Page 20 of Fallen

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.