Page 97 of Rage

“The brewery. The Cheetah Lounge. Those types of businesses appeal to and employ attractive young women.”

“They used the businesses as a recruiting mechanism,” he says, thinking aloud. “Yutzy, maybe even Shetler, brought in the women. Brooks hired them. Earned their trust. Groomed them. Add the trafficking angle and some of these weird connections start to make sense.”

My mind races with possibilities. “Where’s the lawyer?”

“We had to cut him loose.”

“He give you anything?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you have on Brooks?” I ask.

“Not enough,” he growls. “We’re looking at IP addresses now. If we can get that, we can contact the providers with warrants and conceivably get physical addresses and names.”

“How long will that take?”

“Too damn long.”

“At least now we know what we’re looking at.”

“I’ve got to run,” he says. “Keep on doing what you’re doing. I should be out of here in twenty minutes and then I’ll head your way. I got a briefing lined up with Rasmussen. Can you meet us there?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say.

“See you in a couple of hours.”

And then he’s gone.

CHAPTER 24

I spend another hour combing through data files. I’m energized by the new information from Tomasetti, and for the first time since the start of the investigation, I feel as if we’re on the right track and making headway.

That something so insidious has found its way to Painters Mill makes me feel sick inside. At least two Amish females were targeted and, apparently, became victims. I know small towns aren’t immune. Still, I’m shocked and it hurts.

At nine P.M. I grab coffee and dig into the third zip file. I’ve come up with a good system now, flagging any exchange or photo that could be related to trafficking and rearranging them so that I can sort by flag type. Some of the photos are risqué, but not pornographic. Most seem like young women doing fun things: partying with friends at a pool or bar or restaurant. I’ve come across several photos of Amish women clad in traditional garb, which is surprising since for religious reasons most Amish do not allow their picture to be taken. Occasionally, an unthinking tourist will snap a photo, and if the person being photographed is aware, they’ll avert their face. Not the case here and I can’t help but wonder if that’s by design.

I’m paging down, hitting keys with my index finger, going too fast, when one of the photos stops me cold. I go back to the image, use my mouse to full-screen it. The photo is of Wilma Borntrager, Samuel Yutzy, and a fiftysomething male I don’t recognize. They’re at a bistro table with a swimming pool in the background. Yutzy is holding up a beer cheers-style and grinning at the camera. The other man’s eyes are fastened to Borntrager with unconcealed male appreciation. She’s wearing a sky-blue golf shirt with a black miniskirt, an outfit that’s vaguely familiar.

I’m in the process of flagging the photo when something else gives me pause. The pool area, I realize. I’ve seen it before. I’ve been there. Leaning closer to the monitor, I use my mouse to enlarge the image. One of the table umbrellas looms into view and I spot the logo.

“The Club at Paint Creek.” Even as I murmur the words, I recall that’s why I recognized the outfit, too. The servers wear sky-blue golf shirts with black miniskirts. Did Wilma work at The Club at Paint Creek, too?

I’m not exactly sure what the information means in terms of the case, but it’s another connection that wasn’t there before. One that brings Lance Wingate back into the equation.

Quickly, I print a black-and-white version of the image. A glance at the time on my computer tells me I still have an hour before meeting Rasmussen and Tomasetti at the sheriff’s office in Millersburg.

I call out to Margaret, my dispatcher. “How late is the country club open?”

Footsteps and then she appears in the doorway of my office, her expression curious. “Nine, I think.”

“Who’s on tonight?”

“Mona.”

“Call her and tell her to meet me there.”

“Anything I need to know about, Chief?”