a nice-looking kid with baby blue eyes, ham-sized shoulders, and a face that exudes boy-next-door charm.
“And this is Duke, my youngest.”
Duke is wearing a Painters Mill High School Football jersey. He’s the taller of the two, with angular arms and legs, and feet he hasn’t quite grown into.
Both boys mutter an unenthusiastic hello.
Tomasetti jumps into good cop mode. “That’s a nice-looking GTO,” he says motioning toward the muscle car. “1969?”
Doug Mason perks up. “Seventy.” Though he’s apprehensive about our presence, he grins, his pride in his car shining through the veil of nerves. “Me and Dad restored it.”
“Four fifty-five?” Tomasetti asks, referring to the size of the engine.
The boy’s chest puffs out. “Four hundred.”
Tomasetti whistles and smiles back, his new best friend, rapport successfully built.
“Looks like you just washed it,” I say.
“Been raining, so . . .”
The father sighs, letting us know he’s not pleased with my comment.
“Doug, can you tell us where you were last night?” I ask.
“What?” The boy looks from me to his dad.
“Noah Kline was in some kind of accident,” his father tells him.
“Oh. Wow.” The boy’s forehead wrinkles. “How bad?”
“He’s in the hospital,” I tell him.
“Shit.” As if realizing the response is inappropriate, he ducks his head, slants a look at his dad. “Sorry.”
I repeat the question.
Doug shrugs. “I went to homecoming like everyone else.”
“Alone?”
“He’s got a girlfriend,” his younger brother interjects. “Laura Simms. You can check.”
Doug shoots his brother an annoyed look. “Jeez, shut up, dude.”
I watch both boys for any telltale signs of deceit, but see nothing overt. “After homecoming, what time did you and Laura leave?”
“Eleven or so. She had to be home by eleven thirty.”
“Where did you go after you dropped her off?” I ask.
Duke makes a sound of irritation. “Are you saying my brother did something to Noah Kline?”
Tomasetti skewers him with a dark look.
“Doug is so over Ashley.” The young man rolls his eyes, teenager style. “Look, everyone’s wondering why she’s going out with some Amish dude. I mean, she’s straight fire and he doesn’t even drive a car.”
“That’s enough, son,” Chris Mason says mildly.
“Maybe they ought to look at Ashley’s old man,” the boy says. “I don’t want to throw shade on the guy, but Jason says his dad hates it that Little Miss Perfect is going out with someone who only went to the eighth grade.”
“Jason?” I ask.
“Ashley’s brother,” the boy tells me.
“Duke, go inside and help your mother with lunch.” Chris Mason points at the house. “Now.”
Giving us a final, withering look, the boy starts toward the house.
The elder Mason watches his son depart and then turns his attention back to us, his expression penitent. “Sorry, he’s a little protective of his brother.”
That’s not the way I would describe the boy’s behavior, but I hold my silence. Tomasetti and I turn our attention to the other boy.
Doug Mason swallows. “Am I in trouble?”
“Where did you go after homecoming?” I ask.
“Me and Laura sat in the driveway for about fifteen minutes. Uh . . . you know . . .” He blushes. “Then I drove back into town and met a couple of guys at the sub place. We ate and goofed off.” He rattles off the names of his friends.
I jot them down. “You went home after that?”
“Well, the engine was ticking, so I drove around a while. You know, listening, trying to figure out what it was.” He shrugs. “Then I went home and hit the sack.”
“What time was that?” I ask.
“Twelve thirty or so.”
About the time Noah Kline was walking home.
“Have you ever had any problems with Noah Kline?” I ask. “Any arguments or disagreements?”
“No, ma’am.”
“What about Ashley? Did the two of you ever argue?” I ask, aware that Tomasetti has made his way over to the car. He runs his hand over the gleaming hood as if in admiration, but I know he’s checking for damage, dents or chips in the paint—or blood.
The boy glances from Tomasetti to his father, and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Look, I didn’t like it when we broke up. I was pissed when I found out she was seeing Noah Kline. I mean, he’s frickin’ Amish. So I sent her a couple of texts. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“Did you break up because of Noah?” I ask.
He grimaces, looks down at his sneakers. “She broke up with me, so you’ll have to ask her.”
“Were you jealous when you realized she and Noah were going out?” I ask.
“No, ma’am.” He says