"Somehow, I don't think the world is ready for two of me," I tell her.

Her hair is a slightly darker shade of black today, with a contrasting burgundy stripe on the left side of her crown. She's wearing skinny black pants with a snug T-shirt and a blue scarf that's tied around her neck like a noose. I'm glad I can't see her shoes from where I'm standing.

I page through messages. One from Tomasetti. Two from Auggie. Six from Kathleen McClanahan. It takes me a moment to place the name and then I realize she's the mother of Angi, the girl from earlier this morning. "McClanahan mention what she wants?"

"You mean aside from your head on a stick?"

I chuckle. "She's going to have to stand in line."

"I swear, Chief, that woman can cuss. It was like being at an auction."

"There's something to look forward to." I start toward my office. "Let me know when everyone's here."

"Roger that."

I grab a cup, fill it to the rim with coffee, and drink half of it down hot on the way to my office. Using my key, I open the door and flip on the light. The odors of paper dust and toner greet me when I walk in. It's a small s.p.a.ce, not much bigger than a walk-in closet, with bad lighting and a dingy window that looks out over Main Street. It's jam-packed with a metal desk, a mismatched file cabinet, two hotel-fare visitor chairs, a half-dead ficus tree, and a bookcase upon which a broken coffeemaker sits. Shortcomings aside, this is my home away from home, and most days I'm unduly glad to be here.

Dropping my overnight bag at the door, I go directly to my desk and dial Sheriff Rasmussen's number from memory. I've known the sheriff for almost a year now. We've drunk a few beers together and b.u.t.ted heads a couple of times, but he's a decent man and a good cop. We worked closely together during the Slabaugh case last December. It was a difficult investigation, during which four people lost their lives, shattering a family and shaking everyone involved, including me. Especially me. It was the first time in the course of my career I used deadly force. I'm still dealing with the aftermath of that, mostly in the form of nightmares. On bad days, I still flash back to the moment I pulled the trigger, and I wonder if I could have done something different.

I keep tabs on the surviving children. Not as any kind of penance-that's what I tell myself anyway-but because I care. I want to make sure they have everything they need and every opportunity they deserve.

On the phone, I hear Rasmussen's voice telling me to leave a message, and I can't help but think, Golf day. I let him know I'm going to be out of town for a few days and ask him to look in on my department. I leave my cell number and tell him to contact Glock if he needs anything in my absence.

I'm in the process of hanging up when Mona buzzes me and lets me know my team has arrived. I hit the power b.u.t.ton on my desktop to begin the lengthy process of booting up, then start for the conference room. Officer Chuck "Skid" Skidmore meets me in the hall. He's about thirty years old, unmarried, and has a sense of humor most civilians don't appreciate. He's originally from Ann Arbor, Michigan, and had a promising career with the police department there-until he lost his job due to an off-duty DUI. I took him on, with the caveat that if I ever caught him drinking on the job, I'd fire him on the spot and do my utmost to make sure he never worked in law enforcement again. He's been with the department for three years now and has never breached our agreement.

Eight months ago, he was shot during a sting I set up to catch a killer. He sustained a nonpenetrating head wound, which left him with a concussion and a gash that required st.i.tches. Every now and then, we still rib him about the thickness of his skull, but he takes it in stride. What I like most about Skid is that while he might be one of my less personable officers, I know that if things get dicey, I can count on him to back me up.

"How was the trip?" I ask.

"About two days too long."

"You were only gone two days."

"Yeah." He grins. "Thanks for covering for me, Chief."

"Your parents doing okay?"

"They're fine. Glad to see me, if you can imagine that."

A deep male voice cuts in. "They were lying about being glad to see you, dude."

Glock stops next to Skid. The two men shake hands and then Glock turns his attention to me. "This guy told you he was going to Michigan?"

"That's a likely story," Mona mutters as she squeezes past.

"He was probably down at the Bra.s.s Rail boozing it up," Glock says with a grin. "I'd fire his a.s.s."

"Who's getting fired?" comes a gravelly voice from behind us.

We turn, to see Roland "Pickles" Shumaker shuffle toward us, his gnarled hands clutching mismatched mugs filled with coffee. At the age of seventy-five, he's my only auxiliary officer and works part-time-when I can get him to go home, that is. During the 1980s, Pickles single-handedly brought down one of the largest methamphetamine rings in the state. He's slowed down the last couple of years, but he's still a good cop. In fact, if it hadn't been for the pressure I received from the town council, he'd still be full-time. But several of the more vocal members felt he was too old to be an effective police officer-mainly due to an incident in which he shot and killed a rooster during a call. The case caused an uproar, not only from the dead rooster's owner but from some of the community, as well. I couldn't see letting Pickles go after nearly fifty years of service, especially over a dead chicken. So I met with him privately and asked him to go part-time. He pretended to be pleased about "not working so d.a.m.n many hours." But I know he misses being in the thick of things.

Despite the fact that he's not on the clock this morning, he's wearing a uniform and his trademark pointy-toed cowboy boots are buffed to a high sheen. I suspect he'll still be at his desk in his cubicle when the sun goes down....

"No one's getting fired," I tell him.

"Good thing," he grumbles. "'Cause I ain't shot no d.a.m.n chickens lately."

I keep walking.

At the podium, I set down my mug and scan the room. My eyes land on Mona and her counterpart, Lois, who are seated near the door so they can hear the switchboard and radio.

"Where's T.J.?" I ask.

"I'm here."

T.J. appears at the door, looking dapper and fresh in his crisp blue uniform. At twenty-five, he's my youngest officer and the only rookie in the department. He receives a good bit of teasing, but he's a good sport and generally serious about his work. When I need someone for overtime, he's my go-to man.

"Sorry I'm late, Chief."

I nod. "I'll let it slide since this is-was-your day off."

Chuckling, he takes the chair beside Glock.

I look around the room. "I'm sorry to have called everyone in on such short notice this morning, but I wanted to let you know I'm going to be consulting for BCI for a few days. Apparently, there have been some disappearances in the northeastern part of the state. The reason I've been asked to consult is because the missing persons are Amish."

A collective sound of surprise sweeps the room. I feel the rise of interest and continue before the questions come. "As of now, the agency doesn't know if these disappearances are connected, but the speculation is that they are." I glance at my watch. "I'll be leaving in a few minutes."

I give Glock a pointed look. "You're in charge while I'm gone."

He gives me a two-finger salute.

"I've got my cell and I'm available twenty-four/seven if anyone needs anything." I survey my department, and a rolling wave of pride sweeps over me. "Try not to shoot anyone while I'm gone." I smile at Pickles. "That includes chickens."

CHAPTER 3.

I'm twenty minutes out of Richfield when Tomasetti calls. It's a good thing the town council approved wireless headsets for the department last month, because I've spent much of this trip on the phone. I've spoken once with Sheriff Rasmussen, once with Auggie-who apologized for his "inappropriate" comments earlier-and I've had four decidedly unpleasant conversations with Kathleen McClanahan. Mona was right: The woman curses with the speed of an auctioneer hawking wares at an estate sale. McClanahan ended the call by threatening to sue me for "roughing up" her little girl and then hanging up on me.

I catch Tomasetti's call on the third ring. "I'm almost there," I say by way of greeting.

"We've got another one," he says. "Fifteen-year-old female. Happened last night. Local law enforcement called ten minutes ago."

"Where?"

"Buck Creek, a small town about an hour northeast of here."

"She's Amish?"

"Family searched for her all night."

"And they're just now contacting the police, because they thought they could handle it themselves." My voice is bone-dry.

"See? I knew you'd be a benefit to the case."

"Who's the vic?"

Paper rattles on the other end of the line, and I know he's paging through the file. "Annie King. Parents sent her to a vegetable stand and she never made it home."

He pauses and I sense he's champing at the bit and ready to go-and I'm holding up the show. The first forty-eight hours are the most crucial in terms of solving any case, but that's particularly true when dealing with a missing child. Two of the kidnappings are cold. This one is fresh; we're still within that golden period.

"I've got everyone rounded up here," he tells me. "We're just going to bring you in. Do the introductions. HR will have a couple of forms for you. Then we're on our way."

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

"I'll meet you at the door."

It's just after noon when I turn onto Highlander Parkway. I'm not nervous, but an edginess creeps steadily over me as I draw closer to the BCI field office. Like Tomasetti, I'm keenly aware of the ticking clock and anxious to get started. I want to visit the scene and speak to the missing girl's family. I want to find the girl before something terrible happens-if it hasn't already.

I remind myself that I'm only going to be consulting, and I can't help but wonder what kind of parameters I'll be working within. I'm hands-on when it comes to my job. How difficult will it be to ride this out in the backseat?

To complicate matters, there's also the issue of my relationship with Tomasetti. We're walking a fine line, working together on a case while we're personally involved. n.o.body knows, and for now we would be wise to keep it that way. I'm confident neither of us will let private feelings affect the case. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to spending some time with him.

I park in the visitor section of the lot, grab my overnight bag, and head toward the double gla.s.s doors at the front of the building. The uniformed security officer behind a glossy walnut desk stands as I approach.

"Can I help you?"

She's a trim African-American woman wearing a navy jacket, a chrome badge clipped to her belt, and a name tag that tells me her name is Gabrielle. "I'm Kate Burkholder. I have an appointment to see John Tomasetti with BCI."

"He's called twice. Hold on." She's in the process of dialing when I hear my name. I turn, to see Tomasetti treading toward me with long, purposeful strides. Pleasure unfurls in my stomach at the sight of his tall frame. As usual, he's well dressed in a crisp blue shirt with a gray-and-burgundy tie and nicely cut charcoal slacks.

I can't help it; I smile. "Agent Tomasetti."

His expression softens. "Chief Burkholder." He glances at the security officer. "Thanks, Gabby."

She waves him off, but not before I see something in her eyes, and I realize I'm not the only one who likes my men dark and brooding and just a little bit on the shady side.

"How was the drive?" he asks, extending his hand.

"Uneventful."

"Best kind, I guess." We shake, and I notice several things at once. His palm is warm and dry. His grip is substantial. He's looking at me a tad too closely and perhaps with a little too much intensity, both of which I like. "You look nice," he says in a low voice.

"So do you."

Amus.e.m.e.nt crinkles the outer corners of his eyes. He holds on to my hand an instant too long before motioning toward the bank of elevators. "Let's get this show on the road."

We head toward the elevator. He starts to take my overnight bag but then thinks better of it, and I realize he doesn't want anyone getting the wrong impression about us, particularly his superiors. I heft the bag onto my shoulder and pretend not to notice the awkwardness of the moment.

We wait for the elevator in silence and without looking at each other. Then the doors swish open and we step inside. He taps the b.u.t.ton for the second floor and the doors whisper closed. We're alone; the only sound is the Muzak flowing down from an overhead speaker, mangling an old Sting song. I'm keenly aware of Tomasetti standing next to me, but my mind has already jumped ahead to meeting his superiors, the impression I want to make, the benefits I will bring to the case. Less than a second into the ride up, Tomasetti turns to me, sets his hands on my shoulders. The next thing I know, my back is against the wall and his mouth is on mine. Shock punches me with such force that for an instant my knees go weak. The Muzak fades to babble, but my heartbeat becomes a roar in my ears. Vaguely, I'm aware of the car moving ever upward, the firm pressure of his lips against mine, the taste of peppermint and coffee and the man I've missed for weeks now. I'm about to put my arms around him, when he pulls back, gazes down at me. "Welcome to Richfield," he says quietly.

"You're all business this morning." My laugh sounds nervous and my voice is breathy and thin. "They don't have security cameras in these elevators, do they?"

"I checked."

"So this was premeditated."

"Cameras in the halls upstairs, though."

"In case I feel the need to throw myself at you."

"I thought you might have a hard time resisting."

We smile at each other and then the doors swish open. No time to think about what just transpired. My heart is still riding high in my throat when we step into a well-lit hall lined with a dozen or so doors, most of which are open. Government-issue artwork adorns inst.i.tutional white walls. I see an Ansel Adams photo in a black frame; a color photograph of Ohio's attorney general; a matted and framed mosaic of the great seal of the state of Ohio; a photo collage of agents killed in the line of duty. At the end of the hall, Tomasetti motions me to the right and we stop outside a door affixed with a chrome plate that says CONFERENCE ROOM 1.

"I'll try to make this as quick as possible," he says.

I wipe my damp palms on my slacks. "I'll try not to look like I just got waylaid in the elevator."

He tosses me a sideways look, and then we're through the doorway and entering the conference room. Two men and a woman sit at a heavy oak table. They look up, their eyes skimming quickly over Tomasetti and then settling on me, curious, a.s.sessing, making judgments based on appearance and demeanor, psyching me out. I know the routine; I've done it myself to many a rookie over the years. I discern immediately the two men are law enforcement. Bad suits. Stares that are slightly too direct. The woman is in her early thirties, well dressed, with expensive jewelry and a nice manicure. I peg her as administrative but sense she prefers to hang with the guys.

Tomasetti doesn't waste any time. "This is Chief of Police Kate Burkholder," he says by way of introduction.

The men stand. A tall, lanky man with blue eyes and a bulbous nose threaded with broken capillaries extends his hand to me. "I'm Lawrence Bates, the deputy superintendent." He lowers his voice conspiratorially. "Which basically means I have to put up with Tomasetti most days."

I grin, liking him. "Tough job."

He chuckles as I turn my attention to the second man, and we shake. His grip is a little too firm and damp. "Denny McNinch."

His stare is calculating. There's baggage in his expression, perhaps even between him and Tomasetti. He's got a battered look about him that has nothing to do with physical scars. And I know that before he sat behind a desk, he spent a good bit of time on the street. "Nice to meet you," I tell him.

"Denny's out of the Columbus office," says Tomasetti, clarifying.

Baggage, I think. Tomasetti worked out of the Columbus office after leaving the Cleveland PD. He'd had some problems there early on, nearly got himself fired. I can tell by McNinch's stare that he knows about it. I can also tell by the way he's looking at me that he's wondering if there's something going on between Tomasetti and me. Or maybe I just have a guilty conscience.

"Welcome aboard, Chief Burkholder," he says, releasing my hand.

Bates takes command of the meeting and gets right to the business at hand. "We're pleased you're here, Chief Burkholder. I'm sure John has already filled you in on the situation."

I nod. "I understand there's now a third person missing."

"We just got the call from local law enforcement in Buck Creek," Bates says. "I know you're anxious to get started, so we'll keep this brief."

McNinch motions to the woman, who has remained seated throughout the introductions but hasn't taken her eyes off me since I walked in. "This is Paige Wilson, my a.s.sistant. She's got a couple of forms for you to sign, Chief Burkholder. We've got to keep all of this on the up-and-up with Uncle Sam."