Page 92 of Rage

“We make her disappear.”

He scoffed. “And the attorney general’s goon? Do you think he’s just going to go away?”

“We ride out the storm,” the burly man said. “If things get dicey, we go to plan B.”

“I don’t like it. Any of it.”

“Neither do I.” The burly man took another drink of whiskey, grimaced against the burn, swallowed hard. “This isn’t going to resolve itself. We’ve got too much invested, too much to lose, to let some two-bit cop fuck things up.”

The man in the sport coat leaned against the booth back, thinking. “I’m assuming you have a plan.”

“Let’s just say I know the right people.” He picked up the glass, knocked the last of the whiskey back. “These guys are pros. They know how to get things done. And they won’t leave so much as a trace.”

“Do you have a timeline in mind?”

“I’ll get things rolling now. As soon as the opportunity presents itself, I’ll get it done.”

The man in the sport coat stared down at his beer. “You screw this up and I will not go down with the ship. Do you understand?”

“This is the only way,” the burly man said. “We eliminate her from the equation. There’s nothing left. Nothing to trace back to us. End of story.”

But when he set the empty tumbler on the table, he was already wishing for another drink.

CHAPTER 23

It’s half past two A.M. and I’m sitting at the kitchen table at home, my laptop open and humming. The table is piled with reams of paper—official reports and photographs, handwritten notes and sketches. The Yutzy, Shetler, and Borntrager homicide files are stacked to my right. I’m on my second cup of coffee, which isn’t exactly smart since at some point I’m going to have to sleep. The ghosts of the dead haunt me in earnest tonight.

Around me, the farmhouse is silent. Tomasetti was already in bed when I arrived home at midnight. I was too wired, too troubled, to sleep, so I made coffee and set up shop in the kitchen, and so far I’ve accomplished exactly zero.

“I have two dead men,” I say aloud, not bothering to acknowledge the exhaustion and frustration in my voice. “One dead woman. They were young. Amish.”

I flip through the Yutzy file until I come to a paper-clipped stack of my notes. I read aloud: “The murder and dismemberment were done at the tree nursery. The remains were buried in the woods a quarter mile away. That means the killer or killers transported the remains, likely with garbage bags.”

I turn the page and come to the official report from the BCI crime scene unit agent. “No fingerprints. No footwear imprints. No foreign DNA. No fibers. No tire-tread impressions.”

I sigh, thinking about ghosts …

“Want some company?”

I startle at the sound of Tomasetti’s voice and look up to see him come through the kitchen door. He’s wearing a Cleveland Division of Police T-shirt and boxer shorts. His hair is tousled, his left cheek is creased from the sheets, and he’s holding a gray tabby cat in his arms.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say, embarrassed.

“I needed to get up in a couple of hours, anyway.”

“It’s two thirty in the morning and I’m talking to myself.”

“No judgment.” Setting the cat on the counter, he goes to the coffeemaker and pours. “I’m meeting legal at seven in Columbus. We’re going to interview Brett Adamson.”

“I thought you already talked to him.”

“He stonewalled me. I’ll have legal with me this time.” Tomasetti scowls. “Adamson is a slick son of a bitch.”

It’s a step in the direction of progress, but I can’t quite muster the appropriate level of enthusiasm. “Be nice to know who’s paying him.”

“I’ll do my best to find out.”

The cat sits, lifts its paw, and begins licking. “You know there’s a cat on the counter,” I say.