Pray for Silence (20 page)

Two hands come down on my shoulders, fingers digging into my skin. “Kate, goddamnit.”

I barely hear Tomasetti’s voice over the wild beat of my heart. “Get off me!” Red crowds my vision, a rainbow of fury that spreads through me like a storm.

“Crazy bitch.” Payne’s lips peel back, revealing canine-like teeth.

I’m aware of Tomasetti dragging me backward. Payne starting toward me.

Glock steps between us, thrusts a finger at Payne. “Back off.”

Payne glares at Glock. “She assaulted me! She can’t do that! I’m a fuckin’ law-abiding citizen!”

At the door, Tomasetti stops dragging me. But he doesn’t release me. His fingers slide down to my biceps and he gives me a shake. “Pull yourself together,” he growls.

I can hear myself breathing hard. In the back of my mind, I know I screwed up. I acted like some hotheaded rookie. I broke one of the cardinal rules of police work and hit a suspect without cause. The anger pulsing inside me doesn’t give a damn.

Payne jams a finger at me. “You fuckin’ cops are all the same. A bunch of fascist pigs. I ought to sue you.”

Tomasetti sighs. “I didn’t see her do anything wrong.” He looks at Glock. “Did you?”

Glock shakes his head. “I saw Payne go after her.”

Payne’s face turns deep red. “I’m glad those Amish freaks are dead! Serves them right for being a bunch of hypocritical, incestuous bastards! How’s that, bitch?”

My vision tunnels on Payne’s face. I can almost feel my hands closing around his throat. My heart knocks so hard against my ribcage my chest hurts. I think of those dead kids, and I want to strangle him with my bare hands.

“Kate.” Tomasetti’s fingers squeeze my biceps. “Let it go.”

I thrust a finger at Payne. “Don’t leave town.”

“Or what? What are you going to do about it? Hit me? Your days as a cop are numbered, bitch.”

John pushes me toward the door. I dig in my heels, but he muscles me across the threshold and onto the sidewalk. “Cut it out,” he snaps.

“Get your hands off me.” I try to sound calm, but my voice shakes. “I mean it.”

Glock pauses in the doorway, looks at Payne, and points at the painting. “That shit you call art sucks, man.”

From inside, I hear Payne break into wild laughter.

No one speaks as John, Glock and I traverse the neighbor’s yard. We reach the Explorer, and I yank my keys from my pocket.

“Can’t take you anywhere, can we?” Tomasetti mutters.

“Can the lecture,” I say tightly.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

I say nothing as I slide behind the wheel. The truth of the matter is I can’t defend what I did. Payne baited me, and I hit on it like a bass on a lure.

Tomasetti glares at me. “You know better than to—”

“You didn’t see those dead kids.” I crank the key. “You didn’t see those girls.”

He slides into the passenger seat and slams the door. “You let him provoke you.”

“That’s hypocritical as hell coming from you.”

“You played right into his hands. If he wants to push the issue, he can cause problems.”

“Let him push.” The tires squeal as I pull away from the curb. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I push back.”

Leaning back in the seat, Tomasetti groans, looks out the window.

From the rear seat, Glock clears his throat. “So what’s your take on Payne?”

“He’s worth looking at,” Tomasetti says. “The torture aspect fits him better than the others.”

I glance in the rearview mirror, catch Glock’s gaze. “Dig up everything you can find on him. See if he’s in CODIS. If not, get a warrant. I want a DNA sample from that son of a bitch.”

“You think he knew the girl?” Glock asks.

Tomasetti shakes his head. “I don’t think he’d have a relationship with an Amish female.”

“Yeah,” Glock agrees. “Too much hate.”

“He could have raped her,” I put in.

I feel John’s eyes burning into me, but I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to see what I know shows on my face.

“Autopsy substantiate that?” Glock asks.

I shake my head. “Inconclusive.”

I park in front of the police station and get out without speaking. I’m still angry, but now that anger is focused on myself. I feel like an idiot for taking a shot at Payne. I’m embarrassed because I did it in front of two people I respect. Two cops whose opinions matter to me.

I’m midway to the front door when Tomasetti breaks the silence. “I’d like to see the crime scene.”

I know it’s petty in light of everything that’s happened, but I don’t want to go back there. I’m feeling too battered, too vulnerable. I want to blame it on my confrontation with Payne, but I know the feelings zinging inside me have more to do with a dead Amish girl than an ex-con full of hate.

“Come with me,” he says.

We stop on the sidewalk in front of the station. Glock’s gaze goes from Tomasetti to me, and he clears his throat. “I’m going to get some queries going on Payne. See about that warrant.”

“Thanks,” I mutter and watch him disappear inside.

I turn my attention back to Tomasetti. He stares evenly at me. I stare back, determined not to look away despite my discomfort.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I’m always okay.”

He looks away, studies the building behind me, then gives me a sage look. “It’s not like you to go after a suspect like that.”

“Nobody likes a bigot.”

He frowns. “Or maybe I’m not the only one this case is hitting too close to home for.”

I’m not sure if he’s talking about Mary Plank in general, or the rape she and her sister may have endured before their deaths. The one thing I do know is that he’s right; the case is hitting me in a place that’s bruised and raw—and with a vehemence I’m not prepared for.

After a moment, I rub at the ache between my eyes and sigh. “We’re not catching any breaks.”

“We will.” He pauses. “Do you have time to come with me to the crime scene?”

“There’s one more person I need to talk to first,” I reply. “It’s on the way.”

“I’ll drive.”

The Carriage Stop is a quaint gift shop located just off the traffic circle. I’m not big on shopping. In fact, I’ve only been in the store once and that was to buy a gift for Glock’s wife, Lashonda, when she had her baby a few months back. The shop is a Painters Mill icon of sorts with a large selection of Amish quilts, birdhouses, mailboxes, flavored coffees and candles. It’s owned by town councilwoman Janine Fourman and managed by her sister, Evelyn Steinkruger. My aversion to shopping aside, that affiliation alone is enough to keep me out.

“Mary Plank worked here part-time,” I say as Tomasetti parks in front of the shop.

“I didn’t know the Amish could take on outside jobs or associate with the English.”

“It varies depending on the church district and how loosely the
Ordnung
is interpreted.” I slide out of the Tahoe.

The bell on the door jingles merrily as we enter. The scents of candle wax, eucalyptus, coffee and a potpourri of essential oils—sweet basil, rosemary and sandalwood—titillate my olfactory nerves. To my left, old-fashioned wood shelves filled with every imaginable type of folk art line the entire wall. I see rustic wooden plaques upon which colorful hex symbols are painted. These are allegedly taken from old Amish barns. I smile at that because the Amish have never used hex signs to decorate their barns. Of course the tourists don’t know that, and shop owners like Janine Fourman don’t necessarily give a damn about cultural accuracy.

Ahead, several dozen Amish quilts bursting with color are draped over smooth wooden racks. To my right, an ancient spiral staircase sweeps upward to the second level where I see a small collection of books and dozens of handmade candles. In the center of the room, a snazzily dressed woman with coiffed gray hair stands behind an antique cash register.

“Hi, Chief Burkholder.” She looks at me over the tops of tiny square bifocals. “May I help you?”

My boots thud against the wood plank floor as we cross to her. I flash my badge. “Evelyn, this is John Tomasetti with the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation out of Columbus.”

“You’re here about that poor Plank girl.” She shakes her head. “What an awful thing to happen.”

“I understand Mary worked here part-time.”

“Three days a week from ten to three. Such a pretty thing, and from such a nice family. I was shocked to my bones when I heard what happened to them.”

“How well did you know Mary?”

“Not well, I’m afraid. She worked here about five months, but she was very quiet and kept to herself.”

“How did you come to hire her?”

“Mary and her mother brought in quilts every so often. You know, to sell. They did lovely work. I mentioned once that I needed help with stocking the
shelves. A few days later Mary’s mother brought her back and she filled out an application.” She lowers her voice. “I guess they needed to get permission from their pastor or something.”

“What can you tell us about Mary?” Tomasetti asks.

“She was a good little worker. Pretty as a picture. Quiet, though. Always seemed to be watching you with those big eyes of hers.”

“Had you noticed any unusual behavior on her part recently?”

“Not really. She did a lot of daydreaming. I’d walk by when she was supposed to be working and catch her staring off into space.” She gives a small smile, as if we share a secret. “I actually had to reprimand her a few times, just to keep her on the ball. I hired her because the Amish have such a good work ethic. You know those religious types, they don’t complain.” She laughs. “But for an Amish girl, bless her heart, Mary was as lazy as a summer day.”

That’s when I realize Janine and her sister share more than blood. They also share a nasty streak that runs straight down the middle of their backs.

“Had you noticed anyone hanging around the shop?” Tomasetti asks. “Any customers talking to Mary? Males paying too much attention to her?”

“Well, all the males gave her a look when they came in. She really was a very pretty girl even though she didn’t wear a shred of makeup and wore the same frumpy dress almost every day. But she never paid them any heed.”

“Did you ever see her talking to anyone?” Tomasetti asks.

“Like I said, she was quiet. Didn’t really talk to anyone.”

“Do you have any other employees?” I ask.

“A couple of high school girls help out on the weekend. Otherwise, I’m it.”

“Can you give me their names?” I ask.

She rattles off two names, and I jot them down.

“What about males?” Tomasetti asks. “Any males come into the shop on a regular basis?”

“You mean customers?” Steinkruger asks. “We get a few, but most of our shoppers are female.”

“What about suppliers?” I ask. “Or have you had any work done on the place recently? Construction work, maybe?”

“Well, we have a coffee guy comes in once a week. Replenishes our coffees and creamers.”

“Same guy every week?”

She nods. “Nice young man. Attractive. His name is Scott, I believe.”

“Last name?”

“I don’t know, but he’s cute as a speckled pup.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “What’s the name of the coffee service?”

“We use Tuscarawus Coffee Roasters. Fabulous coffee.” She draws out the A so that the word sounds very northeastern. “Our customers love the Pennsylvania Dutch chocolate. Can’t keep it in the store.”

I write the name of the coffee service and the route man in my notebook.

Tomasetti asks the next question. “Did you ever see Mary with anyone? She go to lunch with anyone? Talk on the phone?”

Her brows knit and she slides her glasses onto her crown. “You know, now that I’m thinking about it, I vaguely remember seeing Mary get into a car a couple of weeks ago. I thought it was odd, her being Amish and all. Those people have all those rules about fraternization.”

My cop’s radar goes on alert. “Did you recognize the driver?”

“We were busy that day. I just happened to look out the window. I didn’t think anything of it because she was on her lunch break. I remember hoping she wasn’t late coming back because we’d just gotten in a shipment of candy that needed to be priced and stocked.”

“Do you recall what kind of vehicle it was?” I ask.

Her brows knit. “It was a nice car. Looked new. Shiny paint. Dark.”

“Do you remember the color?”

“Black or blue.” She puts her finger to her chin. “Maybe brown. Dark is all I recall.”

“What about the make or model?”

“I’m so bad with those kinds of details. My husband worked at GM for thirty years. He thinks it’s blasphemous that I don’t know a Ford from a Toyota.”

“That is blasphemous,” Tomasetti mutters.

“I’m sorry. I only saw the car for a second.”

“Do you know if the driver was male or female?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I don’t recall.”

“Did you get the sense that Mary knew the driver?” I try.

“Well, I don’t really know. But I can tell you she wasn’t the kind of girl who would get in a stranger’s car.”

“This could be important, Mrs. Steinkruger. Do you remember any details at all about the vehicle or driver?”

She considers my question for a moment. “I remember thinking it was strange that she got in halfway down the block. She lowers her voice. “And she came back once smelling of cigarettes. I was going to tell her mother about it, but I forgot about it until now.”

Tomasetti and I exchange looks. I can see that his cop’s radar is beeping as loudly as mine.

“Did she have any English friends?” I ask.

“Not that I ever saw.”

“Did she have a desk or locker here at the shop we could take a look at?” Tomasetti asks.

“We don’t have anything like that here.”

The bell on the door jangles. A group of golf shirt–clad, fifty-something tourists wander in.

“Thanks for your time,” Tomasetti says and we head toward the door.

“Fruit didn’t fall far from the tree in that family,” I mutter beneath my breath.

He gives me an amused look. “Rotten fruit?”

“Putrid.”

“Oh, Chief Burkholder?”

At the sound of Evelyn’s voice, we stop and turn.