Page 30 of Rage

Skid leans forward from his place in the passenger seat to make eye contact with her. “Did Yutzy ever have any problems with anyone here that you know of?”

“I didn’t really know him that well.” But she seems to consider the question. “The only thing I know for certain about him is that he was good to her and it was about damn time someone treated her well.”

“Angelica!”

She does a half turn and gasps. “Shit.”

I follow her stare to see Sumo Guy standing next to the door, scowling at us, his arms crossed at his chest.

“I gotta go,” she hisses.

Covertly, I pass her my card. “We’re looking for Cassidy. If you think of anything else, call me. Day or night.”

“Whatever.” She takes the card without looking at it and then she’s gone.

CHAPTER 8

When you’re a cop and working on a case, especially a homicide, information is the name of the game. It is the be-all and end-all. The alpha and omega. Without it, you will flounder, your case will go cold, and, in the end, you won’t solve a damn thing.

If information is king, time is queen. During the crucial first hours of a case, there are hundreds of things that must be done concurrently. There are witnesses to interview. There is evidence to be protected, gathered, analyzed, and interpreted. There’s grunt work galore. And no matter how driven an investigator, there’s never enough time to get everything done or enough manpower with which to do it.

It’s ten P.M. when I drop Skid at the police station with instructions to dig up everything he can find on Cassidy, our mystery woman. I’m sitting in the Explorer checking text messages when I notice the missed call and follow-up text from Glock.

Unable to locate Shetler.

I hit the speed dial for him as I pull out of my parking space. “Tell me about Shetler.”

“His employer hasn’t seen him for two days,” Glock tells me. “According to his boss, the guy has never missed a day of work. Shetler didn’t call in.”

“You checked his residence?”

“First thing. No one there. Place is secure. Neighbor says he hasn’t seen Shetler in a couple days.”

A low-grade alarm begins to trill in the back of my brain. “It would be nice to take a look inside his residence.” I look at the clock and sigh. “Too late to get a warrant tonight.”

“I hear Judge Siebenthaler is an early riser,” he says. “Do you want me to write up an affidavit?”

“Hand-deliver first thing in the morning?”

“You got it.”

I’m not sure what to think about Aaron Shetler being momentarily missing in action. According to Samuel Yutzy’s parents, the two young men were friends. Despite Yutzy engaging in some practices contrary to his Amish upbringing, Shetler had remained loyal. With Samuel Yutzy dead and his best friend unaccounted for, should I be concerned about Shetler’s well-being? Or should I be looking for him in earnest because he may have done something horrific and gone on the run?

It’s too late to rouse Aaron Shetler’s parents from their beds with questions about their son. As I make the turn onto the township road, I know that’s exactly what I’m going to do. In light of the circumstances, an after-hours visit is warranted.

“Winning hearts and minds one sleepless night at a time,” I mutter as I head out of town.

The Shetler chicken farm is in a remote area six miles east of Painters Mill. Without streetlamps or porch lights, this part of the county is ink black. My headlights bore through thick darkness as I pull into a lane that’s more dirt than gravel. I catch a glimpse of a low-slung white building to my right. A dusting of feathers covers the ground outside the massive fan at the side door. A small frame house appears dead ahead. I park in the gravel area nearest the front door and take the sidewalk to the porch.

Using the heel of my hand, I knock. Twice. Several minutes pass before I hear footsteps on the other side of the door.

“Who’s there?”

The door swings open and Ellen Shetler, dressed in a plain white nightgown, thrusts a lantern at me, squinting. “My goodness, what’s all the racket about this time of night?”

“Mrs. Shetler.” I hold out my badge to let her know this is an official visit. “I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

“What’s going on?” She looks past me, her expression more worried than curious. “Is everything okay?”