“T.J., you’ve been on for two shifts. You probably ought to go home and get some sleep.”

“Aye.”

“Pickles, you’re on full-time until further notice.”

“No problem.” The old man nods, not quite able to hide his pleasure.

I bring my hands together. “Everyone else, I hope you don’t have any plans for the weekend. Mandatory OT until we get this guy.”

The groans that follow are token. I know my officers want this killer off their streets as vehemently as I do.

*   *   *

I spend an hour putting my notes into a Word doc, writing reports and rereading every detail of both the Michaels and Rutledge cases. I spend another thirty minutes combing through the Hochstetler file. By the time I hand everything off to Lois, it’s nearly 2 P.M. I look at my phone, and I find myself thinking about Tomasetti and how we left things. I desperately want to talk to him. My pride reminds me that I’m angry with him. It’s not enough to keep me from picking up the phone.

He answers on the first ring. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

“I miss you,” I say without preamble.

Surprise produces a certain echo over a phone line. I hear that echo now, intriguing and painful at once. “Cat got your tongue, Tomasetti?”

“Yup.” A thoughtful pause ensues. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I say automatically, and then add, “no. It’s been a tough day.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Just … be there when I get home.”

I can almost hear his thought processes working. He’s trying to peg my frame of mind. My reason for setting my pride aside and calling him when I was otherwise pissed. Why, when it’s so unlike me to show him that I need him, that I’m so willing to admit it. I’m not sure I could explain any of those things even to myself.

My second line lights up. On the display, I see Glock’s name. “I have a call,” I tell him. “Gotta take it.”

He sighs. “You’ll be home later?”

“I’ll try.” I punch the button for my second line. “You pick up McCullough?” I begin.

“I would have. If I could find him.”

The news drags my attention away from Tomasetti and back to the case. “Where are you?”

“His place. He’s not here. Front door was standing wide open. I figured that warranted a welfare check, so I took a look inside. Nothing out of place, but there’s no sign of him.”

“Shit, Glock, that’s not good.” I think about that a moment. “Car there?”

“Yeah.”

“He could be with a friend.” But neither of us is assuaged. “Look, I’m going to go talk to Blue Branson, and then I’ll head your way.”

“You want me to go with you? Meet you there?”