Shaking his head, he crosses to the table, works his jacket off, and drapes it over a chair back. I watch as he slides his Glock from his shoulder holster, unfastens the buckle, then sets both on the table. “We got the search warrant for Stacy Karns’s house. By the time the judge signed off, it was too late to get out there. Sheriff’s office wanted to wait until morning to execute it.” He turns to me. “I’ll need to get out of here early.”

“It’s already early,” I say.

“I’ve got a couple of hours to kill.”

“You’re such a sweet talker.”

“That’s what all the female chiefs of police tell me.”

I’ve known Tomasetti for about a year and a half now. After a shaky start and a little bit of head butting, we became friends—something that doesn’t occur naturally for either of us. Maybe because we have so much in common. Or maybe because not all of the things we share are good.

Trust is hard to come by for people like us. But he’s the closest thing to a best friend I’ve ever had. We’ve never discussed it; the truth of the matter is, neither of us is very good at the whole male-female relationship thing. We’re even worse at communicating, especially when it comes to talking about our feelings. This is new ground, I suppose, but I like it. He keeps coming back for more. I keep letting him.

I go to the living room and switch on the stereo. I’ve always loved music, even when I was Amish and it was one of many forbidden fruits. Once, I stole a CD player from an English girl’s car when I sneaked out to the mall. It was filled with a mishmash of genres—rock, mostly—and I couldn’t get enough. I listened to those songs over and over until my datt caught me and made me return it. As an adult, there’s not nearly enough music in my life. I choose Frank Sinatra’s Fly Me to the Moon and my nerves begin to smooth out.

I find Tomasetti standing at the doorway of my office, looking at the map and whiteboard I worked on earlier. He gives me a long look when I come up beside him. “You’ve been busy,” he says.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He turns his attention back to the whiteboard. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we don’t know the suspect.”

We study the whiteboard for a full minute, neither of us speaking. “I think we’re missing something,” he says finally.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know yet.” He walks over to the map and reads aloud what I’ve written. “Once we figure out the motive, we’ll figure out the who.” He turns to me. “The overriding question being: Why the Amish?”