Fallen

by Linda Castillo

  “She wasn’t alone.”

  “I’d venture to say she treated someone to dinner.”

  “In that case.” He motions toward the clock on my dash, which reads 7:00 P.M. “You game for a beer?”

  “Tomasetti, you’re going to have to buy me something a hell of a lot stronger than beer.”

  * * *

  The Pub was nearly vacant last time I was here. Of course, it had been late, after ten P.M. Tonight, the parking lot is chock-full of vehicles. Tomasetti and I park next to a white Dodge Ram pickup truck with the logo of a Wooster-based landscaping company emblazoned on the door.

  We enter to the scream and bang of some chain-saw rock number I don’t recognize. Every stool at the bar is occupied, mostly by men who look as if they’ve just gotten off work, wearing everything from oil-stained coveralls to shirts and ties. At the pool table in the back, three men in their twenties sip drafts in sweating mugs, shoot balls, and watch the nearest booth, where four college-age girls raise shot glasses in a toast. The bartender is female, in her fifties, with blond hair piled atop her head and a face full of artfully applied makeup. She’s wearing a short black skirt with a white button-down shirt and an apron set snug against a nicely shaped body.

  She nods at me and Tomasetti as we seat ourselves in a booth. In less than a minute, she’s standing next to our table, order book in hand. “Hey, thanks for coming in tonight. What can I get you folks?”

  I identify myself and pull out the photo of Rachael Schwartz. “I’m wondering if you’ve seen this woman.”

  She bends, pulls clunky readers off her crown, and squints at the photo. “Oh my God. That’s the girl who was killed down there in Painters Mill.”

  I nod. “Have you seen her?”

  “In here?” She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. She’s a pretty little thing. Unless I was crazy busy, I probably would have remembered her.” She uses her pen to scratch her head. “When was she in here?”

  “Night before last,” I tell her. “Were you working?”

  “I was.” She looks at the photo again, gives another shake of her head. “Wish I could be more help. I sure don’t like the idea of some monster getting away with something like that.” She gives an exaggerated shiver. “But I didn’t see her. We have dollar drafts that evening and this place was hopping.”

  Tomasetti pulls the redacted copy of Rachael Schwartz’s credit card record from his pocket and shows her the charge. “Would it be possible for you to find the ticket for this charge?” he asks.

  “We got computerized cash registers last summer. I bet Jack can come up with something. He’s off tonight.”

  “I met him last time I was here,” I tell her. “I’ll give him a call.”

  Tomasetti motions in the general direction of the bar and pool tables. “Do you mind if we ask around?”

  “Hey, knock your socks off.” She tucks the pen and order book into the pocket of her apron. “Hope you find the bastard.”

  Tomasetti takes the bar. I meander to the pool table at the rear. The players are a lively group. Not too drunk—yet—and tickled to be talking to a female chief of police about a murder. I dig out the photo of Rachael Schwartz, but none of the young men remember seeing her. It doesn’t take long for me to realize this second trip to The Pub is as big a waste of time as the first.

  “No one who knew Rachael recalls her knowing anyone in the Wooster area.” Frustration presses down on me as Tomasetti and I walk to the Explorer.

  “On the other hand,” he says slowly, “Wooster isn’t too far to drive if you’re from Painters Mill and you don’t want to be seen together.”

  Tomasetti opens the passenger door, but doesn’t get in. His eyes are narrowed on the service station and convenience store next door. The one with the green and white neon sign touting cigarettes, beer, and diesel.

  We exchange a look over the top of the Explorer. “I’m not going to get my hopes up,” I tell him.

  “Worth a shot.”

  We get in. Behind the wheel, I put the vehicle in gear and idle over to the convenience store, park in front. I’m not even out of the vehicle yet when I notice the security camera tucked beneath the eve of the building. A bulging eye casting a disapproving glare in the general direction of The Pub.

  I grin at Tomasetti. “Sometimes you earn your keep.”

  “That’s what I keep telling you.” He grins back and we head inside.

  A lanky young woman with a pierced brow, arms covered with tats, sits on a stool behind the counter, watching a game show on TV. She eyes us suspiciously as we make our way to her.

  “You the manager?” I ask.

  She looks me up and down. “Who wants to know?”

  Tomasetti lays his ID on the counter. “The Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation.” He motions in the general direction of the camera. “Are your security cameras working?”

  “As far as I know.” She cocks her head, curious. “Something going on?”

  “I need the video of that west-facing camera,” he tells her. “For the day before yesterday, between noon and midnight. Can you get that for us?”

  “I’ll have to call the owner,” she tells him.

  “We’ll wait.”

  * * *

  Loretta Bontrager couldn’t sleep. She hadn’t slept a wink since Rachael was killed. When she was a girl, her mamm had chided her for aykna bang hatz. For being an “owner of a worried heart,” and for fretting about things over which she had no control. Things that her Amish faith required her to leave to God.

  Aykna bang hatz.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about Rachael. The closeness they’d shared as girls. The laughter and love—and secrets. The memories, both good and bad. It had been almost fourteen years since Rachael left Painters Mill. In all that time, Loretta hadn’t forged another relationship that even came close to the one she’d had with Rachael. A confidante she could tell anything and not be silenced or shamed. Now, Rachael was gone. Everything they’d shared was lost. She would never again hear her voice or laughter.

  Tonight, contemplating her friend’s death tormented her. How she must have suffered. The terror. And pain. Dear God, she couldn’t bear to think of it and yet she couldn’t stop.

  It was nearly midnight now, and the old farmhouse was hushed. Usually, Loretta enjoyed her evening solitude, when Ben and Fannie were safe in their beds, and she had some quiet time for reflection and prayer. Tonight, the silence was a lonely companion that made her feel as if she was the last person on earth. She should have joined her husband in bed hours ago. She’d feigned tidying up the kitchen and writing a letter to her cousin in Shipshewana, but neither of those things was the truth. She knew she wouldn’t sleep and she simply couldn’t bear the darkness. Not when there was already so much of it inside her. Once she laid her head down on the pillow, the images of Rachael would come to her and the dark and quiet would become intolerable.

  Even now, with the sink clean and the floors mopped, the letter written and sealed, her mind whirred with images she didn’t want to see, thoughts she couldn’t bear to ponder. For the last two nights, desperate for peace, she’d fallen to going out to the barn. Muck boots over her socks. Her barn coat over her nightgown. Lantern in hand.

  It was there, among the animals, the smells of hay and earth, that she found peace. The pygmy goats had had their babies a couple of weeks ago. The kids were tiny things, soft and warm and such a comfort to hold. The old draft mare had foaled last month, too, and the filly was a lively sprite with her mamm’s sense of mischief. Even the chickens roosting on the beams above the stalls calmed her nerves.

  Loretta went to the goat pen first. “Kumma do, mei lamm.” Come here, my lamb. Bending, she leaned over the low fence to pick up the brown and white baby, her favorite. The one that melted in her arms because she enjoyed having her tummy rubbed.

  She’d just lowered her cheek to the animal’s muzzle when the shadow darted toward her from the darkness. Gasping, Loretta d
ropped the baby next to its mamm and stumbled back. She spun to run, but strong hands fell onto her shoulders, fingers digging in with enough force to bruise.

  “Don’t say a word,” hissed a male voice, warm breath in her ear. “Do not make a sound. Do you understand?”

  Rough hands spun her around so that she was facing him, and then he shoved her. Loretta reeled backward. Her back slammed against the wall, her head snapping hard against the wood. Simultaneously, recognition kicked, followed by a tidal wave of panic.

  “You,” she cried.

  Lips peeled back, teeth grinding, he moved close. “Shut the hell up,” he hissed.

  She tried to pry his arm away, but he was too strong. All the while a thousand thoughts assailed her brain. She’d underestimated him. She’d been a fool for thinking he wouldn’t come for her. She’d thought she was safe. Now, he was going to kill her.

  “You lied to me,” he ground out.

  “No!” she squeaked.

  “I heard you been talking to the cops.”

  “I didn’t. That was before—”

  He set his forearm against her throat, pressed hard enough to cut off her words. He was breathing as if he’d just run a mile. So close she could smell the stink of alcohol on his breath.

  Unable to speak or breathe or even form a coherent thought, she jerked her head.

  He eased some of the pressure off her throat, but he didn’t release her. “What did you tell them?”

  “Nothing!” she choked.

  He slammed his fist against the wall inches from her head. “Don’t fucking lie to me!”

  The fear was like barbed wire drawn tight around her ribs. Breaths coming too fast. Chest taut. “I’m not.”

  “What did Schwartz tell you about that night?”

  “She didn’t tell me anything!” she cried.

  His mouth tightened. Rage and disbelief in his eyes. Thinking about hitting her. Instead, he pulled her toward him, shook her, then slammed her back against the wall again, harder this time. Raising his hand, he jabbed his finger against her cheek hard enough to bruise skin.

  “You keep your fucking mouth shut about that night. Not a word to anyone. You got me?”

  She couldn’t stop nodding.

  He ground his teeth, looking at her as if he didn’t believe her. “Nothing happened. Do you understand me? You say anything about what you think happened, and I’ll come back. Next time, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill your husband. I’ll kill your fucking kid. And I’ll burn your goddamn house to the ground. You got that?”

  “Please don’t hurt them.” She twisted, tried to duck away.

  He clamped his hand around her throat, pressed her hard against the wall. “I’m an inch away from slitting your throat right now, you lying bitch.”

  She stared at him. Heart pounding. Blood raging in her veins. Terror clouding her brain. Pure evil stared back at her.

  “I don’t know anything,” she said.

  “Good. Keep it that way. Don’t speak my name. Don’t even think it.” He lifted his hand and jabbed his finger against the side of her head. Once. Twice. Three times. “That sinking in? You got it?”

  His other hand was still around her throat, crushing her windpipe, her voice box. She tried to answer, but couldn’t so she nodded.

  He stepped back, but didn’t release her throat. She stumbled forward, set her hands on his wrist, tried to pry off his grip with her fingers, but he was too strong. He swung her around. Teeth grinding, a sound of rage gurgling in his throat, he shoved her hard.

  Loretta tottered backward, struck a wood column, and went down on her backside.

  Snarling a profanity, he stepped toward her, jabbed his finger at her face. “If I hear you been talking to the cops again, it’s over for you.”

  She scrabbled back. “I won’t.”

  “Don’t make me come back,” he whispered.

  She didn’t want to look at him, but she did. She could see his hands shaking. His finger pointing, an inch from her face. Forehead shiny and red and beaded with sweat despite the chill. Veins protruding at his temples. Spit on his lips. Breaths rushing between clenched teeth.

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  He straightened. Shook himself as if coming out of some strange dream state. Blinking, he stepped back, looked at her as if suddenly he didn’t recognize her. As if he wasn’t quite sure why he was here. Abruptly, he turned and ran from the barn, disappearing into the darkness like a phantom.

  CHAPTER 21

  It’s midnight by the time Tomasetti and I arrive back in Painters Mill. The service station owner wasn’t happy at having his evening interrupted, but he met us at the station, and after a few technical issues, he provided a disk containing the security camera footage of the previous twenty-four-hour period. We’re lucky, because in a matter of days, all of it would have been recorded over and lost.

  I enter the station to find my newest dispatcher, Margaret, standing at the reception desk, headset clamped over brown-and-silver curls, the Painters Mill PD’s policy and procedure manual open on the credenza behind her. She’s updating the master file, printing everything out, and replacing the pages that have changed, something that hasn’t been done since I’ve been chief.

  “You’re working late tonight,” she says cheerily.

  Her desk is bedecked with framed photos of grandchildren—ski vacations, summer picnics, and dogs of every shape and size. A sweating glass of iced tea and a sample-size tube of hand cream take up space next to her keyboard. Not only has she turned the reception area into her home away from home, but she runs it with a level of military discipline not before seen. My officers have learned to provide her with what she needs in a timely manner—or else receive a thorough dressing-down.

  “How’s the P and P manual coming along?” I ask.

  “Still waiting for Jodie to email me the file with the job descriptions.” She punctuates the statement with a direct look over the tops of her bifocals, brows up.

  “I’ll light a fire,” I tell her.

  I hear Tomasetti enter as I unlock the door to my office. He exchanges niceties with Margaret—a meeting of two strong personalities—and I smile as my laptop boots up. I’m sitting at my desk when he appears in the doorway.

  “She runs a tight ship,” he says in a low voice.

  “Cross her and you’ll be walking the plank.”

  “I’ve no doubt.”

  I slide the disk into the drive and bring up the file. Instead of taking the visitor chair across from me, he rounds my desk and comes up behind me so he’ll have a better view. Using the mouse, I click PLAY. The grainy footage comes to life. The camera angle is bad; the parking lot and front entrance of The Pub are too far away for us to see much in the way of detail. The lighting is far from ideal, the angle worse. On the positive side, we have a clear line of sight without obstruction.

  We’re champing at the bit to discover even the most minute of clues, but finding anything useful on a twenty-four-hour run of CCTV is not a speedy process. After the first hour, Tomasetti pulls up one of the visitor chairs and settles in beside me. I roll through the footage as fast as I dare. Both of us have our necks craned, eyes squinting.

  One hour turns into two. At two A.M., I turn over the mouse to him and go to reception to make coffee. I’ve barely finished when Tomasetti calls out. “Here we go.”

  I return to my office and come up behind him for a look.

  He backs up the footage, clicks PLAY. It’s darker now, dusk, the resolution fuzzy and disjointed. Headlights flash as a vehicle pulls into the parking lot of The Pub and parks at the side of the building. My pulse jumps when I recognize it as Rachael Schwartz’s Lexus. She doesn’t open the door or get out. A full minute passes with no movement. Then the female driver gets out, slams the door, leans against the car door. Though I can’t see her face, I can tell by the way she moves that it’s her. She’s wearing dark skinny pants with a cold-shoulder top. Heels. A hat cocked at just the right angle.
The outfit speaks of attitude, confidence, and style, and she has mastered all of it.

  “She’s talking to someone on her cell,” Tomasetti murmurs.

  He’s put on readers at some point. Black frames. The sight warms me, makes me smile. “You look good in those cheaters, Tomasetti.”

  He doesn’t look at me, but I see his mouth twitch. “I know.”

  “You’re pretty full of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Full of something.”

  We turn our attention back to the screen. Rachael is still leaning against the car, cell pressed to her ear, talking animatedly, gesturing. Smoking a cigarette now. Even though it’s been years since I saw her—and she was just a kid—her mannerisms are familiar. In spite of the dim light and poor resolution, it’s evident that she was a beautiful, animated woman.

  “We need to find that cell phone,” I murmur.

  “Call records would be nice.” He’s looking intently at the screen. “She’s not happy with whoever’s on the other end.”

  My cop’s interest stirs. Though we can’t make out her expression or hear what she’s saying, her body language tells us she’s arguing with someone. “Looks like it.”

  I glance at the time in the lower corner of the screen, which indicates the footage was recorded at 6:42 P.M. According to her credit card record, she had dinner with an unknown individual and paid for it with her card, just an hour later. Is she talking to her murderer? Planning to meet him? Does the argument have anything to do with her murder?

  “Who are you talking to, my girl?” I whisper.

  Rachael ends the call abruptly. Shaking her head, she cuffs the roof of the car with the base of her palm, then yanks open the driver’s-side door and slides inside. We watch and wait, but the car doesn’t move. Anticipation hums in the air between us. Two minutes pass. Six. Tomasetti scrolls, I go to the coffee station and pour two cups. I’ve just set them on the desk next to my laptop when I see the flare of headlights on the screen.

  “Here he comes,” Tomasetti says.

  The glare makes it impossible to distinguish the make or model of the vehicle, let alone the license plate number.