“No idea. Kind of an asshole, if you ask me. Wants to argue about books and shit but you can tell he’s never read one in his life.” Callahan dropped his sunglasses back into place. “You know, I really thought Lucy would tell me goodbye before she left. Like I said, we had a thing. A platonic thing. Maybe she was too ashamed. These girls don’t usually stay put for long. Their pimp gets tired of them not earning enough. He trades them off to the next guy down the line. Sometimes, they just move on. A few go back home, if their families will have them. The rest end up down at the Gradys.”
“Gradys,” Amanda repeated. It was strange to hear this word coming out of a white man’s mouth. Only the blacks called Grady Hospital the Gradys. The name dated back to when the hospital wards were segregated. Amanda asked, “What about Jane Delray? Have you ever heard of her?”
Callahan gave a surprised laugh. “That sister is crazy mean. She’d cut you just as soon as look at you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Jane was always fighting with the girls. Always stealing their stuff. I finally had to ban her from the mission, and I don’t like to do that to any of them. This is their last resort. They can’t come here, there’s nowhere else for them to go.”
“They can’t go to the soup kitchen?”
“Not if they’re messed up. Brother won’t let them through the door.” Callahan shrugged. “It’s not a bad policy. When these girls come in high, they’re more prone to make trouble. But I can’t just lock the door and leave them on the street.”
“They can’t get assistance from the Housing Authority?”
“Not if they’ve got prostitution on their record. The HA screens them out. They don’t want girls setting up their businesses on the public dime.”
Amanda tried to process the information. She was glad Evelyn was writing this down. “Is there anything else you can remember about Lucy?”
“Just that she was a good girl. I know it’s hard for you to believe, especially working for the po-lice. But all of them started out good. They made a bad choice somewhere along the line, and then they made another one, and pretty soon their lives were nothing but bad choices. Lucy especially. She didn’t deserve to go out like that.” His hands gripped the chair again. His voice took on a hard edge. “I don’t like to break on a brother, but I hope they fry him for this.”
Amanda asked, “What do you mean?”
“It’s already out.” Callahan indicated the radio. “Heard it on the radio before you ladies walked in. Juice was arrested for killing Lucy Bennett. He gave a full confession.” The phone on his desk started ringing. “Excuse me,” he apologized, leaning over to lift the receiver.
Amanda didn’t trust herself to look at Evelyn.
Callahan used his hand to cover the mouthpiece on the phone. “I’m sorry, ladies. This is one of our donors calling. Was there anything else you needed from me?”
“No.” Evelyn stood up. Amanda followed suit. “Thank you for your time.”
The sun was so bright when they walked out of the building that Amanda’s eyes teared up. She shaded herself with her hand as they walked into the parking lot.
“Well.” Evelyn slipped on her Foster Grants. “Arrested.”
“Arrested,” Amanda echoed. “And confessed.”
They both stood by the cars, stunned silent.
Finally, Amanda said, “What do you make of that?”
“I’m flummoxed,” Evelyn admitted. “I suppose Juice could’ve done it. Might’ve done it.” She contradicted herself. “Then again, it’s not that hard to get a confession, especially for Butch and Landry.”
Amanda nodded. At least once a week, Butch and Landry showed up for roll call with cuts and bruises on their knuckles. “You said it yourself: Juice could’ve slipped out of the hospital, murdered Jane, and climbed back in bed with no one realizing he was gone.” Amanda leaned against her car, then thought better of it when the heat singed through her skirt. “Then again, Trey Callahan just confirmed Juice was pimp to both Lucy Bennett and Jane Delray. He would know the difference between the two girls. Why would he confess to killing one when it was the other?”
“I doubt very seriously Rick Landry is letting him get his story out.” She added, “A black man kills a white woman? That’s a hummy if there ever was one.”
She was right. The case would hum right through City Hall. Juice would be in prison before the year was out—if he lived that long.
Both women were silent again. Amanda couldn’t recall a time she’d been more shocked.
And then Evelyn topped it. “Do you think we could speak to him?”
“Speak to whom?”
“Juice.”
The question was as crazy as it was dangerous. “Rick Landry would string us up alive. I didn’t want to tell you, but he was very angry this morning. He complained to Hodge right in front of me about us interfering in his case.”
“What did Hodge say?”
“Nothing, really. The man speaks in riddles. Every question I asked, he just said, ‘That’s a good question.’ It was maddening.”
“That’s his way of telling you to ignore Rick and to keep moving forward.” Evelyn held up her hands to stop Amanda’s protest. “Think about it: If Hodge wanted you to stop looking into this, he would’ve ordered you to stop. He could’ve assigned you to crossing duty. He could’ve benched you and made you file all day. Instead, he told you to skip roll call and meet up with me.” She smiled appreciatively. “It’s very clever, really. He doesn’t tell you what to do, but he makes you want to do it.”
“It’s annoying, is what it is. Why can’t he just speak directly? What’s wrong with that?”
“He was already transferred to Model City for four days. I imagine he’s making sure he doesn’t get sent back.”
“Meanwhile, it’s my head on the chopping block.”
Evelyn seemed to be gauging her own words. “He’s probably afraid of you, Amanda. You must know that a lot of people are.”
Amanda could’ve been knocked down with a feather. “Whatever for?”
“Your father.”
“That’s just silly. Even if my father cared about such things, I’m not a tattletale.”
“They don’t know that.” Evelyn’s voice was gentle. “Sweetheart, it’s just a matter of time before your father’s back in uniform. He still has a lot of powerful friends. There’s bound to be payback. Do you really think people shouldn’t be afraid?”
Amanda didn’t want to admit that she was right about Duke, even while she was wrong about the rest. “I don’t know why we’re even having this conversation. Juice has been arrested for murder. The case is closed. We’d turn the whole department against us if we made trouble.”
“You’re right.” Evelyn looked out into the street, the cars rushing by. “We’re probably fools to care. Juice was going to rape us. Jane hated us on sight. Lucy Bennett was a junkie and a prostitute whose own brother couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her.” She nodded back at the mission. “No matter how well read Snoopy’s brother says she was.” She took off her sunglasses. “What was with that Ophelia line, anyway?”
“It’s from Hamlet.”
“I’m aware of that.” Evelyn sounded testy. “I do read more than magazines, you know.”
Amanda considered it wiser to hold her tongue.
Evelyn put her sunglasses back on. “Ophelia was a tragic figure. She had an abortion and killed herself by falling from a tree.”
“Where do you get that she had an abortion?”
“She took rue. It’s an herb women used to bring about miscarriages. Shakespeare had her passing out flowers and she—” Evelyn shook her head. “Never mind. The point is, are you going to go to the jail or not?”
“Me?” Amanda’s mind couldn’t handle these sudden shifts. “Alone?”
“I told Cindy I’d go to the Five and check the license box for Lucy’s ID.”
“That’s very convenient.”
&n
bsp; “Bubba Keller is one of your father’s poker buddies, right?”
Amanda wondered if she was making an allusion to the Klan. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Keller runs the jail.”
“And?”
“And, if you go to the jail and ask to speak with Juice, it’s no big deal. If you go to the jail with me and ask to speak to Juice, it gets back to your father.”
Amanda didn’t know what to say. She felt caught out, as if Evelyn was suddenly privy to all the lies Amanda had told Duke over the last week.
“It’s all right,” Evelyn said. “We all have to answer to someone.”
Evelyn didn’t seem to have to answer to anybody. Amanda said, “Let me get this straight: you want me to waltz into the jail and ask to speak to a prisoner who’s just been arrested for murder?”
Evelyn shrugged. “Why not?”
fifteen
Present Day
SUZANNA FORD
Zanna woke with a start. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t see. Her throat ached. She could barely swallow. She turned her head back and forth. A pillow cupped her head. She was lying down. She was in bed.
She tried to say “help,” but her lips would not move. The word got trapped in her mouth. She tried again.
“Help …”
She coughed. Her throat was bone dry. Her eyes throbbed in her head. Every movement sent pain shooting through her body. She was blindfolded. She didn’t know where she was. All she remembered was the man.
The man.
His weight shifted on the bed as he stood up. They weren’t in the hotel room anymore. The low rumble of traffic weaving through downtown had been replaced by two noises. The first one was a hum, like the white-noise machine they bought her grandmother for Christmas one year. It kept up a steady hushing sound.
Hush, little baby … don’t say a word …
The other noise was harder to place. It was so familiar, but every time she thought she had it pinned down, it would change. A whistling sound. Not like a train. Like air sucking through a tunnel. An underwater tunnel. A pneumatic tube.
There was no regularity to it. It only served to make her feel more out of body. More out of place. She didn’t even know if she was still in Atlanta. Or Georgia. Or America. She had no idea how long she’d been out. She had no sense of time or place. She knew nothing but the fear of anticipation.
The man started mumbling again. There was the sound of a faucet turning on. The splash of water in a metal bowl.
Zanna’s teeth started chattering. She wanted meth. She needed meth. Her body was starting to convulse. She was going to lose it. She was going to start screaming. Maybe she should scream. Maybe she should shout so loud that he had to kill her, because she had no doubt that’s what this man was going to do. It was only a matter of the hell he would put her through first.
Ted Bundy. John Wayne Gacy. Jeffrey Dahmer. The Night Stalker. The Green River Killer.
Zanna had read every book Ann Rule had ever written, and when there wasn’t a book, there was a TV movie or an Internet site or a Dateline or a 20/20 or a 48 Hours, and she remembered every lurid detail about every sadistic freak who had ever kidnapped a woman for his own demonic pleasure.
And this man was a demon. There was no arguing with that. Zanna’s parents had given up on church when she was a kid, but she had lived in Roswell long enough to recognize a stray verse, the cadence of scripture. The man mumbled prayers and he beseeched God for His forgiveness, but Zanna knew that no one was listening except the Devil himself.
The water turned off. Two footsteps, and he was back on the bed. She felt the weight of him as he sat down beside her. More water dripping. Loud drops into the bowl.
Suzanna flinched as the warm, wet rag washed along her skin.
sixteen
Present Day
TUESDAY
Sara’s knees protested as she worked her way around the living room, dipping a washcloth into the bowl of vinegar and hot water, then washing down the baseboards section by maddening section.
Some women sat around watching TV when they were upset. Others went shopping or gorged themselves on chocolate. It was Sara’s lot in life that she cleaned. She blamed her mother. Cathy Linton’s response to any ailment was generally hard labor.
“Ugh.” Sara sat back on her heels. She wasn’t used to cleaning her own apartment. She was dripping sweat despite the low temperature on her thermostat. The climate was not being appreciated by anyone. Her greyhounds were huddled on the couch as if they were in the middle of an arctic winter.
Technically, Sara was supposed to be at work right now, but there was an unspoken rule in the ER that any person could leave if three really horrendous things happened to them during one shift. Today, Sara had been kicked in the leg by a homeless man, narrowly avoided being punched in the face by the mother of a boy who was so high he’d defecated on himself, and had her hand vomited on by one of the new interns. All before lunchtime.
If Sara’s supervisor hadn’t told her to leave, she was fairly certain she would’ve quit. Which was probably why Grady had the rule in the first place.
She finished the last section of baseboard and stood up. Her knees were wobbly from being bent for so long. Sara stretched out her hamstrings before she walked toward the kitchen with the rag and bowl. She dumped the vinegar solution down the drain, washed her hands, then picked up a dry rag and a can of Pledge to begin the next phase.
Sara looked at the clock on the microwave. Will still had not called. She imagined he was sitting on a toilet at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport waiting for a business traveler to tap his foot under the stall. Which meant there was plenty of time for him to dial her phone number. Maybe he was sending a message. Maybe he was trying to tell her that what they had was over.
Or maybe Sara was reading too much into his silence. She had never been good at playing games in relationships. She preferred to be direct. Which was at the very root of their problems.
What she desperately needed was a second opinion. Cathy Linton was at home, but Sara had a feeling her mother’s reaction would be similar to the one she had the time Sara was ill from eating an entire package of Oreos. Sure, she’d held back Sara’s hair and patted her back, but not without first demanding, “What the hell did you think would happen?”
Which was exactly what Sara kept asking herself. The worst part was that she was turning into one of those annoying people who got so caught up whining about a bad situation that they forgot they were actually capable of doing something about it.
Sara cleared off the mantel for dusting. She gently held the small cherrywood box that had belonged to her grandmother. The hinge was coming apart. Sara carefully opened the lid. Two wedding rings rested on the satin pillow.
Her husband had been a cop, which was basically where the similarity between Jeffrey and Will ended. Or maybe not. They were both funny. They had the same strong, moral character that Sara had always been attracted to. They were both drawn to duty. They were drawn to Sara.
That was one thing about Jeffrey that was completely different from Will. He had made no equivocations about wanting Sara. It was clear from the beginning that he was going to have her. He’d strayed once, but Jeffrey had dragged himself through broken glass to win her back. Not that Sara expected the same kind of dramatic gestures from Will, but she needed a stronger sign of commitment than just showing up in her bed every night.
Sara had fallen in love with her husband because of his beautiful handwriting. She’d seen his notes written in the margin of a book. The script was soft and flowing, unexpected for someone whose work required him to carry a gun and occasionally use his fists. Sara had never seen Will’s handwriting, except for his signature, which was little more than a scrawl. He left her Post-it notes with smiley faces on them. A few times, he’d sent her a text with the same. Sara knew Will read the occasional book, but mostly stuck with audio recordings. As with many things, his dyslexia wasn’t somethin
g they talked about.
Could she love this man? Could she see herself being part of his life—or, at least the part of his life that he allowed her to see?
Sara wasn’t sure.
She closed the box and returned it to its proper place on the mantel.
Maybe Will didn’t want her. Maybe he was just having fun. He still kept his wedding ring in the front pocket of his pants. Sara had been pleased when he’d shown up with his finger bare, but she wasn’t stupid. Neither was Will, which was why it was puzzling that he kept the ring in an area where her hands usually ended up.
Sara hadn’t realized she was falling in love with Jeffrey when she’d opened that book and seen his writing. It was only later when she looked back that she realized what was happening. There were memories of Will that gave her heart that familiar tug. Watching him wash dishes at her mother’s kitchen sink. The way he listened so intently when she talked about her family. The look on his face the first time he’d really made love to her.
Sara leaned her head against the mantel. Given enough idleness and time, she could talk herself into either loving or hating the man. Which was why she wished he would just bite the bullet and call her.
The phone rang. Sara jumped. She felt her heart thumping as she walked toward the phone, which was equal parts stupid and foolish. She’d gone to medical school, for the love of God. She shouldn’t be so easily swayed by coincidence. “Hello?”
“How is my favorite student?” Pete Hanson asked. He was one of the top ME’s in the state. Sara had taken several courses from him when she was medical examiner for Grant County. “I hear you’re playing hooky from school.”
“Mental health day,” she admitted, trying to hide her disappointment that it wasn’t Will on the other end of the line. Then, because Pete never just called her out of the blue, she asked, “Is something wrong?”
“I have some news, my dear. It’s fairly private, so I’d prefer to deliver it in person.”