Page 26 of Fallen

“He’s a slick son of a bitch. A player. Kept his cool with just the right amount of indignation that a bunch of dumb cops could pick him up and hold him against his will.”

“How did he react to news of her death?”

“He seemed shocked. Interestingly, he didn’t seem too broken up about the murder of a woman he claims to love. That said, he asked all the right questions, but then he’s no dummy. He lawyered up.”

“Of course he did,” I mutter. “Do you know anything about the domestic she was arrested for? According to LEADS he was the RP.”

“According to the report, Schwartz was highly intoxicated and slapped Moskowski in the course of an argument. He called the cops. She was arrested, spent the night in jail, but the charge was later dropped.”

“Any idea what the argument was about?”

“Moskowski says she accused him of sleeping with someone else. He claims Schwartz was jealous and said it was a pattern with her.” He rattles off a name I don’t recognize. “The alleged other woman lives here in Cleveland, so I’m on my way to talk to her now. See if everything checks out.”

“Did you find anything of interest at Schwartz’s residence?” I ask.

“We got her laptop. A couple of boxes of paperwork. Some correspondence. We’re going through all of it now.” A thoughtful pause and then, “I did a cursory look through some of it. Interestingly, there were some letters from Amos Gingerich. Evidently, he wasn’t happy with the tell-all she published.”

“Did he threaten her?”

“Veiled. Talked a lot about martyrs.”

I recall my conversation with Loretta Bontrager and her comments about Gingerich and Martyrs Mirror. “Can you send me copies of the letters?”

“I’ll do it.” He pauses. “One more thing that may or may not be related to any of this. It appears Rachael Schwartz and Andrea Matson lived above their means. I checked the books on the restaurant they own, and they barely make a profit. And yet they live in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the city.”

“So where are they getting their money?”

“Still digging,” he says. “Anything new on your end?”

“Spinning my wheels mostly.”

“It’s still early.”

I smile, missing him. “Do me a favor and don’t stay away too long.”

“Bet on it.”

The police station is usually quiet at this hour. This morning, with a homicide investigation spooling and the grapevine on fire, my entire team of officers has already arrived for the day. I walk in to find Mona standing at her desk, headset clamped over hair that’s slightly wild, the switchboard ringing off the hook. Next to her, my first-shift dispatcher, Lois, has the handset at the crook of her neck and waves a stack of pink message slips at me.

I grin at both of them. “Morning.”

Both women mouth a reply, listening to their callers.

“Briefing in ten,” I tell them. “Round everyone up.”

Lois gives me a thumbs-up.

At the coffee station, I upend the biggest cup I can find, pour to the brim, and flip through messages. Tom Skanks, owner of the Butterhorn Bakery down the street, wants to know if there’s a serial killer on the loose in Painters Mill. Town councilwoman Janine Fourman reminds me that a violent murder in Painters Mill will adversely affect tourism, not just the shops but the restaurants and B and Bs. She suggests I immediately request assistance from a larger, more proficient law enforcement agency to assure this crime gets the expertise it deserves.

I sigh as I head to my office. I’m going through my notes, struggling to read my own handwriting, when Mona appears in the doorway. “Everyone’s RTG, Chief.” Ready to go.

A couple of years ago, it wouldn’t have been unusual to see her in a bustier and short skirt, purple streak in her hair, and still smelling of cigarette smoke from the night before. She’s come a long way since those days. Though she worked through the night, she’s in full uniform this morning. Hair pulled back. Minimal makeup. She looks like a cop. Unlike me, she’s brimming with energy.

Feeling … old, I set down my cup. “You got time to sit in?”

She grins. “That’s affirm.”

Grabbing my notes, I round my desk, and we head toward the “war room,” which is basically a storage-closet-turned-meeting-room—design compliments of Mona. I take in each member of my small police force as I stride to the half podium set up at the end of the table. Rupert “Glock” Maddox sits next to it, a spiral-bound pad and a pen on the tabletop in front of him. He’s a former marine, a Little League coach, a father of three, and the first African American to grace the ranks of the department.