"Because you're fifteen and it's illegal." I s.n.a.t.c.h the cigarette from her and toss it out the window.

She stares at me with clear, watchful eyes that don't miss a beat. It's strange, but I find myself feeling self-conscious because, for some crazy reason, this girl looks up to me. She's learning things she probably shouldn't, wanting things that, if she remains Amish, she won't ever possess. It's a recipe for heartache, and I want no part of it.

"I don't want to go home," she tells me.

"Here's a news flash for you, Sadie. You don't always get what you want." I glance over my shoulder. All but two of the kids have left. Glock is speaking with Angi McClanahan. She's flirting with him, probably trying to get him to remove the cuffs. He jots something in his notebook, steadfastly unaffected.

"Stay put," I tell Sadie. "I'll be right back."

I start toward Glock. He glances up and meets me in the center of the bridge, so that we're out of earshot of both girls. "What do you think?" I ask him.

Glock shakes his head. "Were we that dumb when we were teenagers?"

"Probably."

He glances down at his notepad. "Apparently, the two girls were fighting over some guy. McClanahan made contact first. Other girl threw the first punch."

"I'm so glad I'm not a teenager."

"I'd kinda like to be the guy they were fighting over, though."

We grin at each other.

"So who're we taking to jail?" he asks.

"I'm going to let them off with a warning and have a chat with the parents."

"Good call." He nods his approval. "Fewer reports to write."

"Will you drive McClanahan home? Talk with her folks?"

"Sure."

I glance over at Sadie Miller and sigh. She's leaning against the windowsill, her foot propped against the wall, smoking a clove cigarette, watching me. "I can't believe kids still smoke those things," I mutter.

Glock nods in agreement. "They'll kill you, that's for sure."

As I start toward the girl, I figure we both know there are far more dangerous ills facing our young people and that most of us are at a complete loss as far as how to keep them at bay.

CHAPTER 2.

Forty-five minutes later, I'm pulling out of the long gravel lane of the farm where Sadie Miller lives with her parents and four siblings. I'm adept at reading people, regardless of culture, and I'm pretty sure that when Sadie and I initially walked in, they thought I was the one who'd given her the black eye. Deserved or not, I've earned a reputation among the Amish.

I did my best to remain objective as I explained what had happened. Esther and Roy Miller listened quietly, but I saw the distrust in their eyes-perhaps even a little suspicion. I heard a lot more silence than questions. By the time I left, I was starting to doubt if they believed any of what I'd told them.

Had this been a non-Amish family, I'd still be in there, listening to the parents defend their child or, perhaps, deflecting cheap shots aimed at me and my department. Not so with the Amish. There was no finger-pointing or laying of blame or absurd rationalizations. Amish parents are generally strict with their children; obedience is ingrained at a young age and enforced with "smackings" when necessary.

Sadie is past the age where a smacking would be effective. But I have no doubt she will be punished for her disobedience, more than likely by the a.s.signment of some unpleasant ch.o.r.e. I wonder if it will be enough.

I'm tired, still thinking about Sadie, on my way to the station to file my end-of-shift reports when my cell phone chirps. Mild annoyance transforms into pleasure when I see Tomasetti's name on the display, and I pull on my headset. "Morning, Agent."

"I called earlier and got voice mail. Everything okay?"

"Sorry. Got tied up with a stop."

"Cows?"

"Worse," I tell him. "Teenagers."

"That is worse."

"At least with cows, you know what you're getting."

"Less bulls.h.i.t anyway."

John Tomasetti is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation in Cleveland. We met a year and a half ago, when he a.s.sisted with the Slaughterhouse Murders case. It was a tumultuous time for both of us, not only professionally but personally. His wife and two children had been murdered just nine months before, and he was an emotional basket case. He'd been taking some heavy-duty prescription drugs and mixing them with alcohol, a coping mechanism run amok that had put his career on the skids and sent his life careening out of control. There were probably other things going on as well that he didn't see fit to reveal. But then, people like us excel at keeping secrets, especially when they're big ones.

It was my first major case as chief, and my personal connection to the killer made for an extremely stressful investigation. The murders themselves were shocking and brutal-the things of nightmares. Somehow, in the course of all that depravity and blood, Tomasetti and I became allies. We became friends and, later, lovers. In the end, we broke that d.a.m.n case wide open.

"Have you slept?" He knows I covered the graveyard shift last night.

"I'm heading home as soon as I file reports." In the back of my mind, I'm wondering if he's going to drive down. If he's got the weekend off and wants to spend some time with me. It's been a month since I last saw him. Something inside me surges at the thought, but I quickly bank it. I'm still reluctant to trust any emotion that packs so much power and comes with such ease.

"I just got handed a case," he tells me. "I was wondering if you'd be interested in coming up to consult."

For a moment, I'm too shocked to answer. The request is unusual in the extreme. I'm a small-town chief of police. I spend my days mediating domestic disputes, breaking up fights, and investigating the occasional theft. Small-town crime. Why would he need me when he has a plethora of sophisticated resources at his fingertips through BCI? "This doesn't have anything to do with cows, does it?" I ask.

He chuckles. "Missing persons. Two so far, but the case is developing."

"That's not exactly my area of expertise."

"It is if they're Amish."

My curiosity flares. "You've got my attention."

"I have two missing teenagers from two towns within a one-hundred-mile radius. We're just now putting things together. I'm going on-site, and I'll need to conduct interviews with the families as soon as possible. I thought you might be able to offer some insight."

No one is more aware than I am of the divide that exists between the Amish and English communities. It's a divide that runs even deeper when it comes to law enforcement, particularly an outside agency such as BCI. My intimate knowledge of the plain life, combined with my fluency in Pennsylvania Dutch, will go a long way with regard to bridging the gap and encouraging the Amish to speak freely.

I pull over in front of the b.u.t.terhorn Bakery and give the call my full attention. "Where did these disappearances occur?"

"Latest was in Rocky Fork. Small town about fifty miles from Cleveland."

I take a deep breath, trying not to be too flattered. "I'm interested."

"Interested enough to drive up?"

"You mean now?"

"Clock's ticking. I thought we could meet here in Richfield. Take care of the red tape. Introduce you to the suits. There'll be a formal briefing. Some forms to sign. They'll supply you with a temporary ID. You up for it?"

A sensation that's a little too close to excitement flashes in my chest. "Let me tie up some things here. When's the briefing?"

"As soon as you get here. Call me."

I start to give him a time frame, but he disconnects. I sit there for a few seconds, smiling stupidly, energized by the prospect of consulting for such a well-respected agency. But I know most of what I'm feeling has more to do with John Tomasetti than it does with BCI. I don't know if that's good or bad. But it's honest, and I resolve not to a.n.a.lyze it any more closely than that.

My mind jumps ahead to the tasks I need to complete before I leave. I'll need to brief my team, speak to the mayor, get my shifts covered. We're chronically understaffed in Painters Mill. But Skid-the officer I stood in for last night-is due back today. I was scheduled to have the weekend off. It could work.

Sleep forgotten, I hit my radio and hail Mona. She answers with a perky "Painters Mill PD!"

"Hey, it's me."

"What's up, Chief?"

"I want you to call the guys in for a quick briefing."

"This morning? What's going on?"

I recap my conversation with Tomasetti. "See if you can get everyone there within the hour. I'm going to swing by the house for a quick shower and to pack a bag."

It takes me an hour to shower and pack enough clothes for a few days on the road. I'm no fashionista-not by any stretch of the imagination-so it takes me a good bit of time to figure out which clothes to take. Usually, I wear the old standby: my police uniform. We're talking basic navy with a leather shoulder holster. No frills. After three years of being chief, that's the way I've come to identify myself, at least with regard to style. This consulting stint promises to take me out of my comfort zone by a couple of light-years. That's not to mention the issue of Tomasetti. I may not be into the whole fashion thing, but I'm still a woman. I might have grown up Amish, but there's a small part of me that is vain.

I opt for business-casual and go with the khaki boot-cut slacks, black trousers, and a pair of blue jeans. A couple of blazers and a few camis, a blouse, some nice T-shirts. Impatient with myself for taking so long when I still have a one-hundred-mile drive ahead, I forgo jewelry, toss my toiletries into the bag, and head for the door.

I call Mayor Auggie Brock on my way to the station and break the news, going heavy on the "This will improve our relationship with an important state law-enforcement agency" angle.

"How long will you be gone?" is, predictably, his first question.

"I'm not sure," I tell him. "Two or three days."

He makes a noise that tells me he's not happy about the situation. But he knows he can't say no, because for three years I've forgone vacations and, most weeks, a day off. I'm well within bounds to push the issue if needed.

"You'll have to do this on your own time," he tells me. "I mean, you'll need to take vacation days. And of course we can't afford travel funds for you. We've got budget constraints."

"They pay a daily stipend and expenses."

"That's good." I can practically hear him thinking this over, weighing all the pros and cons, trying to think of a worse-case scenario.

An awkward silence ensues. I'm trying to think of a way to end the call, when he broaches the one subject I'd wanted to avoid. "Before you leave," he says after a moment. "I've been meaning to call you about Bradford. I mean, about the charges."

"Auggie-"

"He's a minor ... a good kid with his whole life ahead of him."

"Everything's already been turned over to the county attorney. You know that."

"You could ... pull the charges."

"'Pull the charges'?" Incredulity rings in my voice; this is nervy even for Auggie. "We caught him with drug paraphernalia and an ounce of pot. He slugged one of my officers. T.J. had to get st.i.tches, Auggie. There's no undoing that."

"There were extenuating circ.u.mstances. Bradford was upset about-"

I don't know Bradford Brock, but I read the police report. The so-called good kid had enough marijuana on his person to supply the high school potheads for a month. The blood test that came back confirmed that he was high on methamphetamines, as well.

"Stress over a high school government exam isn't considered extenuating circ.u.mstances," I tell him.

"Look, I'm finding it difficult to believe my son had an entire ounce of marijuana on him. Perhaps T.J.... overreacted. Maybe you could ... correct his report. At least with regard to the amount of pot."

The conversation has taken a path I have no desire to tread. Uneasiness presses down on me. "I don't think we should go there, Auggie."

"I have to go there. He's my son." He sighs. "Come on, Kate. Work with me here."

"What, exactly, are you asking me to do?"

"Nothing that doesn't happen every day." He pauses. "Come on. Reports get lost. Evidence gets lost. It happens all the time. It would mean the world to me and my wife if you could make this go away."

"You're asking me to cross a line, Auggie."

"Kate, I'm desperate. This situation has been a nightmare. If Bradford is tried as an adult and convicted, these charges could ruin his life. He'll have a record."

That's when I realize this is an argument I'm doomed to lose. Auggie Brock is, indirectly, my boss. But he's also a father, and I know better than most that blood always trumps lesser loyalties, which include right and wrong.

"For G.o.d's sake, Catherine is going to have a breakdown over this. You should have called me instead of arresting him! Why didn't you let me take care of it?"

"Take care of it?" I take a deep breath, close my eyes briefly, remind myself Auggie is a good man who's been placed in an untenable situation by someone he loves. "I'm going to pretend we never had this conversation."

The line goes dead before I finish.

Shaking my head, I drop the phone onto the console. I feel compa.s.sion for Auggie and his wife. But there's no way I'm going to falsify police records or "lose" evidence to keep his snot-nosed punk of a son out of jail. As far as I'm concerned, a stint in juvenile hall might be the kick in the pants the kid needs to get back on the right track.

A few minutes later, I arrive at the police station and park in my usual spot. The department is housed in a century-old redbrick building replete with drafty windows, noisy plumbing, and an array of unexplained odors, most of which are unpleasant. Mona and Lois hide air fresheners in creative places, but the reception area invariably smells of old plasterboard, rotting wood, and maybe a dead mouse or two. The decor looks like something out of an old Dragnet episode. And I don't mean retro cool, but truly b.u.t.t ugly. The town council did spring for a new desk and computer for our dispatch station a couple of months ago. But only because the old computer went up in flames-literally.

My conversation with Auggie niggles at me as I enter. Mona Kurtz sits at the reception station, hunched over her computer with her headset on and the mouthpiece pushed aside. She's eating grapes out of a Baggie with her left hand, clutching the mouse with her right. As usual, the volume on her radio is turned up a little too high and she's tapping her fingers to a funky Linkin Park number.

I'm midway to her desk when she spots me. Offering a quick smile, she flicks off the radio and plucks a dozen or so pink slips from my message slot. "You're a wanted woman this morning, Chief."

"And it's not even ten A.M."

"Ever think about cloning yourself?"