The Last Widow: The latest new 2019 crime thriller from the No. 1 Sunday Times bestselling author

by Karin Slaughter

  On the other side of the glass, Will heard a muffled thunk. The walls inside the interrogation room were paneled in thick acoustic board so that the microphones could catch every sniff, cough or mumbled confession.

  Faith was smirking when she came into the viewing room. She told Amanda, “The ASAP email to Beau’s phone says, ‘Meet at regular spot 4pm today’, then there’s a long list of medications with quantities. ‘10-Tobrex. 10-Vigamox. 5-Digoxin. 5-Seroquel. 20-Hydrocortisone cream. 10-Erythromycin. 5-Lamisil. 5-Phenytoin. 10-Dilantin. 10-Zovirax. 10—’”

  “Wait a minute.” Amanda was looking over Faith’s shoulder. “Hydrocortisone. Erythromycin. Lamisil. Phenytoin. What do the first letters of each word spell?”

  “Oh fuck, are you kidding me?” Faith was practically shouting. “Look farther down the list—Lidocaine. Ibuprofen. Neosporin. Taxol. Ofloxacin. NebuPent.”

  “Clever girl!” Amanda pumped a triumphant fist into the air.

  Faith swooped up her hand for a high five. Will offered a lame slap. He had no idea why they were celebrating a list of medications.

  “Will!” Faith showed him the phone. “There’s a message embedded in the list. Ignore the other words. Look at these two sections here. The first letters of each medication—they spell out a code: ‘H-E-L-P, then L-I-N-T-O-N.’”

  Will shook his head, hearing what she was saying but not understanding.

  Amanda said, “Sara dictated this list. She sent us another message. ‘Help Linton.’”

  Help Linton.

  The words had a weird echo in his ears. Will braced his hand against the wall. He stopped breathing, stopped thinking, stopped processing anything but the fact that Sara was reaching out to him again.

  Help.

  “Here.” Faith zoomed in the list, like that would make it better. She pointed at the letters. “H-E-L—”

  Will nodded so she would stop. He could see the numbers, but the words got tangled. This was the important part: at 6:49 this morning, Sara was alive and okay enough to send a coded message.

  “We know Sara met Beau,” Amanda told Faith. “She must’ve put it together that he would be the one who filled the shopping list.”

  “Band-Aids. Gatorade.” Faith kept reading. “Boudreaux’s Butt Paste. That’s for diaper rash, but you can use it for chapped skin, burns, scrapes. Most of this looks like the kind of stuff you need for kids. Amoxicillin, Cefuroxime, liquid acetaminophen. I’ve got gallons of this stuff in my medicine cabinet.”

  “Aspirin,” Amanda read. “You wouldn’t give that to a child because of Reye’s syndrome.”

  Faith said, “We need a doctor to look at this list and tell us if there’s anything that we’re missing.”

  “Go,” Amanda said, but Faith was already out the door.

  “The subject line said ASAP.” Will told Amanda. “Beau has to meet them in person to give them the drugs. I want to be there. We can figure out a cover story.”

  “It won’t be Dash who meets Ragnersen. The man in charge doesn’t run errands. He’ll send a flunky.”

  “A flunky can—” Will put his hand on the wall to steady himself. “A flunky can take me to them. Lead me to them. I can find a way in. All I need is one guy who—”

  “Keep babbling while I send this email.” Amanda was on her BlackBerry again. Her thumbs were a blur as she typed.

  Will looked away. The bright screen had shot tiny swords into his eyes. His brain had turned back into a balloon. He could feel it bumping against his skull. He breathed in as much as he could, then out as much as his ribs would let him. He forced away the same dread that had niggled at him all night.

  Sara had sent the coded message at 6:49 this morning.

  What had happened at 6:50?

  Amanda asked, “Do you need to sit down?”

  Will shook his head. The motion made the dizziness worse. He was missing things, not making the right connections. He silently replayed Amanda’s excited conversation with Faith until his thoughts cleared enough to pose a question.

  He said, “You told Faith, ‘We know Sara met Beau.’ What proof do you have of that? All Sara wrote on the ceiling was Beau and Bar. That doesn’t mean that she met him. She could’ve overheard his name. Or Dash or one of his men could’ve—”

  Amanda held up her finger for silence. She finished her email. She dropped the BlackBerry into her pocket, then looked up at him. “At the motel last night, Charlie found a partial fingerprint on the inside lip of the plastic table by the door. It came back as a match to Beau Ragnersen.”

  Will remembered another detail Zevon had relayed to Amanda. “Beau is the caretaker at the motel. His prints are probably all over the place.”

  “Ragnersen’s fingerprint was pressed into Carter’s blood. Charlie says that based on the composition of the print, the blood was fresh when Ragnersen touched it. That puts him at the scene at the time of the stabbing. That’s how we got the search warrant for Ragnersen’s house. The print is clear proof that he was in the room where a murder took place. We served a no-knock warrant at three this morning.”

  At three this morning, Will was sitting on his couch replaying Sara’s phone message like a desperate teenager. He felt his jaw clench in anger—not at Amanda; he might as well be mad at a snake for slithering. He should’ve never gone home in the first place.

  He asked, “Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”

  “Because you needed, still need to, rest. Alone, without sound, in the dark. You are severely concussed. You killed one man and shot another. You’ve lost the woman you were too stupid to marry as soon as your divorce was finalized, and I can either stay here and change your diaper or we can both go into that room and force Beau Ragnersen to take you undercover so you can persuade Dash’s flunky to take you into the IPA.”

  Will glared at her. Then he realized what she had just told him.

  He looked through the glass mirror. Beau’s hands were still gripped together on the table. His beard was long, but his hair was military tight. He was wiry and muscled in an MMA way. He sold black tar heroin to desperate junkies and took cash for patching up criminals. Right now, he was the only chance Will had to get Sara back.

  He asked, “Do you have the other half of that aspirin?”

  She reached into her coat pocket. Her pill case was silver with a pink rose enameled into the top. “I’ve got more in my purse. You’ll have to ask if you need them. Aspirin can tear up your stomach.”

  Will dry-swallowed the pill. He didn’t let Amanda leave the room first. He didn’t hold open the door for her. He walked into the hall. He headed down to the interrogation room. The bright lights cut into his pupils. His eyes started to water. He opened the door.

  Beau didn’t look up this time. He stared down at his hands. There was a wiriness about him. Spring-loaded, like Will’s stolen knife. His heel tapped against the floor. He was either a junkie who needed a fix or he had realized that life as he knew it was over. Actually, he was probably both. You didn’t wear long sleeves in August unless you were trying to hide the scars on your arms.

  Will clenched his stomach muscles so he could pick up the chair Beau had kicked across the floor. He gently placed it in front of the table. He gripped the back with his hands and waited.

  “Good morning, Captain Ragnersen.” Amanda breezed into the room and took the second chair. “I’m Deputy Director Amanda Wagner with the GBI. This is Special Agent Will Trent.”

  Beau finally looked at Will, sizing him up. Will straightened his fingers on the chair, drawing attention to the cuts and bruises. He wanted this guy to know that he was not above beating the shit out of somebody.

  Amanda said, “Captain Ragnersen, you’ve already been read your rights. I want to remind you that anything you say in this room is being recorded. You should also know that lying to an agent with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation is a crime punishable by up to five years in prison. Do you understand me?”

  Beau’s eyes were still on Will. He
clearly didn’t like another man hovering over him. He lifted his chin up in a defiant nod to Amanda.

  “For the record, the prisoner nodded his understanding,” Amanda said. “Captain Ragnersen, you are currently under arrest for assaulting Special Agent Zevon Lowell, but a few more charges have been added to the list since we last spoke to you.”

  Beau pulled his gaze away from Will. He looked Amanda up and down, his mouth twisted inside the pelt of his beard. He clearly didn’t like a woman being in charge, which to Will, was the beauty of having a woman in charge.

  Amanda said, “Based on the search of your vehicle, we’ve added to your arrest warrant that you illegally altered the barrel of a weapon designed to be shot from the shoulder, which is a violation of Georgia Code Title 16. Further, the barrel was sawed off to seventeen and three-quarter inches, which is a quarter inch less than allowable under the National Firearms Act of 1934. That’s a Class 4 felony with a two- to twenty-year sentence. If you are proven to have possessed that weapon while you were involved in or abetting the commission of other felonies—kidnapping, murder, rape, robbery—that bumps your possession of the illegal weapon to a Class 2 felony with a twenty-year to life sentence. And that’s before we start layering in your Macon side business in black tar heroin and pharmaceuticals.”

  Beau’s mouth kept working, but he said nothing.

  Amanda sat back in her chair, arms crossed. She had been facing down bad guys longer than this man had been alive. Ragnersen thought his silence was keeping him in control when he was actually following the same script as every stupid perp before him.

  Amanda said, “I’m glad you’re choosing to remain silent for now, Captain Ragnersen. I need you to listen to me very carefully because, when I’m finished, you’re going to have an important decision to make. I think, actually, that you’re going to be begging me to accept whatever help you can offer.”

  She had given Hurley roughly the same speech in the hospital, but Ragnersen was no Robert Hurley.

  He said, “What if I ask for a lawyer?”

  “That’s certainly your right.”

  “Damn straight it is.” The chain clicked against the edge of the table as Beau slowly leaned back in the chair. He sniffed the way perps sniff when they can’t be bothered to tell you to go fuck yourself.

  But he didn’t ask for a lawyer.

  He told Amanda, “Make your gorilla sit down.”

  Will waited for Amanda to nod. The aspirin hadn’t kicked in yet. He had to tighten every muscle in his body to leverage himself into the chair without wincing.

  Beau asked Will, “What do you bench, bro?”

  Will kept his expression neutral, like he hadn’t been asked a douche question.

  Amanda said, “Tell us about Dash.”

  One of Beau’s shoulders went up in a defiant shrug. “We do business sometimes.”

  “Which of your businesses? Pharmaceuticals? Emergency surgery? Black tar heroin?”

  “Tar is the negro’s drug. I don’t sell that shit to white people.”

  “We all have standards.”

  “Damn straight I do.” Beau leaned forward. “I’m helping people, lady. The government has failed us. Left sick people to die in the street. Abandoned our soldiers. Closed our factories. Stolen food from our mouths. Somebody’s gotta step up.”

  Amanda ignored the speech the same way she’d ignored the racism. “The 2019 GMC Yukon Denali you drive starts at $71,000 for the base model. That’s some pretty high stepping for a good Samaritan.”

  “Shit.” Beau shrugged her off again. “What do you want from me, bitch? You’d have my ass in jail right now if you were finished with me. What’s the trade?”

  “You’ll know when the time comes,” Amanda promised. “First, let’s establish whether or not you’re worth this conversation. Captain Ragnersen, please describe for me the events that took place with Dash yesterday between the hours of four and five p.m. at the King Fisher Camping Lodge.”

  Beau went silent. He was clearly trying to craft an answer that would be his quickest way out of this room. The man wasn’t stupid, but being trapped had narrowed his focus to the point of a pin. Otherwise, he would’ve worried more over the question, which assumed that both he and Dash had been at the motel yesterday during the same time period that Sara had sent the text to Will.

  “Okay,” Beau said. “The truth, all right? I got there after the shit went down. Dudes were both dead. Blood was everywhere. The blonde, I don’t know her name. She was in the room next door. There was another lady with red hair sitting on the floor.”

  Will bit the inside of his cheek so hard that the skin broke open.

  Amanda asked, “List for me everyone who was there.”

  “Dash, couple’a three of his guys. I don’t know names. Two were at the door, one was around the back. Guarding these two women, all right? Only one of them went fucking psycho with a knife. The other dude on the bed, he was already shot in the chest. He was dead when I got there. Dash wanted me to clean that shit up, but I said no fucking way. Do it yourself. I was in that room less than sixty seconds before my ass was back in my truck. Drove it across the street, had myself a beer, tried to forget what I’d seen.”

  “You wiped down the table in the motel room,” Amanda said.

  Beau hesitated. “That wasn’t me. Musta been one of the women.”

  Amanda raised an eyebrow, but she seemed content to let him play out the story.

  “Look, I’m telling you the truth,” Beau nervously rubbed at his wrists under the handcuffs. “Dash said they’d leave. I went to the bar. It’s right across the street. I wasn’t waiting around, all right? None of my business. Next thing I know, it’s dark and I’m hearing sirens. I look out the window and there’s cops crawling all over the place. I jumped in my truck and went home. Got nothing to do with me.” His shoulder gave an eat-shit shrug. “That’s all I know.”

  Will flexed his hands under the table. Even with his brain on fire, he could spot the gaping holes, like—How did Dash get into the motel room in the first place? The lock on the door wasn’t broken. Beau claimed to have been in the room for less than a minute. How did he know that Vale was shot in the chest without examining him? How did he know that Michelle was in another room? How did he know that Dash had placed another guard at the rear of the property?

  And, most importantly—How did this fucker end up with Will’s knife in his pocket?

  Amanda said, “Tell me about the hostages. How many were there?”

  “Two women. I already told you.” Beau shrugged again. The only thing that kept Will from driving a spike into the man’s shoulder was the knowledge that Beau was on tape admitting that he knew both Sara and Michelle Spivey were being held hostage.

  Amanda asked, “How were they acting?”

  “Normal,” Beau said. “I mean, the redhead, she was trying to help. Dash told me she was a doctor.” He seemed to spot an opportunity. “Which is why they didn’t need me. They already had a doctor.”

  Then why were you there, asshole?

  Amanda asked, “Did Dash tell you the doctor’s name?”

  He pretended to think. “Earnest? Early?”

  Earnshaw.

  Amanda asked, “And the other hostage?”

  “Fake blonde, small tits, older. She was quiet, like, dead quiet. Never said a word, but—” His mouth snapped closed. His tongue went into his cheek. He had realized another mistake. “They were taking her out of the room when I went in. I saw them go next door. That’s how I knew she was in the other room.”

  Amanda said, “They must’ve broken the lock.”

  “The doors were unlocked. All of them.”

  “That seems very irresponsible for a caretaker to leave all of the doors open.” Amanda paused. “I spoke to Mr. Hopkins’ daughters in Michigan and California. They told me that the estate pays you to watch the property for them. Is that why you were at the motel, to check on the property?”

  Beau had the w
isdom to understand he was already deep into the hole and needed to stop digging.

  “Let me sum up your statement.” Amanda looked at her watch as she spoke. “You were at the motel, but not for any particular reason. None of the doors were locked, so Dash and his men didn’t need to break in. In the sixty or so seconds that you were in the motel room, you saw two dead men on the beds—one stabbed, one shot in the chest. Two women were being held hostage, one of whom you were told was a doctor, the other you saw being taken into an adjacent room. There were two members of the IPA guarding the front door, another you could magically see guarding the back. For some reason, you grabbed the under-edge of the table, leaving your fingerprint in fresh blood. Then, you turned on your heel and left the room, got into your truck, drove across the street, closed the blinds and poured yourself a beer.” She looked up from her watch. “That description alone took thirty-eight seconds. Are you sure you only spent sixty seconds in the room?”

  Beau licked his lips. He homed in on the fingerprint under the table. “I don’t remember what I touched. I was freaked out. I told you they were already dead. I had to get out of there. I don’t know what I touched. There could be more prints.”

  “That’s understandable,” Amanda allowed. “Is my forensic team going to identify Adam Humphrey Carter’s blood in the zippers of the medical field kit we found hidden behind your bedroom bookcase?”

  Beau’s tongue froze mid-lick.

  “One of the Halo Chest Seals is missing, but, coincidentally, Vale had one stuck over the hole in his chest. He was shot three times, by the way. Once before he was at the motel, and two killshots while he lay on the bed.” Amanda leaned forward again. “It’s very hard to get blood off of metal, Captain Ragnersen. You wouldn’t think so, but it’s true. The teeth of a zipper, for instance. The handle of a folding knife, for another. It has a spring inside, gears, a button to flick it open, crevices where microscopic flecks of blood can dry.”

  Beau’s sweat had a chemical odor. Will could smell it from three feet away.