He gives me a sharp look. “Do you think Amish parents might not file a missing-person report if one of their kids went missing?”
“Most would,” I tell him. “Initially, they might try to handle it themselves. But I think eventually, when they got scared and the reality of the situation sank in, they’d turn to the police.” I think about that for a moment. “That said, there’s a large faction of Amish who believe God will take care of them. If you combine that with a general mistrust of the English, particularly the English police, then I could see a family not making an official report.”
“Something to keep in mind.”
I nod, move on to other possible scenarios. “What about the photographer Goddard mentioned?”
“Stacy Karns.”
“That conviction and the fact that his victim was a young Amish female definitely puts him on the list.” I glance at my watch. “We could pay him a visit.”
“I think he’ll keep until morning.” He gazes steadily at me. “You look tired, Kate. Have you had any sleep?”
“Not much.”
He lays a couple of bills on the table. “What do you say we call it a night and check out the Buck Snort Motel?”
*
The Buck Snort Motel is located on the main highway two miles outside Buck Creek. Set back from the road in a heavily wooded area, the motel is comprised of a dozen or so cabins replete with picnic tables and a community pit barbecue. Lights burn in two of the cabins. As we pull into the gravel lot, I see a group of kids sitting at one of the picnic tables. The motel office is a larger cabin with a huge front window and the requisite red neon sign that blinks VACANCY. A smaller sign boasts FREE MOVIES.
Tomasetti parks adjacent the office and kills the engine. “I’ll check us in and grab the keys.”
Without waiting for a reply, he’s out of the Tahoe and striding toward the office. I watch him, vaguely aware that I’m admiring the way he moves, when it strikes me that I have no idea what kind of sleeping arrangements have been made—or how the night is going to play out. When we’ve worked together in the past, our relationship has never been an issue and we’ve never let it interfere. The investigation always takes precedence. This case is different in that both of us are away from home base, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s going to get in the way.
The door swings open, startling me. Tomasetti slides in, then cranks the engine. Without looking at me, he drives to the farthest cabin and parks. “I’m in cabin twelve. You’re in eleven.”
“So we’re neighbors.” Without looking at him, I reach into the back for my overnight bag.
He stops me. “I’ll get that for you.”
“Sure. Thanks.” I make my exit before I start blabbering and watch as he opens the rear door and pulls out both our overnight bags.
We walk to cabin 11, and he unlocks the door, then passes me the key. The first thing I notice is the bed. It’s a full with a camouflage pattern spread and a headboard made of deer antlers. A night table holds a single lamp, the base of which is constructed of antlers. Camo curtains. Hunting art on the walls—ducks and deer and Labrador retrievers. But the room is neat and smells of clean linens and cedar.
“I believe this is the most antlers I’ve ever seen in one place,” I say.
“Might be a problem if you’re a restless sleeper.”
I laugh. “Better than mounted heads on the walls.”
“Heads are probably in my room.” Chuckling, he sets my bag on the bed, then quickly checks the bathroom. “Coffeemaker in the bathroom,” he tells me when he emerges.
On the small table near the window, a handwritten sign tells me the room is equipped with free Wi-Fi. I see a hookup for a laptop and a pad of paper printed with the motel’s name and logo. “All the comforts of home.”
An awkward silence falls. The rise of tension is palpable. I look at Tomasetti and find his eyes already on me. For the span of a full minute, neither of us speaks, and neither of us looks away.
“So how are we going to do this?” he asks after a moment.
The question needs no clarification. “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I’m kind of out of my element here.”
“Me, too,” he says. “I’m used to traveling alone.”
“I’m used to you sneaking into my house through the back door in the middle of the night.”
He laughs.
Time freezes for the span of several heartbeats. I feel the weight of his stare, the power of my attraction to him. I sense the importance of this moment, the discomfort between us.
We’ve slept together before in the course of an investigation. We work well together despite our personal relationship. But this is my first consulting gig, and it feels different. It feels … premeditated.
“I don’t want to screw this up,” I say after a moment.
“You won’t,” he says quietly. “You can’t.”
“Maybe we should just take it slow.”