“We’ll deal with that after we find Sadie, okay?”
The girl stares at me, as if the gravity of the situation is starting to sink in. “Do you think something bad happened to her?” she asks.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
Ten minutes later, Angi McClanahan slides into the visitor chair adjacent to my desk. Rasmussen drags in an extra chair for her mother and then takes his place at the door.
I turn on the tape recorder, recite all the obligatory information, and turn my attention to Angi. “When did you last see or hear from Sadie?”
“I guess it was the day I beat the shit out of her.” The girl’s mother snickers, but I don’t look away from Angi. She’s pleased with herself. Pleased with the temerity of her answer and the fact that she has an audience.
“Why were you fighting?” I ask.
“Because she put her hands on my boyfriend.”
“What’s his name?”
She raises her hand to look at her nails and begins to peel polish off her thumb. “I don’t remember.”
The urge to reach across the table, grab her by the collar, and slap that “I don’t give a shit” attitude off her face is powerful. Of course I don’t, since I’m pretty sure it would be considered unbecoming behavior for the chief of police.
I turn my attention to Kathleen McClanahan. “I suggest you encourage your daughter to cooperate.”
“Angi didn’t do nothing to that little Amish troublemaker. Whatever trouble Sadie Miller met with, she brought down on herself.”
“I need his name,” I say. “Right now.”
Tossing a sideways look at her mother, Angi crosses her arms over her chest. “Dave Westmoore.”
I write down the name, recalling that the parents live near Millersburg. “So you were angry because Sadie touched your boyfriend?”
“She was doing more than touching him. That slut had her hands all over him.”
“Jealousy is a powerful emotion.”
Something ugly flashes in the girl’s eyes. “I am not jealous of that bitch.”
“What would you call it?”
“Protecting my territory.”
“How far are you willing to go to protect what’s yours?”
She shoots me an incredulous look. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t do anything to her!”
“You threatened to kill her,” I say.
“I didn’t mean it literally.”
“Or maybe you planned a little revenge.”
Her mother lurches to her feet. “This is bullshit.”
I give the woman a hard look. “Sit down.”
When she does, I continue. “Your daughter was one of the last people to speak with Sadie before she disappeared. They had a physical confrontation. Angi threatened to kill her in front of witnesses, including me.”
I turn a cold look on Angi. The scratch marks on her throat are healing, but they’re still visible, so I use them to my advantage. “Where did you get those marks on your throat?”
The girl raises a hand, her fingers fluttering at her neck. “They’re old. I got them that day on the bridge.”
“How did you get them?” I repeat.
“That psycho Amish girl attacked her,” her mother interjects.
“I’d like to hear that from Angi,” I say, never taking my eyes from the teenager.
“She ain’t saying nothing without a fucking lawyer, you goddamn Nazi bitch.”
Holding Angi with my gaze, I lean back in my chair. “Thank you for your time. That’ll be all for now.”
*
“That was fun,” Rasmussen says.
It’s half an hour later, and Rasmussen and I are in my office. I’m sitting behind my desk, trying to resist the urge to pound my head against its surface.
“She didn’t run away,” I tell him. “Someone took her.”
My phone rings, and I put it on speaker. “What’s up, Lois?”
“I just took a call from Elaina Reiglesberger out on County Road 14, Chief. She claims her daughter was out riding and saw Sadie Miller get into a car yesterday.”
Hope jumps through me and then I’m on my feet and reaching for my keys. “Tell her I’m on my way.”
Rasmussen is already through the door. “Here’s to a witness with good recall.”
*
I’m on my way to talk to the purported witness when the call from Tomasetti comes in. “I hope you’re calling with good news,” I say in lieu of a greeting.
“I wish I was.”
“Shit, Tomasetti, you’re not going to ruin my day, are you?”
He sighs. “Coroner says Annie King sustained a fatal stab wound. She bled to death.”
Something inside me sinks, like a rock tossed into water and dropping softly onto a sandy bottom. “Goddamn it.”
It’s times like this when that voice in my head tells me I’m not cut out for police work. I’ve done this before. Receiving this kind of news shouldn’t be so hard.