No one is more aware than I am of the divide that exists between the Amish and English communities. It’s a divide that runs even deeper when it comes to law enforcement, particularly an outside agency such as BCI. My intimate knowledge of the plain life, combined with my fluency in Pennsylvania Dutch, will go a long way with regard to bridging the gap and encouraging the Amish to speak freely.
I pull over in front of the Butterhorn Bakery and give the call my full attention. “Where did these disappearances occur?”
“Latest was in Rocky Fork. Small town about fifty miles from Cleveland.”
I take a deep breath, trying not to be too flattered. “I’m interested.”
“Interested enough to drive up?”
“You mean now?”
“Clock’s ticking. I thought we could meet here in Richfield. Take care of the red tape. Introduce you to the suits. There’ll be a formal briefing. Some forms to sign. They’ll supply you with a temporary ID. You up for it?”
A sensation that’s a little too close to excitement flashes in my chest. “Let me tie up some things here. When’s the briefing?”
“As soon as you get here. Call me.”
I start to give him a time frame, but he disconnects. I sit there for a few seconds, smiling stupidly, energized by the prospect of consulting for such a well-respected agency. But I know most of what I’m feeling has more to do with John Tomasetti than it does with BCI. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. But it’s honest, and I resolve not to analyze it any more closely than that.
My mind jumps ahead to the tasks I need to complete before I leave. I’ll need to brief my team, speak to the mayor, get my shifts covered. We’re chronically understaffed in Painters Mill. But Skid—the officer I stood in for last night—is due back today. I was scheduled to have the weekend off. It could work.
Sleep forgotten, I hit my radio and hail Mona. She answers with a perky “Painters Mill PD!”
“Hey, it’s me.”
“What’s up, Chief?”
“I want you to call the guys in for a quick briefing.”
“This morning? What’s going on?”
I recap my conversation with Tomasetti. “See if you can get everyone there within the hour. I’m going to swing by the house for a quick shower and to pack a bag.”
*
It takes me an hour to shower and pack enough clothes for a few days on the road. I’m no fashionista—not by any stretch of the imagination—so it takes me a good bit of time to figure out which clothes to take. Usually, I wear the old standby: my police uniform. We’re talking basic navy with a leather shoulder holster. No frills. After three years of being chief, that’s the way I’ve come to identify myself, at least with regard to style. This consulting stint promises to take me out of my comfort zone by a couple of light-years. That’s not to mention the issue of Tomasetti. I may not be into the whole fashion thing, but I’m still a woman. I might have grown up Amish, but there’s a small part of me that is vain.
I opt for business-casual and go with the khaki boot-cut slacks, black trousers, and a pair of blue jeans. A couple of blazers and a few camis, a blouse, some nice T-shirts. Impatient with myself for taking so long when I still have a one-hundred-mile drive ahead, I forgo jewelry, toss my toiletries into the bag, and head for the door.
I call Mayor Auggie Brock on my way to the station and break the news, going heavy on the “This will improve our relationship with an important state law-enforcement agency” angle.
“How long will you be gone?” is, predictably, his first question.
“I’m not sure,” I tell him. “Two or three days.”
He makes a noise that tells me he’s not happy about the situation. But he knows he can’t say no, because for three years I’ve forgone vacations and, most weeks, a day off. I’m well within bounds to push the issue if needed.
“You’ll have to do this on your own time,” he tells me. “I mean, you’ll need to take vacation days. And of course we can’t afford travel funds for you. We’ve got budget constraints.”
“They pay a daily stipend and expenses.”
“That’s good.” I can practically hear him thinking this over, weighing all the pros and cons, trying to think of a worse-case scenario.
An awkward silence ensues. I’m trying to think of a way to end the call, when he broaches the one subject I’d wanted to avoid. “Before you leave,” he says after a moment. “I’ve been meaning to call you about Bradford. I mean, about the charges.”
“Auggie—”
“He’s a minor … a good kid with his whole life ahead of him.”
“Everything’s already been turned over to the county attorney. You know that.”
“You could … pull the charges.”
“‘Pull the charges’?” Incredulity rings in my voice; this is nervy even for Auggie. “We caught him with drug paraphernalia and an ounce of pot. He slugged one of my officers. T.J. had to get stitches, Auggie. There’s no undoing that.”
“There were extenuating circumstances. Bradford was upset about—”