“Must have been pretty pissed off to do something like that.”
“He didn’t mention it when I talked to him.”
“Maybe we ought to give him another chance to fess up.”
“If he’s still in town.”
“Since there’s only one motel, that ought to be pretty easy to figure out.”
Grabbing my keys, I rise. “Damn, you’re getting good at this cop stuff, Tomasetti.”
“I was just trying to impress you.”
“It’s working.”
CHAPTER 18
The Willowdell Motel is located on Highway 83 a few miles out of town. During the summer months, the place caters to tourists visiting Amish Country. During deer season, the motel caters to the dozens of hunters that flock to the area to bag that purported eight-point buck. The motel’s one-size-suits-all décor doesn’t differentiate between the two groups of clientele.
Tomasetti pulls the Tahoe into the gravel lot and we begin looking for Aaron Plank’s Camry. “He might have gone back last night.”
“He’s still got the house to deal with,” I point out. “He’ll either need to hire a professional cleaner or do it himself. With so much blood, I’m betting he hires it out. At some point, he’ll need to get the place appraised. If he wants to sell it, anyway.”
“How much is a farm like that worth?”
“A hundred and sixty acres. Farmhouse. Barn. Outbuildings. It’s a valuable piece of land. Traditionally, in an Amish family the eldest male child will inherit the farm when the parents pass.”
“It’s a stretch, but maybe he felt entitled. Kill the people who pissed you off and get a farm worth several hundred thousand dollars in the process. Maybe he decided to speed things up.”
I shake my head. “I don’t like Aaron Plank for this. James Payne, yes. But not Aaron.”
“People have done worse for less.” But I can tell by his lack of enthusiasm he’s not buying it either.
We’re midway through the lot; no sign of the Camry. “He’s not here,” I say.
Tomasetti stops outside the motel office. “Let’s see if he checked out.”
The heavy-set woman behind the counter tells us Plank checked out a couple of hours ago.
“He didn’t happen to say where he was going, did he?” I ask.
“Sure didn’t. But I can tell you he’d been drinking. I could smell it on his breath when he signed his receipt.”
Back in the Tahoe, I’m feeling frustrated and tense. “Kind of early in the day for a nightcap.”
“Especially if he’s driving back to Philly.” Tomasetti shrugs. “When in doubt, turn to alcohol.”
I frown at him, then a thought strikes me. “Maybe he’s at the farm.”
“Tough place to stay if it hasn’t been cleaned up.”
“Maybe he decided to do it himself.”
Glancing in the rearview mirror, Tomasetti hangs a U-turn. “Worth a shot.”
Five minutes later we park next to the Plank buggy—right behind Aaron’s Camry.
“Good hunch, Chief,” Tomasetti says.
I glance toward the farmhouse. I see the kitchen curtains blowing outward, snapping in the stiff breeze. A nifty little gas generator sputters outside the window, the cord snaking inside. “Looks like he’s airing the place out.”
“Or cleaning up.”
“Let’s go find out.”
We disembark and head toward the door. In the periphery of my consciousness, I’m aware of the birds singing all around. The crisp leaves rattling in the wind. A dozen or so cows hanging out in the paddock near the barn. Everything seems so benign. Except for the fact that a family of seven was wiped out in this very place just three days ago.
I ascend the steps and knock. Music floats through the open window. Classical guitar with a dash of Madrid. Several minutes pass. I’m in the process of raising my hand to knock again when the lock rattles.
Aaron Plank opens the door several inches and peers out at me. Even through that small space, my cop’s eyes take in details. The first thing I notice about him is that he looks inordinately out of place in the big Amish kitchen wearing a paisley silk robe. His hair is mussed. His cheeks are flushed. His feet are bare.
“Can I help you?” No smile. No warmth. His voice tells me we’ve interrupted something he didn’t want interrupted. The cop in me wants to know what that is.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” I say.
Plank’s eyes go from me to Tomasetti, who is standing slightly behind me. He makes no move to open the door. “This is kind of a bad time.”
“I understand,” I say. “But we only need a few minutes.”
His gaze flicks sideways. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
“So are we,” Tomasetti cuts in. “A murder case. Now open the door and talk to us.”