Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

with any kind of speed.
    She’s wearing a flowered muumuu that doesn’t cover as much of her as I’d like. Her calves are the size of hams and bulge with varicose veins. Swollen toes with thick yellow nails stick out of the ends of pink slippers.
    She takes in the sight of us with a mix of hostility and amusement. “Sheriff.” Her voice is deep and slow, with a hint of the Kentucky hills. “I heard you died.”
    “Well, no one’s told me about it yet.” Goddard shows her his identification. “Hope that’s not too much of a disappointment.”
    “Things would get pretty boring round here without you cops fuckin’ with us all the damn time.”
    “Is Justin here?”
    Her gaze slides from the sheriff to me and Tomasetti and then back to the sheriff. I see a cunning in its depths that reminds me of big lumbering bear that can transform to a predator capable of tearing a man to shreds with no provocation or warning. She’s got cold, empty eyes and an “I don’t give a shit” air, both of which tell me she has no respect for anything or anyone—including herself—and has a particularly high level of loathing for law enforcement.
    “Who wants to know?” she asks.
    “Me and these state agents.”
    “State agents, huh?” She gives me the once-over and makes a sound of disdain. “What’d he do now?”
    “We just want to ask him some questions.”
    “This about that girl gone missing?”
    The collective surge of interest is palpable. The sheriff leans forward. I see Tomasetti, who is beside me, crane his head slightly, looking beyond her. “Trina, we just want to talk to Justin,” Goddard tells her.
    She makes no move to open the door. “I know my rights, Bud. I’m the parent and I want to know why you want to talk to my son.”
    Tomasetti shoves his identification at her. “Because we asked nicely, and if we have to come back with a warrant, we won’t be so nice.”
    She’s not impressed and doesn’t even glance at his credentials. “Who the fuck ’re you?”
    “I’m the guy who’s going to fuck you over if you don’t open the goddamn door.”
    Goddard’s mouth sags open wide enough for me to see the fillings in his molars. Trina Treece doesn’t even blink. The flash of amusement in her eyes shocks me. Tomasetti is about as amusing as an autopsy. Most people do their utmost to concede to his wishes, especially if he’s in a nasty mood. He might be a cop, but he possesses an air of unpredictability that keeps even the densest individuals from crossing him. This woman doesn’t even seem to notice—and I don’t believe it’s because she’s dense.
    She smirks at the sheriff. “Where’d you find this charmer?”
    “If I were you, I’d just open the door,” the sheriff says tiredly. “We really need to speak with your son.”
    “Well, hell, all right.” Her triceps flap when she swings open the door. “C’mon in. Wipe your damn feet.”
    Tomasetti goes through the door first. He brushes by her without a word, his right hand never far from his holster, and he doesn’t bother wiping his feet. I go in next, swipe each shoe against the throw rug at the threshold. Goddard brings up the rear, and actually looks down while he diligently wipes his shoes on the rug.
    The interior of the house is hot and stuffy and smells vaguely of fish. A swaybacked sofa draped with a dingy afghan separates the small living room from an even smaller dining area. A floor fan blows stale air toward a narrow, dark hall. A sleek high-def television is mounted on the wall. It’s tuned to an old Bugs Bunny cartoon, the volume turned low. From where I stand, I can see into a dimly lit kitchen with cluttered counters and a sinkful of dirty dishes. Beyond is a back door, its window adorned with frilly yellow curtains. A folded pizza box sticks out of the top of a stainless-steel trash can.
    For a full minute, the only sounds are the rattle of the air conditioner and Trina Treece’s labored breathing.
    “Where is he?” Goddard asks.
    “I reckon he’s out back with that worthless old man of his.” But she’s looking at Tomasetti as if trying to decide which buttons to push and how hard to push them. Tomasetti stares back at her with a blank expression that gives away absolutely nothing. Oh boy.
    A sound from the hall draws my attention. Two girls, about ten years old, peek around the corner at us. I see shy, curious faces and young eyes that have already seen too much.
    Trina hauls her frame around.