Part 18 (1/2)
”I don't know. I'd just feel better if we could keep an eye on things out here.”
”d.a.m.n, Chief. That's bizarre. Why would someone want an Amish lady dead? I mean, an Amish mother with three little kids to take care of?”
”That's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”
The ambulance arrives, the red and blue lights flas.h.i.+ng, no siren. I watch as the paramedics are turned away at the door and I sigh.
”Let me know if you figure it out.”
It's a dangerous thing when a cop knows too much about a crime, especially if said cop possesses information that would be helpful to the investigating agency and doesn't speak up. I don't know if the bones found in the grain elevator will ever be positively identified. Seventeen years have pa.s.sed. Investigators are reliant upon DNA or dental records, neither of which may exist. That doesn't mean I'm home free. Not even close.
Rural areas have long memories when it comes to any kind of major crime, an inescapable fact that doesn't bode well in terms of my avoiding getting sucked into the case. It was big news when Daniel Lapp went missing. Many believed he'd left town to escape the heavy hand of the Amish. But not everyone. Not his parents. Certainly not his brother, Benjamin.
By virtue of the timing alone, the police will question Benjamin. Once they learn Daniel was last seen at my parents' farm, they'll be knocking on my door, Sarah's door, and Jacob's door, asking questions none of us want to answer, just like they did seventeen years ago. This time, however, they'll be wondering why I didn't come to them first. I wonder if it would be beneficial for me to call Sheriff Redmon and start lying now, instead of waiting and letting them come to me.
I burn through an hour, stuck behind my desk, returning calls and e-mails and putting out fires. After receiving a slew of media inquiries earlier in the day, I ask Jodie to write a press release, a generic piece that basically rehashes the things everyone already knows. For now, it's going to have to be enough. Best case, it will buy me some time, because this story has all the hallmarks of a sensational headline in the making. It's Amish focused, includes a father and two dead children, and a mystery that expands with every new piece of information tossed our way.
At seven o'clock, Rasmussen returns my call. ”Around-the-clock protection?” He laughs. ”Are you kidding?”
”Not protection, exactly.” I hedge, knowing my request is so far out there, he's well within his bounds to laugh at me. ”Mattie might've been the target. I'd feel better knowing someone was out there, keeping an eye on things.”
”In a perfect world, we could do that. As you know, we don't live in a perfect world.”
”Mike.”
”Look, I can have my guys drive by every so often,” he offers. ”Round-the-clock is out of the question.”
”Can't you spare one deputy?” I ask. ”One s.h.i.+ft?”
”Wish I could, Kate. I just don't have the budget for O.T. We're already operating on a skeleton crew here. I wish I could help, but I can't.”
I sigh, only slightly peeved because I know he'd do it if he could. ”I'll figure something out.”
”Look, while I have you on the phone ... I heard from the lab on that piece of wood Luke Miller found,” he tells me. ”The indentation is, indeed, from a bolt. And it's recent.”
”How recent?”
”Days or maybe even hours.”
”Is it from the sheared pin we found at the scene?”
”That's the kicker. It's not the same.”
”Do the lab guys have any idea what that pin is for?”
”They're running some comps, but it's going to take a while.”
”We're relatively certain we're dealing with a Ford F-250. I wonder if we should take both pieces to Ford? Or a local dealers.h.i.+p?
”Since it was an after-market part, a Ford guy probably isn't going to be much help.”
”s.h.i.+t, Mike, you're just full of positive offerings this evening.”
”Yeah, well, I try.”
For the span of several seconds, neither of us speaks, but I sense our minds working over everything we know about the case so far and how little we have to work with in terms of solid facts. ”Will you do me a favor?” I ask.
”Well, since I owe you now...”
”Will you have one of your guys take that bolt to someone who knows about after-market parts? Someone who might recognize it? Maybe that custom hot-rod shop in Millersburg?”
”Worth a shot.”
I thank him and disconnect, then sit there for a moment, the exchange running through my head like a bad script. My stomach growls, reminding me the most nutritious substance I've put in my stomach all day is coffee.
”d.a.m.n it,” I mutter and look down at the phone.
I want to call Tomasetti and run all of this past him, but I hesitate. Only then do I realize that, while I have been busy with the case, my reasons for avoiding him are a lot more complex than I'm admitting, even to myself. The truth of the matter is, I'm afraid he's going to ask me to move in with him again-and I don't know how to answer. I hate it that I haven't been honest. Not with him-or myself. I need to sort out my feelings and make a decision. He deserves an answer, and I owe it to myself to give it to him, no matter where we go from here.
CHAPTER 16.
I make a stop at the grocery and buy a bottle of my favorite cabernet, a bunch of grapes, some crusty French bread, cheese, and a corkscrew bottle opener. I tuck everything into a grocery bag and makes tracks toward Wooster. It takes me twenty minutes to find Tomasetti's new place. I get lost twice and end up having to call my dispatcher for a quick Google map search. I could have called Tomasetti, but somewhere along the way realized I wanted to surprise him.
Dusk falls in Impressionist hues of lavender and gray. I'm so intent on the peaceful beauty of the countryside, I nearly miss my turn and have to make a hard stop. The rust-bucket mailbox has been bashed in, but the number is still legible, so I turn in. The canopies of the ma.s.sive elm trees arc over the lane, lending the illusion of driving through a lush, green cave.
Despite my earlier hesitancy, a sense of antic.i.p.ation keeps pace with me as I barrel toward the house. I think about the man waiting for me and I suddenly can't wait to see him. I want to hear his voice. I want him to make me laugh at something I shouldn't. For a little while I want to forget about this case. I want to forget about the discovery of Lapp's remains.
The old Victorian sits at the end of the lane looking lost and out of place, like some B-movie actor who knows, no matter how hard he tries, he'll never master the part to which he's been cast. In an instant, I take in the wraparound porch, the tall, narrow windows, and the crisp white paint. Huge shade trees hulk on every side of the house. Behind it, a rusty silo that had once been painted silver and a tumbling-down barn watch over the place with mournful, longing eyes.
Tomasetti's Tahoe is parked adjacent a one-car detached garage. I can tell by the way the overhead door lists that it's not functional. I get out of the Explorer and I'm met by a dissonance of birdsong: blue jays and cardinals and the occasional caw of a crow. The breeze smells of cut gra.s.s and the honeysuckle that grows wild on the barbed wire fence behind a small chicken coop. I stand there, taking in the disarray, and all I can think is that this world I've stepped into is completely incongruous with the man I've come to know.
I take the crumbling sidewalk to the back porch. The door stands ajar, but the screen door is closed. I hear the crackle of a radio beyond. The smells of fresh paint and new wood waft through the screen. Using my knuckles, I rap on the door and wait, incredulous because my heart is pounding and there's a small, insecure part of me that's terrified he won't come.
A full minute pa.s.ses. Thinking he might be upstairs, I use my key chain and knock harder. ”Tomasetti?”
When that doesn't draw his attention, I push open the door. The hinges squeak as I step inside. The kitchen has been gutted down to the drywall and subflooring. A radio is set up on a five-gallon bucket and The Wallflowers blare ”One Headlight.” A wide doorway to my right beckons, so I take it to a good-size living room. Three of the walls are painted an attractive dark tan. A stepladder stands next to a tall window. Plastic drop cloths cover hardwood floors the color of semisweet chocolate. I turn in a slow circle, spot the ma.s.sive hearth behind me, and find myself smiling.
”Tomasetti?”
The only reply is the birdsong coming in through the open window and sound of the breeze rattling the drop cloth on the floor.
I take the stairs to the second level. There are three large bedrooms and an art-decostyle bathroom with teal-colored tile and a claw-foot tub. More evidence of work up here, too. There are two sawhorses set up with a sheet of plywood stretched across them. A power saw sits on the floor atop a layer of sawdust, an orange extension cord coils like a snake against the wall.
”Tomasetti!” I call out.
No answer.