by Debby Giusti
“How long ago did she die?”
“Two years.”
“That doesn’t prove it was Yoder, Becca.”
“The description fits.”
“A big Amish guy with dark hair. How many men could fill that description?”
Colby was right, but it was the only lead they’d had so far, and Becca wasn’t ready to dismiss the information as insignificant. If Lapp was Yoder, then Jacob was still alive.
In spite of her earlier euphoria, she knew that without an eyewitness or fingerprints or DNA nothing could establish that the two men were the same. Even a photo would be a plus. But all Becca knew was a man named Lapp had lost his wife and moved on with the money that was rightfully his through marriage.
No crime. No evidence. No proof she could place on Wilson’s desk. She’d be better off to keep the information to herself until she had something more significant to report.
She needed to make a good impression on Wilson, but at this point, she didn’t know where she stood. Working with Colby added another complication to a very difficult case.
* * *
Colby tapped on the chief’s door. “Sir, do you have a minute?”
Wilson glanced at his watch and then motioned for Colby and Becca to enter. “I have to be at the commanding general’s office in twenty minutes. What do you have?”
“A possible suspect in the Arnold murder, sir.” Aware of the time constraint, Colby gave the chief a brief overview of what they’d learned about Jacob and his brother and concluded with mention of the shooting at the motel.
“Did you receive medical treatment when you returned to post, Becca?” Wilson asked.
She shook her head. “It wasn’t necessary, sir. The Florida EMTs cleaned and bandaged the wound last night. It’s a superficial graze and should heal without additional medical attention.”
“You might want to go on sick call and see if the doc thinks an antibiotic would be helpful. I don’t want an infection to set it.”
“I’ll watch for any warning signs.”
Wilson seemed satisfied. He pursed his lips and steepled his fingers, elbows perched on his desk. “I have a problem considering Jacob Yoder as the attacker last night or the person who murdered Arnold. From what you said, Yoder was killed in a house fire in Harmony.” The chief pushed back in his chair and spread his hands across his desk. “I don’t see how he could have committed this crime.”
Colby had thought the same thing himself early on. Now, after everything that had happened, he believed Jacob was a very likely suspect.
“Sir, Becca believes the man killed in the house fire was Yoder’s brother,” Colby offered. “The two men were of similar stature and appearance. A mistaken identification seems probable.”
Wilson looked at Becca. “Does the Harmony sheriff share your suspicions?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so, sir.”
“Was DNA testing done before interment?”
“No, sir.”
“Are they willing to exhume the body to make a more definitive identification?”
“Not that I know of.”
He glanced at Colby, then back at Becca. “I’m more prone to consider the Macon connection as significant in this investigation. Brody came across the owner of a small company whose bid on the housing contract for the new BOQs wasn’t accepted. He’s had some brushes with the law and has been known to retaliate when his company’s offer wasn’t accepted. He sent one competitor to the hospital with broken ribs and a cracked jaw. Brody can fill you in.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you turn up any concrete evidence that Jacob Yoder is alive, let me know, and we can reevaluate. As it stands now, going after a dead man seems a waste of time and effort.”
“What about the shooting last night, sir?” Becca pressed.
“Anyone have a grudge against you?”
“Yes, sir. Jacob Yoder.”
Wilson steeled his jaw. From all appearances, he didn’t like her rather flip response. “Maybe you should back off a bit, Agent Miller.”
Becca frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
“What I mean is stay on post and keep a low profile. I want you to handle the security for the farmers’ market and craft fair. I’ve submitted your name to Mrs. Cameron.”
“But—”
The chief cut her off and pointed to Colby. “Let Agent Voss do the legwork on the investigation. You can help him here in the office. I don’t want you placed in danger. The CID was short-staffed for too long. Now that I’ve got a few new faces in the office, I want to keep everyone healthy and productive.”
He opened a folder. “Do you know anyone named Brad Nicholson?”
She hesitated as if trying to place the name. “No one comes to mind, sir.”
“He’s the Macon contractor. I just wanted to ensure both sides of the investigation aren’t looking at the same person.”
“Sir, Jacob Yoder killed my father and sister. He vowed to kill me.”
Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “That’s significant for sure. But the fact that Yoder is dead seems to close that part of the investigation. Do you understand, Becca?”
“Yes, sir.”
Only the look on her face told Colby that she didn’t understand nor did she go along with the chief’s assessment of the situation or his guidance about her staying out of the line of fire. From what he already knew about Becca, staying at the office wasn’t how she wanted to handle this investigation.
Would she obey Wilson’s directives. Or would she continue to look for a dead man that she feared was very much alive?
* * *
Becca wanted to pound her fist against her desk. She was frustrated with Wilson. Had he even listened to what she told him?
Her father hadn’t listened when she revealed the truth about Jacob. Now Wilson was focusing on other clues and missing the very real killer that Becca knew was in the local area.
The chief might think she’d be safe on post, but Jacob seemed able to slip through on-post security with ease. The man needed to be flushed out of hiding, which meant finding him before he found her. Becca wouldn’t let him get away. Not this time.
“Come with me,” she said to Colby once he entered her cubical.
“You heard the chief, Becca. He wants you to stay on post. Don’t go hunting for trouble.”
“He’s sending Brody on a wild-goose chase. That Macon contractor sounds like a puffed-up marshmallow compared to Jacob.”
“Wilson’s thinking of your own good, Becca.”
“What about the next widow Jacob targets? He’s got devious methods that have worked for him in the past. Why wouldn’t he be hiding in plain sight in the nearby community? We need to find out who lives in that house in the clearing.”
Colby nodded. “I agree, but—”
“Then we’re on the same page. By the way, I sent the photos of the car in the barn to forensics, along with the photo of the marks we saw on the side of the road after the shooting in Alabama.” She picked up her phone and opened the photo file. “Look at these tire tracks.”
He studied the photo, then pulled out his own phone and clicked on his file. He put the photo of the tracks he’d taken in Alabama next to the tracks Becca had photographed in the barn.
“The clarity isn’t sharp enough, but both tracks could have been made by the same tires.”
She nodded. “And the same vehicle. Let’s take a little ride into the country.”
“Becca,” Colby warned.
“We’re not investigating. We’re merely seeing the countryside.”
“Wilson told you to stay put.”
“And before that, he said for us to work together. You told me we’re partners.”
�
��Things have changed since then.”
She took a step back and raised her hands. “Whatever, but I’m driving to the Lodge.”
“Somehow I get the feeling you’ll make a detour.”
She smiled. “A detour to Amish country. Come with me, Colby. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to go alone.”
“You’re doing this against Wilson’s request.”
“A request,” Becca restated for emphasis. “That’s exactly right. The chief didn’t order me to stop investigating. Rather, he encouraged me to remain safe. If you’re with me, I will be safe. Besides, I’m worried about the people who live in that run-down house where we saw the car. I couldn’t endure knowing my lack of action caused someone else harm.”
She grabbed her keys and purse and turned toward the door. “What do you say, partner?”
Colby shook his head and sighed with frustration. “We’re in this together, Becca, but you need to follow my lead. Don’t do anything foolish or bold. Wilson doesn’t want you hurt, and neither do I.”
“Don’t worry. The last thing I want is to be injured or incapacitated when I finally confront Jacob Yoder.”
* * *
Colby and Becca passed the turnoff to Dawson and Lillie’s house and continued on along a narrow road that eventually led to an area of Amish farmhouses. Just as before, Colby was struck by the charm of the simple life. No cars in the driveways or power and phone lines littering the landscape. Not a television dish or porch light in sight.
The land was beautiful even in its winter pause. Barren trees swayed in the wind that stirred from the west, and a flock of birds flew overhead, searching for a place to land.
Colby turned up the heat and glanced at Becca. “You should have worn a coat.”
“I’m fine.”
“How’s the arm and don’t tell me it’s fine, too.”
She smiled, but her eyes looked tired. “Actually, it’s aching.”
“You need some pain meds.”
“I’ll take an ibuprofen when I get back to the lodge.”
“You need to go on sick call in the morning.”
She nodded. “Maybe you’re right.”
They were definitely making progress.
“Although,” she added, “I hate to seem like a weakling.”
“You’re not. Wouldn’t you tell me the same thing if I had taken a hit?”
“You probably wouldn’t listen, either.”
He laughed. “You mean we’re both cut from the same cloth?”
“Both CID. Both focused on getting the job done. Both type A.” She paused. “Except you’re the extrovert.”
“And you?”
Her slender shoulders rose for a moment. “I’m usually more comfortable hanging out with myself.”
She pointed to an intersection. “There’s the turn.”
The road wove through a dense cluster of trees before it spilled into the clearing. Colby pulled to the side of the road and killed the engine.
He studied the farmhouse. It needed a new coat of paint as if the original job had been done with a cheap product that failed to seal the wood. Curtains covered the windows. The sun peering through the cloud cover painted the house in an eerie light that was both uninviting and cold.
“We can’t search without a warrant,” he cautioned.
“No, but we can knock on the door and talk to whoever answers.” They climbed the front steps, taking care not to trip on the loose plank.
Becca rapped boldly on the door. When no one answered, she called in a loud voice, “Is anyone home? My name’s Becca Miller. I’m with the Criminal Investigation Division on Fort Rickman. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Again she knocked, but the door remained closed.
She glanced at Colby, tilted her head and listened for any sound coming from inside the house.
“Let’s check the barn,” she suggested.
Colby kept glancing back at the house, feeling an ominous tightness in his shoulders as if someone was watching from behind the closed curtains.
Becca tugged on the barn door and peered inside. “The car’s gone.”
The two Dobermans appeared on the rise of a hill in the distance. They were huge creatures with sleek coats and mammoth jowls.
Becca gasped.
“Back up nice and easy,” Colby cautioned.
They backtracked, their eyes locked on the dogs.
Twenty feet from the car, the animals lunged forward as if on command. Their legs flew down the hillside. Their barks of protest set the hair on Colby’s neck on end.
“Get in the car, Becca.” He opened the door. She slipped past him.
The dogs were closing in. They bared their teeth and raced forward.
Colby slammed her door and rounded the car. He slipped behind the wheel and pulled the driver’s door closed just in time. The dogs circled the car and barked ferociously. Becca shivered.
“We’re safe,” he said in hopes of calming her as well as his own rapid heartbeat.
He loved dogs, but not as vicious attack animals. Who owned the Dobermans? And had someone commanded them to attack?
Looking up at the window, he caught sight of a face peering around the curtain.
The Amish were a quiet people who kept to themselves, peace-loving and gentle. The vicious dogs didn’t seem in keeping with their way of life. Neither did the Crown Vic they’d seen earlier in the barn.
They’d come back, but next time they’d have a search warrant so they could find whoever was hiding inside.
THIRTEEN
Becca didn’t have time for a coffee klatch with the general’s wife and the other folks on the committee to plan the first farmers’ market and craft fair at Fort Rickman. She did, however, want to meet the bishop, who was the appointed head of the Amish community.
The following morning, Becca donned a skirt and sweater with a jacket pulled over her shoulders, and hoped she’d be suitably dressed for the meeting at Quarters One, home to every commanding general since the post was built in the 1930s.
Before the army had purchased the land, the expansive farmhouse and surrounding property had belonged to a Georgia farmer. Since then, the rambling structure had undergone a number of renovations. Painted white with large wraparound porches and a gazebo in the front yard, the home was comfortable but elegant in a simple way and befitting the commander and his wife.
Mrs. Cameron was a sweet, Southern belle who hailed from Savannah. Her accent had softened over the years of following her military husband around the world, but a trace of the South remained and seemed evident as she invited Becca into the spacious foyer.
“I’m so glad you’ll be able to help us with the planning, Special Agent Miller.”
“It’s Becca, ma’am. Thank you for inviting me into your home.”
The older woman, wearing a pretty floral dress, pointed down a hallway. “Everyone is in the family room. I had the aide build a fire, since there’s a chill in the air this morning. Help yourself to coffee or tea and pastries.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
A number of people from post headquarters had already arrived and were chatting among themselves when she stepped into the airy room. Decorated with aqua-and-lime-green accents, the splashes of color against the eggshell walls and neutral couches gave the room a casual feel. The logs burning in the fireplace added warmth and a homey touch that Becca found inviting.
Groupings of flowers and books and large ceramic decorative plates added to the cozy ambiance, despite the formal wainscot paneling and massive floor-to-ceiling windows.
Becca poured a cup of coffee and sat in a small chair in the corner. A middle-aged woman perched on a nearby couch stretched out her hand. “I’m Lois Simmons.”
The chief of staff’s wife. Becca recognized the last name and accepted the handshake. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m with the CID on post.”
“We haven’t met before?”
“No, ma’am. I just transferred here from Germany.”
“We lived in Heidelberg some years ago.” The woman’s eager smile revealed her appreciation of the foreign country. “I keep telling Bob we need to get assigned there again.”
“It is a beautiful place.”
“With wonderful people. Where were you stationed?”
“Garmisch.”
“In Bavaria.” Mrs. Simmons eagerly chatted about the various trips she and her husband had taken to the Black Forest and surrounding areas. “Were you there for the Passion Play in Oberammergau?”
“Unfortunately no.” The three-hour performance was held every ten years and had been ongoing since 1634 in thanksgiving for God’s protection over the small town during the plague.
The chief of staff’s wife patted her chest with emotion. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “The reenactment of Christ’s Passion touched me deeply, especially when He was forced to carry his cross.”
Becca knew about crosses, but she rarely thought about the cross Christ carried. Had she strayed so far from her faith?
Mrs. Cameron stepped into the room escorting a man, plain of dress, with a full beard. He held a hat in one hand and a small notebook and pencil in the other.
“Everyone, I’d like to introduce Bishop Isaac Zimmerman, from the Amish community. He’s graciously agreed to meet with us and plan the upcoming farmers’ market and craft fair that we’re so excited about hosting.”
She pulled up a chair and placed it on the other side of Becca.
“May I get you coffee and a pastry?” Mrs. Cameron asked the bishop.
“Thank you, yes.” He smiled agreeably at the other guests. “I am pleased to join you today.”
The general’s wife proved to be a good facilitator, and the plans for the market and craft fair were finalized in less than two hours. Those who attended represented various organizations on post. Each group volunteered responsibility for a certain aspect of the event.
