Page 10 of Fallen

“It’s not a residence, but a business. A bar called The Pub.”

“You’re a font of interesting information this afternoon,” I tell her.

“Internet connection helps a little.”

As I park behind Glock’s cruiser, I wonder if Rachael is still involved with Moskowski. I wonder if their relationship is volatile. I think about the bar in Wooster and I wonder why Rachael would write down the address when she lives in Cleveland, which is about an hour’s drive away. Did she have plans to meet someone? Or did she meet with them on the drive to Painters Mill from Cleveland? Was there an argument? Did that someone follow her to Painters Mill and confront her in that motel room?

I spot Tomasetti’s Tahoe several yards away and start toward it. I find him leaning against the hood, talking on his cell. Upon noticing my approach, he ends the call.

“You talked to the family?” he asks.

I nod, wondering if traces of the conversation are still evident on my face. “They took it pretty hard.”

He’s looking at me a little too closely, his eyes seeing more than I want him to see. “Hard on you, too, evidently.”

“And here I thought I was getting pretty good at my tough-guy façade.” I make the statement lightly, but it doesn’t ring true.

“How well did you know her?”

“I didn’t, really. Not as an adult.” I struggle to put my finger on the flicker of pain in my chest. “The first time I saw Rachael Schwartz, she was still in diapers.”

“Long time.”

“She was too damn young to die.”

I’m exasperated that I can’t hold his gaze. Maybe because I know he sees all the things I’d rather not deal with at the moment. That my emotions are too close to the surface. He watches me, saying nothing, and in that instant, the silence strips me bare.

“I knew her when she was a kid. That’s what’s so tough about this. Of all the Schwartz kids, Rachael is the one that … made an impression. She was vivacious. A mischief-maker. She loved to laugh. Trouble was never too far away.” I don’t know why I’m telling him all of that, but it feels important and the words come out in a rush.

“Connections,” he says.

“Too many probably.”

He sighs. “Looks like trouble found her this time.”

“You going to assist with the case?” I ask. “I mean, officially?”

“I’m your guy.”

I look toward the motel room. In my mind’s eye, I see the way Rachael Schwartz looked dead on the floor. The extent of damage to her body. Her face.

“Tomasetti, the level of violence…”

“Yeah.”

“It was … over-the-top. Personal, I think, and passionate.”

I tell him about the domestic dispute, but he already knows. “I got an address for Moskowski,” he tells me. “Detectives are on their way to pick him up.”

Typically, and since this is my case, I’d be part of the interview process. But because this investigation involves multiple agencies, and Moskowski lives in Cleveland, which is light-years out of my jurisdiction, Tomasetti will be the one to conduct the initial Q and A.

I hold his gaze, wrestling with what needs to be said and what doesn’t. “Rachael Schwartz … she wasn’t exactly the poster child for an Amish girl.”

He cocks his head, knowing there’s more, waits.

“She got into trouble a lot. I mean, growing up. She made a lot of mistakes. Broke the rules. If her penchant for finding trouble followed her into adulthood…” I’m mixing potentially helpful information with extraneous crap, so I take a moment, dial it back. “I’m not saying she was a bad person. She wasn’t. Just sort of … full-bore.”

“I’ve been around long enough to know that most people are little bit of both,” he says gently.