Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

Tomasetti’s name on the display, and I pull on my headset. “Morning, Agent.”
    “I called earlier and got voice mail. Everything okay?”
    “Sorry. Got tied up with a stop.”
    “Cows?”
    “Worse,” I tell him. “Teenagers.”
    “That is worse.”
    “At least with cows, you know what you’re getting.”
    “Less bullshit anyway.”
    John Tomasetti is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation in Cleveland. We met a year and a half ago, when he assisted with the Slaughterhouse Murders case. It was a tumultuous time for both of us, not only professionally but personally. His wife and two children had been murdered just nine months before, and he was an emotional basket case. He’d been taking some heavy-duty prescription drugs and mixing them with alcohol, a coping mechanism run amok that had put his career on the skids and sent his life careening out of control. There were probably other things going on as well that he didn’t see fit to reveal. But then, people like us excel at keeping secrets, especially when they’re big ones.
    It was my first major case as chief, and my personal connection to the killer made for an extremely stressful investigation. The murders themselves were shocking and brutal—the things of nightmares. Somehow, in the course of all that depravity and blood, Tomasetti and I became allies. We became friends and, later, lovers. In the end, we broke that damn case wide open.
    “Have you slept?” He knows I covered the graveyard shift last night.
    “I’m heading home as soon as I file reports.” In the back of my mind, I’m wondering if he’s going to drive down. If he’s got the weekend off and wants to spend some time with me. It’s been a month since I last saw him. Something inside me surges at the thought, but I quickly bank it. I’m still reluctant to trust any emotion that packs so much power and comes with such ease.
    “I just got handed a case,” he tells me. “I was wondering if you’d be interested in coming up to consult.”
    For a moment, I’m too shocked to answer. The request is unusual in the extreme. I’m a small-town chief of police. I spend my days mediating domestic disputes, breaking up fights, and investigating the occasional theft. Small-town crime. Why would he need me when he has a plethora of sophisticated resources at his fingertips through BCI? “This doesn’t have anything to do with cows, does it?” I ask.
    He chuckles. “Missing persons. Two so far, but the case is developing.”
    “That’s not exactly my area of expertise.”
    “It is if they’re Amish.”
    My curiosity flares. “You’ve got my attention.”
    “I have two missing teenagers from two towns within a one-hundred-mile radius. We’re just now putting things together. I’m going on-site, and I’ll need to conduct interviews with the families as soon as possible. I thought you might be able to offer some insight.”
    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