might as well work.
It’s ten-thirty P.M. now, and I’ve been parked on the street outside Warner’s house for half an hour. I knocked on the door when I first arrived, but there was no answer. Facing an empty bed at home and the temptation of Tomasetti back at the motel, I decided to wait for Warner.
He lives in a nifty little A-frame cabin with lots of glass and rustic detail. The house sits on about two acres; the trees are so thick I can barely see the porch light from the street. The lot backs up to Painters Creek—one of the most coveted areas in town—and is probably worth a small fortune.
As I study the property, I find myself thinking about Todd Long. The contrasts between Warner and Long are striking. Long is an ex-con who spends his days schlepping shit into railroad cars and his nights in a trailer. Warner, on the other hand, owns a construction business and lives in one of the nicest houses in town. What’s the connection? Are they just bar buddies? Friends? Acquaintances?
I’m thinking about calling it a night when headlights wash over my car. A sleek black BMW convertible pulls into Warner’s driveway. It doesn’t elude me that Mary Plank had been seen getting into a dark-colored car. A moment later, the house lights blink on. Firing up the engine, I turn in and park.
As I start toward the front door, the forest around me comes alive with a cacophony of crickets and frogs from the creek. Somewhere nearby, an owl screeches. Moths and other flying insects circle the porch light. I ascend the wooden steps and knock. Warner answers almost immediately.
The first thought that strikes my brain is that he’s a nice-looking man. I guess him to be about thirty years old with dark brown hair and eyes the color of espresso. He has the tanned skin of someone that spends a good bit of time in the sun. He’s not exactly buff, but the size of his arms tells me he lifts weights. He wears a navy polo shirt with a designer emblem on the pocket. Jeans faded to perfection. Boat shoes with no socks.
“Jack Warner?” I hold up my badge.
He can’t hide his surprise. “Yes?”
“I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
He looks past me as if expecting an armada of police cars, lights and sirens. “What’s this about? Has something happened?”
“There’s no problem, sir.” I try to turn off some of my intensity. “I just need to verify some information.”
“Whew.” He puts a hand against his chest and laughs. “For a second there I thought maybe someone had been in an accident. My mom or sister.” Another sigh. “I guess the late hour made me think this was some kind of emergency.”
“I apologize for the late hour.” I try a smile to put him at ease. “If you prefer, I can come back tomorrow.”
“No, of course, not.” Stepping back, he swings open the door. “I’m kind of a night bird, anyway. Come in.”
I enter a large living room with textured stucco walls and tall ceilings bisected with rough-hewn beams as thick as a man’s waist. A leather sofa and two cowhide chairs form a grouping adjacent a massive river-rock hearth.
“Nice place,” I say.
“Thanks. I designed it myself and had it built four years ago. Been working on it ever since.”
Above the hearth, a striking black-and-white photo of a massive bear standing on a river bank with a big salmon in its mouth catches my eye. “You a photographer, too?”
“My nephew took that.” He grins sheepishly. “Right before we started running.”
I smile back.
He motions toward the sofa. “Have a seat.”
I cross to the couch and sit, noticing the Mexican vases on the trunk-style coffee table. On the wall opposite me, I see a slab of rustic wood upon which a hex symbol is painted.
“Interesting piece of art,” I comment.
He looks at the hex sign and smiles. “I tore down a barn for a guy down in Coshocton County a couple of months ago. The barn was almost two hundred years old. I asked him if I could cut out the hex symbols and keep them, and he agreed. I repainted them and sold them to one of the tourist shops in town. I liked them so much, I kept one for myself.”
Something goes ping in my brain. “Which shop?”
“Carriage Stop right off the traffic circle.”
“You go in there often?”
“You know, Christmas shopping. Birthdays.” Moving a Navajo print pillow aside, he takes the chair across from me. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee?” He smiles. “A beer? I’ve got Little King’s.”
He’s trying to charm me. Had the circumstances been different, he might have succeeded. Tonight, I’m too preoccupied with the case. “Can you tell me where you were Sunday night?”
“Sure.” He leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees. “I left the office around six P.M. and stopped by the Brass Rail. Had a burger and a couple of beers. Played pool with some guys. I probably left around midnight or so.”
“You always stay out so late on a work night?”
Another charming smile. “I’m not
I don’t smile back this time. “Were you alone?”
“I was with a couple of buddies.”
“What are their names?”
His eyes narrow. “Well, I was with an old friend of mine by the name of Todd Long. Alex Miller from work was there, too.” He cocks his head. “Do you mind if I ask why you’re asking me about Sunday night?”
I pull out my notebook. “How long have you known Todd Long?”
“Oh, gosh, since grade school. I beat him up once when we were in sixth grade.” He smiles. “We’ve been friends ever since.”
“Good friends?”
“I’ve known him for a long time, but we’re not real close.” He shrugs. “We kind of drifted, especially after he got popped on that burglary charge. Different lives. You know.” He pauses, gives me a sage look. “Is Todd in some kind of trouble?”
“I just wanted to verify his whereabouts.”
Warner’s eyes widen. “Wait a minute. That’s the night . . .” Putting his hand to his chest, he falls back in the chair as if flabbergasted. “This doesn’t have anything to do with that Amish family, does it? The family that was murdered? Jesus Christ, there’s no way Todd had anything to do with that.”
“I’m basically ruling people out at this point.”
“That’s a relief. For a moment there, I thought you were looking at Long.”
“This is just routine.” I tell him about the witness seeing a dark truck in the area. “We’re checking the owners of every vehicle that matches that description.”
“I gotcha.” He whistles. “Pretty shocking crime.”
“Did you know any of the Planks?” I ask. “Never met them.”
“What about Mary Plank?” I watch his eyes closely, but they reveal nothing.
“No, why do you ask?”
“She worked at Evelyn Steinkruger’s shop.”
“Ah.” He grimaces appropriately. “Never met her. I’m sorry.”
Rising, I start toward the door. “Thanks for your time.”
“Hey, no problem. I hope you guys get him.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “We will.”
Uncertainty dogs me as I walk back to the Explorer. I should feel better now that Long’s alibi has been verified. But something about my visit with Warner vaguely disturbs me. Maybe because I can tie him to the shop where Mary worked. I know it’s a small town and coincidences are more likely to occur. Still, it’s enough for me to add him as a person of interest.
I’ve been racing against the clock for almost three days now, and all I have are dead ends leading to dead ends. A cycle that makes me feel like a hamster running on a wheel.
In the back of my mind I know there’s no such thing as the perfect murder. Somewhere, someone left
