The first trailer is actually a camper set in the bed of a pickup truck that’s jacked up on cinder blocks. I’m pretty sure the puddle beneath it is raw sewage. In the second lot, a blue and white trailer with a broken front window sits at a cockeyed angle. The condition of the homes disheartens me. The optimist inside me hopes this is a stop on the way to something better for the people living here. The part of me that is a realist—the part of me that has seen this scenario too many times to deny its existence—knows that for many, the buck stops here.
“Looks like ole Tuck is making all the right connections,” Tomasetti mutters as he idles down the street. “What’s that address?”
I glance down at the paper the waitress gave us back at the restaurant. “Robin Hood Lane. Lot fourteen.”
“Here we go.” He makes a quick right.
The curb at the second space we come to is marked with a faded Lot 14. An old van with a creased door sits in the narrow gravel drive. Tomasetti parks at the curb and shuts down the engine. “Home sweet home.”
“Looks like he’s there,” I say.
Tomasetti eyes the trailer. It’s a narrow rust bucket with a living room extension and a navy blue blanket covering the kitchen window. “You sure you want to do this?”
“We’re just going to ask him a few questions, right?”
“You know those are famous last words, don’t you?”
Casting him a grin, I get out and start toward the front door. I hear Tomasetti behind me as I take the steel stairs to the small landing. I wait for him to reach me before knocking.
A moment later the door swings open. I find myself looking at a thin man a few inches taller than me. He’s got a receding hairline and gray hair that’s pulled into a ponytail. He looks to be about sixty, but I suspect he’s closer to fifty, his body and face ravaged by hard living. Pale blue eyes, the whites of which are shot with red capillaries skitter from me to Tomasetti and back to me.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Kate Burkholder, the chief of police of Painters Mill over in Holmes County,” I begin. “This is agent Tomasetti from BCI.”
“I thought you guys looked like cops.” He looks past me and sneers at Tomasetti. “What’d I do now?”
“We’d like to ask you some questions about Angela Blaine.”
“What?” He cackles, the sound squeezing from his throat like a bubble through wet concrete. “Did you find her?”
I shake my head. “We’re looking into her disappearance and we were wondering if you could answer a few questions.”
“I don’t know what I can say that I ain’t already said a hundred times.” His eyes narrow. “What are you? Some kind of cold-case squad?”
“Something like that,” Tomasetti mutters.
“I understand you and Angela were in a relationship when she disappeared,” I begin. “Is that true?”
“Yeah, man, we were together.”
“Did you get along with her?” Tomasetti asks.
Miles frowns. “We had our ups and downs. Just like everyone else.”
“When’s the last time you saw her?” I ask.
“Day she went missing.”
“Anything out of the ordinary happen that day?” Tomasetti asks.
Miles sneers at him. “No, man, it was just like any other morning. I was working first shift back then. She was still in bed when I left.” He grimaces. “She was gone when I got home and I never saw her again.”
“Where were you working?”
“I was a welder down to the Peabody Machine Shop in Canton. My old boss is still there if you want to check.”
“Did Angela have a job at the time?” I ask.
“She was a waitress down to the Cracker Barrel off the highway. They closed up shop some ten years ago. Cops talked to everyone there.”
For the span of several seconds the only sound comes from the ticking of the Tahoe’s engine and the chatter of sparrows in the maple tree a few yards away.
“Do you have any idea what happened to her?” I ask.
His sigh is a tired sound that makes me wonder how many times he’s answered that particular question and how many times he wasn’t believed. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”
“Any theories?” Tomasetti puts in.
Miles studies him as if trying to decide if it’s a trick question. Tomasetti waits him out, retaining his best poker face, giving away nothing.
“She was pretty as hell,” Miles tells us. “Friendly to everyone and kind of naïve. Bad combination, especially when the restaurant where she worked got plenty of highway traffic. I always thought some guy … you know.” Another sigh. “I think that’s the first time I been asked that particular question. Cops around here never much cared for my opinion.”
“Any specific reason why you think something happened to her at the restaurant?” I ask. “Had someone bothered her there? Did she mention anything to you?”
He shakes his head. “I just know how people are.”
“And how’s that?” Tomasetti asks.
“Alls I’m saying is that there’re some freaks out there, man. They see a pretty girl like that…” He lets the words trail as if the complete sentence is too troubling to speak aloud.
“Some people think you did it,” Tomasetti tells him.
“I didn’t,” Miles snaps.
“You were a suspect,” I point out.
“They were wrong. I loved her. I did.”
“Is that why you beat the hell out of her?” Tomasetti asks amicably.
“That happened one time.” Eyes flashing rage, he stabs his index finger at Tomasetti. “Just once! I was young and stupid and I wish to God it never happened.”
“Were you jealous?” I ask.
Miles looks away. “I wanted her to quit her job and she didn’t want to. I didn’t like the way all those scummy sons of bitches looked at her. Can’t fault me for that.”
“As long as you didn’t take all that macho bullshit out on her.” Tomasetti’s voice is like steel.
“Is it possible she was seeing someone else?” I ask.
“She wadn’t the two-timing type,” he says. “Looking back, I just…” He lets his voice trail off.
“You just what?” I press.
“I guess I always wondered why a girl like her was wasting her time on a guy like me.” He shrugs. “I was kind of a loser back then.”
I hold his gaze, looking deeply into his eyes, seeking a trace of any of the things I was looking for when I knocked on the door. Lies. Sociopathic tendencies. My instincts usually serve me well when it comes to people, their agendas and the things they’re capable of; I’m generally a pretty good judge of character. I’m surprised to find that while Tucker Miles isn’t exactly an upstanding citizen or even a decent human being, I don’t think he’s lying about Angela Blaine.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Miles,” I say and we turn and walk away.
Back in the Tahoe, Tomasetti exits the trailer park and pulls onto the highway. “Not exactly a man-of-the-year candidate.”
“I was ready to crucify him,” I admit.
He slants me a wry smile. “Only you think he’s telling the truth.”
“Don’t you?”
“I’m sure this will come as a shock to you, Kate, but I do.”
I look out over a cornfield where yellow stalks shiver in the breeze. “So where does that leave us?”
“On vacation?”
I reach across the console to set my hand over his. He turns his hand palm up and squeezes mine. It’s a small thing; the kind of simple gesture lovers have shared since the beginning of time. But for Tomasetti and me, there’s nothing simple about it. It’s huge, maybe because we’re still finding our feet when it comes to the many facets of intimacy.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I know this isn’t how you wanted to spend our weekend together.”
“I guess that’s one of the perils of falling for the chief of police.”
“Or an investigator from BCI.”
Glancing in the rearview mirror, he makes a quick left and pulls onto the shoulder of a little-used back road.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Something I can’t do while I’m driving.”
He puts the Tahoe in Park and turns to me. For an instant, we stare at each other. I see his nostrils flare and then he reaches for me. Cupping the back of my head, he pulls my mouth to his. The kiss isn’t gentle this time, but I go with it, reveling in the sensation of his lips against mine. The essence of him surrounds me, and for the span of several seconds I’m lost in the moment.
He pulls away and sets both hands on the steering wheel. “I just wanted to toss that out, make a point.”
“Duly noted.”
We grin at each other.
“So what do you think?” he asks after a moment.
“I think you know how to kiss a woman silly.”
“I mean about this cold case.”
I laugh, then sober as I consider the question. “I think someone got away with murder.”
“That’s the thing about homicide.” He puts the Tahoe in gear and pulls back onto the highway. “There’s no statute of limitations.”
* * *
The Portage County Sheriff’s Department is located in a newish brick building adjacent to a small airport. With the exception of a couple of county vehicles, an old Volkswagen Jetta, and a sheriff’s department SUV, the parking lot is nearly empty.
Tomasetti parks in the nearest visitor spot. “Looks like a slow afternoon for local law enforcement.”
“Might bode well for us,” I say.
We take the sidewalk to the double set of glass doors and go inside. A middle-aged woman with a head full of curly black hair slides open a Plexiglas window and greets us with a wide smile. “Hi, folks. How can I help you?”
We cross to the window and Tomasetti shows her his ID. “This is actually an unofficial visit,” he tells her. “We’re looking into the disappearance of Angela Blaine.”
“Wow, that’s a blast from the past. I haven’t heard that name in a while.” She looks at me and arches a brow as if to say ‘and you?’
I show her my ID. “Agent Tomasetti and I worked on some missing persons cases last summer over in Stark County.”
“That rings a bell. You talking about the Mast case?”
I nod. “You heard about it?”
“Best story we’ve had around here since … well, since Angela Blaine disappeared.”
“We were wondering if we could take a look at the case file,” Tomasetti says.
“I can’t give you the file, but you might still be in luck. Jake Cornelius is with the detective division and he’s still here. Let me buzz him for you.”
The detective doesn’t make us wait. White haired and barely over five feet in height, Jake Cornelius looks more like somebody’s grandfather than a detective. But despite his genteel appearance, he’s got a cop’s eyes, direct and probing and just a little too straightforward.
Introductions are made and we exchange handshakes.
“Come on into my office and we’ll have us a conversation about Angela.”
We follow the detective to a decent-size office with a single window that looks out over the parking lot. He slides behind a desk adorned with a dozen or so photographs of children. He notices me admiring the photos and grins. “Grandkids. Twelve of them.”
“You have a beautiful family.”
“Thank you.” He looks at Tomasetti. “Now that your partner here has got me properly buttered up, why don’t you tell me what you want and I’ll see if I can lend a hand.”
We get a good chuckle out of that and then Tomasetti gets to the point of our visit. “We were wondering if we could take a look at the Angela Blaine file.”
He takes the request in stride, as if it’s not unusual for two out-of-town cops to ask to see a twenty-two-year-old file. “You folks just curious, or what?”
“We closed the Mast case last summer and thought we might take a look to see if we can help,” Tomasetti tells him.
“Without stepping on anyone’s jurisdictional toes,” I add.
“I thought your names sounded familiar.” He folds his hands atop the desk blotter and looks at us a little more closely. “Damn crazy case, wasn’t it?”
“Nobody expected it to turn out the way it did,” I tell him.
“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but the Blaine file is in archive at an off-site facility. I suspect you’re not going to want to wait until Monday to take a look.” He glances at his watch. “I’m happy to tell you whatever you want to know as long as it doesn’t take more than ten minutes. Granddaughter has a piano recital in half an hour and I don’t want to miss it.”
Tomasetti scoots closer to the desk. “What’s your take on the case?”
The detective grimaces. “I think that girl’s long dead.”
“What do you think happened to her?” I ask.
“I think that son of a bitch Tuck Miles did it.” He studies me for a moment. “I couldn’t prove it. Mainly because I could never poke any holes in that alibi of his. One of the most frustrating cases I’ve ever worked.”
“Is it possible his boss lied?” I ask. “Covered for him?”
“It wasn’t just his boss. It was the whole damn crew. Six men vouched for him.”
“Could he have hired someone?” Tomasetti asks.
“I considered that, but I don’t think so. Tuck was a real hothead when he was young. Couldn’t keep a handle on that temper of his. If he killed her, it was a crime-of-passion kind of thing. Besides, he’s always been kind of a lone wolf. No friends. Nobody trusted him enough to do something like that for him.”
“If he was at work and six men vouched for him, why is it you think he did it?” I ask.
The detective’s eyes slide from Tomasetti to me. “I always thought he slipped out when no one was looking and got back before anyone noticed. If you look at the logistics of it, the machine shop is twelve minutes from that bed-and-breakfast where her bloody clothes were found. I drove the route myself and timed it. I think Tuck left, drove to the bed-and-breakfast, lured her to the river, stabbed her to death, and returned to work before anyone noticed he was gone. At the end of his shift, he went back, picked up the body, and disposed of it.”
“You guys check him for blood residue?” Tomasetti asks.
“He was clean.” The detective shakes his head. “By the time those clothes were found, he could have showered twenty times over and tossed his clothes in the next county.”
“What do you think he did with the body?” I ask.
Cornelius sighs. “The river was our focus for the first couple of days. We had dogs out there and even brought in a diver from Cleveland to check some of the deep pools. It had been a rainy spring and the water was high and swift.” He pauses. “I think that’s where we fucked up.” Catching himself, he glances at me. “Sorry.”