“That’s the one.” I set down my keys. “Send her in.”
A moment later, Evelyn Steinkruger walks into my office. She’s wearing a red suit and matching pumps with heels so high my feet hurt just looking at them. Her eyes flick from me to Tomasetti and back to me, and I see a trace of curiosity in their depths. I almost smile when I realize she’s wondering if it’s all business between us.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Steinkruger?” I begin.
She sets a quilted satchel the size of a small purse on my desk. “After you left, I remembered telling Mary she could keep her things on the bottom shelf in the storage room. I never thought about it again because she never carried sunglasses or a phone or iPod thingie like most girls do nowadays. I checked the shelf and found this.”
I look down at the satchel. The workmanship is good, but it looks hand sewn, and I wonder if Mary made it herself. The fabric is pink with white and lavender flowers. Not an Amish print. She probably bought the material at a fabric store without her parents’ knowledge and sewed it in the privacy of her bedroom. Though a purse isn’t in any way against the Ordnung, I suspect whatever’s inside it might be.
“There are a few things inside,” Evelyn says. “Including some kind of computer plug-in thing. I thought it might be important.”
My mind jumps at the mention of a flash drive.
“Did you touch or handle anything?” Tomasetti asks.
She shakes her head. “Just the satchel. I peeked inside, but as soon as I realized it was Mary’s, I closed it and came straight here.”
She waits a beat, her eyes flicking to the satchel. “Are you going to look inside?”
“I’ll need to process it first,” I say, ignoring Tomasetti’s pointed look.
“Oh.” She sighs, her disappointment clear that she won’t be able to discuss her discovery with her friends over chai tea later. “I need to get back to the shop.”
“We appreciate your bringing in the satchel,” I say.
“In light of what happened to that poor family, I felt it was my duty.”
She’s midway to the door when I think of one more question I need to ask her. “Mrs. Steinkruger?”
She turns, raises a brow. “Yes?”
“Do you know Jack Warner?”
“I bought some folk art from him a while back.”
I offer a smile. “Thanks. That’s all for now.”
Returning the smile, she turns and walks out.
“Interesting connection,” Tomasetti says.
I nod. “I just don’t know if it means anything.”
“Everything means something.”
I wait until the sound of her shoes fade and then I pick up the satchel. Tugging open the drawstrings, I upend the bag and dump its contents onto my desktop. I’m not expecting some earth-shattering revelation. But I find myself hoping the drive will give us something to work with.
A mirror, a tube of lip gloss, two crinkled dollar bills, a single dried flower, a quarter and a flash drive tumble onto my desktop. Ordinary items any young woman might have in her purse. Except the drive, and my cop’s radar begins to wail.
“Flash drive might be interesting.” Tomasetti states the obvious.
“What the hell is an Amish girl doing with a flash drive?” I wonder aloud. “The Planks didn’t have a computer or electricity.”
“And why would she leave it at the shop?”
“Good question.”
“Let’s take a quick look-see, then I’ll courier everything to the lab,” he tells me. “I’ll call ahead, make sure it gets priority.”
His unofficial status flicks through my mind, but I don’t say anything. I’m too focused on the items laid out in front of me.
Quickly, I don a pair of latex gloves, thumb the lid off the drive and slide it into my computer. A couple of keystrokes and my virus protection software deems it safe. I go to the drive and pull up the first file.
“Could be photos,” Tomasetti says.
“A face would be nice.”
“That’d be way too easy. And not necessarily incriminating.”
“Unless they’re inappropriate. Even if we can’t get him on murder, we might be able to get him on statutory rape or child pornography.” I’m aware of Windows Media Player spooling up on my screen. Tomasetti watching my every move. I use the mouse and click the Play button. Images materialize. Music. The punch of shock freezes me in place when I recognize Mary Plank’s face. “That’s her.”