A Plain Disappearance (7 page)

“I don’t think she will mind,” I said.

The chief unlocked the door on the other side of the desk and led us into a room, bare except for one cafeteria-style table and five folding chairs. Chief Rose’s conference room doubled as her interrogation and booking room. Although I’d only moved to Appleseed Creek the previous summer, I had already spent more time in this room than most of the population. Thankfully, never to be booked for a crime, though I can’t say the same about interrogation.

A legal-sized manila envelope sat in the middle of table. Chief Rose held it down with a finger and dragged it toward herself.

I hung my coat over the back of my chair and took a seat across from the police chief. “What’s in the envelope?”

Timothy slipped into the seat beside me.

“I’ll show you in minute. We will start with Katie.” She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “We believe she was murdered.”

I gasped. “Murdered? I thought it was an icicle accident.”

“Yeah, I thought my death by icicle theory was a good one too.” She leaned back in her chair. “However, the coroner set me straight. The icicle hit her in the head after she was already dead. The most tell-tale sign was the bruising on her neck. No way those marks were from a rogue icicle. Katie was strangled.”

My hand went to my throat. An image of the pretty Amish girl being choked to death filled my mind. I closed my eyes to block the sight, but that only made it more vivid.

Timothy tapped my foot with his boot. “We didn’t see any sign of that.”

“I wouldn’t expect you would. Her face was half-covered by her bonnet, and she was wearing a thick scarf. The coroner thinks whoever did it used the scarf to kill her and then wrapped it loosely around her neck again when it was over.”

“Poor Katie,” I whispered. “What a terrible way to die.”

The police chief grimaced. “It wouldn’t be the way I’d want to go. I’ll take a gunshot straight to the brain, thanks.”

Timothy blanched. No doubt my expression was much the same.

Chief Rose ran a fingernail under the lip of the envelope. “We’re waiting on the full autopsy before we can say anything official. Now, here’s where it becomes interesting.”

Some of the color returned to Timothy’s face.

“Katie Lambright being strangled wasn’t interesting enough?” I asked.

She eyed me with one of her unusual peridot-colored eyes, her shimmering, forest-green eye liner smudged at the corners. “It’s plenty interesting, and more than enough to keep me busy into the new year. However, then I found this.” She slid the manila envelope across the table at me.

My hands hovered over the envelope, unsure if I wanted to see what was inside.

Chief Rose snorted. “It’s not a snake. It won’t bite you.”

I flipped over the envelope and lifted the flap. Inside were a sheet of paper and a photograph of a man. The name Walter Hoover ran across the top of the page. The young man in the photo looked strangely familiar. I gasped, “Is this . . . ?”

Timothy frowned. “It’s a rap sheet for Billy.”

“Bingo.” The police chief beamed at Timothy as if he were her prize pupil. “Troyer wins.”

He settled back into his seat. “What do I win?”

“Satisfaction at being the victor.” Chief Rose pointed to the second sheet. “There you will see Billy’s rap sheet. I’ll give you the CliffsNotes version: He went to federal prison for fifteen years. Grand theft auto. He managed a chop shop in Detroit. Eight years in, he got out for good behavior, but the moment he hits the streets he doesn’t call into his probation office like he should. Instead, he disappears. He’s been using the social security number of a guy who died over twenty years ago. The real Billy Thorpe didn’t have a family who might have caught the illegal use of his number. I imagine Hoover bought it from some con artist.”

“You can buy a social security number?” I asked.

Chief Rose darted a glance at me. “You can buy anything, sadly.”

I examined the man in the photograph and racked my brain for everything that I knew about Billy. It wasn’t much. He loved duct tape, was good at fixing cars—even if the ones he revived weren’t the most beautiful machines on the road—and was a genuinely nice guy. Had I been wrong about the last point? I took another look at the man in the photo. He had sandy-colored hair. “He’s not a natural redhead?” I asked. For some reason, this upset me. Billy always talked about how we were the only true redheads in town and now I learn that we weren’t even that.

Chief Rose barked a laugh. “Of all the details to pick up on, that’s the best you can come up with?”

Timothy’s jaw twitched. “How long has he been in hiding?”

I watched Timothy. Billy was his friend, not mine. What did he think about this information? If I, after only having spoken to him a handful of times, was questioning if I knew the real Billy, what would Timothy be thinking right now?

“Twelve years. He was pretty good at it. We discovered his true identity when we lifted some prints from his single-wide this afternoon. Afterward, I went over to the sheriff’s place and ran the prints through AFIS. The village doesn’t believe it necessary that I have my own access to the database,” she added bitterly. “I got zero hits for William Thorpe, but Walter Hoover popped right up.”

She reached across the table and tapped the man in the photograph on the nose. “I called the Detroit Police Department to share my discovery. I can’t say they were all that enthused or impressed by it.” She raised her palms. “Why worry about a car thief that disappeared twelve years ago when you have gangbangers shooting each other every night on the streets? However, they said they would take him back if I found him.”

“That’s nice of them,” I muttered. I flattened my hands on the table. “Billy,” I said unable to call him Walter. “Billy was the one who introduced me to Becky’s lawyer, Tyler Hart. He said that the lawyer got him out of trouble. I thought it was legal trouble.”

The chief dropped the envelope onto the table. “I’ve cited Walter before for small violations, but nothing that would have required me to collect his fingerprints. Had I, he would be back in Detroit by now. Seems I need to have a little chat with Tyler to find out what those legal matters were.”

Apparently, Chief Rose had no problem saying Billy’s real name.

“He can’t tell you,” I said. “Anything between him and his client is confidential.”

A strange look passed over her delicate features. “We’ll see about that.”

Timothy folded his hands on the table. “No matter what Billy may have done in his past, it doesn’t mean he’s responsible for Katie Lambright’s murder.”

Chief Rose clicked her tongue. “Troyer, you are loyal to a fault.” She turned to me. “You’d better remember that about him, Humphrey. Could come in handy in the future.”

“I don’t think loyalty is a bad attribute,” I said.

The chief ran her hand through her brown curls, and they immediately sprang back into place. “Neither do I. Troyer, you know our visit to the Lambright farm didn’t go well. The Lambrights won’t talk to me about their daughter. That’s why I called the two of you here. I need someone,” she looked directly at me. “I need someone to poke around and find out who the Amish suspects are in this case.”

I pressed my palm to my chest. “You want
me
to do that?”

The chief sat back, eyeing me now. “Sure, why not? It’s not like you haven’t done it before. Troyer can help you out with it too.” She grinned. “I know you were planning to do it anyway. Why else would you be snooping around the car shop? This way it’s sanctioned by me. Unofficially, of course. My department is not liable if you break a leg or if you bust your spleen in pursuit of a suspect. Trust me, if it comes to that, I will deny this conversation ever happened.”

“Thanks,” I said, the sarcasm back in my voice.

As if she approved of my tone, the chief of police smiled. “That’s the right attitude.”

“Where do you want us to start?” Timothy asked.

“I want you to find out who was beating up Katie Lambright.”

I grew still. “Beating up? I thought she was strangled.”

“She was, but this wasn’t the first time she had been the victim of violence. Her body was covered with bruises, and even before the autopsy, the coroner could tell that a finger on her right hand had been broken.”

Timothy’s brows knit together. “Growing up on a farm, a broken finger isn’t that uncommon. Thomas breaks something every year.”

“True, but this isn’t any typical break. The coroner said it appeared to be a spiral fracture. He said the only way that could have happened was if the finger was twisted. So she either got it stuck in a vise or someone grabbed it and twisted it until it snapped.”

Instinctively my fingers curled into fists to protect themselves. I thought of what Timothy said of Katie’s father Jeb Lambright. Just how hot was his temper?

Chief Rose slid Billy’s photograph and rap sheet back into the envelope. “What do you say, Humphrey? Are you willing to help me out again?”

Timothy gave me the slightest of nods.

I licked my lips. “Yes.”

The right side of the police chief’s mouth turned up. “Terrific.” She made eye connect with me, then Timothy, and then back to me. “Do me a favor this time—keep me in the loop. You think of or find something important, you call me, night or day.”

“Even on Christmas?” I asked.

Her brows drooped low over her eyes. “Especially on Christmas.”

“Sounds fair,” I said.

On the other hand, Timothy said nothing.

C
hristmas Eve morning, the Harshberger College campus lay still and dormant under a blanket of freshly fallen snow. The students were home with their families for the next month until the new semester began in mid-January. Only essential faculty and staff were on campus, and as the director of computer services, I was one of those people. Even on Christmas, the computer systems that kept the college moving had to be up and running, from the protective firewall to the campus e-mail.

This was my first Christmas at Harshberger, and I found the quietness of the once-bustling campus both calming and eerie. Since I was new, I opted to be the on-call person during the holiday break, hoping my staff would take their turns during future breaks. Perhaps next year I would have enough money saved to spend Christmas in Italy with my best friend Tanisha. Tee taught English as a Second Language there, and I missed her terribly. We Skyped and e-mailed often, but it wasn’t the same as seeing her in person. Tanisha was more like a sister to me than a friend. Her family took me in when I was fifteen—after my mother died and my father dumped me for a new wife and new life in California.

Going to California to spend the holidays with my father, young stepbrother and stepsister, and my evil stepmother Sabrina was out of the question. Sabrina made it clear I was not welcome. Just a month ago, I had been uninvited to Thanksgiving so that the four of them could go on a cruise. At least she was upfront with her distaste for me.

My father was ambivalent, which was so much worse. The car accident that killed my mother destroyed what relationship I’d had with my father. Mom had spun off the icy road late one winter night when coming to fetch me from a sleepover party. This coming January would mark the eleventh anniversary of my mother’s death.

I stepped into the server room and examined the racks of black and silver boxes. Their little green power lights blinked pleasantly at me. No red flashing lights, no alarms sounding. All was well. At least, in the server room. All was not well in Appleseed Creek. I thought of Katie. To die the way she did, it seemed too cruel. A terrible waste. What could the Amish girl have done to make someone hate her so much to hurt her like that? I found the idea that she had been physically abused deeply disturbing. If Katie had been hurt, what about Anna? Was the younger of the two Lambright sisters in danger? The Amish were particularly closed-mouthed on the topic of domestic abuse. How were Timothy and I supposed to find out what really happened to Katie?

Locking the door to the server room behind me, my thoughts turned to Billy. Should I think of him as Walter now? He had only been Billy to me—and to everyone else in Appleseed Creek. Chief Rose asked us to keep his true identity a secret, because she didn’t want the information to leak in case Billy still hung around the area.

I stopped by my office to mark the log showing that I checked the servers and that all systems were normal. I wasn’t in a big rush to return home. Becky was in the middle of a full-on Christmas frenzy. When we moved to the Quills’ house, I told her that we could have a small Christmas party. I never expected her to jump into planning her first English Christmas party with so much enthusiasm. Our home looked like Santa’s elves had an ornament fight that started in the living room and carried on into the kitchen. Becky, apparently, took her first English Christmas seriously.

Becky’s favorite part about the house’s kitchen was Mrs. Quills’ television. When awake, she rarely left the kitchen. My cat Gigabyte was a big fan of the kitchen too, as he got the scraps from Becky’s experiments. Over the last two weeks, as Becky collected recipes for the party, Food Network played 24/7 in our house. If I saw one more episode about how to make a yule log, I thought I might scream.

To Becky’s delight, Young’s Family Kitchen and its shops were closed both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, so Becky was home with her best friend Paula Deen and Company while I hid in my office. Our party—really Becky’s party because I had done little more for it than vacuum the carpet and clean the bathrooms—would be Christmas night. During the day Becky and I would be at her parents’ home.

The only damper on the party was that the Troyers were not coming. Becky wanted her family there, but it was not the Amish way to participate in such an extravagant gathering.

As I checked my e-mail, my thoughts wandered back to Billy. Timothy said in the mobile home that it looked like he had been gone for a few days. He could be on the other side of the world by now. Did Chief Rose check flights out of Columbus for Billy’s name? Was one of his automobiles missing? Did he drive out of Knox County? I made a mental note to ask the chief these questions, but it was likely she had already thought about all of this and would find my inquiries annoying. She wanted me to concentrate on the Amish, so questions about Billy’s car would not be fulfilling my assignment. I turned off the computer and grabbed my coat. As much as I dreaded it, I knew I should return home and offer Becky what little help I could to prepare for the party.