The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karin Slaughter

  After twenty years at the GBI working with tactical negotiations, Amanda Wagner had wanted a change. The brass had given her her choice of assignments. Typically, she had taken it into her head that she wanted to shake things up and in a year, she was heading up a new division of her own making, the criminal apprehension team. Special Criminal Apprehension Team. Never was an acronym more appropriate for the group she put together.

  For the most part, the ten men Amanda had chosen to work under her were all like Will: young agents who had been on the job awhile and proven that they didn’t exactly get along with others. Their superiors had rated them as difficult, but there was never anything they did that merited a formal warning, let alone firing. They were good cops, though, the kinds of men who as adults tried to correct the wrongs they could not control as children. Amanda had an uncanny eye for broken people, the ones who had something in their past that made them fall easy prey to her pseudo-mothering. Will could imagine Amanda presenting her carefully culled list of potential recruits to Susan Richardson, her chief at headquarters. Susan must have looked at the list the way you look at a cat when it brings you a dead bird. “Yes, thank you, please excuse my dry heaves.”

  Will shifted in his chair, looking at his phone again for the time. He wore a watch on his wrist, but only as a cheat to help him differentiate between left and right. Growing up, he had learned all kinds of tricks to hide his problem. Angie gave him constant grief about it, saying he shouldn’t be ashamed. Will wasn’t ashamed. He just didn’t want to have one more thing that made him different from everybody else. He sure as hell didn’t want to give Amanda Wagner more ammunition. She had been trying to get into his head as long as he had known her and this particular bit of information was tantamount to baring your neck to a hungry wolf.

  He looked out the window, watching birds gliding along with the wind. Amanda had been working out of the Marietta building when Will had been thrown to the meth freaks up in the mountains. She had moved to City Hall East a little over a year ago, her corner office affording her a panoramic view of downtown Atlanta. She was right by the elevator, which let her keep a finger in every pie the building cooked up. Caroline was in the outer office, but Amanda never closed the door between them. He could hear the secretary typing on her computer now. If she had any self-respect, she was working on her résumé.

  “Hello, Will.” Amanda had sneaked up on him while he was staring out the window. She pressed her hand to his shoulder as she walked past him.

  “Dr. Wagner.”

  She sat behind her desk, saying, “Sorry I’m late,” the same automatic and meaningless way people say, “excuse me” when they bump into you.

  He watched as she reviewed her phone messages, showing him the top of her carefully coiffed salt-and-pepper hair. Amanda was probably in her mid-fifties, a small woman, maybe five-three on a good day. Her attitude filled the room, and she walked with a swagger that rivaled a bullfighter’s. She wore a simple diamond ring on her wedding finger, though Will knew she wasn’t currently married. She had no children, or perhaps she had eaten them when they were young. Amanda was extremely private with her personal life—a luxury she didn’t afford others. Will thought of her time away from work the way he used to think of his schoolteachers crawling into their caves under the school building at night, lulling themselves to sleep with dreams of torturing their students the next day. Will imagined Amanda getting ready for work in the mornings; shaving her chest, tucking her tail, slipping her cloven hooves into her dainty size-six pumps.

  “I suppose I should call you Dr. Trent now?” she said, not looking up from her messages.

  Will had made himself busy during his mountain exile, knowing without a doubt that Amanda would eventually pull him from the Ep-worth office and put him back under her thumb. The correspondence school in Florida let him do the work online at his own pace, and the state recognized the criminology degree despite its dubious origins.

  He told her the truth. “I was trying to make my pay grade too rich for your budget.”

  “You don’t say,” she said, taking out a gold fountain pen and making a note on one of the messages.

  Will glanced at the scar on his hand where Amanda had shot him with a nail gun. He told her, “Nice pen.”

  She raised an eyebrow, sitting back in her chair. Almost a full minute passed before she asked, “Where is Two Egg, Florida, exactly?”

  He fought a smile. He had chosen the school primarily for its ridiculous location. “I believe it’s near the picturesque Withlacoochee River, ma’am.”

  She obviously didn’t believe a word he was saying. “Of course it is.”

  Will was silent, a lobster being appraised in the tank.

  She capped the gold fountain pen and placed it perpendicular to the blotter. “You’re not taping this, are you?”

  “Not today, ma’am.” Will had a hard enough time reading typewritten documents, but his own handwriting was the kind of backward scrawl you’d find on the walls at the local kindergarten. Amanda was prone to giving out long lists of tasks. The only way Will could keep up with them was to record her so that he could take his time transcribing her words onto the computer. Two years ago, she had caught him red-handed in a meeting. Amanda hadn’t liked being taped without her permission and of course she had assumed Will was doing it for nefarious reasons. He would be damned if he told her about his reading problem, and even if he’d been inclined, Amanda had transferred him to the North Pole before he could get his snowshoes on.

  “All right,” she said. “Tell me about your case.”

  Will gave her a briefing on what little he had. He ran through the case files of the three girls he had found, said he believed two of them were connected. He told her he had read about Aleesha Monroe, the slain prostitute, on the GBIs daily report that highlighted crimes around the state. Following protocol, he had asked Lieutenant Ted Greer to be let in on the case and been assigned to Michael Ormewood, the lead detective. When he got to the part about Ormewood’s dead neighbor, Amanda stopped him.

  “The tongue was bitten off?”

  “I’m not certain how it was removed,” Will told her. “Perhaps if I had known you were going to be late this morning, I could have taken the time to discuss this with the coroner so that I would be better informed for this briefing.”

  “Don’t whine, Dr. Trent. It doesn’t suit you.” Her tone was soft, conciliatory, but he could tell from her smile that he had been given a point in her scorebook. That he was even playing the game meant she had already won.

  Amanda went back to the case. “The tongues weren’t taken from the scene in the previous crimes?”

  “No, ma’am,” Will told her. “The first girl’s tongue wasn’t completely severed. The second was holding it in her hand when they found her, but it was too late to do anything about it. Monroe’s tongue was left on the stairs. Spit out, most likely. Cynthia Barrett’s tongue was not found at the scene.”

  “Did you search the Barrett house?”

  “The DeKalb PD did,” Will told her. “From what I gathered, they didn’t find anything unusual.”

  “From what you gathered?” she echoed.

  “I didn’t want to step on their toes.”

  “Probably wise,” Amanda admitted. DeKalb County was still tightly controlled by a handful of men who didn’t like the state—or anyone, for that matter—messing in their business. Six years ago, DeKalb sheriff-elect Derwin Brown had been assassinated in his own driveway while he was carrying in some Christmas packages from his car. He was three days away from being sworn into office, and Sidney Dorsey, the outgoing sheriff, hadn’t taken the defeat well.

  Amanda took a file out of the top drawer of her desk and opened it to the first page. “What do you think of this Michael Timothy Ormewood?”

  “I haven’t yet formed an opinion,” Will answered, thinking that if she had pulled Ormewood’s personnel file, she already knew more than Will did.

  She read aloud a
s she traced down the page with her finger. “Army man. Sixteen years Atlanta PD. Worked his way up from foot beat to his gold shield. Accused in ninety-eight of excessive use of force.” She made a jerking-off motion with her fist, dismissing the complaint. “He moved up pretty quickly. Narcotics—not for long, probably got bored—Vice, and now Homicide. No college education.” She glanced up at Will. “Do try not to lord your fancy Two Egg degree over him, Dr. Trent.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She turned the page. “Commendation for saving a civilian. Even you have one of those. They hand them out like candy.” She closed the file. “Nothing to shout home about. Wears beige and keeps quiet.” This was a general phrase she used for cops who did their jobs and waited out their pensions. It was not a compliment.

  “Anything else?” Will asked, knowing full well there was.

  She smiled. “I put in a call to a friend in uniform.” Amanda always had friends. Considering her personality, Will wondered about the nature of these relationships, and if by friend she meant someone she gripped by the short hairs. “Ormewood worked in supply when he was over in Kuwait. Never made it past the rank of private.”

  Will was mildly surprised. “Is that so?”

  “He was honorably discharged, which is all the Atlanta PD would have known—or cared—about. My guy says he was wounded his second week overseas, and that they never did find out who shot him.”

  “The wound was self-inflicted?”

  She shrugged. “Wouldn’t you shoot yourself in the leg to get out of that hellhole?”

  Will would have shot himself in the leg to get out of Amanda’s office.

  “So.” Amanda pressed her palms together as she leaned back in the chair. “Plan of action?”

  “I need to talk to Ormewood. It can’t be a fluke that this has happened in his own backyard.”

  “Do you think he might have gotten too close to the doer in the Monroe case?”

  “Cynthia Barrett’s body was fresh when we got there, probably no more than an hour old. I was with Ormewood the whole morning and I didn’t see that we made any great strides toward breaking the case, let alone pushed someone so hard that they jumped in their car, went to his house and mutilated his next-door neighbor.”

  Amanda nodded for him to continue.

  “We talked to Monroe’s pimp. He didn’t strike me as the type to cut off a good source of income, but obviously I’ll go back at him today.”

  “And?”

  “And as I said, I’ll talk to Ormewood about this, ask if he saw or did anything unusual the night of the Monroe murder.”

  “Is he in today or did he take compassionate leave?”

  “I have no idea,” Will answered. “Wherever he is, I’ll find him.”

  She picked up one of her messages. “A Leo Donnelly was trying to get your personnel file.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “I sealed it,” she said. “No one needs to smell your dirty laundry.”

  “No one but you,” Will corrected. He looked at his watch as he stood. “If that’s all, Dr. Wagner?”

  She held her hands out in an open gesture. “By all means, Dr. Trent. Go forth and conquer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  8:56 AM

  John had been forced to get rid of his shoes. He wasn’t sure if he had left any footprints at the scene, but he wasn’t taking any chances. When he got back to the flophouse, he had cut at the soles with a kitchen knife, altering the waffle pattern. Not trusting his luck, he had then gotten on the bus, paying cash so his Trans Card wouldn’t track him, and ridden to Cobb Parkway all the way up in Marietta. There he had walked around for an hour, dragging his feet on the hot asphalt, scoring the soles some more.

  At the Target, he’d bought a new pair of sneakers—twenty-six dollars he could ill-afford—then tossed his old shoes into a Dumpster behind a shady-looking Chinese restaurant. His stomach had rumbled at the smells coming from the kitchen. Twenty-six dollars. He could have bought a nice meal, had a waitress bring him food, keep his glass filled with iced tea, talked to her about the crazy weather.

  All the tea in the world wasn’t worth going back to prison.

  God, he was in such a fucking mess. He shuddered, thinking how that girl’s tongue had felt when he’d pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. Even through the latex glove, he could feel the texture of the thing, the warmness to it from being in her mouth. John put his hand to his own mouth, trying not to vomit. She’d been an innocent, just a little girl who had been too curious, too easily swayed.

  John’s only consolation was the thought of Michael Ormewood’s face when he went into his garage in search of the porn he kept in the bottom of his toolbox and found his trusty knife sitting beside his teenage victim’s tongue.

  “Shelley!” Art yelled. John bolted up. He had been kneeling beside a sedan, rubbing bug guts off the front bumper.

  “Sir?”

  “Visitor.” Art jerked his head toward the back of the building. “Make sure you’re off the clock.”

  John stood frozen in place. A visitor. No one visited him. He didn’t know anybody.

  “Yo, yo,” Ray-Ray mumbled. They had worked out an uneasy peace since the hooker incident.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s a girl.” Not a cop, was what he meant.

  A girl, John thought, his mind reeling. The only girl he knew was Robin.

  He told Ray-Ray, “Thanks, man,” tucking in his shirt as he headed to the back of the car wash. As John punched out, he caught his reflection in the mirror over the clock. Despite the chill in the air, sweat had plastered his hair to his head. Jesus, he probably smelled, too.

  John ran his fingers through his hair as he opened the back door. His first thought was that the girl who stood there wasn’t Robin, then that the girl wasn’t really a girl. It was a woman. It was Joyce.

  He felt more nervous than if it had actually been the prostitute come to see him, and ashamed by the cheap clothes he was wearing. Joyce was in a nice suit jacket with matching slacks that she sure as shit hadn’t bought at a discount store. The sun was picking out auburn highlights in her hair and he wondered if it was streaked or something she’d always had. He remembered the way Joyce’s face used to twist up when she got angry with him, the smile on her mouth when she gave him an Indian burn and the sneer she’d give when she slapped him for pulling one of her braids. He didn’t, however, remember the color of her hair when they were children.

  She greeted him with a demand. “What are you mixed up in, John?”

  “When did you start back smoking?”

  She took a long drag on the cigarette in her hand and tossed it to the ground. He watched her press the toe of her shoe into it, grinding the butt, probably wishing she was grinding his head in its place.

  She let out a stream of smoke. “Answer my question.”

  He looked back over his shoulder, though he knew they were alone. “You shouldn’t be here, Joyce.”

  “Why won’t you answer my question?”

  “Because I don’t want you involved.”

  “You don’t want me involved?” she repeated, incredulous. “My life is involved, John. Whether I like it or not, you are my brother.”

  He could feel her anger like a heat radiating from her body. Part of him wished she would just haul off and hit him, beat him to a bloody pulp until her fists were broken and her rage was spent.

  She said, “How can you have credit cards when you’re in prison?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is it allowed?”

  “I …” He hadn’t even considered the question, though it was a good one. “I suppose. You can’t have cash, but …” He tried to think it through. You could get a warning or even thrown into solitary for having cash in prison. Everything you bought at the canteen was debited through your account and you weren’t allowed to order anything through the mail.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You realize
if Paul Finney finds out any of this, he’ll sue you in civil court for every dime you have.”

  “There’s nothing to get,” John said. His mother’s will had left everything to Joyce for this very reason. Under the victim’s compensation act, if John ever had more than two pennies to rub together, Mary Alice’s family could get it. Mr. Finney was like a circling shark waiting for a drop of John’s blood in the water.

  Joyce said, “You own a house in Tennessee.”

  He could only stare.

  She took a folded sheet of paper out of her coat pocket. “Twenty-nine Elton Road in Ducktown, Tennessee.”

  He took the page, which was a Xerox of an original. Across the top were the words, “Official Certificate of Title.” His name was listed above the property address as the owner. “I don’t understand.”

  “You own this house free and clear,” she told him. “You paid it off in five years.”

  He had never owned anything in his life except a bicycle, and Richard had taken that away from him after his first arrest. “How much did it cost?”

  “Thirty-two thousand dollars.”

  John choked on the amount. “Where would I get that kind of money?”

  “How the hell do I know?” She yelled this so loudly that he stepped back.

  “Joyce—”

  She jabbed her finger in his face, saying, “I’m only going to ask you this one more time, and I swear to God, John, I swear on Mama’s grave, if you lie to me I will cut you out of my life so quick you won’t know what hit you.”

  “You sound just like Dad.”

  “That’s it.” She started to walk away.

  “Wait,” he said, and she stopped but didn’t turn around. “Joyce—someone’s stolen my identity.”

  Her shoulders sagged. When she finally looked at him, he could read every horrible thing he was ever involved in etched into the lines of her face. She was quiet now, anger spent. “Why would someone steal your identity?”

  “To cover himself. Cover his tracks.”

  “For what reason? And why you?”