Page 90 of Shamed

“Holding his own.”

Ending the call, I swing open the door. I startle at the sight of Tomasetti standing there, looking rumpled and grumpy. He frowns at me as if he’s thinking about laying into me for working in the middle of the night, for waking him when both of us should be sleeping, but he doesn’t.

“You’re looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for a woman who’s been up all night,” he growls.

“I think I found something,” I say.

He groans. “Lay it on me.”

Half an hour—and four large coffees—later, Tomasetti and I are sitting at the desk, my laptop humming in front of us. He’s been on his cell with several law enforcement agencies, trying to get BCI and the local jurisdiction on board. I’ve got Mona on my cell.

“I ran Rosanna and Vernon Detweiler through LEADS,” she tells me. “No warrants. No record. But I have an address from the county auditor tax roll for a property owned by Vernon Detweiler. 8184 White Oak Road, Bracks Hollow.”

I type the address into my laptop maps software, watch it fill the screen. It’s a rural area a few miles east of Ironton, north of the river. “Do either of them have a driver’s license? ID card?”

“Vernon Detweiler has a driver’s license.”

“Physical description?”

“Six feet, four inches. Two twenty. Brown. Brown.”

“What do you have on the property?”

“A hundred and fifty-two acres.”

“Can you get me a plat?”

“You got it.”

“Look, I’m with Agent Tomasetti. We’re in Crooked Creek, twenty minutes from Bracks Hollow. He’s working on an affidavit for a warrant. We’re going to move as soon as it comes through. None of this is for public consumption.”

“Roger that. Anything else, Chief?”

“A prayer for the girl might help.”

“Done.”

I hit END and turn to Tomasetti, who’s frowning at me. He’s dressed and restless, his expression grim. “Vernon Detweiler is six-four,” I tell him. “Two hundred and twenty pounds. I bet the farm he’s a size-thirteen shoe.”

“Amish?”

I nod. “We need that warrant yesterday.”

“Sheriff Pallant and the judge are golf buddies. He’s on his way.”

I think about Elsie Helmuth. The violence her abductor is capable of. The number of days she’s been missing. All the things that could happen to a little girl in that time frame. “How long?”

He shrugs. “Hard to tell. An hour.”

“Do you think it’s a good idea to wait? Tomasetti, what this guy did to Mary Yoder … that girl has been at his mercy for days now. We may already be too late.”

He’s still looking at me, cocking his head slightly. “You go in without a warrant and you risk blowing the case if it goes to trial. You know that.”

“We’ve got exigent circumstances. A missing endangered minor child—”

“We need to get this right.”

I turn away from him. He’s right, of course, but it doesn’t allay the sense of urgency or the fear that has crept up the back of my neck. And yet here we are, waiting.