“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.”