Page 96 of An Evil Heart
Tomasetti is already around the table. He grasps Fisher’s free hand, twists his arm, brings it up behind his back. “Sit the hell down.”
The sheriff uprights the chair, jams it beneath Fisher. Tomasetti shoves him into it.
“That’s bullshit!” Fisher roars. “Yeah, we got a little crazy a couple of times. She was into it. I’m telling you, she didn’t do anything she didn’t want—” He bites off the sentence as if realizing he’s already said too much.
“Was Paige Rossberger into it?” I ask.
“I don’t know her!”
“Was she into it when you put your hands around her throat and squeezed?” I snap. “Was she into it when you put that bag over her head and cut off her air?”
“I never met her. I swear.”
“DNA never lies,” I tell him.
Breathing hard, Fisher looks at Rasmussen and Tomasetti as if expecting them to come to his rescue. “You’re trying to pin a bunch of shit on me that I know nothing about!”
I look at Tomasetti. “We’ve got a lot to work with here, don’t we?”
“District attorney is going to have a field day,” he returns.
“It’s really too bad Leandra can’t alibi him,” I say.
Fisher looks at us as if he can’t believe what we’re saying. “I did not murder Karn!” he shouts. “I don’t care what that bitch told you! She’s fuckin’ lying!”
The door swings open. A deputy steps in, his eyes scanning the room. “Everything okay?”
“Get me out of here!” Fisher cries. “I want my lawyer.”
CHAPTER 26
It’s late when Tomasetti and I arrive home. I’m standing at the kitchen counter, pouring rye into tumblers, when he comes through the door. I glance over my shoulder as he hangs his jacket on the coatrack. Then he’s behind me, his arms around me, and I feel his mouth against my neck.
“You hate rye,” he whispers.
“After today, I think I may have developed a taste for it.”
“I guess the good news is, we may just have our guy.”
I turn to him, put one of the tumblers into his hand.
He takes it, sips, looks at me over the rim, and gives me a half frown. “How about if I re-butterfly that cut for you?”
I sip, resist the urge to shiver as the rye burns its way down my throat. “Midnight snack first?”
“Back in the old days we would have forgone the food—”
“And the bandage—”
“And just finished the damn bottle of rye,” he says.
“And solved the case in the process.” I smile, but I’m only half kidding.
Neither of us had time to eat earlier, so we take a few minutes to put together a plate of cheese, crackers, and grapes. Tomasetti fills two glasses with ice water, and we meet at the kitchen table.
We clink our tumblers together and for a few minutes concentrate on the food. But I sense our thoughts zinging. Tomasetti never hesitates to speak his mind. Tonight, he’s contemplative.
“You pushed Fisher pretty hard,” he says after a moment.
