T.J. appears at the door, looking dapper and fresh in his crisp blue uniform. At twenty-five, he’s my youngest officer and the only rookie in the department. He receives a good bit of teasing, but he’s a good sport and generally serious about his work. When I need someone for overtime, he’s my go-to man.
“Sorry I’m late, Chief.”
I nod. “I’ll let it slide since this is—was—your day off.”
Chuckling, he takes the chair beside Glock.
I look around the room. “I’m sorry to have called everyone in on such short notice this morning, but I wanted to let you know I’m going to be consulting for BCI for a few days. Apparently, there have been some disappearances in the northeastern part of the state. The reason I’ve been asked to consult is because the missing persons are Amish.”
A collective sound of surprise sweeps the room. I feel the rise of interest and continue before the questions come. “As of now, the agency doesn’t know if these disappearances are connected, but the speculation is that they are.” I glance at my watch. “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”
I give Glock a pointed look. “You’re in charge while I’m gone.”
He gives me a two-finger salute.
“I’ve got my cell and I’m available twenty-four/seven if anyone needs anything.” I survey my department, and a rolling wave of pride sweeps over me. “Try not to shoot anyone while I’m gone.” I smile at Pickles. “That includes chickens.”
CHAPTER 3
I’m twenty minutes out of Richfield when Tomasetti calls. It’s a good thing the town council approved wireless headsets for the department last month, because I’ve spent much of this trip on the phone. I’ve spoken once with Sheriff Rasmussen, once with Auggie—who apologized for his “inappropriate” comments earlier—and I’ve had four decidedly unpleasant conversations with Kathleen McClanahan. Mona was right: The woman curses with the speed of an auctioneer hawking wares at an estate sale. McClanahan ended the call by threatening to sue me for “roughing up” her little girl and then hanging up on me.
I catch Tomasetti’s call on the third ring. “I’m almost there,” I say by way of greeting.
“We’ve got another one,” he says. “Fifteen-year-old female. Happened last night. Local law enforcement called ten minutes ago.”
“Where?”
“Buck Creek, a small town about an hour northeast of here.”
“She’s Amish?”
“Family searched for her all night.”
“And they’re just now contacting the police, because they thought they could handle it themselves.” My voice is bone-dry.
“See? I knew you’d be a benefit to the case.”
“Who’s the vic?”
Paper rattles on the other end of the line, and I know he’s paging through the file. “Annie King. Parents sent her to a vegetable stand and she never made it home.”
He pauses and I sense he’s champing at the bit and ready to go—and I’m holding up the show. The first forty-eight hours are the most crucial in terms of solving any case, but that’s particularly true when dealing with a missing child. Two of the kidnappings are cold. This one is fresh; we’re still within that golden period.
“I’ve got everyone rounded up here,” he tells me. “We’re just going to bring you in. Do the introductions. HR will have a couple of forms for you. Then we’re on our way.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“I’ll meet you at the door.”
It’s just after noon when I turn onto Highlander Parkway. I’m not nervous, but an edginess creeps steadily over me as I draw closer to the BCI field office. Like Tomasetti, I’m keenly aware of the ticking clock and anxious to get started. I want to visit the scene and speak to the missing girl’s family. I want to find the girl before something terrible happens—if it hasn’t already.
I remind myself that I’m only going to be consulting, and I can’t help but wonder what kind of parameters I’ll be working within. I’m hands-on when it comes to my job. How difficult will it be to ride this out in the backseat?
To complicate matters, there’s also the issue of my relationship with Tomasetti. We’re walking a fine line, working together on a case while we’re personally involved. Nobody knows, and for now we would be wise to keep it that way. I’m confident neither of us will let private feelings affect the case. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to spending some time with him.
I park in the visitor section of the lot, grab my overnight bag, and head toward the double glass doors at the front of the building. The uniformed security officer behind a glossy walnut desk stands as I approach.
“Can I help you?”
She’s a trim African-American woman wearing a navy jacket, a chrome badge clipped to her belt, and a name tag that tells me her name is Gabrielle. “I’m Kate Burkholder. I have an appointment to see John Tomasetti with BCI.”
“He’s called twice. Hold on.” She’s in the process of dialing when I hear my name. I turn, to see Tomasetti treading toward me with long, purposeful strides. Plea sure unfurls in my stomach at the sight of his tall frame. As usual, he’s well dressed in a crisp blue shirt with a gray-and-burgundy tie and nicely cut charcoal slacks.
I can’t help it; I smile. “Agent Tomasetti.”
His expression softens. “Chief Burkholder.” He glances at the security officer. “Thanks, Gabby.”
She waves him off, but not before I see something in her eyes, and I realize I’m not the only one who likes my men dark and brooding and just a little bit on the shady side.
“How was the drive?” he asks, extending his hand.
“Uneventful.”
“Best kind, I guess.” We shake, and I notice several things at once. His palm is warm and dry. His grip is substantial. He’s looking at me a tad too closely and perhaps with a little too much intensity, both of which I like. “You look nice,” he says in a low voice.
“So do you.”
Amusement crinkles the outer corners of his eyes. He holds on to my hand an instant too long before motioning toward the bank of elevators. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
We head toward the elevator. He starts to take my overnight bag but then thinks better of it, and I realize he doesn’t want anyone getting the wrong impression about us, particularly his superiors. I heft the bag onto my shoulder and pretend not to notice the awkwardness of the moment.
We wait for the elevator in silence and without looking at each other. Then the doors swish open and we step inside. He taps the button for the second floor and the doors whisper closed. We’re alone; the only sound is the Muzak flowing down from an overhead speaker, mangling an old Sting song. I’m keenly aware of Tomasetti standing next to me, but my mind has already jumped ahead to meeting his superiors, the impression I want to make, the benefits I will bring to the case. Less than a second into the ride up, Tomasetti turns to me, sets his hands on my shoulders. The next thing I know, my back is against the wall and his mouth is on mine. Shock punches me with such force that for an instant my knees go weak. The Muzak fades to babble, but my heartbeat becomes a roar in my ears. Vaguely, I’m aware of the car moving ever upward, the firm pressure of his lips against mine, the taste of peppermint and coffee and the man I’ve missed for weeks now. I’m about to put my arms around him, when he pulls back, gazes down at me. “Welcome to Richfield,” he says quietly.
“You’re all business this morning.” My laugh sounds nervous and my voice is breathy and thin. “They don’t have security cameras in these elevators, do they?”
“I checked.”
“So this was premeditated.”
“Cameras in the halls upstairs, though.”
“In case I feel the need to throw myself at you.”