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 Butterhorn 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 analyze 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.