Page 86 of Shamed

Good eye, I think as I lay down my badge. “We’re looking for Elmer Moyer.”

She looks at my badge a moment too long, not reading, but getting her response in order. “What makes you think I know where he is?”

“You’re a friend of his.”

“Was. Past tense.” Her eyes scan the room, the bar, the booth. Checking on her customers. Making sure they have everything they need. Tips are important to her.

“He left, so I guess we’re not friends anymore,” she tells me.

I’m aware of Tomasetti settling against the seat back, letting me know this is my show. “When was that?” I ask.

“Little over two weeks ago.” She narrows eyes swathed with makeup that doesn’t quite conceal the shadows beneath them or the crow’s-feet at the corners. “What’d he do?”

“We’re just trying to find him.”

“Uh-huh. Right. And I’m here because I like the benefits. Give me a break.”

“How long were you friends?” I ask.

“Ten years, on and off.” She rethinks her answer. “Mostly on toward the end.”

“Can you tell us why he left?” I ask.

“Hell if I know. One minute he’s Mr. Let’s-Get-Married and the next he’s just fucking gone.” Her tough veneer cracks and for a split second I catch a glimpse of the woman beneath, the one who’d once been happy and hopeful for a future with a man she loved. “If you figure it out, let me know, will you? I’ll be back with your beers.” She turns and goes back to the bar.

“Sounds like she wasn’t expecting Mr. Perfect to skip town,” Tomasetti says.

I look at him. “What do you think?”

“I think I want to find Elmer Moyers.”

“Suspect? Witness? Victim?”

“All of the above, but I’m leaning toward witness.” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Sounds like he flew the coop right about the time Noah Schwartz was killed.”

The waitress returns to our booth, sets two beers in front of us, and slaps down a couple of menus. “Turkey and gravy is the special,” she says as she pulls out her order pad. “Chicken fried steak is better.”

“I understand Elmer did some driving for the Amish,” I say.

She lowers the pad. “Yeah, they hired him sometimes. You know, for long trips. He wasn’t exactly raking in the cash, but they paid him well.”

“Did he work anywhere else?” Tomasetti asks.

“Worked over to the hardware store for a while. But he was on disability. Hurt his back when he was working construction. Couldn’t lift much over ten pounds.”

“Where did he live?”

“Little furnished apartment above the furniture store. Landlord has already rented the place.”

“Did he ever make a trip to Painters Mill?” I ask.

“Not that I know of.”

“Did he ever take a trip with Bishop Schwartz?”

Something flickers in her eyes. Some memory she hasn’t thought of in a long time. “I think he did. Like, a long time ago.”

“How long?”