Tomasetti smiles, but his expression holds not a trace of humor.
Sidling away from Rasmussen, I answer for him. “He beat the hell out of a migrant worker a few years back. Steele was a minor at the time. Seventeen, I think. Judge gave him probation.”
“Looks like Willie didn’t learn his lesson,” Tomasetti says.
“Those prints place him at the scene,” Rasmussen states. “Anything else?”
Tomasetti’s expression isn’t friendly. “CSU picked up a couple of footwear imprints. If we can match one of them to his shoes, it would help seal the deal.” He turns his stare on Rasmussen. “Why don’t you go get the warrant so we can search his place. The chief and I will go pick him up.”
I can tell by Rasmussen’s reaction that he doesn’t appreciate being given orders, especially by an outsider—and in front of me. To his credit, he doesn’t balk, just reaches for his cell phone. “I’ll give Judge Siebenthaler a call and get out there.”
Tomasetti lifts his lip in a poor imitation of a smile, then he turns and strides toward the door.
CHAPTER 15
The cold air slaps me in the face when I go through the door. Tomasetti’s a few strides ahead, and I quicken my pace to catch up with him.
“You got an address on Willie Steele?” he asks.
“I know where he lives. But he’s probably at work right now. The oil-filter factory down in Millersburg.”
“Let’s go pick him up.”
We reach his Tahoe and climb inside. He doesn’t look at me as he starts the engine and pulls out of the parking space. The wheels spew gravel when he turns onto the street. Neither of us speaks as he heads toward town, cranking the speedometer well over the speed limit.
I’m usually pretty good at reading people—their moods, their frame of mind. Tomasetti is one of only a few people I can’t. I’ve tried on multiple occasions. Just when I think I’ve got him nailed, all those quirks figured out, he lets fly some stunner that has me rethinking everything I know about him.
I look out the window and give both of us a chance to settle. Not an easy task when it comes to Tomasetti. He looks relaxed, but he’s driving too fast. He didn’t like seeing me with Rasmussen. But I know Tomasetti has too much pride to succumb to petty male jealousy. Still, he’s a man, and some things are programmed so deeply, not even intellect or character can totally eradicate them.
I consider waiting him out, but his stony silence is beginning to make me uncomfortable. “How did you know where to find me?”
He glances at me and frowns. “You’re kidding, right?”
Nodding, I look out the window, then sigh. “Are we okay?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
He’s going to make me spell it out. May as well put it on the table, I think. “I wasn’t expecting Rasmussen to show up. He just did.”
“That’s fine. You’re a grown woman, Kate. You’re free to do whatever you want with whomever you want, whenever you want and as often as you like.”
“I’m really glad you pointed that out.” I glance at his profile, notice for the first time the tight set of his jaw. “So why are you pissed?”
“I’m not pissed.”
“Maybe we should talk about it.”
He takes his time responding. “You two looked pretty cozy. I didn’t like it. I’ll get over it. End of story.”
“It was just a friendly game of pool.”
“Did he hit on you?”
I shrug. “He was thinking about it.”
Tomasetti sends me a dark look.
I meet his gaze head-on. “You’re not one of those guys with trust issues, are you?”
“I just don’t like smart-assed cops crossing that line.”
“We haven’t really told anyone we’re … together.”
“Is that what we are?” he asks. “Together?”
“We haven’t talked about exclusivity.” I stammer the words, trying not to screw this up. I sense it’s an important moment. But I’m not much better at talking about my feelings than he is.
“We’re talking about it now.” He makes a turn, and I realize we’re pulling into the parking lot of the Farnam oil-filter factory. “For future reference, I don’t share.”
I nod, trying to appear calm, but inside my heart is pounding. This is as close to a relationship talk as we’ve ever had. “Just don’t go all caveman on me, okay?”
“I’ll try not to.”
“So does this mean we’re, like, going steady?”
He parks illegally at the building’s entrance, puts the Tahoe in park, shuts down the engine, and turns to me. “That means the next time Rasmussen puts his hands on you, you should tell him to fuck off.”
“Since he’s sheriff of this county, I’ll probably try to be a little bit more diplomatic.”
“As long as he gets the message.”
We leave the Tahoe and enter through a door below a sign marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. The factory is huge, has bright lights, and smells like a combination of rubber and paint. A security guard sitting in a booth eyes us through a window as we approach. Leaving the booth, he swaggers toward us. His badge says his name is Tony. He raises his hand like a traffic cop. “You’re going to have to get visitor passes from the office before you can come in here.”
Tomasetti tugs out his ID. “We already have our passes.”
The security guard stares at the badge, and for an instant I think I see longing in his eyes. “That’ll work.” He hikes up his pants. “What can I do for you?”
“We need to see Willie Steele,” I tell him. “He works here.”
“Willie? Sure. I saw him come in earlier.” He motions toward the booth. “I think he’s on line 7-W. Let me call, make sure he’s there.”
We wait while he makes the call. Beyond, huge machines rumble and grind and hiss. The second shift is in full swing. I see a young woman in blue jeans and an Ohio State sweatshirt feeding accordion paper into a massive cutting machine. At the end of the line, another person sends the cut papers down a conveyer belt.
The security guard emerges from his booth. “Okay, I just talked to the supervisor. Steele’s working tonight.” Tugging up his pants, he points. “I can’t leave my post. Just follow this walkway to where it tees, then go left. Line seven-W is midway down to the Paint Room there at the end. Lines are clearly marked. Willie’s on the glue wheel tonight. Supervisor’s name is Bob Shields. He’s expecting you.” Tony looks at me, and I see the burn of curiosity in his eyes. “What’d Willie do?”
“We just want to ask him some questions,” I reply.
He looks disappointed. “Let me know if you need any help with him. I never liked that guy.”
“Thanks,” I say.
The walkway is delineated with bright yellow tape. We follow it to the T junction, then turn left. Tony gave good directions, because midway to the end, we see a sign that says 7-W. Beyond, a conveyer belt with huge steel bins on either side rumbles like some massive engine. The accordion papers I’d noticed when we walked in have been cut and formed into cylinders. Held together with springs, they’re moving toward a rotating contraption where metal disks are glued onto the top and bottom. The operator then places each cylinder back on the assembly line and they make their way toward a huge oven.
A man with curly blond hair approaches us. Wearing black slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looks more like a waiter in some upscale restaurant than an assembly-line supervisor. “Can I help you?”
We show him our badges. “We need to speak to Willie Steele,” I say.
“He do something wrong?” Shields asks.
“We just want to talk to him,” Tomasetti responds.
“Let me pull him off the glue wheel. Gotta get the break operator to replace him or things’ll pile up. Can you hang on a sec?”