Page 5 of Fallen

“Was she alone?” I ask.

“I didn’t see anyone else. No other name on the form. And she only requested one key.”

I nod, look around, spot the security camera tucked under the eave a few yards away. “Are your security cameras working?”

“Far as I know.”

“I need to take a look,” I say. “Can you get the recordings for me?”

“I think so.”

“What time did she check in?”

He glances down at the form in his hand. “A little after eight P.M. yesterday.”

I nod. “Would you mind sticking around for a while in case I have some more questions?”

“I’ll be here until five.”

I thank him and hit the speed dial for Tomasetti.

CHAPTER 3

“I figured you wouldn’t be able to go long without hearing the sound of my voice.”

I manage a pretty decent rendition of a laugh. But Tomasetti’s an astute man—or maybe I’m not as good at my seasoned-cop equanimity as I think, because he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“There’s been a homicide,” I tell him. “At the motel.”

A beat of silence and then, “What do you need?”

“A CSU, for starters.”

“Shooting? Stabbing? Domestic? What do you have?”

“Not sure. Beating, I think. Hard to tell because there’s a lot of trauma. Victim is female. Thirty years old.”

“I’ll get someone down there ASAP.” He waits, reluctant to end the call, knowing there’s more. “What else, Kate?”

“Tomasetti, this girl … she was Amish once. I mean, years ago. I heard she left.” I stumble over my words, jumble them, take a moment and clear my throat. “I knew her. I mean, when she was a kid. Growing up.”

“Any idea who might’ve done it?”

“No. I haven’t seen her in years.” I look around, hating it that my thoughts are in disarray, that some distant connection is getting in the way. “Whoever did this … it’s bad. There was an incredible amount of violence.”

“Killer knew her.”

“Probably.” I scrub a hand over my face. “I need to tell her parents.”

“Hang tight. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I’ve just ended the call when the crunch of tires in gravel draws my gaze. I look up to see a Holmes County Sheriff’s Office cruiser pull into the lot, overheads flashing, and park behind my Explorer. I’ve met Dane “Fletch” Fletcher a dozen times in the years I’ve been chief. We’ve worked traffic accidents together. Defused a couple of domestic disputes. A bar fight at the Brass Rail. Last summer, we participated in a fundraiser for the 4-H club and spent most of the day in a dunk tank while squealing preteens threw a softball to hit the drop button. He’s a decent cop with a laid-back personality and a sense of humor I appreciate a little more than I should.

“Hey, Fletch,” I say, crossing to him.

He greets me with a handshake. “Heard you’ve got a dead body on your hands.”

I lay out what little I know. “BCI is on the way.”