A few minutes later, while the children are helping Adam set up a cot for Sammy in the mudroom, so the boy can “keep an eye on the calf” overnight, Gina and I stand in the living room at the front window, looking out at the storm.
“So what’s the story on Adam?” she asks.
“I’ve known him since I was a kid. We lost touch when I left. He’s a good guy.”
“I haven’t seen a wife.”
“She died.” I look at her, wondering about her curiosity. “They used a midwife here at the house and there was some kind of medical emergency during childbirth.”
“Did the kid…”
I shake my head. “A baby boy. He didn’t make it.”
“That’s a tough break,” she says. “Losing two people in one day. How long ago did she die?”
“A couple years,” I reply, remembering the funeral, a stone-faced Adam, and the utter silence of the children as they’d clung to him and watched their mamm laid to rest for all of eternity.
“The Amish believe in life beyond death,” I tell her. “That’s a comfort when you lose someone.”
“I’ve never been big on the whole faith thing.”
I offer her a half smile. “If you were Amish I suspect you’d get excommunicated pretty quickly.”
She laughs. “You know, Kate, for an Amish dude, Adam’s a nice-looking guy. Is he—”
“He’s off-limits,” I say before she can finish.
She stares at me, weighing my response. “Well, damn, Burkholder, it’s not like I’m going to jump his bones or something.”
When I say nothing, she moves closer to the window, parts the covering, and peers outside. “For what it’s worth, I don’t do that anymore.”
“He’s from a different world than we are,” I tell her. “He’s religious. There are a lot of rules. People making judgments. That’s all I’m going to say about it.”
“Forget I asked.” Sighing, she looks out at the snow. “Any idea how much longer this damn storm is going to last?”
“I checked the weather app on my cell a couple hours ago. It’s supposed to let up tomorrow.”
“If someone finds that truck, it won’t take them long to find me.”
“We’ll get to it as soon as we can. Pull you out of the ditch and bring it back here. As it is now, we don’t even know when the roads will be passable.”
At the mention of the coming day, the weight of the situation we face settles over me, as dark and cold as the storm outside. “We’re going to have to make some decisions,” I tell her. “Figure out how to handle this. Do you have an attorney?”
She shakes her head. “Never needed one.”
“You do now. A good one.”
Giving a final look at the whiteout conditions, she drops the window covering and faces me. “They’re going to bury me, Kate. They’re going to frame me for murdering Eddie Cysco. They’re going to produce or manipulate evidence to back up whatever story they decide to push and they’re going to make it convincing. They won’t stop there. They’re going to pile everything they can on me.”
I stare at her, part of me believing her and wanting to help. Another part resists the urge to shake her, shout at her, tell her she never should have compromised herself or gotten involved with cops she knew were corrupt.
“You haven’t exactly helped your cause,” I tell her.
“If I could take back what I did, I would.” With a dry laugh, she says, “We both know you don’t get a do-over.” She blows out a sound of anguish. “Jesus Christ, the thought of jail time gives me the shudders.”
Even if she manages to garner immunity in exchange for information or testimony, she will never be fully exonerated. She’ll never work as a cop again. The stain of her past deeds will follow her the rest of her life.
“I suspect in the coming days, the investigators at BCI will want to talk to you,” I tell her. “If the FBI is involved, they’ll want to talk to you, too.”
“Yeah, well, they’re going to have to make me some kind of deal,” she says. “Maybe I ought to just run.”
We fall silent, the words zinging, all the things that could happen in the coming days playing in my head like some movie trailer and a story that doesn’t have a happy ending.
“Your credibility is a problem,” I tell her.
“What’s really scary is that these cops have the power to lay a dozen more crimes on me. Crimes that I had nothing to do with. Things they themselves did. They have access to everything. The ability to manipulate evidence. Intimidate people. You name it.”
I think about that a moment. “Is there someone you trust who might come forward or corroborate any of this?”
“I’ve been racking my brain.” Her laugh is a humorless sound fraught with hopelessness. “Pretty sad when you can count the number of people you trust on one hand.”
I wait.
“There’s a patrol cop,” she says. “He’s a decent guy. Has a family. I don’t know him well, but we’ve talked. I don’t know how involved he is. But I do know he’s privy to some of what’s going on. I got the impression he doesn’t approve of what he’s been seeing. He’s a rookie. Doesn’t want to screw up his career.”
“Does Mr. Decent Guy have a name?”
“Jack Tyson.”
“Why didn’t you tell Tomasetti about him?”
“Tyson is a long shot.” She offers a crooked smile. “Now that I’ve had sufficient time to entertain the notion that this is the end of my life as I know it, I realized if there was ever a good time for desperate measures this is it.”
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.
“The lab isn’t exactly lightning fast to begin with, but this storm has slowed everything down to a crawl,” he tells me. “People can’t get to work. Like everyone else, the lab is operating on a skeleton crew.”
“Anything on the vice unit?” I ask.
“I’m not getting much. Either there’s nothing there, or they keep their secrets well guarded. I did speak to a guy I used to work with in Cleveland; he was a sergeant with the Columbus Division of Police. Retired now. Off the record, he says the vice unit has had an integrity problem for years.”
“Anything specific?”
“He either didn’t know or wouldn’t say.”
“Interesting that he wanted to keep it off the record.”
“Retired or not, no one in law enforcement wants to point a finger at another agency unless he’s damn sure he’s right.” He pauses. “Look, if the roads are open, I’m going to try to get out and make the drive to Columbus tomorrow. I set up a meeting with Denny. Closed door. If there’s an investigation and BCI is involved in any capacity, he’ll know about it.”
“Weather app says the storm will end in the morning.”
“True. But there’s a narrow window. Polar vortex is supposed to arrive by afternoon.”
I groan. “Tomasetti, you’re a fount of good news, aren’t you?”
“DOT says I-71 will be open tomorrow. One lane, but the plows will be out in full force throughout the night and working on all major thoroughfares. If I can make it to the interstate without getting blocked by a wreck or a stuck vehicle, I should be able to reach Columbus.”
“If it’s not too much trouble would you be careful?” I say.
“I’ll wear my superhero suit.”
“You don’t have a superhero suit.”
“That you know of.”
I’m feeling more optimistic when I end the call a few minutes later. My cell battery is low and, of course, there’s no electricity in the house, so I make a mental note to charge it in the Explorer come morning. I’m about to turn off the propane lamp and call it a night when I hear the shuffle of feet against the floor. I look up to see Gina emerge from the hall. She’s got a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Hair smushed on one side. Stocking feet. Her face is devoid of makeup, but somehow it only makes her look prettier.
Careful not to jar her injured shoulder, she settles into the chair across from me. “What the hell do people do around here at night without electricity?”
“Read. Sleep.” I shrug. “Talk to each other.”
“That’s a scary thought.” She hefts a cynical laugh. “If memory serves me, insomnia was one of the things we had in common.”
Leaving the lamp burning, I settle back onto the sofa and tug the blankets over my legs. “Doesn’t help that we have a lot on our minds.”
For a moment we listen to the wind rattle a loose pane of glass in the front window and the thump of something that’s been torn loose outside.
“House smells like … frickin’ cows,” she says quietly.
I smile. “Sammy’s sleeping in the mudroom with that calf.”
Her expression softens. “He is cute. I mean, Sammy. For a kid. I’m not usually a fan of, you know, little people.”
“I recall your aversion to children,” I say lightly.
She turns thoughtful. After a moment, she chuckles. “Do you remember that first big call we took over on Avondale?”
I’m not in the mood for a jaunt down memory lane. There’s too much history between us and not all of it is good. Still, it would be disingenuous of me not to admit there was fun, too.
I nod, let the memories rush over me. “The home-invasion call.”
“We’d been on the job for what? Six months?”
“One of the rare times we got to work together.”
“We were dying to see some action, make that first big arrest. Make a name for ourselves.”
“We definitely made a name for ourselves.”
“Not the kind we had in mind.” Gina chortles. “I’ll never forget the way that dude looked, running down the alley, buck naked, trying to pull up pants that were two sizes too small. One leg in, one leg out.”
“Some things can’t be unseen.”
She throws her head back and gives a raucous laugh. “Our big home-invasion arrest turned out to be a husband walking into his house with no idea his loving wife was upstairs doing the wild thing with another dude.”
“In his haste to get out of the house, Romeo grabbed her clothes instead of his own, and jumped out of the upstairs window.”
“Thinking there’s an intruder, the genius husband called 911.”
“His wife couldn’t exactly tell him what she’d been up to, so she let him report it as a home invasion.”
“Colorosa and Burkholder to the rescue.”
“Talk about a couple of geniuses,” I say. “Took us a while to straighten that one out.”
“First time I had to cuff a naked guy.”
We look at each other, grinning, and for a moment we’re partners again, best friends with no emotional baggage between us, no experience, and just enough youth that we’re not afraid to charge into our lives no holds barred.
“The detectives made fun of us for months,” I mutter.
“Called us the Naked Squad.”
“Title justifiably earned.”
Caught up in the memory, we look at each other and break into laughter. The release of tension that follows is palpable. But we’re older now, more than a little cynical, and we quickly fall silent, lost in the thoughts and memories compressing the space between us. We listen to the whistle of wind, the quiet patter of snow against the glass, trying not to acknowledge that the silence isn’t quite comfortable.
Gina turns her gaze on mine. “Those were the best days of my life.”
“We had some good times,” I concur.
“I didn’t appreciate it.”
“Young people never do. That’s part of youth.”
She nods, her expression sober. “Did you hear from Ken Mercer after you left?”
The muscles between my shoulders go taut at the mention of Mercer. I’d worked with him dozens of times in the years I was with the Columbus Division of Police. He was older. An experienced cop. A mentor. We were friends first and then lovers. We were only together a handful of times. But it was a handful of times too many.
“Never heard from him,” I say.
She tilts her head, her eyes probing mine, looking for something I’d prefer she not see. Like maybe she isn’t the only one who’s not proud of certain elements of her past. “He was crazy about you,” she says quietly. “Talked about you months after you left.”
“He was also a liar and a cheat.”
A smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “A charming liar and cheat. Not to mention good looking.”
I say nothing, holding her gaze. She stares back as if I’m some human contradiction that must be made to make sense. “Did you tell Tomasetti about him?”
“There’s nothing to tell. Mercer is ancient history and got filed under Mistake.” I shrug, trying to look nonchalant, not quite sure I’m succeeding. “It never came up.”
Her look turns knowing and one side of her mouth curves. “You were crazy about him, too.”
“I was twenty-four years old.”
“Youth and hormones can be a potent mix.”
“And I think that’s the end of this particular conversation,” I say, keeping my voice amicable.
“Okay.” When she speaks again, her voice is wistful. “We never talked about what happened. I mean, between us. When you left. We should have. I’ve always regretted that we didn’t.”
“I don’t think our discussing it would have changed anything,” I tell her. “Once you started down the wrong road, there was no stopping you.”
“You knew and yet you never told anyone. Why is that?”
You were my best friend. I loved you like a sister. I didn’t want to ruin your life. I don’t say the words aloud, but at the time all of them were true.
I study her face, the steady gaze and set mouth, and I wonder how honest she’s been with me. In the weeks before I left Columbus, I’d been faced with the biggest decision of my career. I spent months trying to move on, trying to forget about what she’d done, what I knew about her, and how I handled it. To this day I’m not certain I made the right choice.
It was the one and only time I looked the other way in the face of police wrongdoing. I kept what I knew—what I’d seen—to myself, and I didn’t tell a soul. Not because I approved, but because I’d known the truth would destroy her. It’s one of the reasons I left the Columbus Division of Police.
“I never thanked you for that,” she says.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
She nods. “If it’s any consolation, Kate, the circumstances weren’t exactly black-and-white.”
“Do not try to convince me that what you did was all right,” I say. “It wasn’t. Not then. Not now.”
The words hover in the air between us. A thousand more clog my throat, but I don’t dare say them aloud.
She breaks eye contact, then forces her gaze back to mine. “I didn’t realize what I was getting into. The depth of it. The wrongness. I didn’t know there would be no going back.”
It had been the beginning of the end of our relationship. A friendship that had been genuine and deep and untainted.
When I say nothing, she looks away, but not before I see the shame peek out from beneath the attitude and bravado. “If I could go back and change it, I would,” she whispers.
“Too late,” I say. “For a lot of things, the least of which is regret.”
“I fucked up my career. My life. Just about every relationship I’ve ever had. I’m sorry.”
I stare at her, trying to gauge her sincerity, wanting to believe her. Wanting to see just a glimpse of the woman I used to admire. The idealistic cop I’d spent so much time trying to emulate. It hurts knowing that part of her was quashed by something overbearing and dark, that it may no longer exist. That it may never have existed at all.
“You’d better get some sleep,” I tell her.
“Yeah.” Pulling the blanket more closely about her shoulders, she rises and leaves the room.