I’m midway through my first cigarette when I see Tomasetti come through the door. He looks out of place here with the words big city cop written all over him. He’s got attitude and style with a little bit of bad-ass thrown in. Most cops dress like slobs. Suiting up is one of many things Tomasetti does well. The charcoal suit looks custom; the color plays nicely off the five-o’clock shadow. Pale blue shirt. Expensive tie. He holds his ground for a moment while his eyes adjust to the dim interior. His expression shifts when he spots me. I stare back, feeling busted, not sure if I’m pleased that he’s here or annoyed because my zen of misery has been interrupted.

He makes his way to the booth and slides in across from me. I smoke, watching him, wishing I hadn’t drank that third shot. An alcohol-fuzzed brain is a huge disadvantage when it comes to dealing with Tomasetti. He can be unpredictable and difficult, and I’m pretty sure I’m in no shape to deal with either.

“I guess it would be stupid for me to ask how you found me,” I begin in way of greeting.

He catches McNarie’s eye and gestures toward the shot glass. “I went by your house first.”

“Not many places to hide out in this town.”

“I guess the real question is why you’re hiding.”

I’m saved from having to answer when McNarie sets down a fresh shot glass, a second beer, and hustles back to the bar.

Tomasetti fills both shot glasses and downs his in a single gulp.

“I thought you’d stopped drinking,” I say.

“I have, for the most part.” He smiles down at his glass. “Just not tonight. But then this isn’t about me, Kate.”

Since I’m the last person I want to talk about, I say nothing.

Tomasetti doesn’t give me respite. “Your guys are wondering what’s up with you.” He sets down the glass. “I guess I’m wondering the same thing.”

“It was a tough case.”

“It’s over. You did a good job. The whole department did.”

“The Planks are still dead. Those girls were still tortured.”

“Kate.” A thin layer of impatience laces his voice. “You’ve been a cop long enough to know that sometimes bad things happen to good people. It’s out of your control. You gotta let go or it will drive you nuts.”

Even though my brain warns me away from more alcohol, I pick up the shot glass and drink it down. “I’m too hammered to talk about it.”

“Sometimes that’s the best time to talk.”

“Not for me.”

He turns thoughtful. “Is it because they were Amish?”