Castillo Linda - Outsider

During the long hours on the road, Bertrand had considered several approaches. Initially, he figured once he and Mercer made contact, they’d convince her that they had covered her misdeeds, assure her they’d taken care of her problems back in Columbus. In fact, they’d arrested some schmuck for the crime of which she’d been accused. All she had to do was return with them so they could divvy up the eighty thousand she’d stolen from them, and she could resume her life just like before. It would likely be a hard sell. But sometimes people heard what they wanted to hear, especially when they were desperate. Even smart people. If Colorosa saw an easy out, she might jump at it.

The biggest problem they faced was that she’d met up with Burkholder, spilled her guts—and Burkholder believed enough to look into it, or pass the information along to some other agency, like BCI or FBI. If that was the case, he and Mercer could still go the official route: drop in on Burkholder, present the warrant, and demand custody. He might have to touch base with the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department beforehand and ask for “assistance,” since he and Mercer were out of their jurisdiction. Still, it could be done—and it could still work.

One question continued to nag. If Colorosa was with Burkholder, why hadn’t the chief been in contact with the Columbus Division of Police? Even if Colorosa had convinced her old friend that she’d been framed and corruption ran amok inside the department, Burkholder should have acted in some official capacity. If she had, he would’ve heard. Was it possible Burkholder wasn’t as squeaky clean as everyone thought and was aiding and abetting a fugitive? Or had she been in contact with another agency, and he and Mercer simply hadn’t heard? Bertrand didn’t see how the latter was possible with the number of serious crimes they’d piled on Colorosa. Still, the thought put a steel rod of fear right through the marrow of his spine. If Burkholder had sparked an investigation and involved another law enforcement agency, the situation would go from bad to a clusterfuck.

The more Bertrand thought about making the arrest and hauling Colorosa back to Columbus to face charges, the more the endeavor seemed like a bad idea. There were other options that didn’t include the possibility of Colorosa running her mouth to anyone who might listen. The problem was, he didn’t know if Mercer was ready to take this operation to the next level. Did he have the balls to do what needed to be done? Could he trust him if the shit hit the fan?

By one P.M., Bertrand and Mercer had stopped at over a dozen places, including all six B and Bs, the local greasy spoon, the pharmacy, four service stations, and the fast-food joint on the edge of town. Each time, Bertrand had produced the photo of his “sweet but troubled niece,” who was “confused and self-destructive” and missing. He’d promised his sister he’d find her and bring her home. Predictably, the story garnered sympathy and cooperation. Midwesterners were a decent and gullible bunch. Everyone he’d spoken with had been virtuously concerned; they’d looked long and hard at the photo, wringing their hands because they knew what it was like to have “family problems.” Most didn’t ask too many questions; Midwesterners weren’t nosy, and most were polite to a fault.

The problem was no one had seen her.

“We’re wasting our time,” Bertrand said as they drove through the parking lot of the farm store on the edge of town, looking for the tan F-150. “We’re not going to find her like this.”

Mercer scanned the snow-covered street as they exited and headed back toward town. “She had to have stopped for gas. There’s another service station to the south, a few miles out of town. Let’s try it.”

“She’s with Burkholder,” Bertrand growled.

“We’ve passed the police department twice now. You volunteering to go in and ask her?”

“I’m telling you what I think.”

The two men rode in silence a moment, watching a trio of women clad in down coats, knit hats, and UGG boots leave the coffee shop, yakking, to-go cups in hand.

Bertrand looked out the window, cursed beneath his breath. “This just keeps getting worse and worse.”

“Look,” Mercer began, “even if you’re right and she’s with Burkholder, Colorosa doesn’t have much credibility. We’ve got too much dirt on her. She’s going down. Why don’t we just let this play out? Let her make all the wild accusations she wants.”

“Eighty thousand will buy a dream team of lawyers,” Bertrand grumbled. “And Colorosa can be pretty convincing. She’s smart with a big mouth and balls the size of the fucking Great Lakes. If she convinces someone to look in the wrong place, things are going to get dicey for us.”

Mercer shrugged. “We deny all of it. Cover our asses. We might get looked at, but the evidence we’ve got against her is ironclad. No one in their right mind is going to believe a word she says.”

“She knows too much,” Bertrand snapped. “She’s got names, dates, amounts; as far as we know she’s got more than that.”

Mercer jerked his gaze to Bertrand’s. “Like what exactly?”

“Who knows? How long has she been planning to fuck us over? She could have recorded conversations. She could have taken photos or videos.”

Looking anxious now, Mercer raked his hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ.”

Bertrand continued. “All I’m saying is that if some clown from BCI or a prosecutor looking to make a name for himself starts poking around, they could uncover something we didn’t anticipate.” He shook his head. “That bitch might go down, but we’ll go with her. All the way to the bottom.”

Mercer fell silent, looking worried. “Let’s keep at it. Stay one more night. See what happens tomorrow.”

Bertrand nodded his assent. But as far as he was concerned their mission had changed. This was no longer about simply finding Colorosa and taking her back. The question foremost in his mind was whether Mercer could be persuaded to partake in something more permanent.

His counterpart pointed to an Amish-themed shop. A sign on the window told them all Christmas decorations were seventy-five percent off. “Let’s try that place.”

Grumbling because he was sick of wasting his time, Bertrand pulled into the parking slot in front of the shop. It was a typical Amish Country tourist trap, with a rustic wood façade, a window display of a cozy-looking Amish home replete with handcrafted furniture, locally made stoneware, and kitchen towels that were twenty percent off and probably made in China. A handwritten sign advertised INDIAN POPCORN.

He killed the engine, and both men left the vehicle. Their shoes crunched over frozen slush and salt as they crossed the sidewalk to the front door. The bell jingled as they pushed through and went inside.

The Carriage Stop was a virtual playground of imported crap touted as “handcrafted” or “Amish made,” the prices jacked up enough to cause a stroke, and out-of-towners gobbling it up like Christmas ham. The aromas of popcorn and cinnamon laced the overheated air. Their shoes thudded dully against the distressed wood floor as they made their way to the counter where a pretty young Amish woman in a drab blue dress and cardigan sweater busied herself stuffing Rockwellesque greeting cards into a display case.

Bertrand had worn his weekend parka, a John Deere cap, and khaki pants that were half a size too big. It was the kind of getup that blended in here. The kind that shouted “hapless but kindly uncle” and transformed him into the sort of man people would feel compelled to help, but wouldn’t remember, even if they were asked about it later.

“Excuse me?” he said.

The woman stocking the cards turned, her brows raised, and a smile overtook her face. “Can I help you?”