“Maybe.” Bertrand knew the situation would not be that simple. Not with Colorosa involved. She was street smart, tough as nails, and a survivor. “We got all our ducks in a row on this end?”
Mercer nodded. “We’ve got a shitload of dirt on her. I’m talking hard evidence that’ll stand up in court, if it gets that far. All the items entered into evidence in the course of the warrant last night. Assistant DA says it’s a slam dunk. Colorosa is going down and she’s not coming back up.”
“Not quietly. That bitch hasn’t done anything quietly since she learned to talk.”
“All we have to do is find her,” Mercer said. “Make the arrest. If she starts talking—and I suspect she will—there’s not a soul on this earth who’s going to believe a word comes out of her mouth.”
Bertrand glanced toward the diner. Through the steamed-up, snow-caked windows, he spotted his favorite waitress, a red-haired beauty, standing at the counter, taking someone’s order. “Colorosa got any family?” he asked.
“Not that we know of,” Mercer said. “We’re checking known associates.”
“Cell phone records?” Bertrand asked.
“Warrant should come through any time.” He looked at his watch and frowned. “Once we get that, if we can triangulate to the nearest tower where it last pinged, we’ll know which direction she went.”
Bertrand was still thinking about known associates. “What about cops? She tight with anyone?”
“We’re looking at that, too. But you know Colorosa. She’s kind of a loner. Never got too close to anyone.”
Bertrand glanced toward the diner, watched the waitress hustle away from the table, and he thought about the night he’d met the pretty redhead four years ago. It was raining and cold and he offered to drive her home. On the drive, he’d learned she was from the Ukraine, too. She was young and pretty with big crooked teeth and eyes that had likely seen more than their share of trouble. When he’d asked about her citizenship, she’d admitted she was way past her visa and then she’d proceeded to give him a blow job right there in the parking lot of her apartment complex. He didn’t even have to ask.
“The longer Colorosa is on the street, the more likely this is to come back to bite us,” Bertrand said. “That can’t happen. Do you understand?”
“We’ll get her,” Mercer assured him.
“We have a good thing going, Ken. We trusted her and she turned on us. Stabbed us in the back. I don’t want that bitch screwing it up for the rest of us.”
Mercer hit Bertrand with a red-eyed glare. “I said we got it covered.”
Bertrand looked away, turned his attention back to the diner, trying to catch a glimpse of the redhead through the fogged-up windows.
“Keep me posted, will you?” he said.
Without another word, Ken Mercer swung open the door, and stepped into the swirling snow.
CHAPTER 7
I leave Gina sleeping and take Joe Weaver back to his farm. Road conditions have worsened exponentially in the three hours since I picked him up. Twice, I have to take evasive action to circumvent drifts too high to pass through. I zip up the lane too fast, knowing if I stop I’ll get stuck. Finally, I roll up to the Quonset hut and park in a partially cleared area just off the front door.
I know even before I pull out my wallet that the Amish man won’t accept payment; I try anyway. I’ve only got two twenties on me, which isn’t enough for his time and the antibiotics, and I shove the bills at him as he reaches for the door handle.
“For your expenses and time,” I say.
He raises his hands and shakes his head. “Your money is no good here, Chief Burkholder.”
“For the medication then.”
He smiles as if amused by my persistence and shakes his head. “Your friend is going to be all right. What I did today will tide her over until she can get to a hospital. But I wouldn’t delay that too long.”
He starts to open the door, but I stop him. “Joe, you know you can’t talk to anyone about this, right?”
“I talk to my cats, mostly. I’ve got five of them, you know. Feral, or so they think. Unlike most of my human friends, they never repeat a word.”
I grin, liking him. “Thank you.”
“I hope your friend finds peace.”
“Me, too.”
Hesitating, he looks around. “I will wait until you get turned around, Chief Burkholder. If you get stuck, I have a shovel inside and a frisky Dutch colt in that little barn out back.”
I thank him again and then he’s gone.
The Explorer bogs down twice while I’m turning around. Taking it easy on the accelerator, thankful for the tire chains, I rock back and forth and manage to free up my wheels both times. Then I’m flying down the lane and making the turn back onto the township road. I come upon a farmer on a massive John Deere tractor, lights flashing. I’m nearly on top of him before I realize he’s clearing the road. He’s traveling in reverse with a snowblower attachment hitched to the rear, auger spinning, the chute propelling snow thirty feet downwind.
I flash my lights and raise my hand in greeting as I pass. He waves back, a shared moment between two motorists who might’ve been the last souls on earth. The rest of the trip to the Lengacher farm is uneventful. I’m midway to the house when a four-foot-high drift slams into my bumper hard enough to throw me against my seat belt. Snow cascades over the windshield, and the Explorer lurches to an abrupt stop.
“Shit,” I mutter as I unfasten my safety belt.
I sit there a moment, thinking about pulling out the collapsible shovel I keep in the back. But I know any attempt to dig out of such a mountainous drift with the wind kicking would be a fruitless endeavor. From where I’m sitting, I can see that the snow is as high as the headlights. It’s coming down fast and already blowing across the hood. Even if I manage to dig out of this particular drift, chances are there’s another one waiting a few yards ahead. I’ve no choice but to hoof it to the house and hope I can free up the Explorer once the weather breaks.
Throwing up the hood of my parka, I open the door and step into the maelstrom. Wind and snow pummel me as I start in the general direction of the house. It crosses my mind that my vehicle is now blocking the lane, but there’s nothing I can do about it, so I keep going.
I’m no stranger to snow. I’ve lived in Ohio my entire life. When I was a kid it was a magical thing, despite the fact that my family faced many hardships caring for the livestock and keeping the farm up and running. Even so, I couldn’t wait for that first big snowfall—the more, the better. As an adult—and a cop—I’m invariably out in inclement weather, helping motorists or handling fender benders. While snow can be a stunning phenomenon, it makes life plenty difficult. A blizzard like this one is dangerous.
Wind thrashes me as I tromp through drifts as high as my hips. Some areas have been scoured by the wind so much that I can see gravel. Snow stings my eyes and sweeps down my collar. Visibility is down to a few feet. I’m close to the house, but I can’t see it. I can barely make out the fence on either side of the driveway, which is just a few feet away.
By the time I reach the steps of the front porch, my coat and trousers are caked with snow. My face is wet and burning with cold. I cross the porch and knock. The door swings open and I find myself looking at young Sammy. His eyes widen at the sight of me. “Katie! You look like a snowman!” he exclaims as he ushers me inside.