Castillo Linda - Outsider

“For God’s sake.” Throwing up her hand in frustration, Gina flings the pliers to the ground. They thump to the dirt floor a foot or so from the truck and bounce away.

Adam and I watch her stalk away.

Raising his brows, he looks at me. “I think that means we won the argument, no?”

Before I can answer, Gina spins and strides back to us. “Tell BCI Boy to stay the hell off my back.”

“Tell him yourself.” I look at Adam. “He’s bringing pizza for dinner. Pepperoni okay?”

She pops a middle finger at us.

The Amish man grins.

CHAPTER 27

Damon Bertrand had never been much of a drinker. He partook in the occasional draft. A glass of wine with a steak dinner. Unlike many of his law enforcement cohorts, he never fell to hitting the bottle. Tonight, stuck in a dumpy motel with nothing to do but contemplate the advisability of what they were about to do, was enough to make even the most steadfast teetotaler crave the hard stuff.

He and Mercer had devoted the day to making preparations. In light of the weather and poor road conditions, they’d made a trip to the Walmart in Millersburg, an excursion that entailed three hours of creeping along barely passable roads littered with abandoned vehicles and blocked by behemoth piles of snow left by plows. There, they bought two shovels, half a dozen bags of sand, and a couple of heavy-duty tug straps. He’d sprung for a winch that had cost him a week’s salary. He figured the peace of mind was worth it. Now, the gas tank was full. The tire chains were in place. He had the warrant in hand. All they had to do was wait.

It was the one thing he’d never been good at, especially when something big was about to go down. He was agitated. On edge. Nervous because he would be risking everything on an operation that, if it didn’t go as planned, had the power to destroy his career, everything he’d ever worked for, maybe even his life.

In the last hours, he and Mercer had gone over their strategy a hundred times. They’d anticipated every variable, thinking outside the box, letting each one play out a dozen ways. Bertrand had considered every option, including the idea of scrapping the entire operation. He always went back to the only one he knew would work, because at the end of the day it was him or Colorosa.

It was seven P.M. when the motel room door swung open, ushering in a burst of wind-driven snow. Mercer thrust himself into the room, a cardboard tray of fast food and drinks in hand. “Frickin’ snow.” It caked his parka and slacks. He stomped ice from his boots as he walked to the desk and set down the tray. His eyes flicked to the TV, which was tuned to cable news.

“Anything new?” he said as he worked the parka from his shoulders and tossed it onto the bed.

“Every TV station in Columbus picked up the story,” Bertrand told him. “Colorosa’s a star.”

“Bad PR for the department.”

“It’ll blow over. Always does.”

The two men dug through the bag, removed burgers and fries. There was a sofa and coffee table in the room, so they set up shop there and began to eat.

“Monaghan has his hands full,” Bertrand said, referring to their deputy chief.

“Does he know where we are?” Mercer asked.

“He knows enough not to ask any questions.”

“He’s on board?”

“He’s counting on us to get it done. He got us the warrant. The rest is up to us.”

Mercer pulled out his cell, checked the time. “We still set for midnight?”

Bertrand had been thinking about the timing. “Since Burkholder is likely there, and potentially both of them are armed, catching them unaware will be an advantage. I say we go in at one A.M.”

Mercer nodded. “All right.”

“We leave here at twelve thirty. Take our time. Allow for any problems along the way.”

“They’re not going to be expecting anyone in this weather.”

“Exactly.” Bertrand took a bite of burger, chewed thoughtfully, swallowed. “We go in fast and hard. No knock. We secure Colorosa first. We do not cuff her. We get her on the floor. We do, however, cuff Lengacher. We put him and the kids in a bedroom.”

Bertrand dragged a fry through ketchup. “I want you with Burkholder. Separate her from Colorosa. While you’re checking her ID and getting things straightened out—and I’m in the other room with Colorosa—I’ll get it done.” He chews, not tasting the food, not looking at Mercer. “Colorosa pulls a gun. Fires it at me. I’ve no choice but to use deadly force.”

“What if Burkholder doesn’t cooperate?” Mercer asked.

“Keep in mind, to the best of our knowledge the chief of police is aiding and abetting a fugitive. If she doesn’t cooperate, we cuff her. Above everything, we get her out of the room. If the chief is smart, she’ll do as she’s told.” He looked at Mercer. “We do not want problems with Burkholder. Remember, people love small-town cops. They grew up watching Andy Griffith, for God’s sake. Something happens to her and Colorosa, and we are going to be on the hot seat.”

Visualizing the scene, Bertrand took a bite of burger and chewed. “So, we separate them. Put Burkholder in one room. The family in another. I’ll take care of Colorosa. I’ll plant the throw-down.” Now that he’d laid it out, it seemed almost doable.

“Still can’t figure why Burkholder didn’t call this in or make the arrest,” Mercer said. “Especially in light of the bodycam footage.”

Burkholder’s lack of action had been bothering Bertrand, too. It was one of too many unknowns. He felt marginally better about the whole thing now that they’d “leaked” the video. It established Colorosa as a cold-blooded killer, a dirty cop with no compunction about gunning down an innocent person. It was the impetus that would see them through the endless investigations that would follow her death—and go a long way toward greasing the road to vindication.

“Nothing we can do about it now,” he said. “We proceed as planned. Don’t take anything for granted.”

“Maybe the chief is as dirty as her old friend,” Mercer said. “Colorosa shows up out of nowhere with a sob story and the promise of fast money. Maybe the good chief decided she wanted a piece of the pie.”

“Good reason for us not to have reached out to her department,” Bertrand said. “As far as we know, we’ve stumbled upon a corrupt small-town cop.”

“What about the sheriff’s department?” Mercer asked.

“I’ll give them a heads-up. But we go in before they arrive on scene. By the time they do, we’ll have the situation under control.” He shrugged. “It’s not a perfect scenario.”

“Nothing we can’t deal with.” Mercer resumed eating.

Bertrand was still thinking about Burkholder. “We’re going in blind, Ken. If the good chief causes problems, if she doesn’t stand down or she does something stupid, she goes the way of Colorosa.”

CHAPTER 28

Supper at an Amish home is a relaxed occasion in which the work of the day is discussed and household decisions are made. A place at the kitchen table symbolizes belonging, being part of the family unit. Adam sits at the head of the table. The three children sit to his left, in order of age, the youngest closest to him. There’s no place setting for Leah Lengacher, but the chair to Adam’s right is unoccupied, its bareness not acknowledged, but keenly felt.

Tomasetti arrives with pizza at seven P.M. It’s late; most Amish generally eat an early supper, around five P.M. or so. But due to the road conditions, the drive from Painters Mill took him longer than he’d intended.

The children are excited by the prospect of pizza. Most Amish meals are homemade, but they are not strangers to contemporary foods. Fast food—or even junk food—is a treat.