Page 67 of Rage

“Who takes the title of a dumpy little house in a small-town rural area and conceals the name of the title holder in a maze of LLCs?” I ask irritably.

“Homeowners do it for a variety of legitimate reasons,” he says. “For example, liability issues with rental properties. Someone breaks a leg and they can’t sue you personally and take your assets. On the other hand, some homeowners might set up an LLC and put it on the title to protect their privacy.”

“My vote is for the latter,” I say.

“Someone has something to hide.”

“Like what?” I take one of the cups and sip, my mind running through the gauntlet of possibilities. “Drugs?”

“That particular scourge certainly keeps its share of gnarly company.”

It’s a reoccurring question. I want to think it fits, but it doesn’t. Not completely.

His cell chimes. He glances down at it and frowns. “We got the warrant.”

I get to my feet. “Let’s go.”

Since my Explorer is out of commission, I ride with Tomasetti and call Glock during the drive to Lost Creek Road. “Any luck with the canvass?” I ask, referring to his search of the ravine where Aaron Shetler’s body was found.

“I got nada, Chief. Either they got lucky or they were being extremely careful.”

“It was worth a shot.” But my disappointment is keen. “Can you come out and canvass the other residences out here on Lost Creek?”

“On my way.”

Tomasetti makes the turn in to the driveway of the house and parks in the yard, just outside the crime scene tape. A Holmes County Sheriff’s Office cruiser is parked on the shoulder, emergency lights flashing. Mona’s vehicle is still where she left it. A BCI crime scene van has been backed up to within twenty or so feet of the garage, its doors open. A technician braves the blazing sun, kneeling to pick up and preserve pieces of the overhead door or vehicle and placing them in bags to be analyzed.

“Your Explorer was towed to the mechanic over on Ohio Street, by the way,” Tomasetti tells me as he kills the engine.

“Auggie will be pleased it wasn’t totaled,” I say.

We exchange a quick smile and get out. Tomasetti walks around to the back of the Tahoe and pulls out shoe covers and gloves. We suit up and make our way to the house. I try not to think of the microscopic slivers of glass from my shattered windshield mixing with the sweat beneath my collar, but I’m itchy and uncomfortable and hope for a shower and change of clothes as soon as we finish.

At the front door, Tomasetti slips on gloves and tries the knob. “Locked,” he says, and we go around to the back.

We find the back door unlocked and enter. The first thing I notice is the pong of day-old garbage. We’re standing in a small kitchen. It’s a run-down space with beat-up cabinets, a built-in desk, and a stained porcelain sink. An ancient-looking hot-water heater peeks out at us from a corner closet. A decade of fingerprints mottles the woodwork.

“Let’s clear the place first,” Tomasetti says.

“Yep.”

My senses hum as we go through the doorway and into the living room. “Painters Mill Police Department!” I call out as we traverse the room and enter the hall. “Search warrant!”

The first door we come to is affixed with a hasp and padlock on the outside. I look at Tomasetti. “That’s weird.”

“To say the least.” He shrugs. “Home office?”

The lock isn’t engaged, so I lift it and drop the shackle into the swivel eye, and then I push open the door. “Police department!” I call out as I enter the small bedroom. Dim light filters through a tiny window covered with a blanket that’s been nailed to the wall. I go to the bed, kneel, look under it. Tomasetti goes to the closet. No one there.

Then we’re back in the hall and on to the next door. It’s another bedroom. Another lock on the outside. We clear it quickly.

“BCI!” Moving ahead of me, Tomasetti sidles into a bathroom, shoves aside the shower curtain. “Clear,” he calls out.

Back in the living room, we pause, look around.

“This place has an odd vibe,” I say.

“A lot of locks.”