Page 30 of An Evil Heart
“Well, we didn’t run in the same circles or anything. But I drank a beeror two with him. You know, after work. Right here at the Brass Rail.” As if remembering, he laughs. “Good-looking kid. Let me tell you, he was a chick magnet.”
I touch on the same questions I covered with Wayne Graber and the others, but he doesn’t give me anything I haven’t already heard.
“Everyone seemed to like Aden,” he tells me. “He was always on time. You could tell this kid was Amish. I mean, he had a good work ethic, you know? Believe me, a lot of them young ones don’t these days.”
“Was Aden having any problems with anyone?”
Waddell scratches his head. “Come to think of it, he wasn’t too happy with that buddy of his.”
“Which buddy is that?”
“The dude bought the truck from him.”
“Vernon Fisher?”
He snaps his fingers. “That’s the guy.”
No one had mentioned that Fisher and Karn were friends. I’d assumed their only connection was the truck. “They were friends?” I ask.
“Good friends. In fact, I had a beer with the two of them a couple times right here at the Brass Rail. Mostly, they hung out at that old gas station. Worked on cars. Drinkin’ and listening to music and shit. Then that whole truck thing happened and I think their friendship went down the toilet.” He takes me through the same story I heard from Vernon and Wayne.
“Did Vernon Fisher or anyone else make any threats against Aden?” I ask.
“All’s I know is that Fisher wadn’t happy with Aden or Graber when they repossessed that truck. He wanted his money back. Ruined their friendship, and I think they’d known each other since they were little kids. That’s all I know.”
CHAPTER 8
There’s a quiet inner joy that comes with arriving home. That moment when the rest of the world melts away and for a small snatch of time, you’re exactly where you want to be. It’s nearly tenP.M.when I park the Explorer next to Tomasetti’s Tahoe and shut down the engine. I called him twice over the course of the day. Usually, even if he’s in the midst of a case or caught up in meetings, he’ll at least text. Today, though I’m sure by now he’s heard about Karn’s murder, he didn’t respond. I try not to let that niggle at me as I grab my laptop case and start for the door.
The kitchen smells of cooked pasta and garlic. On the stove, a covered pot quietly burbles. Two place settings on the table. A wine bottle and opener on the counter next to the sink. Hefting my laptop case, I cross through the kitchen and living room toward the small bedroom we’ve transformed into a home office. I’ve case-related work to do this evening—mainly to catch up on all the things I didn’t have time to dotoday. First, I want to see Tomasetti. Share some conversation and a glass of wine. A quick dinner.
The office door stands open. The light is off. I’m midway to the desk and reaching for the lamp when I spot Tomasetti. He’s sitting at the desk, looking down at his laptop. A tumbler containing two fingers of whiskey sits comfortably on the blotter next to him. The blue glow of the monitor illuminates his face enough for me to see that whatever he’s doing isn’t pleasant. The clenched jaw. Tight mouth. The eyes I know so well and tell me so much, even when he doesn’t want me to know. He looks up, surprised, and makes an attempt to conceal the darkness I see in his features.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” he says, his voice rough.
“Didn’t mean to surprise you.” I set my laptop case on the floor at the side of the desk. “Working late?” I ask.
“Thinking mostly,” he says.
“Is everything okay?”
He hits me with a pointed frown, knowing he’s busted despite his halfhearted attempt to mislead me. “Everything’s fine.”
“Fine, huh?” I go to him. “Well, that’s good.”
Grimacing, he rises. I fall against him, put my arms around his neck.
“I’m glad you’re home,” he says after a moment.
“Me, too.” I close my eyes when his arms go around me. For the span of several seconds, we don’t speak. We soak each other in. Give what we can. Take what we need.
When he releases me, I switch on the banker’s lamp. He squints at the sudden light. “I’m sorry I didn’t return your call,” he says. “I heard about the murder.”
“A crossbow, of all things,” I say. “He was Amish. Just twenty-one years old.”
“You know him?” he asks. “The family?”
“The family,” I say. “Not well.”
