Pray for Silence kb-2

by Linda Castillo

  “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 custom
ers?” 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.

  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.”

  CHAPTER 15

  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 tic
ket 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?”