Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

the source of the noise. Then I realize someone’s at the door. My mind registers that the doorbell didn’t ring. Back door, I think, and something else niggles at my brain. A glance at the alarm clock on my night table reminds me that 3:00 A.M. visitors are almost always the bearers of bad news.
    Jerking the robe from the chair next to my bed, I work it over my shoulders and tighten the belt. I open the top drawer of the night table and snag my .38, cock it. Holding the weapon low at my side, I pad silently to the kitchen, sidle to the back door, and peer through the curtains.
    John Tomasetti stands on the porch with his hands in his pockets, looking out over the backyard as if his being here in the middle of the night is the most natural thing in the world.
    I turn the bolt lock and swing open the door. “Don’t tell me,” I begin. “You were in the neighborhood.”
    He turns to me, hands still in his pockets, his face deadpan, and for a split second I’m terrified he’s come here with some dire news about the case. “Actually, I drove a hundred miles, against my better judgment and without telling my superiors, to sleep with you.”
    I laugh, but it’s a nervous sound. “Well, that’s pretty subtle.”
    “That’s me. Mr. Subtle.” His lips don’t move, but I see the smile in his eyes. “Pink robe goes nicely with that thirty-eight.”
    Feeling only slightly self-conscious, I glance down at my threadbare robe, then open the door the rest of the way. “Tomasetti, you are so full of shit.”
    “Yeah, but you’re still glad to see me.”
    The truth of the matter is that he looks damn good standing there in that crisp shirt and those charcoal-colored trousers. Not a good key indicator for a prudent outcome to all this.
    I motion him inside. “Is everything okay?”
    “Definitely looking up.”
    His presence fills the kitchen the instant he steps inside. It’s as if the air itself becomes charged with some electrical energy I feel all the way to my core.
    “I’m sorry I woke you,” he says. “I know sleep is tough to come by right now.”
    “Sleep is always hard to come by when we’re together.”
    “I was talking about the case.”
    “That, too.” Before I turn away from him, I see his eyes sweep the length of me. Trying not to let that rattle me, I set my gun on the kitchen table and flip on the light.
    “Anything new on the case?” I ask.
    Shaking his head, he crosses to the table, works his jacket off, and drapes it over a chair back. I watch as he slides his Glock from his shoulder holster, unfastens the buckle, then sets both on the table. “We got the search warrant for Stacy Karns’s house. By the time the judge signed off, it was too late to get out there. Sheriff’s office wanted to wait until morning to execute it.” He turns to me. “I’ll need to get out of here early.”
    “It’s already early,” I say.
    “I’ve got a couple of hours to kill.”
    “You’re such a sweet talker.”
    “That’s what all the female chiefs of police tell me.”
    I’ve known Tomasetti for about a year and a half now. After a shaky start and a little bit of head butting, we became friends—something that doesn’t occur naturally for either of us. Maybe because we have so much in common. Or maybe because not all of the things we share are good.
    Trust is hard to come by for people like us. But he’s the closest thing to a best friend I’ve ever had. We’ve never discussed it; the truth of the matter is, neither of us is very good at the whole male-female relationship thing. We’re even worse at communicating, especially when it comes to talking about our feelings. This is new ground, I suppose, but I like it. He keeps coming back for more. I keep letting him.
    I go to the living room and switch on the stereo. I’ve always loved music, even when I was Amish and it was one of many forbidden fruits. Once, I stole a CD player from an English girl’s car when I sneaked out to the mall. It was filled with a mishmash of genres—rock, mostly—and I couldn’t get enough. I listened to those songs over and over until my datt caught me and made me return it. As an adult, there’s not nearly enough music in my life. I choose Frank Sinatra’s Fly Me to the Moon and my nerves begin to smooth out.
    I find Tomasetti standing at the doorway of my office, looking at the map and whiteboard I worked on earlier. He gives me a long look when I come up beside him. “You’ve been busy,” he