“Hey.” Out of the corner of my eye I see Tomasetti grab an onion off the cutting board and attack it with the knife. I can’t help it—I smile. “What’s up?”

“I got a DOA out here at the Michaels place. Guy hanging from the rafters in his barn.”

“Suicide?”

“Looks like it.”

“Any idea who it is?”

“I think it’s Dale Michaels.”

The name is vaguely familiar, but I don’t believe I’ve ever met Michaels. I recall he had something to do with the development of the affluent Maple Crest subdivision. “Who found him?”

“Daughter.”

“Doc Coblentz on the way?” I ask, referring to the coroner.

“Should be here shortly.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Roger that.”

I unplug the phone from where it had been charging and turn to see Tomasetti drying his hands on a dish towel. “Sounds like you’ve got a dead body on your hands,” he says.

I nod. “Glock thinks it might be a suicide.”

“You know who it is?”

“Guy by the name of Dale Michaels. I don’t know him.”

“Sheriff’s office going to take it?”

“It’s city, so I’m obliged.” I glance at the bottle of Argentinean cabernet he’d opened on the counter to breathe, and a wave of disappointment moves through me. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

“I guess that means I have to finish chopping all of these vegetables by myself.”

“Not to mention drink all that wine.” I smile. “One of the perils of cohabiting with the chief of police.”

He crosses to me. His arms encircle my waist and I fall against him. He smells of aftershave and green peppers and his own distinct scent I’ve come to love. I close my eyes and press my face against his chest. I know it’s a trifling thing in light of the discovery of a body, but I don’t want to leave.

“Domestication looks good on you, Tomasetti.”

“You’re just using me for my culinary skills.”

“That, too.” I rise up on my tiptoes and brush my mouth across his. “I might be a while.”

“I’ll wait.”

Pulling away from him I grab my jacket off the back of the chair. I look at him over my shoulder. He’s already picked up the knife and resumed chopping the onion. “Don’t drink that wine all by yourself,” I say.

“Don’t stay gone too long.”

We’re both smiling when I go through the door.

CHAPTER 3

It’s the worst kind of night to be on the road—windy and stormy—and the drive from Wooster to the scene, which is just inside the township limits of Painters Mill, takes almost twenty minutes. Twice I have to slow down—once because the road is flooded, and the second time because the windshield wipers can’t keep up with the deluge. The Michaels farm is located on a narrow road that runs parallel with the railroad tracks that cut through town. My headlights illuminate a gravel lane with a hump of weeds in the center when I make the turn, and for the second time tonight I’m glad I drive a high-clearance vehicle. Ahead, I see the flashing lights of Glock’s cruiser.