He gave her a forced grin. “That sounds really nice.”
“Then let’s do it. Right now.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll drop you off at your place, then go run some errands.”
Sara stopped pretending. “I’m not going to let you do it.”
Will sat back in his chair. The nervous energy was gone. She watched it slowly leave his body. Now there was only the grief and sorrow that had broken her heart the day before.
“Will—”
He cleared his throat. The sound turned into a cough. His throat worked as he fought back tears. “She was just a student.”
Sara bit her lip.
“She was walking to class one night, and he saw her, and he took her, and that was it. Her life was over.” He put down his fork. “You know what was done to her. You saw the girl yesterday. He did the same thing to both of them.”
Will’s cell rang. He grabbed the phone out of his pocket. “Did you arrest him?” The devastation on his face told Sara the answer. “Where?” He listened a few seconds longer, then hung up. “Faith’s waiting in the driveway.”
“What happened?” Even as she said the words, Sara knew they were pointless. Another body had been found. Another life destroyed. Will’s father had killed again.
Will stood. He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. He wouldn’t look at her. She could practically hear his thoughts: He should’ve gone through with it. He should’ve taken his gun and gone to the hotel the minute he heard that his father was free.
He said, “Amanda wants you to come, too.”
Sara didn’t want to be a burden. Amanda had dragged her into this once before. “Do you want me there?”
“Amanda does.”
“I don’t care about Amanda. I only want to do what’s best for you. Easiest for you.”
Will stood in the doorway. He seemed about to say something profound, but then he reached down and retrieved her gym bag. “Try to hurry. I’ll be outside.”
twenty-five
July 15, 1975
James Ulster grabbed Amanda by the back of the neck. She felt like a kitten snatched by its scruff. Her arms went slack. Her toes lifted from the ground.
And then she remembered the revolver in her hand.
She snaked the gun around her side and pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. Three times. His body jerked as he was hit, but his grip only tightened. She pulled the trigger again. The muzzle flash singed Amanda’s side. The gun was ripped from her hand. Ulster grunted. The muzzle was hot enough to burn his flesh. The gun clattered to the ground.
Amanda dropped to her knees, feeling blindly for the weapon. Ulster jerked her up by her arm. She felt like the bone was cracking. Her feet left the ground again. Her back slammed against the house. The breath was knocked out of her. She kicked and clawed as Ulster’s hand wrapped around her neck. She dug her fingernails into his skin. His face contorted in rage. Amanda felt dizzy. There wasn’t enough breath to fill her lungs.
“Let her go!” Evelyn screamed. She had her Kel-Lite crossed under her revolver. “Now!”
Ulster didn’t believe her. He tightened his grip on Amanda.
Evelyn pulled the trigger. Ulster’s grip loosened around Amanda’s neck. Evelyn fired again. The bullet hit his leg. He dropped Amanda. His arm was bleeding. His side was bleeding. Still, he didn’t go down.
“Don’t move,” Evelyn ordered. But Ulster didn’t listen. He walked straight toward Evelyn. She pulled the trigger, but the shot went wild. He slapped the gun out of her hand. His fist swung. Evelyn stepped back, but not fast enough. His knuckles grazed her chin. Evelyn collapsed to the driveway.
“No!” Amanda screamed. She jumped on his back. Her fingernails scratched into his eyes. Instead of spinning around blindly, Ulster fell to his knees, rolled onto his back. His weight crushed Amanda. Breath huffed out of her chest. Still, she wrapped her arm around his neck, locked it tight with the other one. Choke hold. She’d seen it done before. It looked so easy, but no one was really fighting back. No one had over two hundred fifty pounds of muscle to leverage out of the hold. Ulster pulled Amanda’s arms apart as easily as a child untying a bow. She fell back hard, her head smashing into the concrete drive.
She kicked and punched. Her blows were useless. He easily pinned her to the ground, trapping her arms at her sides, the weight of his body grinding her tailbone into the concrete. Blood soaked the front of Ulster’s shirt, dripped from his mouth. “You must repent, sister.” He pressed harder. He was pushing the air out of her body. “Repent to me your sins.”
“No,” Amanda whispered. “Please.”
“Our Father.”
She struggled, gulping for air.
“Our Father,” he repeated, pressing harder.
Her ribs flexed back into her stomach. Something was tearing inside. She couldn’t fight anymore. She could only look up at his cold, soulless eyes.
“Our Father,” he said a third time, the beginning of the Lord’s Prayer.
Amanda huffed out, “Father.”
“Who art in Heaven.”
“Who art …” She couldn’t get enough air to speak.
“Who art in Heaven.”
“Who—” She pushed up against him, but his weight was like a mountain. “Please,” she panted. “Please.”
Ulster lifted up just enough so her chest could draw breath.
“Who art—”
“Who …,” she tried. “Who art …”
She felt her arms moving of their own volition. Ulster stopped her at first, pressing down his weight again, but then he understood. Carefully, he shifted back a fraction of an inch. Amanda slid out her arm, feeling her flesh scrape against the inseam of his pants. She pulled out the other arm, then clasped her hands together. Fingers laced one into the other. Palms tight. Thumbs outside.
Ulster stared at her intently. There was a smile on his lips. He rocked slowly, his pelvis grinding into hers. She felt as if her hipbone might crack in two. He leaned over more. He wanted to see her, wanted to enjoy the pain on her face.
She whispered, “Our Father …”
“That’s right.” His voice slow, as if he was teaching a child. “Who art in Heaven.”
“Who art in Heaven.” She stopped, gasping for breath.
“Hallowed be—”
The words rushed out. “Hallowed be thy name.”
“Thy kingdom come.” He leaned over farther, staring down at her face. “Thy kingdom come?”
“Thy—”
Amanda didn’t finish the prayer.
Instead, she drove her clenched hands as hard as she could straight up into his neck. Her knuckles smashed into cartilage and bone. His throat flexed. Something snapped. It sounded like a stick breaking.
Hyoid. Just like Pete had shown her.
Ulster dropped on top of her like a pile driver. Amanda tried to push him off. He groaned, but wouldn’t budge. He was too heavy to shift. She had to crawl out from under him. His weight was suffocating her. She forced herself to not pass out. To not throw up. To not give in.
Amanda’s palms scraped for purchase. She pressed her toes into the concrete. The going was slow, painstaking. Her heart was in her throat. Bile was in her mouth. And then, with one final push, she finally managed to wrench herself free.
Evelyn was still out cold. Her revolver lay in her open hand. The Kel-Lite had rolled to the side.
Amanda reached for the gun, but Ulster grabbed her ankle, jerking her back. Amanda kicked as hard as she could. She felt his nose break under her heel. He let go. Amanda scrambled, pulling herself to her knees, but he grabbed her again. His arms went around her waist. Amanda slammed back her head, going for his broken nose. He faltered, which gave her time to twist around, take aim, and drive her elbow straight into the soft meat of his throat.
The loud crack sounded like a shotgun blast.
Ulster’s hands went to his neck. Air whistled into his mouth. Amanda slammed her elbow a second time. Another
crack. She did it again. Ulster fell onto his side. He rolled onto his back, wheezing for air. Amanda pushed herself up again. Her arms ached. Her head was pounding. Her chest hurt. Her throat hurt. Everything hurt.
She managed to stand, clutching at the van so that she would not fall back down.
Ulster made a gurgling sound. Blood dribbled from his mouth and nose.
Amanda pressed her bare foot into his neck. The sensation was just as Pete had described, bubbles crackling against the arch of her foot. She leveraged her weight back and forth, watching Ulster’s eyes widen in terror, wondering if hers had done the same when he was pressing the life out of her.
“ ’Manda,” Evelyn murmured. She was sitting up. Her lip was split. She had her hand to her face. Her jaw was so swollen that the lump showed through her fingers.
“Hey!” A patrolman ran around the van. He screeched to a stop when he took in the scene. “Jesus fucking Christ.” His gun was drawn, though it hung limply out in front of him. “What the fuck did you broads do?”
“Amanda.” Evelyn’s voice was stilted, as if it hurt to talk. She said, “The girl.”
twenty-six
Present Day
WEDNESDAY
News vans and reporters scurried like ants on the outer motor court of the Four Seasons. This wasn’t just a hotel. High-priced lawyers and money managers filled the office spaces on the upper levels. The residence floors were packed with the rich and famous. Rap singers. TV reality stars. Fame-seeking socialites.
Crime scene tape had been strung along the marble fountain fronting Fourteenth Street. Someone noticed that Faith’s turn signal was on. The reporters thronged forward. Will could hear their questions shouted through the closed window. What happened? Why are you here? Can you tell us who the victim is?
They would get the story soon enough. A woman murdered in a high-class hotel room. A paroled killer on the loose. There was not one part of the city this crime didn’t touch, from the mayor’s office to the Convention and Visitors Bureau.
Will had seen these stories spin out of control before. Every salacious detail would be discussed and analyzed. Rumors would be fed into the machine and regurgitated as fact. The obvious questions would be asked: Who did he kill? Why was he released? The Sunshine Law would be invoked. Files would be photocopied and couriered and Sam Lawson, Faith’s ex who worked at the newspaper, would probably be on CNN before night fell.
“Crap,” Faith mumbled, nosing her Mini up to the police barricade. The car shook as reporters jockeyed for position. She flashed her badge at the cop on duty.
“The BMW, too,” Faith told him, pointing to Sara’s car behind them.
The cop made a note on his clipboard, then pushed his way through the crowd to lift the barricade.
A reporter knocked on Faith’s window. She mumbled, “Asshole,” as she rolled the car forward. She hadn’t said much on the ride over. Will didn’t know if that was because she didn’t know what to say or because Amanda was playing her usual game of hide the details.
Another body. Same M.O. His father nowhere to be found. The new victim was a prostitute. Will knew this with absolute certainty. It was his father’s pattern. First a student, then a working girl. He didn’t get rid of one unless he had another to take her place.
Will turned around to check for Sara. The BMW followed them inside the barricade. His Sig Sauer was still under her front seat. She wasn’t going to stop him this time. Amanda could put fifty guards on Will and he’d still grab the gun and find his father and shoot him in the head.
Exactly as he should’ve done last night. This morning. Last week.
So many opportunities missed. His father had lived in this hotel for two months, and he’d somehow managed to come and go with no one being the wiser. He’d managed to abduct two girls. He’d managed to dump one at Techwood and murder another one in his hotel room. All while the police, hotel security, and undercover agents were supposedly watching his every move.
If that bastard could give them the slip, then so could Will. He was nothing if not his father’s son.
Faith jerked up the handbrake as she parked behind Amanda’s G-ride. Will got out of the car. Sara’s BMW stopped in front of two Atlanta police cruisers. There were just as many cops on scene as reporters. He had to push past two uniformed patrolmen to open Sara’s door for her. The cameras flashed as she got out of the car. She crossed her arms self-consciously. She was dressed in her yoga pants and his shirt. Hardly work attire. Will took the opportunity to reach in behind her and retrieve his gun from under the seat.
Except the gun wasn’t there.
When he looked up, Sara was staring at him.
“Dr. Linton,” Amanda said. “Thank you for coming.”
Sara shut the car door. She locked it with the key fob, which she put in her shirt pocket. “Is Pete on the way?”
“No. He’s testifying in court this morning.” Amanda motioned for them to follow her inside. “I appreciate your coming on such short notice. It would behoove us all to get this body quickly removed.”
A patrolman opened the side door. There was a whoosh as the air pressure changed. Will had never been inside the hotel before. The lobby was opulent in its excesses. Every surface was a different color of marble. A large staircase dominated the center of the room, splitting into two opposite sides as it reached the second floor. The treads were carpeted. The handrails were polished brass. The chandelier overhead looked as if a crystal factory had exploded.
The setting would’ve been impressive but for the fact that every shade and variety of police officer filled the lobby. Plainclothes division. Uniformed patrol. Special agents from the GBI. Even a couple of women from vice were there, their gold detective’s shields looking incongruous against their skimpy attire.
Amanda told Faith, “Security is pulling footage from the last twenty-four hours. I need you to expedite that.”
Faith nodded, heading toward the front desk.
Sara asked, “Have you identified the victim?”
“Yes.” Amanda motioned over Jamal Hodge. “Detective, if you could please clear out all but the bare minimum of your people?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He walked over to the crowd and raised his arms for attention. Will tuned out the man. He watched Amanda instead. She adjusted the sling on her shoulder as she gave orders to one of the hotel rent-a-cops.
Sara asked, “What is it?”
Will didn’t answer. He scanned the lobby, trying to find a senior Atlanta Police officer. No Leo Donnelly. No Mike Geary, the captain in charge of this zone.
Amanda took over the case, Will realized. It didn’t make sense. As far as the Atlanta Police Department knew, a dead prostitute had nothing to do with a kidnapped student. He asked Amanda, “What happened?”
Amanda indicated the rent-a-cop. He was in an expensive-looking charcoal suit, but the radio in his hand gave him away. “This is Bob McGuire, head of hotel security. He called it in.”
Will shook the man’s hand. McGuire was too young to be a retired cop, but he seemed fairly collected considering what had fallen into his lap. He led them toward the elevator, saying, “I got the call from the kitchen this morning. The room service girl said that he wasn’t responding to her knock.”
Amanda explained, “He’s been adhering to a regular schedule.”
The elevator doors opened. Will stood back to let Sara and Amanda on first.
McGuire said, “He’s been staying here for two months.” He waved a keycard over the panel, then pressed the button for the nineteenth floor. “We can track his movements in and out of the room through the software on the door lock. His schedule’s been roughly the same since he got here. Room service at six in the morning, then the gym, then he goes back to his room, then he orders room service at noon.” He tucked his hands into his pockets. “Once or twice a week, he uses our restaurant for dinner, or eats at the bar. Most nights, he orders room service at six o’clock. Then we don’t hear from him until s
ix the next morning.”
Amanda noted, “He’s keeping to his prison schedule.”
Will glanced around the elevator car. The security camera was tucked into the corner. “How long have you been watching him?”
“Officially?” McGuire asked. “Just a few days.” He told Amanda, “Your people have been doing most of the heavy lifting, but my folks have supplemented.”
“Unofficially?” Will asked.
“Since he checked in. He’s a strange man. Very off-putting physically. He never did anything overt, but he made people uncomfortable. And, frankly, the Presidential Suite is four thousand dollars a night. We normally try to find out who our higher-end clients are. I did a little poking around and realized that we needed to keep a closer eye on him.”
Amanda asked, “Did anyone talk to him? Socialize with him?”
“As I said, he was off-putting. The hotel staff avoided him whenever possible. We never let the maids go up alone.”
“What about other guests?”
“No one mentioned anything.”
Will asked, “How did he pay for the room?” The man had been in prison. He wouldn’t have a credit card.
McGuire explained, “His bank arranged everything. We’re holding a hundred-thousand-dollar deposit against the room.”
A bell dinged. The doors opened.
Will stepped aside, then followed them out of the elevator. Sara held his gaze for a few seconds. He nodded for her to go ahead of him.
McGuire said, “There are five other suites on his floor. The Presidential is in the corner. It’s around twenty-two hundred square feet.”
Three uniformed Atlanta Police officers stood at the end of the hallway. They were at least fifty feet away. The red exit sign glowed over their heads. The suite was directly across from the stairs.
McGuire led them down the hall. “Three of the suites were occupied. Entertainers. There’s a concert in town. We arranged for them to be moved to our sister property. I can give you their information but—”
The Will Trent Series 7-Book Bundle Page 242
