Criminal (35 page)

Sara stirred. Her hand snaked back and stroked the side of his face. Her fingernails lightly scratched the skin. She breathed a contented sigh.

Just like that, Will felt the anger start to drain away. Again, it was similar to what had happened at the morgue, but instead of feeling empty, he felt full. A calmness took over. The clamp around his chest started to loosen.

Sara leaned back into him. Her hand pulled him closer. Will’s body was much more responsive this time. He pressed his mouth to her neck. The fine hairs stood at attention. He could feel her flesh prickle under his tongue.

Sara turned her head to look at him. She gave a sleepy smile. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I was hoping that was you.”

He kissed her mouth. She turned to face him. She was still smiling. Will could feel the curve of her lips against his mouth. Her hair was tangled underneath her. He shifted and felt a sharp pain in his leg. It wasn’t a pulled muscle. It was Angie’s ring. He still had it in his pocket.

Sara mistook his reaction for a recurrence of his earlier problem. She said, “Let’s play a game.”

Will didn’t need a game. He needed to get Angie out of his head, but that wasn’t exactly news he could share.

She held out her hand. “I’m Sara.”

“I know.”

“No.” She still had her hand out. “I’m Sara Linton.”

And apparently, Will was a moron. He shook her hand. “Will Trent.”

“What do you do for a living, Will Trent?”

“I’m a …” He glanced around for an idea. “I’m a monster-truck driver.”

She looked at the TV and laughed. “That’s creative.”

“What are you?”

“A stripper.” She laughed again, as if she’d shocked herself. “I’m only doing it to pay my way through college.”

If Will’s stupid wedding ring wasn’t in his front pocket, he could’ve invited Sara to slip her hand inside to get some money for a lap dance. Instead, he had to settle on telling her, “That’s commendable.” He shifted onto his side, freeing up his hand. “What are you studying?”

“Umm …” She grinned. “Monster-truck repair.”

He trailed his finger between her breasts. The dress was low-cut, designed in such a way that it opened with little effort. Will realized she had worn it for him. Just like she’d let her hair down. Just like she’d squeezed her feet into a pair of high-heel shoes that could probably break her toes.

Just like she’d been at the autopsy. Just like she was here now.

He said, “I’m actually not a monster-truck driver.”

“No?” Her breath caught as he tickled his fingers down her bare stomach. “What are you?”

“I’m an ex-con.”

“Oh, I like that,” she said. “Jewel thief or bank robber?”

“Petty theft. Destruction of private property. Four-year suspended sentence.”

Her laughter stopped. She could tell he wasn’t playing anymore.

Will took in a deep breath and slowly let it go. He was doing this now. There was no going back. “I was arrested for stealing food.” He had to clear his throat so the words could get out. “It happened when I was eighteen.”

She put her hand over his.

“I aged out of the system.” Mrs. Flannigan had died the summer Will’s eighteenth birthday rolled around. The new guy who ran the home had given Will a hundred dollars and a map to the homeless shelter. “I ended up at the downtown mission. Some of the guys there were all right. Most of them were older and—” He didn’t finish the sentence. Sara could easily guess why a teenager didn’t feel safe there. “I lived on the streets …” Again, he let his voice trail off. “I hung out at the hardware store on Highland. Contractors used to go there in the mornings to pick up day workers.”

She used her thumb to stroke the back of his hand. “Is that where you learned how to fix things?”

“Yeah.” He’d never really thought about it, but it was true. “I made good money, but I didn’t know how to spend it. I should’ve saved up for an apartment. Or a car. Or something. But I spent it on candy and a Walkman and tapes.” Will had never had money in his pocket before. There was no such thing as an allowance when he was growing up. “I was sleeping on Peachtree where the library used to be. This group of older guys rolled me. They beat me down. Broke my nose, some of my fingers. Took everything I had. I guess I’m lucky that’s all they did.”

Sara’s grip tightened around his hand.

“I couldn’t work. My clothes were filthy. I didn’t have anywhere to bathe. I tried to beg for money but people were scared of me. I guess I looked like a junkie.” He told Sara, “I wasn’t, though. I never did drugs. I never did any of those things.”

She nodded.

“But I was so hungry. My stomach hurt all the time. I was dizzy from it. Sick. Afraid to go to sleep. Afraid I’d get rolled again. I went into this all-night pharmacy that used to be on Ponce de Leon. Plaza Drugs, right beside the movie theater?” Sara nodded. “I walked straight in and started taking food off the shelves. Little Debbies. Moon Pies. Anything with a wrapper. I tore it open with my teeth and shoved it into my mouth.” He swallowed, his throat feeling raw. “They called the cops.”

“They arrested you?”

“They tried.” He felt shame welling up in his throat. “I started swinging my fists, trying to hit anything. They stopped me real fast.”

Sara stroked back his hair with her fingers.

“They handcuffed me. Took me to jail. And then—” He shook his head. “My caseworker came in. I hadn’t seen her in six, maybe seven months. She said she’d been looking for me.”

“Why?”

“Because Mrs. Flannigan left me some money.” Will still remembered his shock when he heard the news. “I was only allowed to use it for college. So—” He shrugged. “I went to the first college that would take me. Lived in the dorm. Ate in the cafeteria. Worked a part-time job on the grounds. And then I got recruited into the GBI, and that was it.”

Sara was quiet, probably trying to absorb it all. “How did you pass the background check?”

“The judge said she would expunge my record if I graduated from college.” Fortunately, the woman hadn’t specified anything about his grades. “So I did and she did.”

Sara was quiet again.

“I know it’s bad.” He laughed at the irony. “I guess in the scheme of things, it’s not the worst thing you’ve heard about me today.”

“You were lucky you got arrested.”

“I guess.”

“And I’m lucky that you got into the GBI, because I never would’ve met you otherwise.”

“I’m sorry, Sara. I’m sorry I brought all this down on you. I don’t—” He felt the words getting jumbled up in his mouth. “I don’t want you to be scared of me. I don’t want you to think that I’m anything like him.”

“Of course you’re not.” She wrapped her hand around his. “Don’t you know that I’m in awe of you?”

Will could only look at her.

“What you’ve been through. What you’ve endured. The man you’ve become.” She placed his hand over her heart. “You chose to be a good person. You chose to help other people. It would’ve been so easy to go down the wrong path, but at every step, you chose to do the right thing.”

“Not always.”

“Often enough,” she said. “Often enough so that when I look at you, all I can think about is how good you are. How much I want you—need you—in my life.”

Her eyes were a clear green in the glow of the television. Will couldn’t believe that she was still there beside him. Still wanted to be with him. Angie had been so wrong. There was no guile inside of Sara. No meanness. No spite.

If he were truly a good man, he would’ve told Sara about Angie. He would’ve confessed and gotten it over with. Instead, Will kissed her. He kissed her eyelids and her nose and her mouth. Their tongues touched. Will moved on top of her. Sara’s leg wrapped around his. She deepened the kiss. Will felt the guilt slip away easily—too easily. All that he could think about was his desire, his need to be inside of her. He felt almost frantic as he started to undress her.

Sara helped him with her clothes. He ended up tearing the dress. She was wearing a lacy black bra that easily unclasped. Will kissed her breasts, used his tongue and teeth until she let out a deep moan. He traced his tongue down, biting and kissing the smooth skin. Sara gasped when he pulled down her underwear and pushed apart her legs. She tasted like honey and copper pennies. Her thigh rubbed against his face. Her fingernails dug into his scalp. She pulled him back up and started kissing him again. Sucking his tongue. Doing things with her mouth that made him start to shake. Will pushed himself inside of her. She moaned again. She gripped his back. Will forced himself to go slow. Sara took him in deeper with each thrust.

Her lips brushed his ear. “My love,” she breathed. “My love.”

twenty-one

July 15, 1975

LUCY BENNETT

The contractions started with the sunrise. He’d cut open her eyes, but not her mouth. Lucy could feel the thread tugging her lips as she groaned from the pain.

Her arms and legs were spread open, her body aligned straight down the center of the mattress. She had already ripped away her right shoulder. Just a few inches, but it was enough. The shock of being able to move had at first dulled the pain. Now, the flesh throbbed. Blood trickled down her arm and chest, pooled beneath her shoulder blade.

Another contraction started to build. Slow, slow, slow and then it erupted and Lucy felt her lips start to tear apart as she screamed in agony.

“Shut up,” someone hissed.

The girl in the room next door.

She had spoken.

The floor creaked beneath her feet as she walked to the closed door.

“Shut up,” she repeated.

The other girl had learned. She was compliant. She was welcoming. She talked to the man. Prayed with him. Screamed and thrashed and grunted with him. In a child’s voice, she suggested he do things that Lucy had not even considered.

And for that, he let her off her leash sometimes.

Like now.

She was talking. Walking. Moving around.

She could leave at any time. Run to get help. Run to the police or her family or anywhere but here.

But she didn’t. The other girl was a regular Patty Hearst.

Lucy’s replacement.

twenty-two

July 15, 1975

Amanda sat in a back booth at the Majestic Diner on Ponce de Leon. She stifled a yawn. After leaving Techwood last night, she was too wired to asleep. Even Mary Wollstonecraft couldn’t send her off. She’d tossed and turned, images of the construction paper puzzle seemingly burned into her retinas. She’d added the new details in her mind: Hank Bennett—liar. Trey Callahan—liar.

And Ophelia. What to make of Ophelia?

The waitress refilled Amanda’s cup. She looked at her watch. Evelyn was fifteen minutes late, which was troubling. Amanda had never known her to be tardy. She’d used the pay phone in the back to call the Model City precinct, but no one had answered the phone. Amanda’s own roll call had ended almost half an hour ago. She was assigned to Vanessa today, which suited them both. The other woman had decided to treat herself to a day of shopping. That new credit card was burning a hole in her pocketbook.

The door opened and Evelyn rushed in. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I had the strangest call from Hodge.”

“My Hodge?”

Evelyn waved away the waitress who came to take her order. “He had dispatch send me to Zone One.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“No, the station was empty. It was just me and Hodge and his open door.” She sat back against the booth. She was obviously flustered. “He wanted me to tell him everything we’ve been doing.”

Amanda felt panic start to build.

“It’s okay. He wasn’t mad. At least, I don’t think he was mad. Who knows with that man? You’re absolutely right about his inscrutability. It’s unnerving.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Nothing. No criticisms. No comments. He just nodded and then told me to go do my job.”

“That’s the same thing he told me yesterday. To do my job.” Amanda asked, “Do you think he was comparing our stories?”

“Could be.”

“You didn’t hold anything back?”

“Well, I kept Deena’s name out of it. And Miss Lula’s. I didn’t want either of them getting into trouble.”

“You told him about Ophelia?”

“No,” she admitted. “I told him we were going to circle back on Trey Callahan, but I didn’t tell him why. Luther Hodge doesn’t strike me as a devotee of William Shakespeare.”

“I don’t know about that myself, Evelyn. Maybe we’re leaping to conclusions. Trey Callahan quotes a line from Hamlet and then you and I see the victim last night and fill in the blanks. It smacks of too much coincidence.”

“Is there really such a thing as coincidence in police work?”

Amanda couldn’t answer her. “Do you think Hodge will make trouble for us?”

“Who the hell knows?” She threw her hands into the air. “We should get to the mission. Going over it with Hodge again made me think of some things.”

Amanda slid out of the booth. She left two quarters on the table for the coffee and a generous tip. “Like what?”

“Like, everything.” Evelyn waited until they were outside to speak. “This Hank Bennett situation. I think you’re right. I think he’s a snake in the grass, and he used the information he had about Kitty Treadwell to get a job with her father.”

They got into Amanda’s car. She asked, “How would Bennett know there was a relation?”

“Her name was on the apartment door,” Evelyn reminded her. “Even without that, Kitty had a big mouth about her father. Miss Lula knew she was politically connected. Juice knew, too—he even mentioned another sister who was the golden child. It was an open secret on the street.”

“But not higher up the social ladder,” Amanda assumed. “Andrew Treadwell’s a Georgia graduate. I remember reading that in the newspaper.”

Evelyn smiled. “Hank Bennett was wearing a UGA class ring.”

“Georgia Bulldogs, class of 1974.” Once again, Amanda pulled out onto Ponce de Leon Avenue. “They could’ve met at a mixer or a social. All those frat boys are thick as thieves.” She’d interviewed her share for the sex crimes unit. They lied like carpets.

“What’s going on there?” Evelyn pointed at the Union Mission. An APD squad car blocked the entrance.

“I have no idea.” Amanda pulled onto the sidewalk and got out of the car. She recognized the patrolman walking out of the building, though she didn’t know his name. He obviously knew both Amanda and Evelyn. His pace quickened as he headed toward his car.

“Excuse me—” Amanda tried, but it was too late. The man got into his cruiser. Rubber squealed against asphalt as he peeled off.

“And the beat goes on,” Evelyn said. She didn’t seem too daunted as she headed toward the mission entrance. Instead of finding Trey Callahan, they saw a pudgy older man wearing a priest’s collar. He was sweeping broken glass off the floor. The front window had been broken. A brick was among the shards.

“Yes?” he asked.

Evelyn took the lead. “We’re with the Atlanta Police Department. We’re looking for Trey Callahan.”

The man seemed confused. “So am I.”

Amanda gathered they’d missed something. “Callahan isn’t here?”

“Who do you think caused this mess?” He indicated the broken glass. “Trey was supposed to open the shelter last night. He didn’t show up, so one of the girls threw a brick through the window.” He leaned against the broom. “I’m sorry, I’ve never dealt with the police before. Are you gals secretaries? The officer who just left said he would need a typed statement.”

Amanda suppressed a groan. The officer had been giving him the runaround. “We’re not secretaries. We’re plainclothes—”

“Detectives,” Evelyn interrupted, sounding very sure of herself. “And we don’t type statements. What’s your name, sir?”

“Father Bailey. I work at the soup kitchen down the street.”

He didn’t match the descriptions they’d been given. The priest was only a few inches taller than Amanda. “Are you the only one who works at the kitchen?”

“No, my associate does the cooking. Sometimes, I help with the cleaning, but my main duties are to provide spiritual support.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’m actually late, so if you girls—”

Evelyn interrupted, “If you work at the soup kitchen, why are you here?”

“I was supposed to meet with Trey this morning. We coordinate once a month, talk about the girls, who might be in trouble, who to look out for.”

“And you pulled in and saw the broken window?”

“And a room full of girls sleeping away the morning when they should’ve been locked out of the building.” He indicated the back of the room. “Trey’s office has been rifled. Probably one of the girls.”

“Did any of them see anything?”

“I hate to be uncharitable, but none of them are particularly helpful unless it directly benefits themselves.”

Amanda remembered, “What about Callahan’s girlfriend? She’s training to be a nurse at Georgia Baptist.”

He studied her for a moment. “Yes, I called over there looking for her. Eileen Sapperson. They say she missed her shift last night, too.”

“Did the hospital have a home number for her?”

“She doesn’t have a home line.”

“Do you mind if we—” Amanda indicated Callahan’s office. The priest shrugged. He resumed sweeping as they walked to the back of the room.

The office had clearly been tossed, but Amanda wasn’t sure whether the perpetrator was a junkie looking for money or a man trying to quickly leave town. Callahan’s desk was cleared of all his personal items. No framed photo of his dog and girlfriend. No Slinky. No funk posters. No transistor radio. There were a few joints smoked down to the last centimeter in the ashtray. The drawers hung open. Most important, the stack of typewriter pages was gone.

Evelyn noticed it, too. “Where’s his manuscript?”

“I can’t imagine a whore using it for anything but toilet paper.”

“Callahan got out of here fast. He must’ve taken the girlfriend.”

“On the same night Mary Halston was left dead at Techwood.”

“Coincidence?”

Amanda didn’t know anymore.

“Let’s go talk to the guy at the soup kitchen.”

“We can at least ask the priest his name.” They walked back into the main room. The priest was gone.

“Hello?” Evelyn called, though they could see every corner of the room. Amanda followed her outside. The sidewalk was empty. No one was in the parking lot. They even checked behind the building. “Well, at least he didn’t lie to us.”

“That we know of.” Amanda walked back toward the Plymouth. The inside of the car was already baking. She turned the key in the ignition. “I’m so sick and tired of being in this car.”

“You never really see Columbo driving anywhere.”

“I guess Ironside doesn’t count.”

“I’d like to see what Techwood Homes would make of a cripple in a bread truck.”

Amanda pulled out onto the street. “Pepper Anderson just magically appears wherever she needs to be.”

“One week, she’s a nurse at the hospital. Next week, she’s racing on a speedboat. Then she’s a go-go dancer, then a flight attendant flirting with some dreamy pilot. Hey—”

“Shut up.”

Evelyn chuckled as she leaned her arm on the door. They were both quiet as Amanda drove the few blocks up to Juniper Street.

She asked, “Left? Right?”

“Pick one.”

Amanda turned left. She slowed the car, checking each building on the left as Evelyn scanned the right.

They were almost to Pine Street when Evelyn said, “That must be it.”

The building was derelict, nothing to indicate it was a church except the large wooden cross stuck in the small patch of yard. It was painted black. Someone had thought to put nails where Jesus’s hands and feet would’ve been. Little red dots of paint indicated His suffering.

“What a dump,” Evelyn said.

She was right. The brick façade was crumbling. There were large vertical cracks in the mortar. Graffiti riddled the stoop, which was constructed of dry-stacked cinder blocks. Two of the four downstairs windows were boarded over, but the corresponding windows up top seemed intact.

They both got out of the car and headed toward the building. Amanda felt a breeze from a car passing in the street. It was an Atlanta Police cruiser. The blue light flashed once in greeting, but the driver didn’t stop.

The front door to the soup kitchen was open. Amanda smelled herbs and spices as soon as she crossed the threshold. Picnic tables filled the room. Plates and bowls were laid out. Napkins and spoons.

“No sharp objects,” Evelyn noted.

“Probably wise.” Amanda raised her voice. “Hello?”

“Just a minute,” a gruff voice called from the back. They heard pots clattering. Heavy footsteps across the floor. The man came out of the kitchen. Amanda felt gripped by an unexpected fear. They’d learned at the academy that the average door was six feet eight inches high and thirty inches wide. It was a good gauge to estimate a person’s height and weight. The man filled the kitchen doorway. His shoulders were almost as wide as the space between the jambs. His head nearly touched the top of the opening.

He smiled. His bottom tooth was crooked. His lips were full. “May I help you, Officers?”

Both of them stood frozen for a second. Amanda reached into her purse, found her badge. She showed it to the man, though he already knew they were cops. Amanda just wanted to say the words. “I’m Detective Wagner. This is Detective Mitchell.”

“Please.” He gestured to the table. “Have a seat.”

He waited politely for them to sit, then took the bench across from them. Again, Amanda couldn’t help but make comparisons. The man was almost as wide as both of them put together. Just the sight of his hands gripped together on the table was menacing. He could probably easily wrap his fingers around their necks.

Evelyn took out her notebook. She asked, “What’s your name, sir?”

“James Ulster.”

“Do you know Trey Callahan?”

He sighed. His voice was so deep that it came out as more of a growl. “Is this about the money he stole?”

“He stole money?” Amanda asked, though it was obvious he had.

“Father Bailey is more mindful of public relations than I am,” Ulster explained. “One of the donors on the board noticed that some funds were missing. Trey was to be called to task first thing this morning. I gather he had other plans.”

Amanda remembered the phone call Callahan had gotten yesterday when they were in his office. The man had said a donor was on the line. She asked, “They’re certain it was Trey who was embezzling money?”

“I’m afraid so.” Ulster rested his hands on either side of the bench. He was slumped down, probably out of habit. Such a large man would be accustomed to people feeling intimidated. Though, considering he ran a soup kitchen for Atlanta’s huddled masses, his size was probably more of an advantage than not.

Amanda asked, “Do you have any idea where Callahan might have gone?”

Ulster shook his head. “I believe he has a fiancée.”

They would have to go to Georgia Baptist next, though Amanda was fairly certain that was a dead end. “You’re friends with Mr. Callahan?”

“Did he say that?”

Amanda lied. “He said that you were. Is that wrong?”

“We had theological discussions. We talked about many different things.”

“Shakespeare?” Amanda asked. It was a stab in the dark, but it worked.

“Sometimes,” Ulster admitted. “Many authors of the seventeenth century wrote in a coded language. It was not a time when subversives were rewarded.”

“As in
Hamlet
?” Evelyn asked.

“That’s not the best example, but—yes.”

“What about Ophelia?”

Ulster’s tone took a sharp edge. “She was a liar and a whore.”

Amanda felt Evelyn stiffen beside her. She said, “You seem sure of that.”

“I’m sorry, but I find the subject matter tiresome. Trey was obsessed with the story. You couldn’t often have a conversation without him quoting some obscure line.”

That seemed true enough. “Do you know why?”

“It’s no secret that he was particularly interested in fallen women. Redemption. Salvation. I’m sure you were treated to one of his lectures on how all of these girls can be saved. He was quite adamant about it, and took it very personally when they failed.” Ulster shook his head. “And of course, they do fail. They continually fail. It’s in their nature.”