Amanda said, “We can watch it in the other room.”
The three of them stood in a half circle as they waited for Faith to load the DVD player. Amanda was between Will and Sara. She took her BlackBerry out of her purse. Will thought at first that she was reading her emails, but it was easy to look over her shoulder. The screen was shattered like a spiderweb. He recognized the news site.
Amanda read the headline, “ ‘Recently paroled con dies in Midtown hotel room.’ ”
“They were hoping for somebody famous.” Faith picked up the remote control. “Idiots.”
“The story isn’t dead yet.” Amanda kept scrolling. “Apparently, a hotel employee tipped them off to a heavy police presence over the last few days.” She told Will, “This is why we try to make friends.”
“Here we go.” Faith pointed the remote at the player. The security camera showed an empty hotel elevator. The recording was in color. Will recognized the gold-inlaid tile on the floor of the car. Faith fast-forwarded through the video, saying, “Sorry, it’s not cued.”
The lights on the elevator panel flashed, indicating the car was moving down to the lobby. Faith slowed the recording when the doors opened. A woman got onto the elevator. She was thin and tall with long blonde hair and a floppy white hat. She kept her head down as she entered the car. The hat brim covered most of her face. Just her chin showed before she turned around. “Working girl,” Faith provided. “Hotel security doesn’t know her name, but she’s been here before. They recognize the hat.”
Will checked the time stamp. 22:14:12. He’d been sleeping on the couch with Sara.
“She has a keycard,” Amanda said, just as the woman swiped the card across the pad, the same as Bob McGuire had done. She pressed the button for the nineteenth floor. The doors closed. The woman faced the front of the car, showing the security camera the top of her hat, the back of her slinky, matching white dress. The elevator doors were solid wood. There was no mirrored reflection.
Amanda asked, “Did the lobby cameras pick up her face?”
“No,” Faith said. “She’s a pro. She knew where the cameras were.” The woman got off the elevator. The doors closed. The car was empty again. “She stayed up here for half an hour before coming down again. I checked with APD vice. They say that’s about the right amount of time.”
Amanda said, “She’s lucky she got away with her life.”
Faith fast-forwarded the video again, then slowed it when the elevator doors opened. The woman entered the same as before, head tilted down, hat covering her face. She didn’t need the keycard to go to the lobby. Her finger pressed the button. Again, she faced the doors, but this time, she reached up and adjusted her hat.
Will said, “Her fingernails weren’t painted before.”
“Exactly,” Faith agreed. “I checked it four times before I came up here.”
Will stared at the woman’s hands. The nails were painted red, undoubtedly in Bombshell Max Factor Ultra Lucent. According to the crime scene report, it was his father’s preferred color. Will said, “There’s no nail polish by the bed. Just manicure stuff.”
Faith suggested, “Maybe she brought her own?”
“That doesn’t seem likely,” Amanda told them. “He liked to control things.”
Sara offered, “I’ll check the other room.”
Amanda told Faith, “Security says the girl’s been in the hotel before. I want you to comb every second of video they have. Her face has to be on camera somewhere.”
Faith left the room.
Amanda pulled a latex glove out of her purse. She didn’t put it on, but used it as a barrier between her fingers as she opened the drawers on the desk. Pens. Paper. No Max Factor nail polish with the distinctive pointy white cap.
Amanda said, “This doesn’t take two people.”
Will checked the galley kitchen. Two keycards were on the counter. One was solid black, the other had a picture of a treadmill on it, probably for the gym. There was a stack of crisp bills. Will didn’t touch the money, which he guessed to be around five hundred dollars, all in twenties.
“Anything?” Amanda asked.
Will went behind the wet bar. Swizzle sticks. Napkins. A martini shaker. A Bible with an envelope stuck between the pages. The book was old. The leather cover was worn off the corners, showing the cardboard underneath.
He told Amanda, “I need your glove.”
“What is it?” She didn’t hand him the glove. Instead, she wiped her palm on her skirt, then forced her hand into the latex. She opened the Bible.
The envelope lay flat against the page. It had obviously been in there for a while. The paper was old. The ink had worn off the round logo in the corner. The typewritten address had grayed with time.
Amanda started to close the Bible, but Will stopped her.
He leaned down, squinting hard to make out the address. Will had seen his father’s name enough times to recognize the words. “Atlanta Jail” came just as easily. He’d used one or both in almost every report he’d ever written. The postmark was faded, but the date was clear. August 15, 1975.
He said, “This was mailed a month after I was born.”
“So it appears.”
“It’s from a law firm.” He recognized the scales of justice.
“Herman Centrello,” she supplied.
His father’s defense attorney. The man was a gun for hire. He was also the reason they were here. It was the threat of Centrello’s superior courtroom performance that persuaded the Atlanta city prosecutor to offer the plea bargain of life with the possibility of parole.
Will said, “Open it.”
In fifteen years, Will had only once seen Amanda’s composure crack, and even then, it was more like a fissure. For a split second, she showed something akin to dread. And then just as quickly, the emotion was gone.
The envelope was glued into the spine. She had to turn it over like a page. The glue along the flap had dried long ago. She used her thumb and forefinger to press open the envelope. Will looked inside.
No letter. No note. Just faded ink where some of the words had rubbed off.
Amanda said, “Apparently, it’s nothing more than a bookmark.”
“Then why did he keep it all these years?”
“No luck.” Sara was back. She told them, “No nail polish in the bathroom or the bedroom. I found his diabetic kit. His syringes are in a plastic disposal box. We’ll have to have the lab cut it open, but from what I could tell, there’s nothing in there that doesn’t belong.”
“Thank you, Dr. Linton.” Amanda closed the Bible. She took out her BlackBerry again. “Will?”
He didn’t know what else to do but continue searching the bar. He used the edge of his shoe to open the bottom cabinets. More glasses. Two ice buckets. The minibar was unlocked. Will used the toe of his shoe again. The fridge was full of vials of insulin, but nothing else. He let the door close.
There were at least two dozen liquor bottles on the shelves behind the bar. The mirror backing showed Will’s reflection. He didn’t look at himself, didn’t want to fall down that rabbit hole of comparing himself to his father. He studied the colored labels instead, the shape of the bottles, the amber and gold liquids.
Which was why he noticed that one of the bottles listed at a slight angle. There was something underneath, shimming it to the side.
He told Amanda, “Pick up this bottle.” For once, she didn’t ask him why. She took the bottle off the shelf. “It’s a key.”
Sara asked, “Is it for the minibar?”
Will checked the lock on the refrigerator. “No. It’s too big.”
Carefully, Amanda picked up the key by the edges. The head was stepped instead of round or angled. There was a number stamped into the metal.
Will said, “That’s for a Schlage factory lock.”
Amanda sounded perturbed. “I have no idea what that means.”
“It’s a heavy-duty deadbolt.” Will went out into the hallway. The cops were gone
, but McGuire was still there. He held a bag of ice to his nose.
Will said, “I’m sorry about before.”
McGuire’s curt nod did not indicate forgiveness.
Will asked, “What door in this hotel opens with an actual metal key?”
He took his time lowering the bag of ice, sniffing back blood. “The keycards—”
Amanda interrupted him, holding up the key. “It’s to a Schlage deadbolt. Heavy duty. What door in your hotel does this open?”
McGuire wasn’t stupid. He got over himself fast. “The only locks like that are in the sub-basement.”
Amanda asked, “What’s down there?”
“The generators. The mechanicals. The elevator shafts.”
Amanda headed toward the elevators. She told McGuire, “Radio your security team. Tell them to meet us down there.”
McGuire jogged to keep up. “The main elevators stop in the lobby. You have to go to the second floor in the service elevator, then use the emergency exit stairs behind the spa.”
Amanda jabbed the button. “What else is on that floor?”
“Treatment rooms, a nail suite, the pool.” The doors opened. He let Amanda on first. “The stairs to the sub-basement are behind the gym.”
twenty-seven
July 15, 1975
“Amanda,” Evelyn repeated.
Amanda stared down at Ulster. Her foot was still jammed into his neck. With the slightest pressure, she could crush his windpipe.
“Amanda,” Evelyn said. “The girl.”
The girl.
Amanda stepped back. She told the patrolman, “Take him.” The man took out his cuffs. He called dispatch on his shoulder mic, sounding as scared as Amanda had felt ten minutes ago.
She wasn’t afraid now. The steeliness was back. The fury. The anger. She headed toward the house.
“Wait.” Evelyn put her hand on Amanda’s arm. The lower half of her face was swollen. It obviously hurt to talk, but she whispered, “There could be someone else.”
Not another girl. Another killer.
Amanda found her revolver on the ground. The wooden grip was cracked. She opened the cylinder. One bullet. She looked at Evelyn, who checked her own revolver and held up four fingers. Five bullets between them. That was all they had.
That was all they needed.
The front door was unlocked. Amanda reached in with her hand and turned on the switch. A single bulb hung from an old fixture in the ceiling. The house was shotgun style, one story with a front door that lined up to the back. There were two chairs in the front room. A Bible was open on one of them. A silver bowl of water was on the floor. She was reminded of Easter church services. The women would bring bowls of water and wash the men’s feet. She’d washed Duke’s every year since her mother died.
The distant wail of a siren broke the silence. Not just one siren. Two. Three. More than she could decipher.
Evelyn joined Amanda as she walked down the hall. The kitchen was straight ahead. Two doors were on their right. One on the left. All closed.
Evelyn indicated the first door. She gripped her revolver in her hand. She nodded that she was ready.
They stood on either side of the closed door. Amanda reached down and turned the knob. She pushed open the door. Quickly, she reached in and flipped up the light switch. A floor lamp came on. There was a metal bed in the middle of the room. The mattress was soiled. Threads jutted up. Broken threads. A washstand. A sink. A chair. A bed table.
On the table was a pair of nail clippers. Cuticle nips. Buffer. Three types of metal files. An emery board. Tweezers. Red Max Factor nail polish with a pointy white cap. A glass vial filled with the crescent-shaped clippings of women’s fingernails.
Jane Delray.
Mary Halston.
Kitty Treadwell.
Lucy Bennett.
Filthy rooms. Cracked plaster walls. Bare bulbs in the ceiling. Animal droppings on the floor. The stench of blood and terror.
This house was where he’d kept them.
Evelyn gave a low hiss for her attention. She nodded toward the next door. Amanda saw the patrolman enter the front room. She didn’t wait for him. They did not need his help.
She stood to the side of the closed door and turned the knob. The light was already on in the room. Washstand. Sink. Manicure kit. Red polish. Another glass vial of nail clippings.
The girl was slumped against the headboard. Blood spilled in a steady stream down her abdomen. Pink foam bubbled from her mouth. Her hand was wrapped around the large knife in her chest.
“Don’t!” Amanda lurched forward, dropping to her knees beside the bed. She covered the girl’s hand with her own. “Don’t take it out.”
Evelyn yelled to the patrolman, “Call an ambulance! She’s still alive!”
The girl’s throat made a sucking sound. Air whistled around Amanda’s hand. The blade was angled to the left, piercing the lung, possibly the heart. The knife was huge, the kind of weapon hunters used to skin their kill.
“Ha …,” the girl breathed. Her body was shaking. Torn threads hung from holes around her tattered lips. “Ha …”
“It’s okay,” Amanda soothed, trying to keep the knife steady as she peeled away the girl’s fingers.
Evelyn asked, “Is she having a seizure?”
“I don’t know.”
The girl’s hand dropped. The fingers twitched against the mattress. Her breath was stale, almost sour. Amanda’s muscles burned as she gripped the handle of the knife, trying desperately to hold it in place. No matter what she did, blood poured steadily from the wound.
“It’s all right,” Amanda mumbled. “Just hold on a little bit longer.”
The girl tried to blink. Pieces of eyelid stuck to her brow. Her arm reached out, fingers flexing as she tried to point to the open door.
“That’s right.” Amanda felt tears streaming down her face. “We’re going to take you out of here. He’s not going to hurt you anymore.”
She made a noise, a sound between a breath and a word.
“We’ll get you out of here.”
Again, she made the sound.
“What is it?” Amanda asked.
“Laa …” The girl breathed. “Vah …”
Amanda shook her head. She didn’t understand.
Evelyn got down beside her. “What is it, sweetheart?”
“Laa,” she repeated. “Laa … vah …”
“Lover?” Amanda asked. “Love?”
Her head shook in a trembling nod. “Him …”
Her breath stopped. Her body went limp as the life drained out of her. Amanda couldn’t hold her up anymore. Gently, she let the girl fall back onto the bed. Her eyes took on a blank stare. Amanda had never seen another person die before. The room got cold. A breeze chilled her to the bone. It felt as if a shadow hovered above them, then just as quickly, it was gone.
Evelyn sat back on her knees. She spoke quietly. “Lucy Bennett.”
“Lucy Bennett,” Amanda repeated.
They stared at the poor creature. Her face. Her torso. Her arms and legs. The horrors of the last year were writ large across her body.
“How could she love him?” Amanda asked. “How could she …”
Evelyn used the back of her hand to wipe away tears. “I don’t know.”
Amanda stared into the dead girl’s eyes. She had seen her through the window just moments ago. The image flashed into Amanda’s mind like a scene from a horror movie. The girl on the bed. Her hand at her chest. It was a knife she had been holding. Amanda realized that now.
The sound of the sirens got louder.
“House is clear.” The patrolman came up behind them. “What did you—” He saw the body. His hand slapped to his mouth as he ran from the room, retching.
Evelyn said, “At least we were here for her.”
Tires screeched in the street. Blue lights flashed.
“Maybe we brought her … I don’t know. Comfort?”
Amanda said, “We we
re too late to save her.”
“We found her,” Evelyn said. “At least we found her. At least the last few minutes of her life, she was free.”
“It’s not enough.”
“No,” Evelyn said. “It’ll never be enough.”
The sirens wound down as the cruisers pulled up. They heard talking outside; gruff voices barking orders, the usual palaver of men taking charge.
And something else.
Evelyn obviously heard it, too.
Still, Amanda asked, “What’s that noise?”
twenty-eight
Present Day
SUZANNA FORD
She knew what the noise was now. The elevators rushing up and down. She heard the wind whistling like a train—up and down, down and up—as the doctor cut the threads with a pair of office scissors.
“You’re going to be okay,” the woman said. She was obviously in charge. She’d been the first to come to Suzanna’s side. The only one who wasn’t afraid of what she had seen. The other guys hung back. She could hear their breathing like steam pushing out of an iron. And then the doctor told one to call an ambulance. Another to get a bottle of water. Another to get a blanket. Another to find some scissors. They jumped to obey, running off so fast that Suzanna could feel the ghosts of their presence long after she could no longer hear their sneakers pounding against the floor.
“You’re safe,” the doctor said. She put her hand to Suzanna’s head. She was pretty. Her green eyes were the first thing Suzanna saw. They looked at her down the blade of the scissors as she carefully snipped apart the threads. She’d covered Suzanna’s eyes with her hand so that the light would not blind her. Her touch was so light when she cut apart Suzanna’s lips that she’d barely felt the metal grazing her skin.
“Look at me. You’re going to be okay,” the woman said. Her voice was steady. She was so damn certain that Suzanna believed her.
And then she saw the man. Hulking. Lurking. He looked different. Younger. But it was still the same guy. Still the same monster.
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