She raises her hand to look at her nails and begins to peel polish off her thumb. “I don’t remember.”
The urge to reach across the table, grab her by the collar, and slap that “I don’t give a shit” attitude off her face is powerful. Of course I don’t, since I’m pretty sure it would be considered unbecoming behavior for the chief of police.
I turn my attention to Kathleen McClanahan. “I suggest you encourage your daughter to cooperate.”
“Angi didn’t do nothing to that little Amish troublemaker. Whatever trouble Sadie Miller met with, she brought down on herself.”
“I need his name,” I say. “Right now.”
Tossing a sideways look at her mother, Angi crosses her arms over her chest. “Dave Westmoore.”
I write down the name, recalling that the parents live near Millersburg. “So you were angry because Sadie touched your boyfriend?”
“She was doing more than touching him. That slut had her hands all over him.”
“Jealousy is a powerful emotion.”
Something ugly flashes in the girl’s eyes. “I am
“What would you call it?”
“Protecting my territory.”
“How far are you willing to go to protect what’s yours?”
She shoots me an incredulous look. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t do anything to her!”
“You threatened to kill her,” I say.
“I didn’t mean it literally.”
“Or maybe you planned a little revenge.”
Her mother lurches to her feet. “This is bullshit.”
I give the woman a hard look. “Sit down.”
When she does, I continue. “Your daughter was one of the last people to speak with Sadie before she disappeared. They had a physical confrontation. Angi threatened to kill her in front of witnesses, including me.”
I turn a cold look on Angi. The scratch marks on her throat are healing, but they’re still visible, so I use them to my advantage. “Where did you get those marks on your throat?”
The girl raises a hand, her fingers fluttering at her neck. “They’re old. I got them that day on the bridge.”
“How did you get them?” I repeat.
“That psycho Amish girl attacked her,” her mother interjects.
“I’d like to hear that from Angi,” I say, never taking my eyes from the teenager.
“She ain’t saying nothing without a fucking lawyer, you goddamn Nazi bitch.”
Holding Angi with my gaze, I lean back in my chair. “Thank you for your time. That’ll be all for now.”
“That was fun,” Rasmussen says.
It’s half an hour later, and Rasmussen and I are in my office. I’m sitting behind my desk, trying to resist the urge to pound my head against its surface.
“She didn’t run away,” I tell him. “Someone took her.”
My phone rings, and I put it on speaker. “What’s up, Lois?”
“I just took a call from Elaina Reiglesberger out on County Road 14, Chief. She claims her daughter was out riding and saw Sadie Miller get into a car yesterday.”
Hope jumps through me and then I’m on my feet and reaching for my keys. “Tell her I’m on my way.”
Rasmussen is already through the door. “Here’s to a witness with good recall.”
I’m on my way to talk to the purported witness when the call from Tomasetti comes in. “I hope you’re calling with good news,” I say in lieu of a greeting.
“I wish I was.”
“Shit, Tomasetti, you’re not going to ruin my day, are you?”
He sighs. “Coroner says Annie King sustained a fatal stab wound. She bled to death.”
Something inside me sinks, like a rock tossed into water and dropping softly onto a sandy bottom. “Goddamn it.”
It’s times like this when that voice in my head tells me I’m not cut out for police work. I’ve done this before. Receiving this kind of news shouldn’t be so hard.
Tomasetti says something else, but I don’t hear the words. I pull onto the shoulder, brake with so much force that the tires skid. For several seconds, I sit there, trying to get a grip. I want to punch something; I want to rant and rave at the unfairness of death. Because I’m terrified the same fate awaits Sadie.
“What kind of a monster does that to a fifteen-year-old girl?” I whisper.
He knows I don’t mean the question literally; it doesn’t require an answer. What he also understands is that I need to find the person responsible and stop him. “Sooner or later, he’ll fuck up,” he tells me. “They always do. When that happens, we’ll get him.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks; then he says, “Anything on your end?”
I take a deep breath, and slowly the world around me settles back into place. My window is down and I hear a dove cooing from the fence outside. A small herd of Hereford cattle graze in the pasture beyond. The sun slants through the windshield, warm on my face, and I remind myself that no matter what happens, life goes on. Life always goes on.
“We might have a witness.” I tell him about the girl riding her horse. “I’m on my way to talk to her now.”
“A break would be nice.” He pauses. “You okay?”
“Better,” I tell him. “Thanks.”
“If I can get things tied up here, I’ll head your way.”
“I’d like that.” I start to tell him I miss him, but he ends the call before I get the words out.
CHAPTER 15
The Reiglesberger family lives on a small horse property located at a hairpin curve on County Road 14. They breed Appaloosa horses and have boarding facilities for people who don’t own land. I’ve met Elaina Reiglesberger several times over the years, but just to say hello. The only things I know about her are that she gives riding lessons to kids and that she runs a therapeutic riding program for special-needs children.
I pull into the gravel lane, drive past a double-wide trailer home, and park adjacent to the horse barn, next to Rasmussen’s cruiser. It’s an old building in need of paint; the pipe pens are rusty and bent, but the place is well kept.
I exit the Tahoe as two dogs of dubious breeding bound up to me, tongues lolling. I reach down to pet them, and I’m greeted with a barrage of wet kisses. The sliding door of the barn stands open and I can see the silhouettes of several people and at least one horse in the aisle. Wiping my slobbered-up hands on my slacks, I start toward the door.
The smell of horses and manure and fresh-cut hay greet me when I step inside. Five heads turn my way, one of which is Sheriff Rasmussen’s. He’s surrounded by several young girls in riding breeches and helmets, along with a plump, competent-looking woman wearing jeans and a yellow golf shirt. The horse is a big shiny bay in cross-ties and looks as if he’s enjoying the hubbub. I suspect the bag of carrots lying on a nearby lawn chair might be part of the reason.
As my eyes adjust to the dim interior, I recognize the woman as Elaina Reiglesberger. She’s a pretty thirtysomething with shoulder-length hair that’s pulled into a ponytail and tucked into a Starbucks cap. Her shirt is covered with specks of hay. Something dark and gooey mars the right hip of her jeans. But she has a wholesome, centered look about her. She smiles at me as I approach.
“Hi, Chief Burkholder.” Muttering something about her hands, she wipes them on her jeans before offering a handshake. “Terrible about the Miller girl.” She glances at the sheriff. “You guys have any idea what happened?”
Her accent broadcasts Kentucky. She’s got a straightforward countenance and a quiet confidence that tells me she’s probably a good role model for these young riders. “We’re working on it,” I say noncommittally. “I
