He’s one of those cops who skates a thin line. He drinks too much. A few months ago, he was mixing prescription drugs. It’s a hazardous means of escape, especially for a cop. We both know the only reason he still has a job is because he’s damn good at what he does. I wonder how long that will last.

“So how are you really doing?” I ask after a moment.

“Let’s just say I’m a work in progress.”

McNarie appears and sets two Killian’s Irish Red beers and two shot glasses in front of us. Tomasetti gives me a knowing smile, and we down the shots first. The bite of vodka on my tongue makes me shudder.

“When are you going to come clean with your superiors at BCI?”

He glances at his watch. “I have a feeling they’ve probably figured it out by now.”

“How are you going to handle that?”

“You mean how will it affect your case?”

“That’s not what I meant.” But we both know if we don’t play our cards right, his unofficial status could become an issue.

He shrugs. “I’ll lay low. Help you with the BCI end of things.”

“All those friends in low places must come in handy.”

“Kate, there’s no law against my being here. I want to work. I need to work. I may not be official, but I can help.”

The vodka begins to knead my brain with its magic fingers and my earlier annoyance fades to a vague and fuzzy restlessness. The kind I feel when I know I should be doing one thing and I’m off doing another. Like now.

Leaning back in the booth, he peels the label from the beer bottle. He’s got great hands. Strong with long fingers, blunt-cut nails and calluses. I stop short of remembering the way those hands feel against my skin . . .

“I don’t want you to risk your job because you’re worried about me,” I say.

He picks up the Killian’s and sips. “I’m here because I want to be.”

“To work.”

One side of his mouth curves. “Right.”

On the jukebox, “Bittersweet” gives way to Clapton’s “Cocaine.” I wonder if booze is Tomasetti’s cocaine. I wonder if he’s mine.

“I’m probably not very good at the whole being supportive thing,” I say.

“You’re better than you know.” He smiles. “Better than my shrink.”

I look at him over the top of my beer. “So how are we going to handle all this?”

He raises his beer and looks at me over the top. “I think we should just take it one day at a time and see what happens.”

CHAPTER 17