“We’ve passed the police department twice now. You volunteering to go in and ask her?”
“I’m telling you what I think.”
The two men rode in silence a moment, watching a trio of women clad in down coats, knit hats, and UGG boots leave the coffee shop, yakking, to-go cups in hand.
Bertrand looked out the window, cursed beneath his breath. “This just keeps getting worse and worse.”
“Look,” Mercer began, “even if you’re right and she’s with Burkholder, Colorosa doesn’t have much credibility. We’ve got too much dirt on her. She’s going down. Why don’t we just let this play out? Let her make all the wild accusations she wants.”
“Eighty thousand will buy a dream team of lawyers,” Bertrand grumbled. “And Colorosa can be pretty convincing. She’s smart with a big mouth and balls the size of the fucking Great Lakes. If she convinces someone to look in the wrong place, things are going to get dicey for us.”
Mercer shrugged. “We deny all of it. Cover our asses. We might get looked at, but the evidence we’ve got against her is ironclad. No one in their right mind is going to believe a word she says.”
“She knows too much,” Bertrand snapped. “She’s got names, dates, amounts; as far as we know she’s got more than that.”
Mercer jerked his gaze to Bertrand’s. “Like what exactly?”
“Who knows? How long has she been planning to fuck us over? She could have recorded conversations. She could have taken photos or videos.”
Looking anxious now, Mercer raked his hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ.”
Bertrand continued. “All I’m saying is that if some clown from BCI or a prosecutor looking to make a name for himself starts poking around, they could uncover something we didn’t anticipate.” He shook his head. “That bitch might go down, but we’ll go with her. All the way to the bottom.”
Mercer fell silent, looking worried. “Let’s keep at it. Stay one more night. See what happens tomorrow.”
Bertrand nodded his assent. But as far as he was concerned their mission had changed. This was no longer about simply finding Colorosa and taking her back. The question foremost in his mind was whether Mercer could be persuaded to partake in something more permanent.
His counterpart pointed to an Amish-themed shop. A sign on the window told them all Christmas decorations were seventy-five percent off. “Let’s try that place.”
Grumbling because he was sick of wasting his time, Bertrand pulled into the parking slot in front of the shop. It was a typical Amish Country tourist trap, with a rustic wood façade, a window display of a cozy-looking Amish home replete with handcrafted furniture, locally made stoneware, and kitchen towels that were twenty percent off and probably made in China. A handwritten sign advertised INDIAN POPCORN.
He killed the engine, and both men left the vehicle. Their shoes crunched over frozen slush and salt as they crossed the sidewalk to the front door. The bell jingled as they pushed through and went inside.
The Carriage Stop was a virtual playground of imported crap touted as “handcrafted” or “Amish made,” the prices jacked up enough to cause a stroke, and out-of-towners gobbling it up like Christmas ham. The aromas of popcorn and cinnamon laced the overheated air. Their shoes thudded dully against the distressed wood floor as they made their way to the counter where a pretty young Amish woman in a drab blue dress and cardigan sweater busied herself stuffing Rockwellesque greeting cards into a display case.
Bertrand had worn his weekend parka, a John Deere cap, and khaki pants that were half a size too big. It was the kind of getup that blended in here. The kind that shouted “hapless but kindly uncle” and transformed him into the sort of man people would feel compelled to help, but wouldn’t remember, even if they were asked about it later.
“Excuse me?” he said.
The woman stocking the cards turned, her brows raised, and a smile overtook her face. “Can I help you?”
She was pretty for an Amish woman, with a peaches-and-cream complexion. No makeup. No jewelry. Even though he was standing on the other side of the counter, he could smell the aroma of popcorn coming off her.
“Uh, well, I hope so.” Slipping into his feckless, worried-uncle look, he fumbled with his wallet and withdrew the photo of Colorosa. “I’m looking for my niece,” he said. “We’re … uh … worried about her. You know, with all the bad weather.” He wrung his hands. “Um … she’s kind of … upset. I promised my sister I’d find her and ask her to come home.” He looked around, nodding approvingly at the store. “She likes to shop, so I thought she might’ve stopped in. Have you seen her around?”
The woman’s expression softened. She craned her neck, her eyes moving to the photo.
Hope surged in his chest when recognition flickered on her face. Her brows shot up. She beamed at him, pleased. “I saw your niece yesterday! She was at Adam Lengacher’s place when we took food out there. You know, for the children.”
“Adam Lengacher?” he said, putting the name to memory.
“He’s a farmer. Amish, you know. Lives a few miles out of town.” She cocked her head. “Is your niece from around here?”
“Naw.” He tried a sheepish smile. “Do you happen to have an address for Mr. Lengacher?”
“Don’t need it,” she assured him. “He lives off of Township Road 36. Just take the highway past the Painters Creek Bridge. Make a left.” Her brows knit. “I don’t know how that road is out there with all the snow. The house is set back a ways. Big white farmhouse. Lots of pine trees. You can’t miss it.”
“Oh boy. My little sister is going to be so relieved. Thank you.” He gives an aw-shucks shrug. “Look, this whole thing … it’s kind of a family matter. Private, I guess. I don’t want to embarrass my niece, if you know what I mean.”
“I understand.” She nods, sympathetic. “Sometimes these things happen.”
A few minutes later they were back in the Subaru. Bertrand sat in the driver’s seat, and started the engine. “She’s with some Amish dude.”
Mercer laughed. “You’re shitting me. Who?”
Bertrand told him. “Some farmer. He’s got kids.”
Mercer pulled out his cell. “You want me to run his name?”
Bertrand nodded. “The more we know about him, the better.”
Mercer tapped the screen. “What about Burkholder? She involved?”
“I don’t know.”
“So how we going to play this?”
Bertrand hesitated, wondering once again how receptive Mercer would be to scrapping their original plan, ramping it up into something a lot more effective. “The situation is fluid. Let’s take a look at all the dynamics at play. Make sure we got it right. Keep our options open for the time being.”
The two men exchanged looks. Ignoring the questions in the other man’s eyes, Bertrand put the SUV in reverse and backed onto the street.
CHAPTER 21
I find Adam standing at the kitchen sink, a mixing bowl and an array of various bottles and containers on the counter next to him.