I shake my head. “I don’t like Aaron Plank for this. James Payne, yes. But not Aaron.”

“People have done worse for less.” But I can tell by his lack of enthusiasm he’s not buying it either.

We’re midway through the lot; no sign of the Camry. “He’s not here,” I say.

Tomasetti stops outside the motel office. “Let’s see if he checked out.”

The heavy-set woman behind the counter tells us Plank checked out a couple of hours ago.

“He didn’t happen to say where he was going, did he?” I ask.

“Sure didn’t. But I can tell you he’d been drinking. I could smell it on his breath when he signed his receipt.”

Back in the Tahoe, I’m feeling frustrated and tense. “Kind of early in the day for a nightcap.”

“Especially if he’s driving back to Philly.” Tomasetti shrugs. “When in doubt, turn to alcohol.”

I frown at him, then a thought strikes me. “Maybe he’s at the farm.”

“Tough place to stay if it hasn’t been cleaned up.”

“Maybe he decided to do it himself.”

Glancing in the rearview mirror, Tomasetti hangs a U-turn. “Worth a shot.”

Five minutes later we park next to the Plank buggy—right behind Aaron’s Camry.

“Good hunch, Chief,” Tomasetti says.

I glance toward the farmhouse. I see the kitchen curtains blowing outward, snapping in the stiff breeze. A nifty little gas generator sputters outside the window, the cord snaking inside. “Looks like he’s airing the place out.”

“Or cleaning up.”

“Let’s go find out.”

We disembark and head toward the door. In the periphery of my consciousness, I’m aware of the birds singing all around. The crisp leaves rattling in the wind. A dozen or so cows hanging out in the paddock near the barn. Everything seems so benign. Except for the fact that a family of seven was wiped out in this very place just three days ago.

I ascend the steps and knock. Music floats through the open window. Classical guitar with a dash of Madrid. Several minutes pass. I’m in the process of raising my hand to knock again when the lock rattles.

Aaron Plank opens the door several inches and peers out at me. Even through that small space, my cop’s eyes take in details. The first thing I notice about him is that he looks inordinately out of place in the big Amish kitchen wearing a paisley silk robe. His hair is mussed. His cheeks are flushed. His feet are bare.

“Can I help you?” No smile. No warmth. His voice tells me we’ve interrupted something he didn’t want interrupted. The cop in me wants to know what that is.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” I say.