Page 56 of Rage

Several of my officers sit up straighter. “Damn,” one of them mutters. At the back of the room, Mona makes a sound of dismay.

“I’m fine, as you can see.” I hit the highlights of the incident. “But all of you should be aware the situation is heating up.”

“Arrest?” Pickles asks.

I shake my head. “The bartender was picked up by the Tuscarawas County Sheriff’s Office for questioning and released without charges this morning.”

“What about a suspect?” Glock asks.

“No, but the detectives are all over it.” I frown. “That brings me to my first agenda item. From this point forward, all contact with any individual connected to The Cheetah Lounge will be done through BCI, task force personnel, or the Tuscarawas sheriff’s office.”

Tomasetti is standing next to the door, which is open to let in some air. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me all morning. “Sheriff Rasmussen and I will be talking to the bouncer who was on duty last night,” he says. “We’ll also be talking with the manager, the servers, and the dancers who were on the clock at the time of the incident.”

I point at Skid. “Did you find anything on The Cheetah Lounge?”

“Since he’s the resident expert,” Pickles mutters.

A few chuckles ensue.

Skid clears his throat. “Not much, Chief. They’ve got a presence on social media. Mostly photos from special events. Promos. Drink specials. Marketing and promotion.” He picks up his cell and scrolls. “I did find out that the place was sold four years ago when the previous owner, George Lang, passed away. I couldn’t find shit on the new owner. There are several entities involved, including an LLC, which I’m looking into now. The manager, by the way, is one Patrick O’Leary. New Philly resident. No record. No warrants.”

I write down the name and look at Tomasetti, raise my brows.

“I’ll talk to him,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ve been getting the runaround.”

Tomasetti addresses Skid. “Since BCI has the resources, I’ll get legal to get to the bottom of who owns the place. It’s been my experience that businesses like that have multiple investors and sometimes the names are buried in a smoke screen of LLCs.”

“We’re also still trying to get a line on our mystery woman, Cassidy,” I say.

Tomasetti is staring at me. “Since I’ll be talking to the manager later, I’ll get her information for you.”

I turn to the enlarged photo of her that’s pinned to the board behind me. “If you recall, I found this pic of her during our search of Yutzy’s residence. So far, all we know about her is that she was a dancer at The Cheetah Lounge, but recently quit. According to one of the women who worked with her, Cassidy and Yutzy were in a relationship. It’s extremely important that we talk to her as soon as possible.

“T.J.,” I say. “Run out to the farm store where Shetler worked. Talk to people. Find out who he was close to. See if anyone knows what might’ve been going on in his life.”

He gives me a thumbs-up.

“Glock, I want you to go back out to the property where Shetler’s body was found. Look around. Expand our canvass all the way to the highway, which includes four more farms. Check to see if anyone saw a buggy or vehicle they didn’t recognize in the area in the last week.”

“You got it.”

“Mona,” I say, “I want you to hit social media. Every platform you can think of. Look at any account that’s even remotely connected to The Cheetah Lounge. Employees, including bartenders, bouncers, servers, and dancers.”

“On it,” she says.

I look at my two remaining officers, Skid and Pickles. I know neither of them has slept, and not for the first time I curse my lack of manpower. “I want you to canvass the area around the nursery again. Hit some of the outlying farms. You’ve got copies of the nursery’s accounting books. Go through the client list. Talk to some of the customers. See if anyone saw or heard anything leading up to Yutzy’s murder.” I look at Pickles. “Be sure to take enough water with you today.”

The old man huffs.

“I’m going to talk to some of the Amish who knew both of these men, including Joseph Stoltzfoos, who was friends with Yutzy and Shetler.” I look out at my team. “I think all of us have been around long enough to know that someone always knows something. Sometimes that person is the one we least expect. It’s up to us to find them and separate the junk from the jewels.”

I bring my hands together. “Let’s go.”

Joseph Stoltzfoos lives on Mud Creek Road, a narrow track that runs between Painters Mill and Berlin. Before leaving the station, I ran him through LEADS. I wasn’t surprised to find that he has a clean record. No arrests. No warrants. As far as I can tell, he’s never been in trouble either civilly or criminally.

I’m thinking about that pristine record as I make the turn in to the gravel lane of his farm. Dust chases me as I head toward the house. I see half a dozen head of Black Angus cattle in the field to my right. A couple of draft horses, one of which has a foal at its side, graze in an adjacent pasture. The roadway curves right, taking me through a copse of pine trees, and then an old farmhouse looms into view. It’s a small structure dressed in a fresh coat of paint and sporting a nostalgic wraparound porch in the front. Beyond, a single barn, a silo, and a chicken house make up the rest of the farm. If memory serves me, the previous owner passed away a couple of years ago and the run-down farm went to auction. By the looks of the fresh paint and scaffolding next to the barn, Joseph Stoltzfoos is bringing the place back to life.