“Where’s T.J.?” I ask.
“I’m here.”
T.J. appears at the door, looking dapper and fresh in his crisp blue uniform. At twenty-five, he’s my youngest officer and the only rookie in the department. He receives a good bit of teasing, but he’s a good sport and generally serious about his work. When I need someone for overtime, he’s my go-to man.
“Sorry I’m late, Chief.”
I nod. “I’ll let it slide since this is—was—your day off.”
Chuckling, he takes the chair beside Glock.
I look around the room. “I’m sorry to have called everyone in on such short notice this morning, but I wanted to let you know I’m going to be consulting for BCI for a few days. Apparently, there have been some disappearances in the northeastern part of the state. The reason I’ve been asked to consult is because the missing persons are Amish.”
A collective sound of surprise sweeps the room. I feel the rise of interest and continue before the questions come. “As of now, the agency doesn’t know if these disappearances are connected, but the speculation is that they are.” I glance at my watch. “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”
I give Glock a pointed look. “You’re in charge while I’m gone.”
He gives me a two-finger salute.
“I’ve got my cell and I’m available twenty-four/seven if anyone needs anything.” I survey my department, and a rolling wave of pride sweeps over me. “Try not to shoot anyone while I’m gone.” I smile at Pickles. “That includes chickens.”
CHAPTER 3
I’m twenty minutes out of Richfield when Tomasetti calls. It’s a good thing the town council approved wireless headsets for the department last month, because I’ve spent much of this trip on the phone. I’ve spoken once with Sheriff Rasmussen, once with Auggie—who apologized for his “inappropriate” comments earlier—and I’ve had four decidedly unpleasant conversations with Kathleen McClanahan. Mona was right: The woman curses with the speed of an auctioneer hawking wares at an estate sale. McClanahan ended the call by threatening to sue me for “roughing up” her little girl and then hanging up on me.
I catch Tomasetti’s call on the third ring. “I’m almost there,” I say by way of greeting.
“We’ve got another one,” he says. “Fifteen-year-old female. Happened last night. Local law enforcement called ten minutes ago.”
“Where?”
“Buck Creek, a small town about an hour northeast of here.”
“She’s Amish?”
“Family searched for her all night.”
“And they’re just now contacting the police, because they thought they could handle it themselves.” My voice is bone-dry.
“See? I knew you’d be a benefit to the case.”
“Who’s the vic?”
Paper rattles on the other end of the line, and I know he’s paging through the file. “Annie King. Parents sent her to a vegetable stand and she never made it home.”
He pauses and I sense he’s champing at the bit and ready to go—and I’m holding up the show. The first forty-eight hours are the most crucial in terms of solving any case, but that’s particularly true when dealing with a missing child. Two of the kidnappings are cold. This one is fresh; we’re still within that golden period.
“I’ve got everyone rounded up here,” he tells me. “We’re just going to bring you in. Do the introductions. HR will have a couple of forms for you. Then we’re on our way.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“I’ll meet you at the door.”
It’s just after noon when I turn onto Highlander Parkway. I’m not nervous, but an edginess creeps steadily over me as I draw closer to the BCI field office. Like Tomasetti, I’m keenly aware of the ticking clock and anxious to get started. I want to visit the scene and speak to the missing girl’s family. I want to find the girl before something terrible happens—if it hasn’t already.
I remind myself that I’m only going to be consulting, and I can’t help but wonder what kind of parameters I’ll be working within. I’m hands-on when it comes to my job. How difficult will it be to ride this out in the backseat?
To complicate matters, there’s also the issue of my relationship with Tomasetti. We’re walking a fine line, working together on a case while we’re personally involved. Nobody knows, and for now we would be wise to keep it that way. I’m confident neither of us will let private feelings affect the case. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to spending some time with him.
I park in the visitor section of the lot, grab my overnight bag, and head toward the double glass doors at the front of the building. The uniformed security officer behind a glossy walnut desk stands as I approach.
“Can I help you?”
She’s a trim African-American woman wearing a navy jacket, a chrome badge clipped to her belt, and a name tag that tells me her name is Gabrielle. “I’m Kate Burkholder. I have an appointment to see John Tomasetti with BCI.”
“He’s called twice. Hold on.” She’s in the process of dialing when I hear my name. I turn, to see Tomasetti treading toward me with long, purposeful strides. Plea sure unfurls in my stomach at the sight of his tall frame. As usual, he’s well dressed in a crisp blue shirt with a gray-and-burgundy tie and nicely cut charcoal slacks.
I can’t help it; I smile. “Agent Tomasetti.”
His expression softens. “Chief Burkholder.” He glances at the security officer. “Thanks, Gabby.”
She waves him off, but not before I see something in her eyes, and I realize I’m not the only one who likes my men dark and brooding and just a little bit on the shady side.
“How was the drive?” he asks, extending his hand.
“Uneventful.”
“Best kind, I guess.” We shake, and I notice several things at once. His palm is warm and dry. His grip is substantial. He’s looking at me a tad too closely and perhaps with a little too much intensity, both of which I like. “You look nice,” he says in a low voice.
“So do you.”
Amusement crinkles the outer corners of his eyes. He holds on to my hand an instant too long before motioning toward the bank of elevators. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
We head toward the elevator. He starts to take my overnight bag but then thinks better of it, and I realize he doesn’t want anyone getting the wrong impression about us, particularly his superiors. I heft the bag onto my shoulder and pretend not to notice the awkwardness of the moment.
We wait for the elevator in silence and without looking at each other. Then the doors swish open and we step inside. He taps the button for the second floor and the doors whisper closed. We’re alone; the only sound is the Muzak flowing down from an overhead speaker, mangling an old Sting song. I’m keenly aware of Tomasetti standing next to me, but my mind has already jumped ahead to meeting his superiors, the impression I want to make, the benefits I will bring to the case. Less than a second into the ride up, Tomasetti turns to me, sets his hands on my shoulders. The next thing I know, my back is against the wall and his mouth is on mine. Shock punches me with such force that for an instant my knees go weak. The Muzak fades to babble, but my heartbeat becomes a roar in my ears. Vaguely, I’m aware of the car moving ever upward, the firm pressure of his lips against mine, the taste of peppermint and coffee and the man I’ve missed for weeks now. I’m about to put my arms around him, when he pulls back, gazes down at me. “Welcome to Richfield,” he says quietly.
“You’re all business this morning.” My laugh sounds nervous and my voice is breathy and thin. “They don’t have security cameras in these elevators, do they?”
“I checked.”
“So this was premeditated.”
“Cameras in the halls upstairs, though.”
“In case I feel the need to throw myself at you.”
“I thought you might have a hard time resisting.”
We smile at each other and then the doors swish open. No time
to think about what just transpired. My heart is still riding high in my throat when we step into a well-lit hall lined with a dozen or so doors, most of which are open. Government-issue artwork adorns institutional white walls. I see an Ansel Adams photo in a black frame; a color photograph of Ohio’s attorney general; a matted and framed mosaic of the great seal of the state of Ohio; a photo collage of agents killed in the line of duty. At the end of the hall, Tomasetti motions me to the right and we stop outside a door affixed with a chrome plate that says CONFERENCE ROOM 1.
“I’ll try to make this as quick as possible,” he says.
I wipe my damp palms on my slacks. “I’ll try not to look like I just got waylaid in the elevator.”
He tosses me a sideways look, and then we’re through the doorway and entering the conference room. Two men and a woman sit at a heavy oak table. They look up, their eyes skimming quickly over Tomasetti and then settling on me, curious, assessing, making judgments based on appearance and demeanor, psyching me out. I know the routine; I’ve done it myself to many a rookie over the years. I discern immediately the two men are law enforcement. Bad suits. Stares that are slightly too direct. The woman is in her early thirties, well dressed, with expensive jewelry and a nice manicure. I peg her as administrative but sense she prefers to hang with the guys.
Tomasetti doesn’t waste any time. “This is Chief of Police Kate Burkholder,” he says by way of introduction.
The men stand. A tall, lanky man with blue eyes and a bulbous nose threaded with broken capillaries extends his hand to me. “I’m Lawrence Bates, the deputy superintendent.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Which basically means I have to put up with Tomasetti most days.”
I grin, liking him. “Tough job.”
He chuckles as I turn my attention to the second man, and we shake. His grip is a little too firm and damp. “Denny McNinch.”
His stare is calculating. There’s baggage in his expression, perhaps even between him and Tomasetti. He’s got a battered look about him that has nothing to do with physical scars. And I know that before he sat behind a desk, he spent a good bit of time on the street. “Nice to meet you,” I tell him.
“Denny’s out of the Columbus office,” says Tomasetti, clarifying.
Baggage, I think. Tomasetti worked out of the Columbus office after leaving the Cleveland PD. He’d had some problems there early on, nearly got himself fired. I can tell by McNinch’s stare that he knows about it. I can also tell by the way he’s looking at me that he’s wondering if there’s something going on between Tomasetti and me. Or maybe I just have a guilty conscience.
“Welcome aboard, Chief Burkholder,” he says, releasing my hand.
Bates takes command of the meeting and gets right to the business at hand. “We’re pleased you’re here, Chief Burkholder. I’m sure John has already filled you in on the situation.”
I nod. “I understand there’s now a third person missing.”
“We just got the call from local law enforcement in Buck Creek,” Bates says. “I know you’re anxious to get started, so we’ll keep this brief.”
McNinch motions to the woman, who has remained seated throughout the introductions but hasn’t taken her eyes off me since I walked in. “This is Paige Wilson, my assistant. She’s got a couple of forms for you to sign, Chief Burkholder. We’ve got to keep all of this on the up-and-up with Uncle Sam.”
“Call me Kate.”
Nodding, he motions to the forms on the table. “We pay a small stipend, plus mileage, expenses.”
The forms are in typical government triplicate. The pages that require a signature are marked with red flags. Everyone’s in a hurry, so I give the forms a cursory read-through and scribble my name.
When I’ve finished, Bates says, “I’ve wanted to meet you since Tomasetti assisted with the Slaughterhouse Murders. Hell of a case for a small town.”
“It was a tough one.” The very thought of that investigation and all its gnarly implications still makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Agent Tomasetti was a tremendous help to the entire department.”
“He tells us you used to be Amish,” McNinch says.
That’s always the thing everyone wants to know. They don’t care about my résumé or law-enforcement background or my degree in criminal justice. They don’t ask about my solve rate from when I was a detective in Columbus. They want to know if I was Amish; if I wore homemade dresses and rode in a horse-drawn buggy and lived my life without electricity and cars. “I grew up Amish,” I say simply.
In my peripheral vision, I see the woman lean slightly to one side, and I wonder if she’s checking to see if I’m wearing practical shoes.
“I understand you’re also fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch,” McNinch says.
I nod. “That’s particularly beneficial, especially with regard to breaking down some of the cultural barriers.”
“So far we’re batting zero in the way of garnering much useful information,” Bates says.
“Local law enforcement isn’t getting much from the Amish families,” Tomasetti adds, clarifying the matter.
“Unfortunately, that’s not unusual,” I tell them. “There’s a certain level of distrust between the Amish and the government, particularly law enforcement. We ran into that when we had a rash of hate crimes last December.” I don’t look at Tomasetti as I speak. I’m afraid if I do, somehow these men will know that we’re more than colleagues, more than friends. “The Amish are also slow in making contact with us because of their tenet of remaining separate. But there are also cultural issues. Religious issues.” I think of the chasm that stretches between me and my siblings. I don’t mention the fact that sometimes even if you’re born into the plain life, you can still be an outsider. “Generally speaking, once we convince the family we have only their best interest at heart, they’ll open up, especially if the safety of a loved one is in question.”
“Excellent.” Bates slides a folder across the table toward me. “We’re still putting things together, Kate, so the file is sparse.”
Intrigued, I open the file and find myself staring down at three missing-person reports. Bates was right: The information is hit-or-miss. The missing consist of three females between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, all of whom are Amish.
“We think their being Amish is the key element here,” McNinch says.
“Do you think this is a serial thing?” I ask. “And this is some kind of escalation?”
Tomasetti nods. “Maybe.”
“What we can’t figure is motive,” Bates says.
“No ransom demand,” Tomasetti puts in.
“Yet,” Bates adds.
“Anything come to mind off the top of your head?” McNinch asks.
I look up from the reports and make eye contact with him. “I’m sure you’ve already considered this, but the first thing that comes to mind is that these are sexual in nature.” I think of the Plank murder case and all of the dark places the investigation took me. “It could be fetish-related. An individual with an Amish fetish acting out some fantasy. His motivation has more to do with the victims’ being Amish than anything else.”
“I didn’t know such a thing existed,” McNinch comments.
“We’re running queries through NCIC and VICAP,” Tomasetti says. “We’re still waiting for results.”
“There’s also the hate angle,” I tell them. “It’s happened in Painters Mill. I know of cases in other towns, too.”
“I guess hate crimes don’t have to make sense.” Bates scratches his head. “But the Amish? Seems like they’d make pretty good neighbors.”
“Some people don’t like the religion and see them as fanatical or cultlike. Some don’t like them because the horse and buggies hold up traffic.” I shrug. “You name it and there’s probably some nutcase out there who thinks it.”
“Have you ever dealt with any kidnappings with regard to the Amish?” McNinch asks.
I shake my head. “Suspects?” r />
Bates shakes his head. “Nada.”
“Anything at any of the scenes?” I ask.
“We don’t have a scene,” Tomasetti replies. “These kids disappeared without a trace. We don’t know where the actual kidnappings—if, in fact, that’s what we’re dealing with—took place.”
I look down at the file. The part of me that is a cop is intrigued by the puzzle. I want to know what happened and why. I want to find the person responsible, go head-to-head with whoever it is. I want to stop him. Bring him to justice. But the more human part of me—the part of me that is Amish and knows the culture with such intimacy—is outraged by what has been done and frightened by the possibilities. “What about the victims? Aside from being Amish, do they share any other common threads?”
“Not that we’ve found, but we’re still gathering information,” McNinch says.
“Analyst is looking at everything now,” Tomasetti adds. “Once we arrive on-scene, we’ll talk to the families. That’s where you come in.”
I nod. “That’s where we’re going to get the brunt of our information. The families. Friends.”
“We haven’t been able to get our hands on photos,” Bates adds.
“Most Amish won’t have photos of their children,” I tell him.
He stares at me blankly, and I realize he’s probably not an Ohio native. “Most Amish don’t like to have their photos taken,” I tell him. “They feel it’s a vain display of pride. Some of the more conservative have biblical beliefs that keep them from having any kind of likeness done.”
“We’ve brought in the state Highway Patrol,” Bates says. “They wanted photos, but all we could give them were physical descriptions.”
“If the parents will cooperate, we may be able to get a sketch done,” I offer as an alternative. But everyone knows a sketch takes time and isn’t as helpful as a photo.
“Say the word and we’ll get someone down there,” Bates says.
Tomasetti glances at his watch, and I know he’s sending his superiors a not-so-subtle message to hurry this along so we can get on the road.