Page 6 of Fallen

“Hell of a way to close out the week. County is here to help if you need us, Kate.”

The Willowdell Motel is inside the township limits of Painters Mill. But I work closely with the sheriff’s office. We have a good relationship, and depending on manpower and workload, our boundaries sometimes overlap.

He scratches his head, his eyes on the open door of room 9. “Victim?”

I give him the rundown on Rachael Schwartz, sticking to the facts, tucking all those other gnarly emotions back into their hole.

“Formerly Amish, huh?” He rubs his hand over his chin. “Damn. Back to visit the family?”

“Maybe.” I sigh, look around. “I did a cursory search of the room. There’s a purse with an ID. Money still inside, so this wasn’t a robbery. I didn’t find a cell. We’ll get a closer look once BCI gets here.” I’m relieved when my thoughts begin to settle, my cop’s mind clicking back into place.

I work a pair of gloves from the pouch on my utility belt and slip them on as I approach the Lexus parked a few yards from room 9. It’s a newish sedan with a gleaming red finish and sleek lines that speak of affluence and prosperity.

I’m aware of the deputy behind me, craning his neck to see inside the vehicle. “Nice wheels for an Amish lady,” he comments.

“Formerly Amish.”

I’m reluctant to touch anything, but in the forefront of my mind the knowledge that a killer is walking free in my town pushes me to do just that. I open the driver’s-side door. The interior is warm and smells of leather and perfume, all of it laced with the vague aroma of fast food. There’s a wadded-up McDonald’s bag on the floor of the back seat. A pretty floral jacket draped over the passenger seatback. A pair of royal-blue high heels lie on the passenger-side floor. Leaning in, careful not to touch anything else, I open the console. Inside, I see a couple of audiobooks, a pack of Marlboros, loose change, and a travel-size bottle of ibuprofen. No cell phone. I’m about to close the console when I spot the folded piece of paper tucked into the cellophane cover of the cigarette pack. Using my cell, I take a couple of photos. Then I pluck the note from the pack and unfold it. A single address is written in blue ink and underlined twice.

1325 SUPERIOR STREET

WOOSTER

“Hello,” I say. I set the note on the seat, pull out my cell, and snap another photo.

“What’s that?”

I turn to find Fletch standing behind me, craning his head. “Not sure,” I tell him. “An address.”

He squints at the paper. “Huh.”

Fletch is a good enough cop to know that the fewer people inside the crime scene tape, the better. I nudge him to give me some space. “Do you have cones and tape?” I ask, referring to typical traffic equipment.

He catches my drift. “You want me to cordon off the parking lot?”

“That would be a big help. On the outside chance we can pick up tread marks or footwear imprints.”

“Whatever you need, Chief.”

Leaving the note on the seat, I circle around to the front of the vehicle and do a similar search of the passenger side, but find nothing of interest.

I’ve just closed the door when the coroner’s Escalade pulls up and parks a few yards away.

I pull out my cell and call Dispatch.

“Hey, Chief.”

“I need you to look up an address.” I pull out my cell, call up the photo of the note, and recite the address. “Find out who lives there and get their information. Run them through LEADS and check for warrants.”

“Give me two minutes.”

“Thanks.”

I end the call and look around. Mona and Glock are talking to a tattooed-up couple who’d spent the night in a room two doors down. They can’t seem to stop looking at the door to room 9. Even from twenty feet away, I see shock and curiosity on their faces.

Because Painters Mill is a small town, it’s not unusual for me to be acquainted with the people I deal with in the course of my job, whether they’re victim or perpetrator or somewhere in between. This is different. I didn’t know Rachael Schwartz well. In fact, I hadn’t thought of her in years. Not since hearing about the tell-all book she wrote about the Amish two or three years ago, anyway. Even then, it was only a passing thought. A shake of the head. I didn’t read the book.

But I knew her as a child—and she made an impression. She was a lively, outspoken girl, both of which set her apart from other Amish kids. She was precocious, questioning of authority, and argumentative—all of which worked to her detriment. As she entered her teens those traits burgeoned into disrespect for her elders and disdain for her brethren, which caused tremendous problems for everyone involved, but especially for Rachael.