“He was shot outside a bar in Cleveland. Execution style. Passerby found his body a few hours ago.”

I stare at him, stunned, not sure what to make of it. The silence is deafening. “Did the cops get the shooter?”

“No.”

I’m suspicious by nature, and no matter how much I love him, I know him. I know what he’s capable of. And I have no choice but to ask the one question I fear most. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

He takes the question in stride, as if knowing I would ask. “No.”

A sense of relief unravels the knot of tension at the back of my neck. Still, I know there’s a possibility that he’s lying. To protect me. To protect himself.

“All right,” I hear myself say.

“I wanted you to hear it from me.”

“Who’s handling the case?”

“Cleveland PD.”

“Are they looking at you?”

“Probably. They won’t find anything.” He looks down at our clasped hands and then makes eye contact with me. “Are we all right?”

“Yes,” I say.

As he walks out the door, all I can think is that they didn’t find anything the last time the police looked at him, and Tomasetti had been guilty as sin.

Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

I arrive at the station a little after seven. I’m preoccupied by my conversation with Tomasetti and operating in a fog as I go through the front door. Mona greets me with her usual cheery, “Hey Chief,” as I make a beeline for the coffee station.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Jodie’s flooded in, so I told her I’d cover her shift.” She rises and crosses to me, her hand extended with a dozen or so pink slips. “I hate to hit you with this with everything else that’s going on, but I just took a 911 from Randy Trask. He says the water’s up over the Tuscarawas Bridge.”

“Of course it is,” I mutter.

The Tuscarawas Bridge is a covered bridge of historical significance and a Painters Mill icon that spans Painters Creek and part of a floodplain. “Get T.J. out there to set up flares. Notify the sheriff’s department.” I take the messages and glance through them. “I want the road blocked and a detour set up.” I pour coffee into my cup, knowing there’s always some motorist who’s in a hurry and takes a chance by driving through high water. “Give the mayor a call and put in a call to ODOT.”

“Will do.” I can tell by the way she’s fidgeting that she’s got something else on her mind. Before I can ask, she blurts, “Chief, I think I found something on Ruth Weaver.”

I set the coffeepot back on the burner and give her my full attention. “Let’s see it.”