The Kept Woman (Will Trent 8)

by Karin Slaughter

  Amanda said, ‘Come with me.’ She took Sara into a room with a cop standing outside. The lights were low. Sara scanned the equipment by the bed: cardiac monitor, central line, catheter, NG tube, test tube. The patient’s right arm was elevated, propped on pillows—not too low so that the blood rushed into her fingers, not too high so that there wasn’t enough circulation. Surgical gauze and drains ballooned around the hand. O2 sat measures were on the tips of her fingers.

  Sara said, ‘Her hand was reattached.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sara studied the woman’s face. Brown hair. Olive skin. The eyes were swollen, but they still had the distinctive shape.

  Amanda said, ‘She was admitted as a Jane Doe, but they found her ID this morning. Delilah Palmer.’

  That name sounded familiar. Instead of asking Amanda more questions, Sara went back to the nurses’ station and asked to borrow a tablet computer. She still had her admitting privileges at Grady. The nurse, Olivia, knew her from before.

  Olivia said, ‘The waiting room should be empty.’

  Sara got the hint. Four people blocking the ICU hallway was never a good idea.

  They all walked down to the empty waiting room. Will stayed at Sara’s side. His shoulder touched hers. He was trying to make sure the connection was still there. She couldn’t find it in herself to let him know this was true.

  Sara sat down on one of the chairs. She logged into the system and scanned the woman’s CT, X-rays, MRI and surgical notes.

  Finally something made sense.

  Faith asked, ‘Well?’

  Sara relayed the information from the chart. ‘She was stabbed sixteen times, mostly in the torso, twice in the head. The tip of the knife broke off in her collarbone, minimizing the reach of the blade, which is probably why it just missed the heart and liver. The bowel was punctured. Her left lung collapsed. What remained of the knife was left imbedded in her sternum. The first slash must have been to her arm.’ Sara held up her own arm, the same as she had done yesterday morning. ‘The attacker came straight at her. She took a defensive posture. The knife sliced her wrist, nearly severing the joint. She would’ve been flailing her arms, trying to stop the attack, which would spray blood everywhere, like a hose. Fortunately for the victim, the blade severed the radial and ulnar arteries. I say fortunately, because the arteries contract when they’re sliced in two. That’s why suicides tend to fail. You sever the artery, it rolls up into the arm and stops the blood almost like when you pinch the end of a garden hose to stop the pressure.’

  Will asked, ‘That’s where all the blood came from, right?’

  ‘That volume of blood could definitely come from this type of injury.’ Sara studied the X-rays again. ‘This isn’t the first time she’s been attacked. She’s got several older, healed fractures to the face and head. Two breaks in her arm, probably separated by a few years. These are classic signs of abuse.’

  Amanda asked, ‘Does the chart give Palmer’s blood type?’

  ‘They typed her when she came into the ER. It’s B-negative. Type is inherited. You would need either a B mother or B father to have it.’

  ‘Like Angie,’ Faith said.

  Amanda asked, ‘Can you pull up Delilah Palmer’s past admits?’

  Sara went back to the home screen. She found Delilah Palmer’s medical history, which hadn’t been ported into the ICU chart yet. ‘Palmer was born here twenty-two years ago. Ward of the state. Overdoses. PID times five. Bronchitis. Skin infections. Needle abscesses. Heroin addict. She had a baby two years ago. Hold on.’ Sara went back to the belly scans from two nights ago. ‘Okay, according to the most recent chart, the one that was started Sunday night, the woman lying in the bed at the end of the hall has a scar for a C-section.’ She flicked back through the screens. ‘But the older chart says that Palmer had a natural childbirth two years ago, which would fall in line with an episiotomy scar, which is what the body downstairs, the one Angie left at the funeral home, has.’ She looked up. ‘The body downstairs showed signs of long-term IV drug use, but there’s no indication of drug use in the woman at the end of the hall, who is supposed to be Delilah Palmer.’ Sara felt slow on the uptake. ‘The body downstairs is Delilah Palmer. Jo Figaroa is here in the ICU. Angie switched their identities.’

  ‘That’s what we think.’ Faith showed her two photographs on her iPhone. ‘The one on the right is Jo Figaroa. The one on the left is Delilah Palmer.’

  Sara studied the two women. There was an eerie similarity. ‘Are they related?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Faith asked. ‘They both had the shit kicked out of them. Figaroa’s own husband couldn’t tell them apart.’

  Sara didn’t point out that Will hadn’t been able to, either.

  Faith said, ‘We have a witness who puts Angie sticking Palmer in her trunk. I’ve gotta assume that Angie mutilated the body so we couldn’t get a positive ID off the fingerprints.’

  Sara asked, ‘Why would Angie want us to think that Jo Figaroa was dead?’

  Will said, ‘She’s working a scam. That’s the only explanation. Our Jane Doe put together the night of the attack for us. Harding’s dying. Josephine is bleeding to death. Angie rushes Josephine to the hospital, then instead of leaving town or lying low, Angie drives back to the club to remove Delilah and stage the scene. That’s a lot of work for somebody who doesn’t like to do a lot of work. I guarantee you there’s some kind of payday at the end of this.’

  Sara felt overwhelmed with disgust. She dropped the tablet on the chair beside her. She was sick of Angie’s games, and she was the only one in the group who actually had the luxury of walking away.

  Will seemed to sense that she was at the end of her rope. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Sara didn’t want to blame him. If ever there was a victim of Angie’s machinations, it was Will. ‘Do you have any idea where she is? Where she might be keeping a child?’

  He shook his head, and she saw the idiocy of her question. If they knew where Angie was, they would be breaking down her door.

  Faith said, ‘We can only hope that because he’s her grandson, she’ll . . . Motherfucker . . .’ Faith’s voice trailed off. ‘She’s here.’

  They all turned in unison.

  Angie had just stepped off the elevator. She looked up. Her mouth formed an ‘O,’ a perfect reflection of their shock. She tried to get back onto the elevator, but the doors closed. She scrambled toward the stairs.

  She wasn’t fast enough.

  Will had bolted the moment he’d seen her.

  In seconds he’d closed the gap between them. His arm shot out. His fingers snagged the back of her collar. Angie was wrenched back by the neck. Her feet flew out from under her. She hit the floor. He picked her up and threw her into the waiting room. Chairs clattered, crashing into each other, tipping over. He snatched her up again, his fist went back. The only thing that kept Will from shattering her into pieces was the two security guards jumping on his back like they were taking down a charging bull.

  ‘Will!’ Faith yelled, leaping into the fray. She pushed him against the wall. ‘Stop it!’ She was panting, out of breath. She said, ‘Stop it,’ quieter, still making it clear she wasn’t going to let him do what he obviously wanted to do. ‘Calm down, okay? She’s not worth it.’

  Will shook his head. Sara knew what he was thinking. Killing her was worth it. Hurting her was worth it.

  Sara said, ‘Will.’

  He looked at her, his eyes on fire.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, though she wanted him to.

  The fire abated. The sound of her voice seemed to relax some of the tension from his body. He held up his hands in surrender, telling Faith, ‘I’m okay.’

  Faith stepped back, but she made sure that she stayed between him and Angie in case he changed his mind.

  ‘Shit, baby.’ Angie slumped onto the floor, chuckling like this had all been great fun. She wiped blood from her mouth and nose. There was more blood on her shirt, but it hadn’t come from her face. ‘
Last time you came at me like that, we were both naked.’

  Amanda said, ‘Arrest her.’

  ‘For what?’ Angie asked. ‘Getting beat up by a cop in front of a bunch of witnesses?’ Angie lifted the tail of her shirt to survey the damage. Her side had been stitched up, crudely, to close a wound. Will had broken open the sutures. ‘Anybody know a doctor?’

  Sara said, ‘I’m not touching her.’

  Angie laughed again. She shook her head. ‘Jesus.’

  Will said, ‘Where’s Anthony? Who’s watching him?’

  Angie pressed her hands to the floor, pushing herself up to standing. Her purse fell down her shoulder, another cheap knock-off bag. ‘Who’s Anthony?’

  Will ripped Angie’s purse from her arm.

  ‘Hey . . .’

  He held her back with one hand. He threw the purse at Faith.

  Angie reached up for his hand, but Will pulled away as if she’d burned him with acid. He was clearly trying to keep his temper under control. The God’s honest truth was that Sara still didn’t want him to.

  ‘iPhone. iPad.’ Faith laid out the contents of Angie’s purse across two chairs. ‘Flip phone. Five-shot revolver, fired once. Prescription.’ She tossed the bottle to Sara. ‘Tissue. ChapStick. Change. Business cards. Purse crap.’

  Sara looked at the bottle. The script was from a vet clinic off Cascade Road, prescribed to a pet named Mooch McGhee. Keflex, which was fine if you were a dog and couldn’t get MRSA. Sara put the bottle back on the chair. Angie could figure that out on her own.

  ‘Unlock it.’ Faith held out the iPhone to Angie. ‘Now.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  Will took the phone. He unlocked it in two tries. He handed it back to Faith, who immediately went to the call log.

  She said, ‘Collier’s number is on here. Twice last week. Three calls early Monday morning that match the times on his phone.’

  That explained Collier. Yet another man whose life Angie had ruined.

  Faith said, ‘She’s got a lot of calls back and forth from a 770 number.’ Faith hit the callback button. She let it ring for a full minute before hanging up. ‘No answer. No voicemail.’ Again she scanned the log. ‘This is all with the 770 number. Incoming at one forty Monday morning. Outgoing thirty-two seconds later. Then outgoing half an hour later. Incoming at four AM, then another incoming at one fifteen yesterday afternoon. Then seventeen outgoing calls over the rest of yesterday and into today.’

  Will asked Angie, ‘Who are you trying to get in touch with?’

  ‘My mother.’

  Amanda had her own phone out. ‘I’ll do a reverse trace.’

  Faith went to the texts. ‘This was between the flip phone and Angie’s phone, twelve twenty Sunday night. She writes: WHAT DO YOU WANT? The flip phone writes back: IPAD. Then a few seconds later: NIGHTCLUB. NOW.’ She scrolled up and waited for a photo to download.

  Faith’s mouth dropped open. She showed them the phone, stunned.

  At 12:16 Sunday night, Angie had been sent a picture showing Josephine Figaroa with her back pressed against a car window. A man’s hand gripped her neck. She looked like she was screaming. Beneath it was the word DAUGHTER.

  Faith scrolled up again. There was another photo, this one sent at 12:15 Sunday night. It showed a young boy with the blade of a large hunting knife pressed into his throat. The word below read GRANDSON.

  Sara put her hand to her own heart. The boy’s terror cut through her like she was holding him in her own arms. ‘Where is he?’

  Angie raised an eyebrow, as if this was yet another mystery.

  ‘Where—’ Sara made herself stop talking. Angie fed off pain.

  Faith checked the flip phone, going through the sent messages. ‘The first photo I showed you, the one of Jo Figaroa, was taken with this flip phone. The second photo, of Anthony, was forwarded to the flip phone by the same 770 number that Angie has been trying to call.’

  ‘The 770 number is from a burner.’ Amanda had obviously heard back on the reverse trace. ‘We’re working with the phone company to find out which tower it’s pinging from.’

  Will asked, ‘Who sent that picture of Anthony? Was it Delilah Palmer? Was it Harding?’

  Angie ignored him.

  Faith picked up the iPad. She pressed the home button.

  ‘Don’t,’ Angie said, for the first time registering concern. ‘You can’t turn it on.’

  ‘Why not? This is why your grandson was taken, right? For whatever is on this iPad?’

  Angie pressed her lips together. She watched Faith’s finger on the button.

  Will said, ‘Turn it on.’

  ‘No.’ Angie reached out to stop her, but Will pushed her away. She said, ‘If you turn the power on, then the files will be erased.’

  ‘What files?’

  Angie said nothing.

  Will said, ‘She’s lying. Turn it on.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Angie dared. ‘The files will be gone and we’ll never see Anthony again.’

  Faith asked, ‘Should we risk it?’

  Amanda sighed. ‘It’s an hour in traffic to get it to the computer lab. We don’t know where the boy is. We don’t know if she’s telling the truth. The files might already be wiped clean. Or we turn it on and we wipe it clean.’

  Will said, ‘Schrödinger’s cat.’

  Angie clearly didn’t get the reference, which gave Sara a sense of victory because she did.

  ‘All you need is a Faraday cage,’ Sara said. ‘It’s a grounded metal screen that blocks electrical fields. That’s why your phone won’t work in an elevator. Go down to the sub-basement, stay inside the elevator and you can turn on the iPad without any signal interference.’

  Angie snorted. She asked Will, ‘This is what gets you going?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he told her. ‘It is.’

  Angie rolled her eyes. She still had her hand pressed to her stomach. Blood was seeping between her fingers. ‘What are you looking at?’

  Sara couldn’t answer. She was gripped with the same low-level fury that had followed her around since Charlie told them that the Glock was registered to Angie. Every good moment Sara had with Will was always going to have Angie’s shadow lurking over it.

  ‘Aw.’ Angie pouted her lip. ‘Little Sara’s upset. Are we going to have another Bambi incident?’

  Sara slapped the shit out of her.

  Angie raised her hand to retaliate, but Faith caught her wrist, twisted her arm behind her back and forced her into the wall. ‘Don’t forget how many people were happy to hear that you were dead.’

  ‘Don’t forget how many weren’t.’ Angie wrenched her arm away. She rubbed her wrist. ‘Give me my shit back. I’m leaving.’

  Will said, ‘You’re not going anywhere. Who has Anthony? I know you don’t have him.’

  She shook her head, laughing like he was too stupid to understand.

  ‘You’ve never called anybody seventeen times in your life. You fucked this up, right? You lost Anthony and now you’re trying to get him back. That’s why you told me it was Jo in the funeral home instead of Delilah. You wanted me to go to Reuben Figaroa’s so that he was forced to put out an Amber Alert.’ He was standing close to her, crowding her space the way he would any suspect. ‘Your plan went sideways and you needed me to figure out that his son was gone.’ He stepped closer. ‘We’re here now. We know Anthony is gone. We know Reuben’s being blackmailed to get him back. Tell me what you know. Let me help make this right.’

  ‘What the fuck do you care, Will?’ She slammed her palms against his chest, pushing him away. ‘I can handle this, all right? I can take care of myself and my family the same as I’ve been doing all my fucking life with no fucking help from you.’

  Will’s jaw jutted out like a shard of glass. ‘Your grandson’s life is at stake.’

  ‘You’re the one stopping me from doing what I’ve gotta do.’

  ‘Angie, please. Let me help you. I want to help you.’ He sounded desperate. ‘If that�
��s my grandson out there, then I deserve a chance to know him.’

  ‘Nice try.’ She pulled away. ‘Jo isn’t yours. Not unless you got my hand pregnant.’ She gave Sara a pointed look. ‘Which, if that was possible, your girlfriend would have a load of fetuses pouring out of her mouth.’

  Sara tensed every muscle in her body so that she wouldn’t lash out again.

  Angie asked her, ‘Did you read the note I left for Will?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Angie was clearly thrown that there wasn’t more.

  ‘Please,’ Will said. ‘Angie, there’s a little boy out there. Your family. Maybe your only family. Tell us how to help him.’

  ‘Since when do you care about helping family?’ She gave a derisive snort. ‘I’m your family. I’m fucking bleeding and you don’t even care.’

  Will took out his handkerchief. He pressed it to Angie’s side.

  Sara felt her heart start to wither at the sight of him touching her so gently.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he told Angie. ‘I didn’t mean for it to get like this. You’re right. It’s my fault.’

  Angie glanced at Sara. Real or not, she wanted to make sure that Will’s obsequience had an audience.

  Will said, ‘I know I hurt you. I’m sorry. Please, Angie. I’m sorry.’

  Angie looked away from Sara, but only so she could soak up Will’s misery.

  ‘Please,’ Will repeated. Sara wanted to snatch the word out of his mouth. She hated the sound of his begging. ‘Please.’

  Angie let out a short breath. ‘Do you know how bad things have been for me?’ Angie covered Will’s hand with hers. Sara couldn’t tell if she was breaking down or just playing Will like she always did. ‘Do you know the things I’ve had to do? Not just this week, but before?’

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there.’

  ‘Harding was him, Will. When Deidre checked out, Harding was the guy on the other side of the door.’

  Will took the words like a blow. This wasn’t an act. ‘You told me he was dead.’

  ‘He is now.’

  Shock had almost rendered Will speechless. ‘Angie—’

  ‘What he did to me . . .’ Angie’s voice was low, troubled. She could see the effect her words were having on Will. ‘He did it to Delilah. He did it to a lot of girls. For years. I couldn’t stop him.’