Tomasetti slides into the Tahoe and pulls onto the street. “That guy’s sweating bullets.”

“Interesting reaction for an innocent man.”

“Innocent being a relative term.”

“You think he’s involved in this?” I ask.

“Hard to tell. The guy’s a fuckin’ squirrel.” He glances my way. “What do you think?”

I find myself thinking of Mary Plank and the man she depicted in her journal. “I know perspectives vary—especially when it comes to a teenaged girl’s heart—but I don’t think Todd Long is the man she wrote about in her journal.”

Tomasetti arches a brow. “Not exactly tall, dark and handsome.”

“Not exactly.”

“You know what they say about love being blind.”

“Not that blind.” For the first time I notice we’re not heading toward the station. “Where are you going?”

“I need a drink.”

The incident back at the Plank farm flashes in my mind, followed by a sharp snap of anger. “After what just happened at the farmhouse, you want a drink? Are you kidding me?”

He pulls into the parking lot of McNarie’s Bar and parks next to a vintage Camaro. “Look, it’s almost nine o’clock. You’ve been at it since when? The crack of dawn? Or maybe you didn’t sleep at all last night.”

The latter is closest to the truth, but I’m not going to admit it. Being with Tomasetti outside a work environment is dangerous business. Going with him for a drink promises to be downright catastrophic. “I need to get contact info on this Jack Warner guy, verify Long’s alibi,” I say.

“You can bet that jumpy son of a bitch broke his knuckles dialing his buddy the moment we walked out the door.” Swinging open the door, he slides out.

Cursing beneath my breath, I stay seated. He crosses in front of the Tahoe and opens my door. “Come on. Let’s get a bite to eat. We can talk about the case.”

“That’s not all we’re going to talk about,” I snap.

“You’re not going to psychoanalyze me, are you?”

I shake my head. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

“I believe that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

McNarie’s Bar is a dive in every sense, replete with red vinyl booths, scarred Formica tabletops, and air so polluted it’s probably illegal in most states. But it also happens to be my favorite watering hole. The clientele are low key. The music doesn’t rattle my brain. The burgers are decent. McNarie, the bear-size barkeep and owner, is a good listener and a hell of a lot more discreet than most cops I know. After I closed the Slaughterhouse Murders case in January, I spent more than one evening shooting doubles in the corner booth. McNarie got me home safely every single time.