Triptych (32 page)

Will sat on Angie’s front porch, the hard concrete making his bottom numb. He had no idea where she was and his cell phone battery had finally died, so he wasn’t even sure of the time.

He had put the phone to good use before it had quit on him, calling a contact at the Atlanta police, making sure the report on Jasmine Allison wasn’t filed away like the thousands of other missing persons reports the city collected each year. They had put out an APB on Jasmine, and Luther Morrison had found a highly annoyed cop knocking at his front door. The patrolman had searched the house and discovered an underage girl there, but it wasn’t the underage girl they were looking for.

Will had a bad feeling about Jasmine’s disappearance. According to Cedric, Jasmine had seen something, talked to someone who was connected to the murder. That made her either valuable or expendable, depending on who you talked to, but as far as the city of Atlanta was concerned, Will’s bad feeling didn’t warrant an all-out manhunt.

This train of thought had persuaded Will to break down and call Michael Ormewood to find out if the girl had said anything to him before she’d escaped up the stairs. Michael could have been the last person to see her. Unfortunately, the detective either wasn’t home or wasn’t picking up the phone.

Angie’s black Monte Carlo SS pulled into her driveway. The engine sounded like it was running on gravel, and he couldn’t help but wince at the knocking that continued when she turned off the ignition. Will had spent a year restoring that car for her. Nights, weekends, a whole vacation. He had been on a mission to give her something nice, prove that he could build something with his hands without being told by a stupid manual that bolt A matches with nut C. The fresh oil stains on the driveway were like a kick in the face.

Angie threw open the car door and demanded, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He couldn’t help but notice that she was dressed for work. The way she sat in the car gave him and everyone else on this side of the street a clear view right up her short skirt.

Will asked, “What did you do to the car?”

“Drove it.” She got out and slammed the door so hard the car shook.

“There’s oil all over the driveway.”

“You don’t say.”

“Did you even get it serviced?”

“Where would I do that?”

“There are ten billion garages around here. You can’t throw a rock without hitting one.”

“If I was going to throw a rock, it’d be at your head, you stupid shit.” She pushed him away from the front door so that she could open it. “I’m tired and I’m pissed off and I just want to get to bed.” She tossed him a look over her shoulder, like she was just waiting for him to say something about joining her.

He said, “I need to talk to you.”

“Will, why didn’t you use your key?” She didn’t have to crane her neck to look at him and he realized she was still wearing her high heels. She said, “You still have your key. Why did you sit out here in the cold?”

He smelled alcohol on her breath. “Have you been drinking?”

She sighed, giving him another whiff of what had to be whiskey. “Come in,” she said, shoving her key into the lock. “My neighbors get enough of a show with me flashing my cootch every time I get out of the fucking car.”

Will followed her inside and closed the door behind him.

She kicked off the stilettos by the couch and slid into a pair of pink flip-flops. Angie hated going barefoot.

“You don’t need to be here.” She flipped on the hall lights, talking and undressing as she walked toward the bedroom. “I’ve had the shittiest day of my life. All the girls are freaked out about Aleesha and they just kept fucking crying all night, as if my day wasn’t bad enough already.” He saw her naked back, the slope down her spine that disappeared into her pink panties, right before she slammed her bedroom door. “Three o’clock, I got a call from Lieutenant Canton,” she continued, her voice muffled through the door. “He made me come in early and work with that fucker Ormewood all afternoon to find some stupid files from back when he was in Vice.”

Will remembered that Michael had said he’d go through the files, but he was surprised the man had followed through, considering the state he was in the last time Will had seen him.

“I had to spend two hours sitting in this God damn skirt”-he heard something thump against the wall and assumed it was the skirt-“with that asshole breathing down my neck, joking with me like he was my best fucking friend.”

Will had used his key about an hour earlier to put Aleesha Monroe’s mail on the coffee table so he didn’t have to hold it all night. He sat down on the couch now and went through it, stacking the letters into neat piles for Angie.

“I swear to God, Will,” Angie began, coming back up the hallway. “Some days I look at those girls and think they get better treatment from their pimps than I do from these cocksuckers I have to work with.”

The flip-flops slapped against her heels as she walked into the kitchen. He heard the refrigerator door open, then ice hitting a glass. She opened a bottle and poured something, then slammed the refrigerator again. Seconds later, she sat on the couch beside him, kicked off the shoes, and took a healthy swig from the glass.

Will couldn’t help it. His spine straightened like a Catholic schoolgirl’s. “Are you going to drink that in front of me?”

She pushed her bare foot against his leg, saying, “Just until you start to look pretty.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” she teased, nudging him again.

He turned to look at her, which was exactly what she had been waiting for. Angie was lying back on the couch, her foot still pressed against his leg. She had put on a short black robe and nothing else. The belt was tied loosely around her waist and he could see a tuft of hair between the folds.

Will felt his throat tighten. His mouth was so full of saliva that he pressed his lips together to keep from drooling.

She said, “I guess you found out my guy’s a pedophile.”

Will stood up so quickly he got a head rush. “What?”

“Shelley,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m assuming you pulled his sheet?”

Will put his hand to his eyes, like taking away his ability to see her would change what he had just heard. “He’s a pedophile?”

She gave him a funny smile. “You realize you’re yelling?”

Will lowered his voice. “You asked me to check up on a
pedophile
for you?” He walked to the fireplace, wanting to punch his fist through the brick. “What the hell are you thinking? Is that who you’re seeing now? Jesus, I was worried about Ormewood and now you’re-”

“What did he say?”

Her tone had changed, and the air in the room seemed to turn cold along with it.

He asked, “What did who say?”

She sat up on the couch, crossing her legs, covering herself with the robe. “You know damn well what I’m talking about.”

“No,” he countered. “I don’t.”

She put her glass on the table by the mail. “What’s this?”

“I know you slept with him. ”

“Real gentleman, that Michael Ormewood. Told you all the details, did he?” She gave a dry laugh as she thumbed through one of the stacks of mail he’d brought. “What fun it must have been for y’all to compare notes. No wonder the fucker was so happy this afternoon.”

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Will said. “I figured it out on my own.”

“Give the detective a gold star.” She lifted her glass as if to toast him, then took a long drink. He watched her throat work as she swallowed and swallowed until the glass was empty.

Will turned his back to her, looking at the painting over the mantel. It was a triptych, three canvases hinged together to make one image when it was open, another image when it was closed. He had always assumed she liked the duplicity of the piece. It was just like Angie, one thing inside, another out. Just like Michael Ormewood, come to think of it. What a perfect pair.

“Aleesha’s mail,” Angie finally noticed. “Did you just find this?”

He nodded.

“Why didn’t Michael’s team check for it before?”

Will cleared his throat. “I don’t know.”

“Junk, junk, bill, bill.” He heard the envelopes slapping the table as she rifled through them one by one. “What’s this?”

Will didn’t answer, but then she wasn’t really asking him.

He heard her open the envelope, take out the letter. “Nice cross,” she said. “I remember seeing Aleesha wear it sometimes.”

He looked up at the painting, wishing it was a mirror that would show him what was inside of her. Maybe it was. Two abstract images, neither one of them making a bit of sense.

Will felt her behind him, her hand snaking into his jacket pocket. She took out his digital recorder. “This is new.” She was standing so close that he could feel the heat from her body.

He heard her fiddling with the machine and turned around. “It’s the orange button.”

She held out the recorder. Will saw that her finger was already on the button. He gently pressed his thumb against her index finger and the recorder came on.

“Thanks.”

Will couldn’t look at her. He turned back around, leaning on the mantel again. She returned to the couch and sat down. The ice in the glass made a noise. She’d probably forgotten it was empty.

“ ‘Dear Mama,” “ Angie finally read. ” ’I know you think that I am writing to ask for money, but I just want to tell you that I don’t want anything from you anymore. You always blamed me for leaving but you were the one who left us. You were the one who made me the pariah. The Bible tells us that the sins of the parent are visited on the child. I am the outcast, the untouchable who can only live with the other pariah, because of your sins.“ ” Angie told him, “She spells her name differently when she signs it: A-L-I-C-I-A instead of A-L-E-E-S-H-A.”

Will made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. She had to know that she might as well be speaking Chinese to him.

“She spells her name correctly-the more common way-when she signs it. She probably changed the spelling when she hit the streets.” Angie kept talking and he couldn’t stop listening. “Postmark says she mailed it two weeks ago. There’s a stamp that says they returned the letter because she didn’t put enough postage on it. I guess the cross probably put it over the weight limit or maybe it got caught in one of the machines.” She paused. “Are you going to talk to the mother? This zip code isn’t far from here, probably about ten miles. I wonder if she even knows her daughter is dead.”

Will turned around. Angie held the envelope in her hand, flipped it over to make sure she didn’t miss anything on the back. She looked up, saw him staring at her, and asked, “Will?”

He told her, “If I could snap my fingers and make it like I’d never even met you, I’d do it.”

She put down the envelope. “I wish you could, too.”

“What are you doing with a guy like that?”

“He can be charming when he wants to.”

She meant Michael. “Was it before or after you found out he was using the girls?”

“Before, you asshole.”

He gave her a sharp look. “I don’t think you’ve got a right to be angry at me right now.”

She gave in. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“So Shelley’s a pedophile?”

She smiled, like it was funny. “And a murderer.”

“You think this is some kind of joke?”

She leaned her elbows on her knees, giving that coy smile that said she was open to anything. “Don’t be mad at me, baby.”

“Don’t put sex in the way of this.”

“It’s the only way I know how to communicate with people,” she joked, something a psychiatrist had once told her. Will wasn’t sure whether or not Angie had slept with the woman, but the observation was dead-on.

“Angie, please.”

“I told you this was a bad night for you to be here.” She stood up and put the envelope in his hand. “Come on, Willy,” she said, pulling him toward the door. “You need to go home.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

FEBRUARY 8, 2006 9:24 AM

Angie remembered Gina Ormewood from Ken’s retirement party. She was a mousy woman who seemed oblivious to the fact that heavy makeup made acne worse and a hair stylist who charged less than ten dollars wasn’t exactly doing you a favor. If Angie hadn’t fucked the woman’s husband the same night, she probably wouldn’t remember a thing about her. As it was, she knew that Gina worked at Piedmont Hospital, which in a roundabout kind of way you could say was on the way to Angle’s work-if that was what you could call the strip in front of the liquor store on Cheshire Bridge Road.

She had called the hospital to make sure Gina Ormewood would be there. The woman’s shift started in twenty minutes, but Angie didn’t have anything better to do than wait. When she got to the hospital, she was glad she’d come early. Cars were backed up into the street and parking space on the deck seemed to be unavailable. After a while, Angie gave up. She flashed her badge to the rent-a-cop standing outside the ER and parked in a handicapped space.

There were a dozen people standing around the entrance of the ER, all with cigarettes dangling out of their mouths. Angie held her breath as she passed through the smoke. She hated cigarettes because they always reminded her of the burns on Will’s body. Someone had spent hours searing the flesh around the angles of his shoulder blades, creating obscene patterns along the lines of his ribs.

She shuddered at the thought.

The man behind the counter didn’t even look up when Angie stood in front of him. “Sign in, take a seat.”

She slid her badge under his nose and he still didn’t give her the courtesy of making eye contact. “You need to talk to the hospital administrator if you want records.”

She looked at his name badge. “No records, Tank. I’m here for Gina Ormewood.”

He looked up then. “What do you want Gina for?”

“It’s about her husband.”

“I hope the bastard’s dead.”

“Get in line.” Her words were automatic, but she didn’t lose sight of the fact that the man obviously hated Michael.

Tank stood, taking her in with his eyes. Angie was dressed for work, which meant she looked like a whore. She was still a cop, though, and this guy wasn’t an idiot.