A beat of silence ensues, and I wonder if he thinks the call is personal. I can practically feel his walls going up. Maybe he’s afraid I’m lonely and drunk and calling him in the middle of the night to scream and rant, though I’ve never fallen to that particular low. “This is an official call,” I clarify.

“What’s up?”

“I’ve got a major crime scene here in Painters Mill. Seven vics. All DOA. No sign of the perpetrator. I need a CSU.”

I hear rustling on the other end of the line, and I can’t help but remember what he looks like in bed. Boxer shorts. Tousled hair. Beard stubble thick enough to chafe my skin . . .

“Tell me about the vics,” he says.

“Amish family. Five kids. Two teenaged girls were tortured.”

“Sexual assault?”

“I don’t know yet. Probably.”

“Damn.” More rustling. I can tell he’s getting dressed. Stepping into creased trousers. Shrugging into a crisp shirt—an expensive one because John Tomasetti knows how to dress. He’ll take his tie with him and put it on at the office. Stop at Stauf’s for a cranberry muffin and double espresso. He likes his coffee strong.

“Do you know them?” he asks.

“No. They’re from Lancaster. Moved here about a year ago.”

“Premeditated?”

“Probably.”

“What about motive?”

“I don’t know. Looks . . . thought out. Killer spent some time with the two girls.” I relay details of the torture aspect of the case.

“You have a suspect?”

“No.”

The telephone line hisses, reminding me of the miles between us, both figuratively and literally.

“I’ll get a CSU out there pronto to give you guys a hand with the scene.” He pauses. “You want me to come down?”

I hesitate a moment too long. He knows what I’m thinking, and he snaps at me. “For God’s sake, Kate. I can handle it.”

“You don’t have to come for this one, John. There were kids. A baby . . .”

“Let me get it cleared,” he growls. “Give me a day or two to tie some things up.”

“Thanks,” I say. “See you then.”

CHAPTER 5

The closest neighbor to the Planks is a pig farm owned by William Zook, who is also Amish. It’s nearly nine A.M. when Glock and I pull into the driveway and park between the barn and house. About nine hours have passed since the Plank family was murdered, and I feel every tick of the clock like the jab of an ice pick. Having worked for two years as a detective in Columbus, I’m well aware that the first forty-eight hours are the most vital in terms of solving a crime. After that, the case goes cold and the chances of a good outcome decrease substantially. I don’t plan on letting that happen.