The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karin Slaughter

  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?”
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  “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.”

  Evelyn asked, “Did you ever see Trey acting inappropriately with the girls?”

  “I wasn’t often at the mission. My work is here. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he availed himself. He stole money from a charitable organization. Why would he stop at exploiting fallen women?”

  “Did you ever see him angry?”

  “Not with my own eyes, but I heard that he had quite a temper. Some of the girls mentioned that he could be violent.”

  Amanda glanced down at Evelyn’s notebook. She wasn’t writing down any of this. Maybe she was thinking the same thing as Amanda. Trey Callahan was probably stoned out of his mind most of his waking hours. It was hard to imagine him experiencing anger, let alone acting on it. Of course, they hadn’t pegged him for a thief, either.

  Evelyn said, “Trey Callahan was writing a book.”

  “Yes.” Ulster drew out the sibilant. “His opus. It wasn’t very good.”

  “You read it?”

  “A few pages. Callahan was more suited for the job he had than the job he wanted.” He smiled at them. “So many people would better know peace if they just accepted the plans the Lord has for them.”

  Amanda got the feeling that Ulster was talking to them directly.

  Evelyn must’ve felt the same. Her tone was curt when she asked, “What exactly do you do here, Mr. Ulster?”

  “Well, we feed people, obviously. Breakfast is at six in the morning. The lunch hour begins at noon. You’ll find the tables start to fill up well before then.”

  “Those are your only meals?”

  “No, we provide dinner as well. That begins at five and is over promptly at seven.”

  “And then they leave?”

  “Most do. Some of them stay the evening. There are twenty beds upstairs. A shower, though the hot water is not reliable. Women only, of course.” He made to stand. “Shall I show you?”

  “That’s not necessary.” Amanda didn’t want to be trapped upstairs with the man. She asked, “Do you stay here at night?”

  “No, there’s no need for that. Father Bailey’s parish is down the street. He comes by at eleven every evening to lock them in, then he lets them out at six every morning.”

  Amanda asked, “How long have you worked here?”

  He thought it over. “It will be two years come fall.”

  “What did you do before that?”

  “I was a foreman at the railroad yard.”

  Evelyn indicated the building. “You’ll forgive me for saying, but I can’t imagine the pay here is on par.”

  “No, it is not, and what little I make I try to give back.”

  “You don’t get paid for working here—” Evelyn did the math quickly. “Thirteen hours a day?”

  “As I said, I take what I need. But it’s closer to sixteen hours a day. Seven days a week.” He gave an open-handed shrug. “Why would I need earthly riches when my rewards will be in heaven?”

  Evelyn shifted on the bench. She seemed as uncomfortable as Amanda felt. “Did you ever meet a working girl named Kitty Treadwell?”

  “No.” He stared at them blankly. “Not that I can recall, but we have many prostitutes here.”

  Amanda unzipped her purse and found the license. She showed him Kitty’s photograph.

  Ulster reached out for the paper. He was careful not to touch her hand. He studied the photograph, then his eyes shifted to the name and address. His lips moved silently, as if he was sounding out the words.

  He finally said, “She looks markedly healthier in this photo. I suppose it was taken before she succumbed to the devil of her addiction.”

  Evelyn clarified, “So you knew Kitty?”

  “Yes, if not by name.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “A month ago? Maybe more.”

  That didn’t make sense. Amanda laid out Lucy Bennett’s license, then Mary Halston’s. “How about these girls?”

  He leaned over the table and studied them one by one. He took his time. Again, his lips moved as he read the names. Amanda listened to his breathing, the steady inhale and exhale. She could see the top of his head. Dandruff dotted his light brown hair.

  “Yes.” He looked up. “This girl. She was here a few times, but she favored the mission. I expect because she had a thing with Trey.” He was pointing to Mary Halston, the murder victim from last night. “This girl.” He pointed to Lucy. “I’m not sure about her. They both look very similar. They are both obviously drug addicts. It is the scourge of our generation.”

  Evelyn verified, “You recognize Lucy Bennett and Mary Halston as girls who’ve used this soup kitchen?”

  “I believe so.”

  Evelyn was writing now. “And Mary was a favorite of Trey Callahan’s?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “When’s the last time you saw either Lucy or Mary?”

  “A few weeks ago? Maybe a month?” Again, he studied the photos. “They both look very healthy in these photographs.” He looked back up, first at Evelyn, then Amanda. “You are both police officers, so I assume you are more accustomed to the ravages of drug abuse. These girls. These poor girls.” He sadly shook his head. “Drugs are a poison, and I do not know why our Lord caused it to be, but there is a certain type who succumbs to this temptation. They tremble before the drug when they should be trembling before the Lord.”

  His voice resonated in the open room. Amanda could imagine him holding forth from the pulpit. Or the streets. “There’s a pimp whose street name is Juice.”

  “I am familiar with that sinner.”

  “He says you sometimes preach to the girls when they’re working?”

  “I do the Lord’s work, no matter the danger.”

  Amanda didn’t imagine he felt much danger, considering no sane person would be happy to run into a man as large as James Ulster in a dark alley. “Have you ever been to Techwood Homes?”

  “On many occasions,” he answered. “I deliver soup to the shut-ins. Techwood is Mondays and Fridays. Grady Homes is Tuesdays and Thursdays. There is another kitchen that services Perry Homes, Washington Heights—”

  “Thank you,” Evelyn interrupted, “but we’re just concerned with Techwood.”

  “I’ve heard that there have been some awful things happening there.” He gripped his hands together. “It tries the soul to see how those people live. But I suppose we all shuffle off the same mortal coil.”

  Amanda felt her heart stop mid-beat. “Trey Callahan used that same phrase with us. It’s from Shakespeare.”

  “Is it?” he asked. “Perhaps I picked up his manner of speaking. As I said, he was incessant on the topic.”

  “Do you remember a working girl named Jane Delray?”

  “No. Is she in trouble?”

 
“How about Hank Bennett? Have you ever met him?” Evelyn waited, but Ulster shook his head. “He’s got hair about your color. Around six feet tall. Very well dressed.”

  “No, sister, I’m afraid I do not.”

  The radio in Evelyn’s purse clicked. There was a muffled call, followed by a series of clicks. Evelyn reached into the bag to turn down the sound, but then stopped when her name came through the speaker.

  “Mitchell?” Amanda recognized Butch Bonnie’s voice.

  “Excuse me,” she said, taking out the radio. “Mitchell, ten-four.”

  Butch ordered, “Twenty-five me your location. Now.”

  There were more clicks on the radio—a collective response of laughter. Butch was telling them both to meet him outside.

  Evelyn told Ulster, “Thank you for speaking with us. I hope you won’t mind if we call with any questions?”

  “Of course not. Shall I give you my telephone number?”

  Her pen nearly disappeared in Ulster’s left hand. He gripped it in his fist, not between his thumb and index finger, as he wrote down the seven digits. Above this, he carefully wrote his name. It was more like a child’s scrawl. The ballpoint tore through the paper on the last letter.

  “Thank you,” Evelyn said. She was visibly reluctant to take back the pen. She slid on the cap and closed her notebook. Ulster stood when they did. He offered his hand to each of them. They were all sweating in the heat, but there was something particularly clammy about Ulster’s skin. He held their hands delicately, but for Amanda’s part, it only served to remind her that he could crush the bones if he so chose.

  Evelyn’s breathing was shallow as they walked toward the door. “Jesus,” she whispered. As relieved as they both were to be away from Ulster, the sight of Butch Bonnie almost sent Amanda back inside. He was obviously livid.

  “What the fuck are you two doing?” He grabbed Evelyn by the arm and dragged her down the cinder-block stairs.

  Amanda said, “Don’t you—”

  “Shut your face!” He pushed Amanda against the wall. His fist reared back, but stopped short of punching her. “How many times do you have to be told?” he demanded. “Both of you!” He stepped back. His feet scuffed across the sidewalk. “Jesus Christ.”