“Chief.” His face gives away nothing. No emotion. No concern. If I didn’t know him so well, I might think he’d been sent down by BCI to look into some routine incident. But there’s a coolness in his eyes that unnerves me. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay.” I want to go to him and let him envelop me in his arms, but there are too many people around, none of whom know we’re involved.

He introduces himself to the deputy, and the two men shake hands. Tomasetti turns his attention back to me. “Sounds like you have a serial cop shooter on your hands.”

“Glock and Skid are going to pick up Nick Kester,” I tell him.

“That’s a start.” He looks at the deputy. “Can you excuse us?”

“Sure.” The deputy tips his hat at me and then walks away.

“Are you here about the case?” I ask.

“I’m here for you,” he says in a low voice. “You finished here?”

“I think so.”

He motions toward the door. “I’ll follow you home.”

*   *   *

It takes us an hour to drive from Coshocton to Wooster. It’s dark by the time we reach the farm. I called Glock on the way, and he informed me that while he was able to obtain the warrant, they’ve not been able to locate Nick Kester. They spoke to his wife, who claimed they’d had an argument and Nick went to the Mosquito Lake for some pike fishing. Since the Mosquito Lake State Park is out of our jurisdiction, I asked Glock to contact the state park officer on duty try to locate Kester at the park.

Considering the seriousness of the situation, I should be at the station. If it wasn’t for Tomasetti, I would be, despite my aching body and throbbing head. But I know he’s upset, and this is one of those times when my personal life must take precedence over my job. I don’t know what to expect from him. The one thing I do know is that I want to fix it. If only I knew how.

I hear Tomasetti’s car door slam as I let myself into the house through the back door. Flipping on the overhead light, I’m welcomed by my tidy farmhouse kitchen, the smells of vanilla and lemon-scented furniture polish, and a table that’s somehow developed a thin layer of dust. I remove my .38 and set it on the tabletop. My equipment belt comes next. The .22 mini Magnum and the ankle holster. I drape all of it over the back of a chair. I try to shake off the apprehension creeping over me as I cross to the sink to wash my hands.

When Tomasetti comes in, I grab the towel off the hook and dry my hands. “Are you hungry?” I ask. “I didn’t get lunch and I’m—”