Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

some kind of unspoken prerequisite to shacking up? I don’t know the answer to that, either.
    What I do know is that three years ago, Tomasetti went through a horrific ordeal when his wife and children were murdered. He’s come a long way since. He’s recovered as much as a man can after something like that. But is he ready to love another woman?
    “You’re thinking awfully hard,” he says.
    “I’m trying not to screw this up.”
    “Nothing to screw up,” he tells me. “Either you want to live with me or you don’t.”
    “It’s not quite that black and white,” I tell him. “We’re in a good place right now. I don’t want to ruin that.”
    Leaning close, he brushes his mouth against my cheek and slides from the bed. “You don’t have to decide in the next ten seconds. I have to go.”
    I watch as he steps into his trousers, jams his arms into the same shirt he wore the night before. “Tomasetti—”
    “I left the rental parked in your driveway.” He doesn’t look at me as he buttons the shirt and cuffs. “I’m going to need the Tahoe.”
    “Keys are on the counter by the fridge.” I sit up, find my robe at the foot of the bed, and slip it on.
    “Go back to sleep.” He starts toward the hall.
    “Tomasetti.” I follow him, barefoot, knotting the belt as I go. “We need to talk about this.”
    I catch him in the kitchen just as he snags the keys off the counter. “I get it, Kate. It’s okay.”
    “I’m terrible at this,” I blurt. “I’m a coward.”
    “No you’re not.” He opens the door, pauses with his back to me. “On both counts. I have to go.”
    “I need to know if we’re okay,” I say.
    “We are,” he tells me, and closes the door behind him.

 
CHAPTER 17
     
    I arrive at the station just before 7:00 A.M. Mona is sitting at the dispatch station with her headset around her neck and a grape Popsicle sticking out of her mouth. She’s wearing a pink-and-red-striped shirt with a black skirt that’s barely long enough to cover her . . . equipment. Black-tipped fingernails move deftly over her keyboard. She did something with her hair, but I can’t put my finger on exactly what.
    She glances up when I walk in and smiles. “Morning, Chief.” She hands me a massive stack of pink message slips. “Sorry. They’ve been piling up since about six.”
    “You looked different yesterday,” I tell her as I page through messages.
    “Hair.” She indicates her head. “Added some burgundy.”
    “I like it.”
    She beams. “Any news on the Miller girl?”
    “Hoping something will break today.” I start toward my office, mentally reviewing all the things I need to get done, but an afterthought stops me and I turn back to Mona. “Are you busy?”
    “If you can call a Popsicle busy, I’m swamped.”
    I start toward her desk, pulling my note pad from my pocket. “Can you research something for me?”
    Her eyes light up, and I forgive her for the mini skirt. “I’d love to.”
    I reach her desk and flip through my pad. Finding the sheet I’m looking for—a page on which I’ve written down the names of everyone involved with the disappearances—and I tear it from the pad. “Take these names and hit a few search engines. See what pops.”
    “You looking for anything in particular?”
    “A written confession on some blog would be nice,” I mutter.
    She hefts a laugh. “That might be just a tad optimistic, Chief.”
    I motion toward the paper in her hand. “Some of the people on the list aren’t directly related to the disappearances, but I still want to look at them.” Sometimes those are the people whose names eventually make their way to the top.
    “Tax records?” she asks.
    “Sure. Anything you can think of.”
    “When do you need it by?”
    “Yesterday.”
    I spend an hour catching up on administrative tasks and following up on queries I put out the previous day. The CSU working the scene where Mandy Reiglesberger saw Sadie Miller calls at 8:00 A.M. and informs me the blood found at the scene is indeed human. As is usually the case, the lab is backlogged and the blood typing and DNA will take a few days. But at least now I’m relatively certain we’re dealing with a crime scene. Not the news I wanted to start my day off with.
    Tomasetti calls midmorning and I relay the news.
    “Damn.” He sighs. “I wanted to let you know we executed the search warrant for Stacy Karns’s house and property. Get this: We found a photograph of Annie