She glances at the clock on her desk. “He usually gets in from his route at about this time. Hangs out in the warehouse, doing his paperwork. Let me page him for you.” Using her pen, she presses a button on the switchboard. “Scott, please call 900.”

Tomasetti gives me a look that tells me he’s not in the mood to wait. “Where’s the warehouse?”

“Well, um, I’m not really allowed to let you go back there.”

His smile looks more like a snarl. “If your boss gives you a hard time, I’ll arrest him for you.”

A nervous giggle escapes her, and she points a pink nail at the door beyond. “Go through that door. Make a left. Take the door with the Exit sign. Loading dock is across the lot. Can’t miss it.”

The warehouse is a large metal building with two overhead doors that look out over loading bays. Four brown step vans, the sides of which are affixed with the Tuscarawus Coffee Roasters logo, are parked at the bays. We cross the small asphalt lot, reach the loading area and take concrete steps to the warehouse. A few feet away, a man in a brown uniform sits at metal desk pecking at a computer. His name tag tells me he’s the man we’re looking for.

“Scott Barbereaux?” I hold out my badge.

He glances up from his work. His eyes widen when he spots my badge and uniform. Standing quickly, he puts up his hands as if to fend us off. “Look, if this is about that ticket in Wooster, I sent the money order in two weeks ago.”

He’s about six feet tall with broad shoulders and well-defined biceps. He wears the uniform a tad too tight, but it looks good on him—at least he thinks so. His face is tanned to a golden, healthy brown. Dark hair cut just above his shoulders has been artfully highlighted, giving an overall impression that he’s spent the last six months on some topless beach in the south of France. I can practically smell the Bain de Soleil.

“This isn’t about a ticket,” I say.

“Really?” He relaxes, smiles, amused. “If it’s not about the ticket then—” He falls silent, sobers as realization dawns. “Oh, shit. This is about the Amish girl at the store. Evelyn told me you cops were asking about me.”

“That Evelyn is pretty fast on the dial, isn’t she?” Tomasetti sidles around behind him and steals a look at the computer screen.

If this makes Barbereaux nervous, the man gives no indication. “That’s just bizarre. An Amish family. Shit. You guys arrest anyone yet?”

“We’re following up on a few things,” I say vaguely.

“I just saw the girl last week. Friday. She was stocking preserves or something. Sweet kid. Quiet. Seemed to be a hard worker. Believe me, Evelyn gets her money’s worth.”