Pray for Silence (21 page)

She speaks to us from her place behind the cash register. “I have Mary’s final paycheck here. What should I do with it?”

“You might give it to her brother, Aaron,” I say. “He may want to put it toward the cost of the caskets.”

I’m thinking about Mary’s diary as I get into the Tahoe. “The guy in the car could be our killer,” I say. “In her journal, she mentioned meeting her boyfriend for lunch.”

“Maybe we could get a couple of your officers to canvass the area.”

“Okay.”

“Not much to go on.” Tomasetti starts the engine and pulls away from the curb. “I should probably read the journal. Can I get a copy of it?”

“I’ll have Lois make you one.”

“Might give me some insight. You know what they say. Two brains are better than one.”

“That’s a scary thought, Tomasetti.”

Tuscarawus Coffee Roasters is located in a small office complex on the north side of town. The barrel-tile roof and stucco façade cascading with English ivy lends it the ambience of an Italian villa. It shares space with two dentists, an insurance company, a photo studio and a high-end nail salon called Elegante.

We park in the only empty space and take the sidewalk to an arched entry. Beyond, I spot the sign for the coffee company.

“Nice digs,” I say.

“Must sell a lot of coffee.”

The door opens to a trendily decorated reception area with turquoise walls and mahogany colored molding. A black and silver sofa lines the wall to my right. The coffee table in front of it is piled high with
Coffee Lover Magazine
. To my left, an African-American woman sits behind an Art Deco–esque desk, tapping a sleek keyboard with long pink nails. A name plaque in front of her reads:
Director of First Impressions.

“May I help you?” she asks.

I cross to the desk and show her my badge. “Do you have a route driver named Scott? He delivers to the Carriage Stop in Painters Mill.”

“Oh. Wow. Cops.” Her eyes dart from my badge, to Tomasetti and back to me. “Carriage Stop is part of Scott Barbereaux’s route. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“We just want to speak with him,” Tomasetti says. “Is he in?”

She glances at the clock on her desk. “He usually gets in from his route at
about this time. Hangs out in the warehouse, doing his paperwork. Let me page him for you.” Using her pen, she presses a button on the switchboard. “Scott, please call 900.”

Tomasetti gives me a look that tells me he’s not in the mood to wait. “Where’s the warehouse?”

“Well, um, I’m not really allowed to let you go back there.”

His smile looks more like a snarl. “If your boss gives you a hard time, I’ll arrest him for you.”

A nervous giggle escapes her, and she points a pink nail at the door beyond. “Go through that door. Make a left. Take the door with the Exit sign. Loading dock is across the lot. Can’t miss it.”

The warehouse is a large metal building with two overhead doors that look out over loading bays. Four brown step vans, the sides of which are affixed with the Tuscarawus Coffee Roasters logo, are parked at the bays. We cross the small asphalt lot, reach the loading area and take concrete steps to the warehouse. A few feet away, a man in a brown uniform sits at metal desk pecking at a computer. His name tag tells me he’s the man we’re looking for.

“Scott Barbereaux?” I hold out my badge.

He glances up from his work. His eyes widen when he spots my badge and uniform. Standing quickly, he puts up his hands as if to fend us off. “Look, if this is about that ticket in Wooster, I sent the money order in two weeks ago.”

He’s about six feet tall with broad shoulders and well-defined biceps. He wears the uniform a tad too tight, but it looks good on him—at least he thinks so. His face is tanned to a golden, healthy brown. Dark hair cut just above his shoulders has been artfully highlighted, giving an overall impression that he’s spent the last six months on some topless beach in the south of France. I can practically smell the Bain de Soleil.

“This isn’t about a ticket,” I say.

“Really?” He relaxes, smiles, amused. “If it’s not about the ticket then—” He falls silent, sobers as realization dawns. “Oh, shit. This is about the Amish girl at the store. Evelyn told me you cops were asking about me.”

“That Evelyn is pretty fast on the dial, isn’t she?” Tomasetti sidles around behind him and steals a look at the computer screen.

If this makes Barbereaux nervous, the man gives no indication. “That’s just bizarre. An
Amish
family. Shit. You guys arrest anyone yet?”

“We’re following up on a few things,” I say vaguely.

“I just saw the girl last week. Friday. She was stocking preserves or something. Sweet kid. Quiet. Seemed to be a hard worker. Believe me, Evelyn gets her money’s worth.”

“Did you know her?” I ask.

“Mandy?”

“Mary,” I correct. “Last name Plank.”

“Just to say hello. I saw her at the store just about every time I delivered. Mostly on Fridays. They went through a lot of coffee. Evelyn offers it free to tourists, you know. I guess that’s a good way to entice them, but . . .” As if realizing he’d drifted off topic he sighs. “I just can’t believe someone could do something so frickin’ bad to a helpless Amish family.”

“Did you ever see Mary with anyone?” I ask.

“Not that I recall.”

“Did you ever see her get into a vehicle?”

“I’m sorry. I never really noticed. My route’s got a lot of stops, so I’m always rushed. God, now I wish I’d paid more attention.” He runs his fingers through his hair, musses it to tousled perfection. “I mean, I’ve got nieces and nephews. I know you guys don’t want to hear this, but I swear to God if someone ever hurt them, I’d go Dirty Harry on them.”

“Did you ever speak to Mary?” Standing behind Barbereaux now, Tomasetti picks up a sheet of paper, skims it, sets it back down.

“I helped her lift some heavy stuff once. A case of jelly or jam or something. I think she was really shy.”

“Did you ever meet any of her family members?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I think I saw her mom once, but we didn’t speak or anything.”

Tomasetti makes his way around to the front of the desk. “Where were you Sunday night?”

“Shit. Me?” Barbereaux presses his hand to his chest. Mr. Innocent. “You don’t think I had something to do with this, do you?”

“We’re just collecting information,” I add. “You know, to rule people out.”

“Well, I was home all night. With my girlfriend, Glenda Patterson.” He spells the last name. “We watched a movie. You can call her.”

I jot down the name. “You two live together?”

“No, she’s got her own place in Maple Crest.”

Maple Crest is a new housing development that’s gobbled up a good bit of farmland on the east side of town. “Anything else you can tell us about Mary that might help us?” I press.

“Not that I can think of.”

“Did she ever seem upset?” I ask.

“Not really,” he says. “She was always head down, working. Like I said, Evelyn kept her pretty busy.”

“What kind of vehicle do you drive?” Tomasetti asks.

“Grand Am.

“What color?”

“Black.” Barbereaux’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

Tomasetti gives him a half smile. “We appreciate your time,” he says and starts toward the door.

Barbereaux makes eye contact with me. “I hope you catch the asshole who did this,” he says.

“We will,” I say and fall in beside Tomasetti.

We’re midway to the loading dock when I remember Evelyn Steinkruger’s comment about Mary smelling like cigarette smoke, and I turn back toward Barbereaux. “Do you smoke?” I ask.

“Naw.” He grins. “Those things’ll kill you.”

Back in the Tahoe, Tomasetti puts the vehicle in gear and pulls out of the parking lot.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“I think he looks like the fuckin’ UPS guy.”

That makes me laugh. My melancholic mood lifts just a little. It feels good, I realize, and I’m glad Tomasetti is here. “Where to?” I ask.

“Crime scene. I want to see the place before it gets dark.”

Ten minutes later, we arrive at the Plank farm. Tomasetti pulls up behind the buggy and shuts down the engine. “Pretty place,” he says. “Quiet.”

“Isolated, too.”

“Closest neighbor is what? About a mile away?”

I nod. “The Zooks. They didn’t hear anything.”

I get out and start toward the door. I’m in the process of unlocking it when Tomasetti steps onto the porch.

“CSU’s all done?” he asks.

“Finished up late last night.”

“Any idea who you chased into the cornfield?”

I shake my head. “Rain washed away any tire tread or footprints.”

“You think it was the killer?”

I consider that for a moment. “I don’t know. Why would he come back when my Explorer was parked in plain sight?”

“Unless you were his target.”

“I don’t think so. He was pretty quick to run. This guy was like a jackrabbit. It was as if he was shocked to see me.”

“Teenagers? The morbidly curious?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

We’re standing in the kitchen. Around us, the house is so hushed I can hear the wind whispering around the eaves. The occasional creak of one-hundred-year-old wood. It has the empty feel of a vacant house now. Traces of the people who had once lived here are fading, and it strikes me that I don’t want them to be forgotten.

“Bad scene.” Tomasetti glances toward the living room where three pools of blood are marked with markers, then looks up at me. “CSU get anything useful?”

I give him the rundown of everything we’ve gathered so far. “We’re waiting to hear from the lab on latents, footwear imprints, hair, fibers and DNA.”

“I’ll make some calls, see if I can light a fire.”

“I appreciate that.”

I cross to the window above the sink, look out at the field beyond. I should be thinking about the case, but even that is dwarfed by my keen awareness of Tomasetti.

“Kate.”

I turn to see him standing a scant yard away, staring at me with those intense eyes. “Is this how it’s going to be? We talk about the case? Make small talk?”

I want to pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about. Part of me wants to make him take that first perilous step into the quagmire of words neither of us is good at. “I’m just trying to get my footing here.”

“Are you talking about the case or us?”

“Both, I guess.” I give him a smile. “I think I’m better at the case stuff.”

“Safer ground.” But the hard lines of his face soften. “I wish you’d felt you could call me—”

“I did—”

“And ask me for help without worrying that I was going to lose it.” He smiles. “All you have to do is ask. I’ll be here.”

“I didn’t want to drag you into it.” I motion toward the bloodstained floor. “Put you through this.”

“I’m here because I want to be here.” He looks around the kitchen, sighs, then turns his attention back to me. “I’m a cop, Kate. This is what I do. God knows it’s not always easy. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to turn tail and run every time there’s a bloody crime involving a family.”

“I know you can handle it,” I say. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. But that doesn’t mean a crime like this isn’t going to bring back what happened to you. I don’t like seeing you hurt, John. Maybe that’s what I was trying to avoid.”

“I appreciate that. But in all fairness, I think it’s my call. Not yours.”

“Duly noted.” I soften the words with a smile. “If it’s any consolation, I’m glad you’re here.”

We fall back into police mode. Our boots thud dully on the wood floor as we walk into the living room. The three pools of blood are dry now, brick-red and cracked around the edges. The smell is still discernible, but not as strong, and I realize the evidence of death is fading, giving way to the unstoppable force of life. It’s a rule all of us must abide by. No matter what happens, life always goes on.

I take the steps to the second level, giving Tomasetti a few minutes alone
to walk and assess the scene. I do a final sweep of the bedrooms, but I know there’s nothing more to glean here. The rooms have been searched multiple times by multiple people. We’ve got everything we’re going to get. It’s not much, but we’ll just have to make do.

Taking a final look at the empty hall, I go back downstairs. I’m anxious to talk to Tomasetti now, get his take on what might have happened, his theories, see if he has anything new to add that no one else has thought of.

I find him standing near the base of the stairs with his back to me. “What do you think?” I ask.

A quick glance over his shoulder and he walks away. Puzzled, I follow him. “At first we thought we were dealing with a murder-suicide, but—”

Tomasetti stops in the center of the living room, near where the bodies were found, and looks down at the bloody footprint. A current of worry goes through me when he sidesteps the dried blood and staggers left. I see his shoulders tighten. A sound that’s part gasp, part sigh fills the silence.

Concerned, I take a step toward him. “John?”

Leaning forward, he puts his hands on his knees and sucks in huge mouthfuls of air, like a marathoner who has just finished a long-distance race.

Case forgotten, I cross to him. “John? What’s going on? Are you all right?”

“Get the fuck away,” he grinds out.

“What’s wrong?”

No answer. He’s trembling uncontrollably now. Every breath is a rasp.

“Are you sick?”

Keeping his back to me, he raises a hand as if to fend me off. “Give me . . .” He chokes out the words. “. . . goddamn minute.”

Concern burgeons into alarm inside me. A dozen scenarios rush my brain. Is he sick? Having a heart attack? “John, talk to me,” I try. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

His breaths rush between clenched teeth. I stand a few feet away, wondering what to do, how to help, growing increasingly worried. I can see the sheen of sweat on the side of his face. He’s bent at the waist, his hands clenched into fists on his knees.

“Do you need an ambulance?” I ask.

“Give me . . . fucking minute,” he says in a hoarse voice.