“Or what? What are you going to do about it? Hit me? Your days as a cop are numbered, bitch.”
John pushes me toward the door. I dig in my heels, but he muscles me across the threshold and onto the sidewalk. “Cut it out,” he snaps.
“Get your hands off me.” I try to sound calm, but my voice shakes. “I mean it.”
Glock pauses in the doorway, looks at Payne, and points at the painting. “That shit you call art sucks, man.”
From inside, I hear Payne break into wild laughter.
No one speaks as John, Glock and I traverse the neighbor’s yard. We reach the Explorer, and I yank my keys from my pocket.
“Can’t take you anywhere, can we?” Tomasetti mutters.
“Can the lecture,” I say tightly.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
I say nothing as I slide behind the wheel. The truth of the matter is I can’t defend what I did. Payne baited me, and I hit on it like a bass on a lure.
Tomasetti glares at me. “You know better than to—”
“You didn’t see those dead kids.” I crank the key. “You didn’t see those girls.”
He slides into the passenger seat and slams the door. “You let him provoke you.”
“That’s hypocritical as hell coming from you.”
“You played right into his hands. If he wants to push the issue, he can cause problems.”
“Let him push.” The tires squeal as I pull away from the curb. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I push back.”
Leaning back in the seat, Tomasetti groans, looks out the window.
From the rear seat, Glock clears his throat. “So what’s your take on Payne?”
“He’s worth looking at,” Tomasetti says. “The torture aspect fits him better than the others.”
I glance in the rearview mirror, catch Glock’s gaze. “Dig up everything you can find on him. See if he’s in CODIS. If not, get a warrant. I want a DNA sample from that son of a bitch.”
“You think he knew the girl?” Glock asks.
Tomasetti shakes his head. “I don’t think he’d have a relationship with an Amish female.”
“Yeah,” Glock agrees. “Too much hate.”
“He could have raped her,” I put in.
I feel John’s eyes burning into me, but I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to see what I know shows on my face.
“Autopsy substantiate that?” Glock asks.
I shake my head. “Inconclusive.”
I park in front of the police station and get out without speaking. I’m still angry, but now that anger is focused on myself. I feel like an idiot for taking a shot at Payne. I’m embarrassed because I did it in front of two people I respect. Two cops whose opinions matter to me.
I’m midway to the front door when Tomasetti breaks the silence. “I’d like to see the crime scene.”
I know it’s petty in light of everything that’s happened, but I don’t want to go back there. I’m feeling too battered, too vulnerable. I want to blame it on my confrontation with Payne, but I know the feelings zinging inside me have more to do with a dead Amish girl than an ex-con full of hate.
“Come with me,” he says.
We stop on the sidewalk in front of the station. Glock’s gaze goes from Tomasetti to me, and he clears his throat. “I’m going to get some queries going on Payne. See about that warrant.”
“Thanks,” I mutter and watch him disappear inside.
I turn my attention back to Tomasetti. He stares evenly at me. I stare back, determined not to look away despite my discomfort.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m always okay.”
He looks away, studies the building behind me, then gives me a sage look. “It’s not like you to go after a suspect like that.”
“Nobody likes a bigot.”
He frowns. “Or maybe I’m not the only one this case is hitting too close to home for.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about Mary Plank in general, or the rape she and her sister may have endured before their deaths. The one thing I do know is that he’s right; the case is hitting me in a place that’s bruised and raw—and with a vehemence I’m not prepared for.
After a moment, I rub at the ache between my eyes and sigh. “We’re not catching any breaks.”
“We will.” He pauses. “Do you have time to come with me to the crime scene?”
“There’s one more person I need to talk to first,” I reply. “It’s on the way.”
“I’ll drive.”
The Carriage Stop is a quaint gift shop located just off the traffic circle. I’m not big on shopping. In fact, I’ve only been in the store once and that was to buy a gift for Glock’s wife, Lashonda, when she had her baby a few months back. The shop is a Painters Mill icon of sorts with a large selection of Amish quilts, birdhouses, mailboxes, flavored coffees and candles. It’s owned by town councilwoman Janine Fourman and managed by her sister, Evelyn Steinkruger. My aversion to shopping aside, that affiliation alone is enough to keep me out.
“Mary Plank worked here part-time,” I say as Tomasetti parks in front of the shop.