The Dead Will Tell by Linda Castillo Page A

I think, Uh-oh .
    “You two look busy,” I say by way of greeting.
    Surprisingly, it’s Skid—who doesn’t have a sensitive bone in his body—who blushes. Not because I walked in on them during a compromising moment, but because I’m his direct supervisor and I’m pretty sure I just caught them locking lips on the job.
    “Hey, Chief.” Jodie tugs down her tunic and taps on the keyboard of her computer with a freshly painted nail, pretending to be embroiled in the screen in front of her. “You put in a long day.”
    “Probably going to get longer,” I tell her. “Anything come back on those names?”
    “Nothing on Julia Rutledge or Jerrold McCullough,” she tells me. “Running Blue Branson now.”
    “Thanks.” I look at Skid, who glances away guiltily. “Call Pickles and tell him I need to see him ASAP, will you?”
    “Happy to, Chief.”
    I unlock my office and head directly to my desk. Despite the fact that I haven’t eaten all day, it’s not the BLT—or even the case—I’m thinking about as I unwrap the sandwich and pop the lid off the coffee. Usually Tomasetti and I touch base at least once during the day, no matter how busy we are, but he hasn’t called. Somehow I made it through the day without calling him, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m starting to worry.
    I don’t let myself think about any of that as I pick up the phone and dial.
    He answers on the second ring. “I was wondering when you were going to call,” he begins.
    “I was hoping you’d check in.”
    “I was going to.”
    Since I’m not sure I believe that, I don’t respond. “Are you home?”
    “Not yet.” He doesn’t elaborate.
    Because we’ve arrived at an impasse of sorts, I mentally shift gears and spend a few minutes giving him the rundown on the Michaels case. But I sense neither of us is fully focused on the business at hand. There’s another presence on the line with us, and it has nothing to do with my unsolved homicide.
    “I’m probably going to be late,” I tell him.
    “That’s okay,” he says easily. “I’m running behind here, too.”
    “You’re still at the office?”
    I wait a beat, but he doesn’t respond. I sigh, not sure if I’m annoyed with him because he’s being evasive—or myself for pressing him when I know he doesn’t want to be pressed. “Tomasetti, I’m trying to give you space.”
    “You know I appreciate that, Kate. But no need to worry. I’m fine.”
    “You’d tell me if you weren’t?”
    “Look, I don’t like it that Ferguson got off. I don’t like it that he’s out. That he got away with what he did. But I’m dealing with it. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”
    “You’re not trying to tell me to stop worrying about you, are you?”
    “Something like that.” But there’s a smile in his voice.
    I pause, trying to get my words right, fumbling a bit. “Just so you know … Tomasetti, I’ve got your back. You can count on me. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
    “I know. And I know you’re worried about me. But you’re going to have to trust me.”
    The words echo for a beat too long before I say, “I’ll see you tonight.”
    He hangs up without responding.
    *   *   *
    I’ve just booted up my computer when my most senior officer, Roland “Pickles” Shumaker, peeks his head into my office. “You wanted to see me?” he asks.
    At the age of seventy-six, Pickles has been a member of the Painters Mill PD for over fifty years. He’s my only auxiliary officer and puts in about ten hours a week, usually at the school crosswalk. During the 1980s he worked undercover narcotics and took down one of the largest drug rings in the state. His glory days ended a few years ago when, during a call for a domestic dispute, he was attacked by an aggressive rooster. Pickles shot and killed the chicken, which happened to be a prized animal owned by a woman who dabbled in local politics. The town council got involved and Pickles