Fallen

by Linda Castillo

  Beerman’s Books is two blocks down from the police station. It’s a small, narrow space that smells of patchouli and bergamot, books and dust, and coffee from the station next to the “reading nook,” which is basically an antique chair, lamp, and side table where bookish types can kick back and read before buying.

  The bell on the door jingles cheerfully when I enter. Barbara looks up from her place at the counter, an ancient-looking tome open in front of her. “Hi, Chief Burkholder. What can I do for you?”

  I cross to the counter, aware of the resident cat skulking between the shelves. “I’m looking for the book written by Rachael Schwartz,” I tell her.

  “Ah. You and everyone else. I heard about the murder. Do you guys know who did it yet?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  She nods. “Well, we have her book.” She pushes herself to her feet and rounds the counter. “The tourists love it so much we have a tough time keeping it in stock.”

  “Have you read it?” I ask.

  “The day it was released. Talk about tell-all. Rachael Schwartz didn’t pull any punches.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Apparently, she wasn’t fond of her brethren.”

  “Did she name names?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “There’s an author note in the beginning of the book saying the names were changed to ‘protect’ the identities of people depicted. The Amish aren’t the most litigious people, but the publisher was worried about potential lawsuits nonetheless, I suppose.” She leads me to an aisle and starts down it. “That said, Painters Mill is a small town. A few days after the book was released an Amish guy came in and bought all six books. Said he was going to burn them.” She clucks. “I told him I would order more, but he didn’t seem to care.”

  Midway down the aisle, she bends and pulls out a good-size trade paperback. “Here we go.” Straightening, she looks at the spine. “AMISH NIGHTMARE: How I Escaped the Clutches of Righteousness.”

  “I’ll take two copies,” I tell her.

  “Double the fun.” She grins. “I’ll ring you up.”

  * * *

  The things I’ve learned about Rachael Schwartz in the last hours nag at me on the drive back to the Willowdell Motel. By all indications, she lived her life with a no-holds-barred abandon. She wasn’t afraid to push boundaries or get too close to the edge. She wasn’t afraid to step on toes. In fact, she seemed to thrive on controversy even though it caused her some degree of unhappiness. She was social, with a multitude of relationships, not all of which were auspicious. I think about the level of violence of the attack and I wonder who hated her enough to beat her with such savagery. Conventional wisdom tells me it was someone she knew. Did he follow her here from Cleveland? Or did she meet her killer here in Painters Mill?

  It’s late afternoon when I pull into the parking lot of the motel. As usual when I’m dealing with a serious case, I feel the ever-present tick of the clock, reminding me how crucial these first hours are in terms of solving of the crime. Five hours have passed since the discovery of Schwartz’s body, and the parking lot is still abuzz with law enforcement vehicles. The BCI crime scene unit truck is parked outside room 9, the rear door standing open. A technician clad in white Tyvek carries a cardboard box from the room and loads it onto the truck. I spot Tomasetti standing next to his Tahoe talking on his cell and I head that way.

  He drops the phone into his jacket pocket as I approach. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” I tell him.

  “That’s what all the female chiefs of police tell me,” he replies.

  There are too many people around for a too-personal greeting, so we settle for a quick touching of hands. “Anything new?” I ask.

  “CSU is about to wrap it up. They got some prints we’ll expedite through AFIS. A lot of blood evidence. If we’re lucky, some of it will belong to the perpetrator and we’ll get some DNA.”

  “Weapon?”

  “We searched the room. Dumpster in the back lot. Treed area in the rear. It’s not here.”

  “Did you find a cell phone?”

  “Behind the night table. Probably got knocked off during the struggle. I couriered it to the lab in London,” he tells me, referring to the BCI lab near Columbus. “We’ll go through it with a fine-tooth comb.”

  “I don’t know anything about her life in Cleveland,” I say. “Anything on known associates?”

  “Detectives are on scene at her residence now.” He glances down at his cell phone, where he’s jotted notes. “She lives in a townhome in the Edgewater district. Lake view. Heated floors. Swanky.”

  “Finances?”

  “Still looking.”

  We fall silent, the information churning. “She live alone?” I ask.

  He hits a button on his phone, swipes the screen. “She lives with Andrea June Matson. Thirty-two years old. No record. Evidently, they’re business partners and own a restaurant downtown. The Keyhole. Matson is currently unaccounted for, but we’re looking.”

  “Any problems between them?”

  “Cops have never been called to the residence or the restaurant, but detectives are canvassing now and will be talking to friends and family to see what pops.”

  “How did you find Matson?”

  “I answered Schwartz’s cell when it rang,” he tells me. “It was Matson on the other end. She didn’t like it when I couldn’t put Schwartz on the phone and hung up on me. Evidently, she didn’t believe me when I told her I was with BCI. Get this: The last call Schwartz made was to Matson. That was around midnight. We’re triangulating towers now.”

  “I want to talk to her,” I say.

  “You and everyone else. I put out an APB. We’ll get her.” He cocks his head. “Anything on your end?”

  I hit the highlights of my conversations with Rachael’s parents and Loretta Bontrager and tell him about the book.

  “Sounds like she lived an interesting life,” he responds.

  “Maybe a little too interesting,” I tell him. “Anything on Moskowski?”

  “They picked him up without incident.” He glances at his watch. “I need to get up to Cleveland.”

  Part of me wants to be there for the interview, not only with Moskowski, but with Matson. While a lover is always at the top of a cop’s suspect list, a business partner comes in on a fast second. Those two people aside, Rachael Schwartz left plenty of unresolved problems right here in Painters Mill.

  “Chief Burkholder!”

  Both of us look up to see Steve Ressler jogging toward us. He’s a tall red-haired man clad in khaki slacks that are a couple of inches too short, a blue polo shirt tight enough to show ribs, and glow-in-the-dark white sneakers. Steve is the publisher of The Advocate, Painters Mill’s weekly newspaper. The paper has a decent circulation, mainly because Ressler is good at what he does. He’s old-school and covers stories with journalistic integrity and an unfailing adherence to the facts, even when they’re hard to come by. He’s a type A personality, a stickler for deadlines, and he rarely accepts “no comment” for an answer.

  “What can you tell me about the murder, Chief? Do you have anyone in custody? Do you have a suspect?” The questions fly in a flurry, his eyes darting to the motel room door where the coroner technician rolls a gurney laden with a black body bag.

  “All I can tell you is that we have a deceased female. Her name is Rachael Schwartz.”

  He scribbles the name furiously. “Can you confirm it was a murder?” he asks. “Suicide? I heard it was murder. If that’s the case, should the residents of Painters Mill be concerned for their safety?”

  “The coroner has not ruled on manner or cause of death yet.”

  He gives me a spare-me-the-pat-rejoinder roll of his eyes. “Can you confirm that the victim was Amish?”

  “Formerly Amish.”

  More scribbling. “Anything else you can tell me, Chief?”

  “Just that the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation will be assisting my department. I�
�ll put out a press release shortly.”

  “Don’t keep me waiting too long,” Ressler says as he walks away.

  The crush of gravel beneath tires draws my attention. I look up to see a sleek Audi sedan barrel into the lot. Going too fast. Not some lost tourist looking for a room or a local curious about all the law enforcement vehicles. Tomasetti notices, too, and without speaking we watch the vehicle skid to a stop a scant foot from the crime scene tape. The driver’s-side door flies open and a stylishly dressed woman clambers out, big sunglasses, cell phone pressed to her ear, and looks around as if not quite sure where she’s landed.

  Mona, whom I charged with securing the scene, strides toward the woman. “Ma’am? Can I help you?”

  “What’s going on here?” The woman lifts the crime scene tape and ducks under it.

  “Ma’am. Stop.” Mona rushes to her. “You can’t do that!”

  In tandem, Tomasetti and I start toward them.

  “Excuse me?” Spotting us, the woman calls out, “I’m looking for Rachael Schwartz.”

  “That’s either a reporter or Matson,” Tomasetti murmurs.

  “My money’s on Matson,” I tell him. “Journalists can’t afford clothes like that.”

  “Or the car.”

  Mona grasps the woman’s arm, stopping her. “This is a crime scene, ma’am. You need to wait outside the caution tape.”

  “I’m looking for Rachael Schwartz.” The woman’s voice shakes. She’s noticed all the law enforcement vehicles—and the coroner’s van. “I need to know what’s going on.”

  She’s wearing a black skirt and jacket that contrast nicely with artfully highlighted blond hair. Silky pink blouse that’s open at the throat. A body that regularly sees the inside of a gym.

  “The police are investigating an incident.” Gripping her arm, Mona ushers her toward the crime scene tape.

  “Incident? What incident?” The woman twists away. “I think Rachael was staying at this motel.” She thrusts a painted nail toward the door of room 9. “What in the hell is going on in there?”

  Tomasetti and I reach them. I hold up my badge and identify myself. “Ma’am, what’s your name?” I ask.

  She looks at me as if I’m some insect that’s landed on her arm and she’s thinking about crushing me with a slap. “Are you in charge? For God’s sake! Someone tell me what the hell is going on. I need to see Rachael Schwartz and I need to see her right now.”

  She’s agitated, edging toward hysterics. She doesn’t seem to notice when Tomasetti takes her arm. “Come with me,” he says as he guides her toward the perimeter tape.

  Mona hooks a finger around the yellow tape and holds it up as the three of us duck beneath it.

  Realizing what’s happening, the woman chokes out a sound of dismay and twists away. “Please tell me something didn’t happen to her.”

  I take her other arm. I’m aware of Tomasetti standing on the other side of her, not touching her. Mona stands guard at the caution tape, watching us. Backup if we need it.

  “What’s your name?” I repeat.

  “Andrea … Andy Matson.” She stutters the name, her attention fastened to the doorway of room 9. “Please tell me she’s not hurt.”

  “What’s your relationship with Rachael Schwartz?” I ask.

  “She’s my business partner. My roommate. For God’s sake, she’s my best friend.” She tries to wrench her arm from my grip, but I don’t let her go.

  “I’ve been trying to reach her all day. Rachael always answers her phone. Last time I called, some dude picked up. Said he was with BCI. I knew something was wrong … so I just got in my car and drove.” The words tumble out in a rush.

  Breathless, she thrusts her hand toward the motel, where the technician with the coroner’s office is closing the double doors of the van. “I arrive to see that!”

  She tears her eyes from the van, divides her attention between me and Tomasetti. “You guys are scaring the hell out of me.”

  “Rachael Schwartz is dead,” I tell her.

  “Dead?” She recoils as if I struck her. “But … that’s crazy. She can’t be … I just saw her yesterday. I talked to her last night. She was fine.” She pauses to catch her breath. “What happened to her?”

  “The coroner hasn’t made an official determination yet, but we believe someone gained access to her room sometime during the night and killed her.”

  “Oh my God.” Breaths hissing, she bends at the hip, sets her hands on her knees. “Rachael. Shit. Shit.”

  “Do you need to sit down?” I ask.

  She spits on the ground, shakes her head.

  I give her a moment, watching her for any telltale signs of deception, but she gives me nothing.

  Feeling the tick of the clock, I touch her shoulder. “Ms. Matson, I know this is a bad time, but I need to ask you some questions.”

  Straightening, she blows out a breath, her expression dark, mascara beginning to run. “Who did it?”

  “We don’t know. We’re looking. It would be a big help if you could help us fill in some blanks.”

  Her reaction seems genuine. Shock, after all, is difficult to fake. But I’ve been around long enough to know certain individuals are masterful at deception. It’s too early in the game for me to tell, so I proceed with caution.

  “When’s the last time you saw her?” I ask.

  “Yesterday morning. I passed her in the hall when she was on her way to get coffee. I was on my way to the shower.”

  “When’s the last time you talked to her?” Tomasetti asks.

  “Last night. On the phone. Late.” She sets her thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose. “I gave her hell because I didn’t know she was spending the night here. I’m like, oh, thanks for telling me.”

  As if remembering harsh words between them, she closes her eyes. “I was a shit. I didn’t know that would be the last time we…” She doesn’t finish the sentence.

  “Was Rachael having any problems with anyone?” I ask. “Any arguments or disagreements? Did she have any volatile relationships?”

  “Who wasn’t she having problems with?” Choking out a sound that’s part laugh, part sob, she lowers her face into her hands. “Every relationship she had was volatile. That’s just the way she was.”

  Tomasetti makes a sound of irritation. “Straight answers would be a big help about now.”

  She raises her head. Misery boils in her eyes. “Look, all I’m saying is that for better or for worse, Rachael spoke her mind. Didn’t hold back. That was one of the things I loved about her. I mean, the girl was on fire and burning hot, you know? She lived and breathed controversy. Anyone who disagreed with her? She ate them for lunch.” She makes the statement with a fondness that tells me she’s probably a bit of a rabble-rouser herself. “I told her one day it was going to catch up with her, but she just laughed.”

  “Who was she close to?” I pull out my notebook and pen.

  “Jared Moskowski.”

  I feel Tomasetti’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at him. “Boyfriend?”

  “Fuck buddy,” she says. “And he’s a jealous, insecure, and petty son of a bitch. Rachael was too much for him to handle and he knew it.”

  “Did they fight?”

  “All the time.”

  “Did he ever hit her?” Tomasetti asks. “Or physically abuse her?”

  “Not that I saw, but their relationship was … screwed up.” She shrugs. “He wasn’t man enough to handle her.”

  “Did they fight about anything in particular?” I ask.

  “The frickin’ weather, for God’s sake. All I know is they didn’t get along. They were always pissed at each other.” She presses her lips together. “I don’t know why she was so crazy about him.”

  She turns her eyes on me, outrage flashing, her mouth tight. “Did he do it?”

  I ignore the question. “Is there anyone else Rachael didn’t get along with?”

  The woman’s brows draw together. “I guess you k
now she used to be Amish. She’s from Painters Mill. Her parents are religious fanatics and shunned her or whatever the hell they do.” Resentment rings hard in the laugh that follows. “For God’s sake, even the Amish were pissed at her.”

  “What about you?” Tomasetti asks.

  She looks at him as if the question is a personal affront. “Are you kidding me?” Her gaze flicks to me. “She’s dead and you two bozos are looking at me? That’s rich.”

  “You can answer the question here, or we can do it at the police station,” I tell her. “Your choice.”

  “Look, Rachael and I were friends. Real friends. We were roommates. Business partners. So yeah, there was some occasional conflict.” Her eyes fasten onto mine, unshed tears glittering. “I’ll be the first to tell you she was difficult. But I loved her anyway. She was like a sister to me, and you’re a damn fool if you waste any time looking at me.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “I was the style editor at a boutique magazine in Cleveland and wrote a piece on how Rachael went from Amish girl to restaurateur. We met for drinks, got to talking. It didn’t take long for me to realize she was one of the most ambitious and fascinating women I’d ever met.” She smiles as if remembering. “I told her that her story would make a compelling book.” She lifts her shoulders, lets them drop. “She had the story. I knew how to write. The rest is history.”

  “You cowrote the book?” I ask.

  “I wrote the book,” she corrects.

  “Your name isn’t on the cover,” Tomasetti points out.

  Her smile turns brittle. “Well, it should have been, but then that was Rachael for you. She wanted the limelight. I ended up in the acknowledgments.”

  “Big of her,” he says. “Did you get angry about that?”

  Matson rolls her eyes. “I got over it. By then we were friends. I didn’t want anything so petty to get between us.”

  I keep moving. “Did she know anyone in Wooster? Did she ever go there? To meet anyone?”

  “Wooster?” She shakes her head. “Never heard her mention it.”