The Names of Our Tears (20 page)

“We know of only
two
Amish girls who carried drugs for them,” Stan said, tentatively. He added, “We only know of the two. Could be others.”

Robertson stood and said, “This may be bigger than we thought.” Marching out of the room, he called back over his shoulder, “If you’re right, I’ve sent Ricky into a hornet’s nest, and he thinks he’s just tracking down a single lead on the Ruth Zook murder.”

*   *   *

In the stairwell headed down, Robertson passed Bobby Newell coming up. He stopped and gave the captain details about Stan and Rachel’s search results, then said, “So, we know the names, vehicles, and plates on the Molinas.”

“That’s another BOLO,” the captain nodded.

“And call Ricky,” Robertson said, descending to the first-floor landing. “He thinks he’s following a lead on the Zook murder, and it’s quite possible that we’ve dropped him into a bigger mess.”

“I think he still needs to interview those bus drivers,” Newell said down the steps. “He’ll have to go there first, if he’s going to meet the bus when it pulls in.”

At the bottom of the steps, Robertson turned back and said, “He needs to see Ray Lee Orton.”

“I’ve already asked Mike Branden to do that,” Newell said. “He’s right there, just south of Bradenton Beach.”

“Good, but call Mike back. Tell him where Ricky’s gonna be.”

“What’re you going to do?” Newell asked.

“I want to call Ray Lee Orton. He needs to worry more about his friend Jodie Tapp.”

Newell started back down the steps. “What about this Barberton connection?”

Robertson stopped with his hand on the door latch. Newell reached him at the bottom of the steps.

“What’s Lance doing?” the sheriff asked.

“She’s tracking the BOLO on the Helmuths. And now she’ll do the Molinas, too. And she’s talking with Barberton PD.”

“We need to send her up to Barberton,” Robertson said.

“OK,” Newell said, turning back up the steps.

Robertson called after him, “And send Stan with her, Bobby. He seems to be getting the hang of this.”

“YOU’VE BEEN working on your tan,” Ricky Niell said to Professor Branden. The two had been talking for half an hour. Branden had come over the Ringling Causeway into Sarasota with Caroline after he had talked with Ray Lee Orton in Bradenton Beach. Ricky had met him at Miller’s restaurant after his drive down from Tampa, and he had quickly gotten Branden up to speed on the details of Zook, Helmuth, and the Molinas. They were standing at the edge of a gathering of Amish locals waiting for the bus from Sugarcreek, on the blacktopped parking lot behind Miller’s restaurant. On the other side of the ornate, Swiss-style restaurant building, the professor’s wife, Caroline, was holding a place in the dinner line at the front door.

“Still on sabbatical,” Branden said, regarding his tan. “So we took some time to come down to enjoy Ray Lee’s beach house. We get a lot of sun down here.”

“Robertson said you’d be talking today with Ray Lee.”

“Sheriff called you?”

“On my drive down from Tampa.”

Branden studied the gathering Amish crowd, some on foot, some on adult-sized tricycles. “I wouldn’t want to be dressed
Amish in this heat,” he said. “And Robertson must be keeping a close tab, with all the calls he’s been making.”

“Robertson and Bobby Newell, both,” Ricky said. “They’re trying to find Fannie Helmuth—that’s why we’re to talk to these bus drivers—and they think Jodie Tapp needs protection.”

“From the Molinas?” Branden said.

“Or from the Florida end of their crew. But for all we know, the Molinas are already back down here, too.”

“Or they followed the bus to Charlotte?”

“Something like that,” Ricky said, stepping off the blacktop to stand back on the grass, under the thin cover of a tall jacaranda tree. “Hot down here.”

“Is this the Howie Dent who lives out by Charm? The fellow who took the bus with Helmuth?”

Ricky nodded. “He lives on the farm next to hers.”

“I know him,” Branden said. “He was a student of mine eight or nine years ago. Wrote his senior thesis for me, on political cartoons in newspapers during the Civil War.”

Niell shaded his eyes and moved deeper under the branches. “I could have gone to Charlotte, to look for Fannie Helmuth. But Robertson thinks she’s safer right now than Jodie Tapp. It’s a toss-up, if you ask me.”

“Seems like Robertson’s grasping at straws,” Branden said. “I’m not sure what you’re going to accomplish down here that Ray Lee can’t do himself.”

“It was Robertson’s call,” Ricky said. “Fannie and Howie could be anywhere.”

“But you don’t actually know that one of the Molinas killed the Zook girl.”

Ricky squinted at the bright sunlight and wished he’d bought a hat at the airport. The professor stood next to him in beach shorts, a plain T-shirt, and a broad-brimmed Tommy Bahama sun hat. His tan was deep—a ruddy bronze—and it made his gray beard seem almost white by contrast, the effect enhanced by dark sunglasses.

“All we know for sure,” Ricky said, “is that the same woman
Fannie Helmuth gave her suitcase to is the registered owner of a gray Buick. And that Fannie saw her harassing her brother and his wife on the front porch of the family home. Plus, Teresa’s cousin Dewey owns a Humvee, and we have the plates for both vehicles.”

“And a boarded-up drug runner’s house in Barberton.”

Ricky nodded. “It’s listed as Dewey Molina’s address at the time of his traffic arrest. Pat Lance is going up to take a look tomorrow morning.”

“And if one of the Molinas didn’t kill Ruth Zook?”

“Then we really don’t have anything,” Ricky said. “But it all fits. The drug connection to the Molinas is solid in Ohio.”

“Here’s the bus,” Branden said, turning Ricky around. “You’re going to want to talk to Ray Lee about this drug running.” They moved forward with the crowd as the bus pulled in and stopped at the far edge of the lot. “He’s got someone scuttling stolen boats offshore.”

The front door of the bus hissed open, and a uniformed driver stepped down. He turned and offered his hand to an older Amish woman, then held his post to help others off the bus. The second driver came down behind the third couple from the bus and stepped to the side to open the luggage bay doors along the bottom skirt of the bus. As passengers continued to exit, he took out packages, bags, and suitcases, lining them up beside the bus. While he worked, the first passengers retrieved their suitcases and bags, helped by friends or family from the waiting crowd.

Among the passengers, there were people of all ages—an infant boy in his mother’s arms, older couples and single older women, teenagers traveling alone or with their families. They were all dressed Amish, the men in denim trousers, plain shirts of muted colors, and straw hats, the women in long, plain dresses.

Most flinched at first from the bright sunlight and heat, as they searched the crowd for relatives and friends. Some of the passengers helped the driver pull suitcases out of the bays, and then, once they had greeted one another on the parking lot, several
stepped over to form lines in front of two portable toilets behind the bus. As locals paired up with their visitors, groups began to walk back down Beneva Road, toward the Pinecraft cottage community to the south.

Branden and Niell threaded a route through the thinning crowd. Niell produced his badge, showed it to the driver standing at the bus door, and asked, “Did you take a call south of Charlotte from Corporal Stan Armbruster?”

“My partner did,” the driver said, pointing to the man who was still bent over beside the luggage bays. He was reaching in far to the back to remove the last suitcases from the bus.

“His name?” Ricky asked.

“Dick Bruder.”

“Your name?”

“Dan Harrold. This about the Amish couple that got off in Charlotte?”

“Do you remember them?” Ricky asked.

“A largish Amish girl, with a tall fellow in jeans and a checkered shirt. They didn’t have any bags.”

Bruder finished closing the bay doors and walked up, saying, “You two local cops?”

Branden laughed and held his arms out to his side. “Not dressed like this.”

Ricky said, “Holmes County Sheriff’s office.”

Bruder nodded. “One of Robertson’s boys.”

Branden laughed again, and Ricky said, “You spoke with one of our
boys
, Corporal Stan Armbruster.”

“I didn’t mean any offense, Detective,” Bruder said. “I talked with Armbruster, yes. But I told him everything I knew. Wasn’t much.”

“But how did they seem to you?” Ricky asked. “We think they were trying to disappear.”

“They do something?” Bruder asked. “Because they seemed normal to me.”

Ricky explained briefly about the murder of Ruth Zook and said, “So, I think that they think they can hide from these people.
They took a cab to the Greyhound bus station, and then who knows where.”

“That’s a long cab ride, all the way to downtown Charlotte,” Bruder said.

Showing an edge of frustration, Ricky said, “Look, I need to know if you think they were scared.”

“No.”

“Anxious?”

“No.”

“Watching over their shoulders?”

“No. Really, Detective, they just got off the bus with everyone else, but they didn’t get back on.”

“Did they go into the restaurant for breakfast?”

“Don’t know,” Bruder said, “because I wasn’t counting heads.”

“You did notice that they didn’t get back on.”

“Not at first,” Bruder said. “We make announcements ten and five minutes before departure, and we pretty much assume everyone wants to get back on in time to head south again.”

“How long until you noticed?”

“Not until Armbruster called me,” Bruder said.

“Did they talk to anyone on the way down to Charlotte?”

“No, but they kinda huddled up. Whispered to each other.”

“Did you make anything of that?”

“Not at the time. Most folks want some privacy on a crowded bus.”

*   *   *

Crossing the vacant parking lot, Branden said to Ricky, “That didn’t get us much.”

“Nothing,” Ricky said. “I don’t think they were too scared.”

“They were worried enough to change buses,” Branden said. “Or smart.”

As they rounded the front corner of the building, Ricky muttered, “Robertson has Ellie calling Dent’s phone every hour.”

“You’ve got the Molinas’ descriptions, right?”

From the front of the dinner line, Caroline waved to them,
and, mouthing apologies, the two men worked forward to join her.

“We’re next to go inside,” Caroline said, and gave Ricky a long hug.

When she released him, Niell stepped back half a pace and said, “You’ve got the better tan.”

Over a deep butternut tan, Caroline Branden was wearing a long, thin-strapped, peach-colored summer dress. Her light auburn hair was rolled up in a bun, without the prayer covering that would have marked her as Mennonite. Standing in the thin line of evening shade cast by the roof of the building, she had her sunglasses parked on top of her head. She pulled them up, put them on, and said, “You look better in a coat and tie than a man has a right to do, Ricky Niell, but we’ll get you into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt soon enough. Until you get some suntan lotion, get in under here, out of the sun.”

Niell eased in beside Caroline, and the professor said, “There’s room inside now.”

Caroline turned and stepped into the vestibule, and Ricky and the professor crowded in behind her. The line inched forward, and two more people pushed in behind them. In the cooler air behind the tinted glass doors, Caroline pulled her sunglasses up to the top of her head again and said, “I’ve been thinking about this interview, Ricky.”

“Are we sure she’s working today?” Branden asked.

“I checked,” Caroline said. “But three of us might be too many of us.”

Ricky said, “She needs to know about Ruth Zook. At the very least I should tell her about that.”

“We can do that, Ricky. Mike and I can. We’re just tourists. Less intimidating.”

“There are a lot of questions,” Ricky argued. “I’ll have to talk to her eventually.”

Branden said, “But if Caroline and I break it to her, we can ask her when she can talk. We can call you with a time and a place later this evening, and you can talk to her then.”

“I don’t know.”

“You really need to talk to Ray Lee Orton, first,” the professor said. “You can go do that, and we’ll call you after dinner.”

Ricky hesitated, thought. “What makes you think she’ll talk with strangers?”

“I’ve got my wallet badge,” Branden said. “It’s as good as yours, and she’ll trust that.”

Caroline said, “We’ll find out when her shift ends, Ricky. We’ll have her talk with you then. But right now, she doesn’t need all three of us pushing on her for answers.”

The professor added, “She lives up near us, Ricky. We’ll have her stop at the beach house on the way home. Ray Lee’s going to want to see her, too. They know each other.”

Checking his watch, Ricky said, “I’ll need to get a room.”

“You’ll stay with us,” Caroline said, scolding a bit. “Stay with us and talk to Jodie, once the shock has worn off.”

“Ruth was her friend. So what if she wants to quit early?” Ricky asked. “I probably would, under the circumstances.”

“Even better,” Branden said. “We’ll invite her to our cottage. Help her through this.”

“And call you,” Caroline said.

The dinner line moved forward toward the hostess’s stand.

“OK,” Ricky said. “I’ll go talk to Ray Lee. But call me, one way or the other.”

THE PROFESSOR asked to be seated at one of Jodie Tapp’s tables, and this caused the hostess some mild consternation. She seated two other couples while the Brandens waited at the side of her podium, and then reluctantly she led them past a dozen large round tables to a corner café-style table near the kitchen doors, asking perfunctorily, “This OK?”

Caroline said, “Yes,” and took a seat facing the swinging doors to the kitchen. The professor sat beside her, facing a corner window that looked out to the back parking lot and the restaurant’s metal Dumpsters. When a petite Mennonite girl with welltanned face and hands came to their table, the two ordered sweet tea, and Caroline asked, “Are you Jodie Tapp?”