“I gotta be at work in an hour.” She looks from me to Glock and back to me. “I suppose if you make it quick. I got a long shift ahead.”
I feel Glock’s eyes on me as we enter. The house is uncomfortably warm and smells of burnt toast and cigarette smoke. Rossberger moves like a woman who spends too much time on her feet and leads us to a living room furnished with secondhand furniture and wall-to-wall carpet from the 1990s. She motions me to a ragtag sofa and offers a chair to Glock, but he declines and takes up his position in the doorway.
“Suit yourself.” She falls into an overstuffed chair across from me and props her feet on the matching ottoman. “Detective said she was murdered. That true?”
“The coroner hasn’t made the official ruling just yet,” I tell her. “But, yes, we believe it was a homicide.”
“You the cop going to be investigating?” Her eyes flick over my uniform and she laughs. “A woman?”
“Her body was found in Painters Mill, where I’m chief. The Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation and the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department are involved, too. I want you to know we’re going to do everything we can to find the person responsible.”
“I hope you get him. Paige wasn’t exactly a good girl, but she sure didn’t deserve to get killed.”
I pull out my notepad. “When’s the last time you saw her?”
“Four days ago. She comes and goes. More going than coming, I guess.”
“Did she have any ties to Painters Mill?” I ask. “Did she ever travel there or mention Holmes County?”
“Not that I recall. She wasn’t exactly the Amish-country type, if you know what I mean.”
I recall the probation officer telling me Paige had landed a job. “I understand she worked part-time.”
The woman frowns at me. “You know she did.”
It takes me a second to understand the meaning of her response. “I mean a regular job,” I clarify. “Her probation officer said she was working at a grocery store. Is that correct?”
“Got fired a couple weeks ago. That girl had more jobs than I have toes. She didn’t like being told what to do. Never could hold one down.”
I pause, take a moment to get my words in order, get them right. “She was arrested for prostitution a couple years ago?”
She gives me a sage look. “You’re wondering if she was still working the street?”
I nod. “Was she?”
“Lookit, we didn’t talk about it. She knew I didn’t approve. But, yeah, I think she was out there, doing what she could to make some money.”
“Is there anything in particular that makes you think that?”
“She kept crazy hours. Always had cash. Got a lot of calls.” Grimacing, she shakes her head, and her thoughts seem to turn inward. “I always knew something bad would come of it. I tried to tell her. She wouldn’t listen to anyone, least of all me.”
“Do you have a recent picture of her?”
“I think so.” She pulls out her phone, scrolls, then hands the device to me. “Took this a couple of weeks ago. Her birthday. God’s sake, I didn’t know it would be her last.”
I take the phone, look down at the photo. Paige Rossberger was blond and pretty with a toothy, born-to-laugh smile. She’s looking at the camera, sticking out her tongue at the photographer. “Did you take the photo?”
“Sure did. We had dinner together that night.”
I look back at the photo and realize it’s her eyes that grab hold of me. They’re big and green and reflect mischief and trouble. “She was pretty.”
The woman laughs. “A pretty lot of trouble is what she was.”
“May I send this photo to my email?” I ask.
“Sure.”
I poke around, find the Share button, and send it. I hand her the phone. “Do you know where Paige’s cell phone is?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve called her six or seven times in the last couple days. Goes right to voice mail. That’s why I got worried. Even if she doesn’t answer, she’ll always text back.”
I ask for the number and she gives it to me. I write all of it down.
“Did she have a boyfriend?” I ask. “Or was she seeing anyone regularly?”
“No one regular.” She huffs. “Ain’t a man alive put up with a woman screwing any loser off the street for fifty bucks. That just ain’t right.”
“What about enemies, Mrs. Rossberger? Did Paige have any ongoing disputes or arguments with anyone?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did she have a best friend? Was she close to anyone in particular? Someone she might’ve confided in?”
“Paige was different that way. Never got too close to people. Didn’t do normal stuff, like go to movies or shop or go out to eat.” Her brows knit as if she’s thinking about it. “She was kind of a loner, I guess.”
The woman takes a deep breath and presses her lips together. “I probably argued with her more than anyone. I told her: No drugs in this house. No booze. And no men.” A phlegmy laugh rattles in her throat. “I guess that’s why she didn’t come around much. Last year or so, she’d become a stranger to me. Someone I didn’t know. Someone I didn’t want to know. I never could get through to her. It’s sad, really.”
“Mrs. Rossberger, do you have any idea who might’ve done this?” I ask.
Taking her time, she reaches into the pocket of her sweatshirt, pulls out a pack of Camels, and lights up. “If I had to guess, I’d say it was one of her men. These are some hard times and there are some rough men out there.” She cocks her head. “She didn’t put up with any crap, but a lot can go wrong when you lead that kind of life.”
“Did she have problems with any man in particular?” I ask.
“She never brought them here. I couldn’t handle it. Wouldn’t have it.” She sucks hard on the cigarette. “She told me she only dates safe guys.” She hefts a bitter laugh. “What else are you going to tell your mother, though, right?”
I nod, tuck my notebook into my pocket. “Would it be all right if we took a quick look around in her room?”
“If you think it’ll help you find who done it, knock your socks off.” Crushing out the cigarette butt, she rises and takes us down the hall. “That girl kept a messy room,” she says as she pushes open the door.
Paige Rossberger’s bedroom is barely large enough for the full-size bed beneath the window. I see a tangle of sheets. A pair of jeans on the floor. Sneakers tossed in the corner. A dresser and mirror are shoved against the wall to my right. There’s barely enough space for someone to walk between the furniture and bed.
“Still smells like her,” the woman says. “Still feels like she’s going to come back. Jesus, that hurts.”
I look over my shoulder at her, and for the first time, I see grief in her eyes. “I won’t take long, ma’am.”
“Take your time.”
She’s midway down the hall when I think of one more question. “Mrs. Rossberger? Did Paige have a vehicle?”