Page 26 of Outsider

“In some ways, you have.” I think about it a moment. “I don’t want them involved in this. The only reason you’re here now is because I can’t get you anywhere else at the moment.”

She nods. “As long as I don’t have to wear a damn bonnet, the Pilgrims and I will get along just fine.”

She follows me down the hall and into the kitchen. Tomasetti is standing at the sink, looking out the window. He turns when we enter the room, his expression impassive.

Gina eyes him suspiciously as she crosses to him, shakes his hand. “You must be John Tomasetti.”

Introductions are made and then she asks, “Kate filled you in?”

“She relayed to me the story you told her,” he returns evenly.

Moving with the sluggishness of a centenarian, she goes to the table, pulls out a chair, and gingerly lowers herself into it. Her face is pasty and pale, her lips are dry, her hands are not quite steady.

The three of us are alone in the house. Adam and the children went to the barn twenty minutes ago to check on a cow that’s about to calve. A single propane floor lamp in the corner casts minimal light, so I go to it and crank up the mantle. The room brightens marginally. I pour coffee into two mugs, hand one to Gina, and take the chair adjacent to her.

Facing us, Tomasetti leans against the counter, his eyes on Gina, and crosses his arms. “You know there’s a warrant out for your arrest.”

“I figured that out when they busted down my door at three A.M.” Using her left hand, she sips coffee. “So, what’s the warrant for?”

Tomasetti doesn’t respond, doesn’t look away from her. “You’ve got one chance to tell me what led up to this,” he tells her. “This is it. I need the truth. All of it. Do you understand?”

“I want immunity,” she says.

He laughs nastily. “You’re asking the wrong person.”

“I need some kind of guarantee.”

“You’re not going to get it from me,” he says with heat. “We’re all you’ve got. We are your best hope. At this point, I’d say we’re your only hope.” He glances at his watch. “If you’d rather take your chances with the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department, I will accommodate you. I will put you on that snowmobile and take you myself. Right now. Are we clear?”

She slants me a where-the-hell-did-you-find-this-guy glower, then looks down at the tabletop. Over the next minutes, she relays the same story she told me earlier.

He pulls out a small notebook. “I need names.”

“Damon Bertrand. Ken Mercer. They’re part of the vice unit. Frank Monaghan is—”

“I know who he is.” He scribbles on the pad. “Tell me about the vice unit.”

“It’s an elite group. The men I mentioned are its golden boys. They’re making a lot of busts. Good busts. Getting recognized. Riding high. Making the unit—and the department—look good. They get a lot of kudos from the brass. The media loves them. They’re heroes. Untouchable.” She shakes her head. “Even before I came on board there were rumors.”

“What rumors?”

“That there are a few bad eggs in the unit. That we have patrol cops and detectives shaking down drug dealers and pimps and anyone else they have something on. We’re talking money. Property. Cars. Boats. Sex. You name it. I know a couple of cops were under investigation a while back, but it never went anywhere and the higher-ups didn’t seem to be too worried about it.”

“How do you know they were under investigation?” Tomasetti asks.

“Rumor mostly. Internal Affairs was asking a lot of questions.”

“Did IA talk to you?”

“No.”

“How involved are you?”

Her eyes skitter away from his. Not for the first time I get that scratchy sensation on the back of my neck. Something there, a little voice whispers in my ear, and with every beat of silence that follows, I can practically hear the nails being driven into her proverbial coffin.

When she doesn’t respond, I say her name. “Answer the question.” What didn’t you tell me?

“I screwed up,” she snaps. “I … took some cash. I looked the other way while other cops did the same thing—and worse.”