cramp of pity for what Nadia must be experiencing.
There were more people he should talk to, but he was increasingly doubtful that he’d learn anything new. He needed to get a more complete list of volunteers from Nadia... With a grimace, he corrected himself. He should get that list from Julie Baird or Katie-Ann Chupp. Because, much as he disliked the idea, Nadia remained his only potential suspect right now. Katie-Ann—yeah, he could count on her for complete honesty. But this, if memory served him right, was church Sunday for the Amish. With no child missing, no dead body, he couldn’t justify bothering her before tomorrow.
* * *
BEN HAD WORKED BEFORE with Tricia Mears, the deputy prosecuting attorney who was waiting for him at the station. Thanking her for coming, he escorted her to his office. As soon as he shut the door, she said, “I have your warrant.”
He needed to search Nadia’s financial records, something that also would have to wait until morning, when banks opened. If she really were a thief, she’d hardly be brazen enough to deposit the money. If she found a secure enough hiding place, she could filter the cash slowly into her finances with no one having a clue.
“You drag a judge out of church to get this signed today?” he asked.
Maybe in her late twenties, tiny and blonde, she grinned. “Wouldn’t dare. But I was parked in Judge Greenhaw’s driveway when he arrived home after church. He asked if this couldn’t have waited, but he didn’t seem to really mind. And, like everyone else in town, he already knew about the theft.”
“Did he have an opinion, too?” Ben asked drily.
“Hadn’t had occasion to meet her, he said, but he understood why you had to look at her first.”
“Thanks for getting right on this,” Ben said.
Vibrating with energy, she perched on the edge of the seat she’d taken across the desk from him. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“Not yet. What I’d like is to find out where everyone who attended that auction stands financially, but I kind of doubt Greenhaw would go for such a sweeping warrant.”
“That’s safe to say.” She rose to her feet. “Unless you’d like to...well, throw around ideas, I need to show my face at my grandparents’ for Sunday dinner.”
He waved her off. “Go.”
Only a few minutes later, someone knocked on his door. When he called, “Come in,” Officer Danny Carroll entered.
In his early thirties, stocky and stolid, Carroll had demonstrated the kind of judgment and work ethic that put him at the top of a short list for promotion. Today, he and Riley Boyd had gone to Nadia’s block to speak to the neighbors who hadn’t been home yesterday.
Ben leaned back in his desk chair. “Anything?”
“I found one woman, a Laura Kelling, who saw a light in Ms. Markovic’s place during the night Friday. She’d gotten up to go to the bathroom, but has no idea what time.”
Wonderful. “Overhead light?”
“She was uncertain about that. She lives across the street, but a few doors down. Not a perfect angle. She said the light was diffuse, just a glow coming from somewhere inside, downstairs. She claims it went out while she was watching.”
“So something about it caught her eye,” Ben said thoughtfully.
“That’s my take,” Carroll agreed.
“And she couldn’t pin down the time at all.”
“She went to bed about ten because she needed to be up by six yesterday morning. She admits to getting up at least once, sometimes twice a night.”
“Ms. Markovic was home just after midnight. Is it likely this Ms. Kelling would have needed to use the bathroom that quick?”
Officer Carroll shrugged. “Depends when she cut off liquids for the night.”
That was true, unfortunately. Ben could imagine a defense attorney trying to persuade a jury that the witness’s bladder would have held out longer than two hours and that, therefore, the light she saw had shone inside what should have been a dark building well after Ms. Markovich had gone to sleep.
After which the prosecutor would point out that they had only Ms. Markovic’s word for when she turned out the lights and went to sleep, and that it was entirely possible she had gotten out of bed at some point during the night to hide the money in a location the police were unlikely to find in any initial search.
Something he probably should have had done yesterday, he reflected, although he had taken precautions to ensure she couldn’t sneak the money out of the building and hide it elsewhere.
“Okay, thanks,” Ben said. “Have you spoken to everybody?”
“Yep. Sundays are good that way.”
Left alone again, Ben realized he was disappointed. He would have liked incontrovertible evidence to turn up showing that someone besides Nadia had taken the money. And he knew better than to develop feelings for a suspect, far less allow sympathy or any other emotion to influence him. Because of his usual objectivity, he’d been called a cold bastard; no one outside his family having any idea how much rage burned in him for one particular class of criminals. He’d succeeded in hiding it from the people he worked with until the day he came close to crossing a line that would have ended his career and conceivably resulted in jail time.
The hatred for rapists was one explanation for why his blood boiled every time he pictured a man slipping uninvited into Nadia’s bedroom, detouring from his main purpose to look his fill.
Statistically, the odds were the thief was a man. In this case, the auction volunteers, who were most likely to know who had the money, were all women except for a few men dragged in to assemble the stage, do some heavy lifting and build quilt display racks. Imagining a woman in Nadia’s bedroom instead of a man wasn’t a big improvement. Either way, what sense of security she’d gathered around herself after the tragedy would be stolen again.
Unless, of course, nobody else had ever stepped foot in that bedroom, and she knew exactly where the money was.
He wondered whether she’d give permission for a thorough search of her premises.
Ben groaned, rasped a hand over his jaw and decided to call it a day.
* * *
NADIA ENDED THE DAY feeling battered. Sick to her stomach, bruised head to toe. Remembering Ben Slater’s chiding, she dragged herself to her kitchen and examined the contents of cupboards and refrigerator. She’d skipped lunch and had no appetite for dinner, but he was right—she had to eat. Even a salad felt like too much work, so she settled for cottage cheese and a small bowl of strawberries. Finally, new lock or no, she carried a kitchen chair downstairs and braced it under the doorknob. In theory, there’d be an awful noise at the very least if someone tried to open the door.
Nadia watched TV shows that didn’t really interest her until it was late enough to go to bed. If she’d had a sedative, she would have taken it. After very little sleep last night, she was mind-numbingly tired. But once she climbed into bed, lights out, she lay stiffly. The nausea soothed
