tightens. “No.”
“How much did you take?”
“A couple thousand.”
“Tell me how they operate.”
“They’re tight-knit. Gung-ho. Known for pushing boundaries and getting things done. In the years since the unit was created, they’d cultivated relationships with the prostitutes and drug users, pimps, small-time dealers. They used those relationships to go after the big dogs, the traffickers, the high-volume guys. Once they got those relationships in place and the pecking order figured out, they started shaking down the guys with money.”
“So, they were extorting drug dealers.” It’s not a question.
“They extort any criminal who has something they want.”
Tomasetti stares hard at her. “And you’re willing to testify against them.”
“For immunity.”
He humphs. “Why turn on them now when you’re receiving a piece of the pie?”
“Look,” she says with heat. “I got that money shoved into my hand. Yeah, I took it. But I got sucked into this. They wanted me to commit and they wouldn’t take no for an answer. Once I did, I was in. They told me to keep my mouth shut and I did.”
“Answer the question, Gina,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t look at me. “Like I told Kate, they went too far. Lying on affidavits. Getting bullshit warrants from judges.” She tells him about the couple that was killed. “I wanted no part of it after that.”
“Noble of you,” Tomasetti says. “Or maybe you realized the ship was going down and you figured you’d save your own neck.”
Temper flares in her eyes. “I’m here because I’m trying to do the right thing. I can’t do it on my own. If you’re not up to helping me out, say the word.”
“It’s interesting that the day an arrest warrant is issued for you you decide to come clean,” he says.
“That warrant is some fantasyland bullshit.” She sets her hand on the table, starts to rise, ends up wincing in pain. “If they’d gotten their hands on me, I wouldn’t have survived.”
Tomasetti stares at her, unmoved. “Is that why you murdered Eddie Cysco? Because they used his name on the warrant?”
Gina lurches to her feet, her eyes darting from Tomasetti to me and back. “What? Eddie Cysco? That’s not possible. I just talked to him. A couple days ago. What the hell are you talking about?”
“You are a suspect,” he tells her. “The weapon they confiscated from your residence is being tested. If ballistics match, you are going down for murder and a slew of other charges, and there isn’t a soul on this earth who can save you.”
“I did not kill Eddie Cysco!” Something akin to panic flashes in her eyes.
“So you say,” he mutters.
Visibly struggling for calm, she divides her attention between the two of us. “Cysco was part of this. He was the source named on the affidavit that got Louis and Sandra Garner killed. For God’s sake, he was proof that someone inside the unit lied on that affidavit, that two innocent people were killed, and that the unit covered it up.”
Tomasetti stares at her, saying nothing.
Gina continues. “Eddie Cysco had no knowledge of that couple. No connection whatsoever. He didn’t know them. Had never been to their residence. The unit needed probable cause for that warrant, so they used him.”
Gripping the side of the table with her uninjured hand, she sinks back into the chair, seeming to work through the possibilities. “They knew he was my snitch. In terms of that bogus warrant and his connection to me, he was a loose end. They didn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut, so they killed him.”
“Tell me about Cysco,” Tomasetti says.
“He was a lowlife.” Gina makes the statement without malice. “He was a small-time dealer. A junkie. Estranged from his family.” Eyes burning with conviction, she looks at Tomasetti. “No one’s going to ask questions when someone like that turns up dead.”
“Why did they turn on you when, evidently, you were content to take the cash and keep your mouth shut,” he asks.
“After the Garner fiasco, I made the mistake of letting them know I wanted out. They stopped trusting me. At some point they decided I was a liability.”
His mouth twists. “Because you had a sudden attack of conscience?”
She glares at him, saying nothing.
“You said you had an audio recording,” I say.
Reaching into her jeans pocket, she pulls out a smartphone. The screen is cracked, but it doesn’t look too damaged to function. She swipes through several pages, taps a button, and holds the phone out to me.
I take it, tap the play icon. The video is little more than a collage of monochrome shadows. The audio is scratchy and faint. A female voice.
“What the hell happened to Louis and Sandra Garner?” Gina’s voice. Angry. Distraught.
“You pull a gun on a cop, you get shot.” Male voice. Familiar. “That’s the way it works.”
“I heard that’s not how it went down.”
“No one gives a damn what you heard. Those fuckers were armed. We confiscated four ounces of heroin. It was a good bust. We did what we had to do.”
“People are asking questions about that warrant.”
“It’ll die down.”
Something unintelligible and then, “People are asking questions about you, too, Gina.”
“You mean Bertrand?”
“I mean everyone. They’re saying you can’t be trusted. Is that true? Do I need to be worried about you?”
The sound of her laugh has an unpleasant edge. “Maybe I ought to be worried about you.”
Rustling in the background sounds and then, “Keep it up and you’ll go the way of the Garners. You got that?”
The clip ends abruptly. I play it again, turn up the volume, run it a third time, trying to make out the garbled words, but no luck.
“That could be interpreted a number of ways,” I say.
“Bullshit,” she hisses. “I mentioned Bertrand and he responded. You recognize the voice?”
I nod. “Nick Galloway.”
“In case you’re not reading between the lines, he threatened me.”
Tomasetti pulls out his cell. “I’m sending you my number. See if you can forward that recording to me,” he says.
“What about my guarantee?”
“There isn’t one.” He clocks her with a hostile look. “Send it. Now.”
“I’m not going to let you railroad me.” Tossing him a drop-dead glower, she taps the screen with her index finger. “I want immunity and I want it in writ—”
She cuts the word short when we hear the back door slam. The kitchen window shudders with the change in pressure. Boots sound on the floor. The rustle of coats being hung. The chatter of children speaking in Deitsch. Adam Lengacher appears in the doorway, takes in the sight of us sitting at the table, the lingering tension in the air. Not for the first time, I feel as if we’re intruding, as if we’ve brought something profane into his home, a toxin his family shouldn’t be exposed to.
I introduce the two men and they shake hands.
“You’re a police?” Adam asks.
“With the State of Ohio,” Tomasetti tells him.
Adam’s eyes flick to Gina, the sling strapped over her shoulder. “You’re feeling better?”
She nods. “I’ll be sure to thank Joe next time I see him.”
“Suzy had her baby calf!” Sammy interjects. The boy’s cheeks are blushed with pink. He’s got bits of hay in his hair, more stuck on a face that’s wet with melting snow.
“He’s cold, but he’s going to be okay,” Lizzie tells us.
“We put them in the warmest stall and put down extra straw.” This from Annie.
“Datt said we might have to bring him in the house,” Sammy adds.
“What about the misht?” Annie asks, using the Deitsch word for manure.
Grinning, Sammy pokes her shoulder. “You have to pick it up.”
“No!” the girl squeals, but she’s on to his prank.
The sight of the children’s banter warms me, reminds me of an era of my own life when things were simpler and a lot more innocent.
“I’m glad mama cow and her kalb are okay,” I tell them.
“He’s black with one white ear and one black one,” Lizzie tells me.
“We’re going to name him Lucy,” the youngest girl puts in.
Sammy snickers. “But he’s a boy!”
Lizzie puts her hand on her little sister’s shoulder. “We’re going to call him Leroy, not Lucy.”
Adam brings his hands together. “Sammy, I think there might be some snow on the front porch that needs shoveling.”
The boy grins, suddenly shy, and he slinks past us into the living room.
“Lizzie and Annie, this is a good day to beat rugs. Upstairs and down. Go on now. Hang them just outside the door. Use that old broom.”
Joining hands, the two girls leave the kitchen.
An awkward silence ensues when the children are gone. The sense that we’ve overstayed our welcome sits like a brick in the pit of my stomach. I don’t like that this man and his family have been dragged into the situation with Gina. But I don’t know how to remedy it. Other than loading Gina onto the snowmobile and transporting her to the farm where Tomasetti and I live in Wooster—or the police station in Painters Mill—there is no viable solution. At least not until the storm abates.
Gina breaks the silence. “Adam, I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done. You saved my life. You opened your home to me.”
“You were lost and cold and hurt,” he tells her.
“The circumstances were questionable,” she admits, “and yet you stepped in anyway. Thank you.”
“The only time to look down on your neighbor is when you’re bending over to help them.” His gaze moves to the sling. “Joe is a good doctor, no?”
“Best animal doctor I’ve ever been to.” She grins and, in that instant, looks like the woman I knew all those years ago. The one who was anxious to make her mark. The young police officer who would never compromise her ethics. Once again, I’m reminded of the seriousness of the charges against her and the possibility that I’m too personally involved to see the situation clearly.
“Where’s your vehicle?” Tomasetti asks her.
“I’m not sure. It was dark and snowing like crazy. I had no idea where I was.” Gina looks at Adam and raises her brows.
The Amish man nods. “A couple of miles north on Township Road 36. It’s in the ditch. Twenty feet off the road.”
“Sheriff’s department finds an abandoned vehicle and they’ll call in the plate.” Tomasetti slants a look at Gina. “What’s the plate going to tell them?”
“That it belongs to a man by the name of Phillip Rifkin from Westerville.”
Tomasetti sighs. “You thought of everything, didn’t you?”
“Everything except this storm,” she returns evenly.
“There’s not much traffic out that way,” I point out. “Sheriff’s department is likely operating on a skeleton crew due to the storm. That’s not to mention the roads are impassable. I don’t think anyone is going to be patrolling the secondary roads until the storm lets up.”
Gina startles when the wind rattles the kitchen window. She recovers quickly, sends me a tense look. “I know this is a bad situation.” Her eyes move from me to Tomasetti. “All I ask is that you look into the things I’ve told you. When the time comes, I’ll do everything in my power to back it up.”
She turns her attention to Adam. “I know my presence has disrupted your home. I know the circumstances must be confusing and upsetting for your children, and I’m sorry for that.”
“The Amish do not turn away anyone in need. You are welcome to say until the storm passes. Both of you.” He says the words with earnestness, but when he looks at me, I see hesitation, and I know the part of him that is bound by Amish norms is at war with the part of him that is a father.
Nodding, he re-zips his coat. “I’m going to give Samuel a hand.”
When he’s gone, Tomasetti addresses Gina. “You know you’re a fugitive.”
She looks down at the tabletop. “Yeah, I got that,” she says dryly.
He moves away from the counter and looks down at her. “If you’ve lied about any of this, I will make it my mission in life to bury you. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” she says.
I walk Tomasetti to the front door. He’s back in the snowsuit, the helmet at his side, looking as troubled as I feel. Neither of us is thinking about the weather anymore.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I think this is a clusterfuck.” He grimaces. “The only reason she’s not in the county jail right now is because I know there’s some kind of ongoing investigation involving the vice unit.”
“Do you think she’s telling the truth?” I ask.
He takes his time answering. “I believe the scenario she laid out is plausible. Whether we’re getting the whole story…” He shrugs. “Her assertion that there were questions about the warrant in which the Garners were killed is correct, by the way. Most judges won’t sign off on a warrant based on the word of a CI. I need to call in some favors, apply some pressure if I can. If this investigation is being led by another agency, my getting anything concrete is going to be tough.”
“How do you feel about the audio recording?”
“I think it could be interpreted a number of different ways. Useful for the time being. If this moves forward, it could garner some interest. Likely inadmissible if this thing ever goes to court. Bottom line, it’s not enough.”
From where we’re standing, I can hear young Sammy on the porch outside chatting with his datt, his shovel scraping across the wood planks. The heavy curtains are parted slightly, and I can see him running the shovel across the floor, pitching the snow over the rail. It’s more play than work, but then that’s the Amish way.
“Where do we go from here?” I ask.
“I’ll see what else I can find out or verify.” Sighing, he turns to me, his expression grim. “Kate, you know I have to talk to my superiors about this.”
Of course I knew that would be the case. Cops don’t harbor fugitives from the law—even if said fugitive is a cop with a story to tell. Still, a sense of unease moves through me, because involving BCI will invariably complicate an already complicated—and delicate—situation.
“I’ll start with Denny McNinch,” he says, referring to the special agent supervisor, his boss.
McNinch and Tomasetti have a complex relationship and they’ve had their differences in the years they’ve worked together. Both men have strong personalities and no compunction about speaking their minds, even when their opinions differ. They’ve weathered difficult times; McNinch has seen Tomasetti at his worst—and most vulnerable—namely in the months after a career criminal murdered Tomasetti’s wife and two little girls eight years ago. But McNinch is as much politician as he is cop. He was fair while Tomasetti worked through his losses—defending him even when his work suffered—but McNinch has a reputation for protecting himself first and foremost.
“I have no idea how this is going to play out.” He tilts his head, lowers his voice. “I’m usually pretty good at getting a handle on someone. I couldn’t get a read on Colorosa.”
“She’s always had a good poker face.”
“Maybe a little too good,” he says. “Can she be trusted?”
It’s the million-dollar question. A complex and deeply personal one that’s hounded me since the moment I laid eyes on her. A question I can no longer avoid. The years I spent with her, the friendship we shared, flashes unbidden in my mind’s eye. All of it is tempered by the things I know about her now, the things I would have done differently, the way our friendship ended, and I realize that my uncertainty is an answer unto itself.
“I don’t think we’re getting the whole story,” I say after a moment.
“I guess that’s a good enough answer for now.” He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Do me a favor and watch your back, will you?”
I try to smile, but my lips don’t quite manage. “Tomasetti, I don’t believe she’s a danger to me or anyone else.”
He holds my gaze, saying nothing. The silence between us is nearly as loud as the storm outside.