Page 9 of Fallen

“They’ve been friends since they were little things,” Dan says.

“Don’t know if they see each other much anymore,” Rhoda adds. “But if Rachael kept in touch with anyone here in Painters Mill besides us, it would be Loretta.”

I nod, my mind already moving in the next direction. “Was there anyone else she was close to?”

“We wouldn’t know about that,” Dan tells me.

“Did she have a boyfriend?” I ask.

Dan drops his gaze, deferring to his wife.

“She was private about such things,” the Amish woman says quietly.

I nod, realizing she likely doesn’t know, and I shift gears. “Did she ever mention any problems with anyone? Any arguments?”

The man shakes his head, his eyes on the floor, mouth working.

But it’s Rhoda who answers the question. “If she did, she never spoke of it. Not to us.”

“Probably didn’t want to worry us, you know,” Dan adds. “She was thoughtful that way.”

“Thoughtful” is the one word I wouldn’t use to describe Rachael Schwartz. “Do you know any of her friends in Cleveland?” I ask.

The couple exchange a look.

Dan shakes his head. “We don’t know anything about her life there.” Disapproval rings hard in his voice.

“Do you have any idea where she worked?” I ask. “How she was making a living?”

“Worked at some fancy restaurant,” Rhoda tells me.

“Do you know the name of it?”

“No.” Shaking her head, Rhoda looks down at her hands. “And she wrote that book, you know. All those lies.” She clucks her mouth. “Amish men having their way with women in the back seat of their buggies. Good Lord.”

“Chafed a lot of hides here in Painters Mill.” Dan grimaces, shame darkening his features. “We knew nothing good would come of her being in the city.”

“Evil goings-on,” Rhoda adds. “We tried to tell her, but she was a headstrong girl, didn’t listen. You know how she was.” She shakes her head. “She would have been safer here. Gotten married. Had a family. Stayed close to God.”

I don’t point out to them that from all indications Rachael was murdered right here in Painters Mill, likely by someone who knew her. Someone filled with rage, a complete lack of control, no conscience to speak of, and the capacity to do it again.

CHAPTER 5

The Willowdell Motel is crawling with law enforcement when I arrive. In an effort to preserve any possible tire tread evidence, all official vehicles have relocated to the road shoulder in front of the motel. I see Glock’s cruiser. An SUV from the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office. An Ohio State Highway Patrol Dodge Charger. The only vehicles inside the perimeter are the BCI crime scene unit truck and the Holmes County Coroner’s van.

I pick up my radio and hail Dispatch. “Anything come back on Schwartz?”

“Two DUIs in the last four years,” Lois tells me. “Both out of Cuyahoga County. She pled no contest both times. Hot-check charge six years ago. Paid a fine. Last summer she was arrested for domestic violence. Charge was later dropped.”

A ping sounds in the back of my brain. “Does Prince Charming have a name?”

“Jared Moskowski. Thirty-two years old. No record. Never been arrested.” She rattles off a Cleveland address. “Get this: Moskowski was the complainant on the domestic,” she says.

Most often in the course of a domestic dispute, it’s the female who gets roughed up by a male partner and makes the call. Knowing what I do about Rachael Schwartz, I’m not surprised that she was at least as much an instigator as a victim. Even so, I’ll make sure Tomasetti takes a hard look at Moskowski.

I’m about to thank her and end the call when she pipes back up. “Oh, and I got a line on that address you gave me.”

“Shoot.”