Amanda sat in a back booth at the Majestic Diner on Ponce de Leon. She stifled a yawn. After leaving Techwood last night, she was too wired to asleep. Even Mary Wollstonecraft couldn’t send her off. She’d tossed and turned, images of the construction paper puzzle seemingly burned into her retinas. She’d added the new details in her mind: Hank Bennett—liar. Trey Callahan—liar.
And Ophelia. What to make of Ophelia?
The waitress refilled Amanda’s cup. She looked at her watch. Evelyn was fifteen minutes late, which was troubling. Amanda had never known her to be tardy. She’d used the pay phone in the back to call the Model City precinct, but no one had answered the phone. Amanda’s own roll call had ended almost half an hour ago. She was assigned to Vanessa today, which suited them both. The other woman had decided to treat herself to a day of shopping. That new credit card was burning a hole in her pocketbook.
The door opened and Evelyn rushed in. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I had the strangest call from Hodge.”
“My Hodge?”
Evelyn waved away the waitress who came to take her order. “He had dispatch send me to Zone One.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“No, the station was empty. It was just me and Hodge and his open door.” She sat back against the booth. She was obviously flustered. “He wanted me to tell him everything we’ve been doing.”
Amanda felt panic start to build.
“It’s okay. He wasn’t mad. At least, I don’t think he was mad. Who knows with that man? You’re absolutely right about his inscrutability. It’s unnerving.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Nothing. No criticisms. No comments. He just nodded and then told me to go do my job.”
“That’s the same thing he told me yesterday. To do my job.” Amanda asked, “Do you think he was comparing our stories?”
“Could be.”
“You didn’t hold anything back?”
“Well, I kept Deena’s name out of it. And Miss Lula’s. I didn’t want either of them getting into trouble.”
“You told him about Ophelia?”
“No,” she admitted. “I told him we were going to circle back on Trey Callahan, but I didn’t tell him why. Luther Hodge doesn’t strike me as a devotee of William Shakespeare.”
“I don’t know about that myself, Evelyn. Maybe we’re leaping to conclusions. Trey Callahan quotes a line from Hamlet and then you and I see the victim last night and fill in the blanks. It smacks of too much coincidence.”
“Is there really such a thing as coincidence in police work?”
Amanda couldn’t answer her. “Do you think Hodge will make trouble for us?”
“Who the hell knows?” She threw her hands into the air. “We should get to the mission. Going over it with Hodge again made me think of some things.”
Amanda slid out of the booth. She left two quarters on the table for the coffee and a generous tip. “Like what?”
“Like, everything.” Evelyn waited until they were outside to speak. “This Hank Bennett situation. I think you’re right. I think he’s a snake in the grass, and he used the information he had about Kitty Treadwell to get a job with her father.”
They got into Amanda’s car. She asked, “How would Bennett know there was a relation?”
“Her name was on the apartment door,” Evelyn reminded her. “Even without that, Kitty had a big mouth about her father. Miss Lula knew she was politically connected. Juice knew, too—he even mentioned another sister who was the golden child. It was an open secret on the street.”
“But not higher up the social ladder,” Amanda assumed. “Andrew Treadwell’s a Georgia graduate. I remember reading that in the newspaper.”
Evelyn smiled. “Hank Bennett was wearing a UGA class ring.”
“Georgia Bulldogs, class of 1974.” Once again, Amanda pulled out onto Ponce de Leon Avenue. “They could’ve met at a mixer or a social. All those frat boys are thick as thieves.” She’d interviewed her share for the sex crimes unit. They lied like carpets.
“What’s going on there?” Evelyn pointed at the Union Mission. An APD squad car blocked the entrance.
“I have no idea.” Amanda pulled onto the sidewalk and got out of the car. She recognized the patrolman walking out of the building, though she didn’t know his name. He obviously knew both Amanda and Evelyn. His pace quickened as he headed toward his car.
“Excuse me—” Amanda tried, but it was too late. The man got into his cruiser. Rubber squealed against asphalt as he peeled off.
“And the beat goes on,” Evelyn said. She didn’t seem too daunted as she headed toward the mission entrance. Instead of finding Trey Callahan, they saw a pudgy older man wearing a priest’s collar. He was sweeping broken glass off the floor. The front window had been broken. A brick was among the shards.
“Yes?” he asked.
Evelyn took the lead. “We’re with the Atlanta Police Department. We’re looking for Trey Callahan.”
The man seemed confused. “So am I.”
Amanda gathered they’d missed something. “Callahan isn’t here?”
“Who do you think caused this mess?” He indicated the broken glass. “Trey was supposed to open the shelter last night. He didn’t show up, so one of the girls threw a brick through the window.” He leaned against the broom. “I’m sorry, I’ve never dealt with the police before. Are you gals secretaries? The officer who just left said he would need a typed statement.”
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?”
“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.”
Amanda pressed her hand to her chest. She could feel her heart punching against her rib cage. And then she saw that Evelyn had fallen. She ran to help her up.
“No.” Evelyn stood up on her own. She slammed both hands into Butch’s chest.
“What the—” He stumbled back.
She slammed him again. Then again, until he was up against the wall. “If you ever touch me like that again, I will shoot you in the face. Do you hear me?”
Butch looked dumbstruck. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”
Evelyn paced back and forth. She was like a caged animal. “I am so sick of you assholes.”
“Me?” Butch took out his cigarettes. “Whadabout you broads? How many times you gotta be told to leave this be?” He dug his finger into the pack. “I tried to be nice. I tried to warn you easy. And then I hear you’re snooping around my CI. Making trouble. Mr. Nice Guy ain’t workin’. What else am I supposed to do?”
“Who’s your CI?”
“None of your goddamn business.”
Evelyn slapped away the cigarettes. She was so gripped by anger she had trouble speaking. “You know that dead woman is Jane Delray.”
His eyes cut to the side. “I don’t know shit.”
“Who told you to say it was Lucy Bennett?”
“Ain’t nobody tellin’ me to do nothin’.”
Evelyn wouldn’t give up. “Juice didn’t kill Lucy Bennett.”
“You best be careful pining after some nigger in jail.” He gave her a condescending look as he picked up his Marlboros. “Jesus, Ev. Why you comin’ off like some kind of bull dyke?” He looked to Amanda for help. “Come on, Wag. Talk some sense into Annie Oakley here.”
Amanda tasted bile in her throat. She threw out the filthiest thing she could think of. “You motherfucker.”
He barked a shocked laugh. “You’re motherfuckerin’ me?” He fished in his pocket for his lighter. “You wanna know who’s mother-fucked?” He lit the cigarette. “You’re fucked”—he nodded toward Amanda—“for going to the jail yesterday, and you”—he pointed to Evelyn—“are fucked for putting her up to all this.”
“Putting me up to what?” Amanda demanded. “She’s not my keeper.”
He hissed out a stream of smoke. “You’re both gonna be transferred tomorrow. I hope you still got your white gloves for crossing duty.”
“I hope you’re up for a sex discrimination lawsuit,” Evelyn shot back. “You and Landry both.”
Smoke snorted out from his nostrils. “You ditzy bitches throw that around all the time, but you know what? Ain’t a one’a you done it yet. Keep cryin’ wolf while you’re directing traffic.” He waved to them over his shoulder as he walked away.
Evelyn stood watching him, her fists clenching and unclenching. For just a moment, Amanda thought she might chase after Butch and jump on his back. Amanda wasn’t sure what she would do if this happened. Her fingernails were short but strong. She could probably scratch his eyes. Failing that, she would bite off anything she could get between her teeth.
“I am so sick of this.” Evelyn started pacing again. “I am sick of taking bullshit from them. I am sick of being lied to.” She kicked the Plymouth’s tire. “I’m sick of not getting a car. I’m sick of people thinking I’m some kind of fucking secretary.” She gripped her purse. “Why didn’t I shoot him? God, I wanted to shoot him.”
“We can do it now.” Amanda had never been so ready to do anything in her life. “We’ll go find him and do it right now.”
Evelyn hefted her purse over her shoulder. She crossed her arms. “I’m not going to prison for that—” She stopped. “What did you call him? Motherfucker?” She gave a surprised laugh. “I didn’t know you even knew that word.”
Amanda realized her hands were clenched, too. She stretched out her fingers one by one. “I suppose this is what happens when you hang around pimps and whores.”
“Crossing guard duty.” Evelyn disgustedly huffed out the words. “It’s summer. We’ll be stuck with all the stupid kids who couldn’t hack it during the regular year.”
Amanda opened the car door. “Let’s go to Georgia Baptist and see if we can find Trey Callahan’s fiancée.”
“Are you kidding me? You heard what Butch said.”
“That’s tomorrow. Let’s just worry about today.”
Evelyn walked around to the other side of the car. “And then what, Scarlett O’Hara?”
“And then we go to Techwood and see if Miss Lula found someone who remembered seeing Hank Bennett.” Amanda turned over the ignition. “And then ask her if she’s ever seen a giant weird man delivering soup to shut-ins.”
Evelyn clutched her purse in her lap. “Ulster admitted that he’s in and out of Techwood Homes. Mondays and Fridays. The same days our victims showed up.”
“He lied to us.” Amanda pulled out onto the street. “How could he read Trey Callahan’s manuscript if he can barely read the name on a license?”
“You noticed that, too?” Evelyn said, “He didn’t sound retarded.”
“Maybe he’s just a slow reader.”
“Butch said we were messing with his CI. Do you think that’s Ulster? Father Bailey? I wonder where that weasel scurried off to. Locking those girls in at night. It’s a regular Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. Have you ever?”
“Ulster seemed pretty eager to put Trey Callahan in the frame for all this. The Ophelia line. That bit about his temper.”
“You clocked that, too?” Evelyn rested her elbow on the door. “I know we’re all Christians here, but I don’t like the way Ulster uses it. Like it makes him better than everyone else. Did you pick up on that?”
Amanda was only certain of one thing. “I think James Ulster is the scariest man I’ve ever met in my life. There’s something evil about him.”
“Exactly,” Evelyn agreed. “Did you see how big his hands are?”
Amanda felt a shudder working its way up her spine.
Evelyn said, “Someone higher up is working against us.”
“I know,” Amanda mumbled.
“Butch is connected, but not enough to get us transferred. It has to be somebody who knew you were talking to Juice at the jail yesterday. Who knew we were talking to Ulster today. And Father Bailey. And Trey Callahan. Or, maybe I stirred up something checking the DNFs.” She chewed her lip. “Whatever we did, it pissed off someone enough to get us yanked off the street and tied to crossing duty.”
“I know,” Amanda repeated. She waited for Evelyn to say more, but the woman had probably jumped to the same conclusion as Amanda. Duke Wagner wasn’t officially back in uniform, but he was already pulling strings.
Amanda looked at her watch. Eight-fifteen in the evening. Nighttime brought no relief from the summer heat. If anything, it gave the humidity reason to come out and play. Amanda felt as if her sweat was sweating. Mosquitoes circled her head as she stood in front of the phone booth on the corner of Juniper and Pine. She left the door open so that the light would not come on. The dime felt greasy between her fingers. Amanda dropped the coin into the slot, then slowly dialed her father’s number.
She’d left Duke’s house fifteen minutes ago. Amanda had cooked his supper. She’d listened with half an ear as he’d relayed the day’s news, delivered the latest updates on his case. It was just a matter of time before Duke was back at his old post. Just a matter of time before Amanda was back under his thumb. She had only nodded—nodded as she watched him eat, nodded as she washed the dishes. An overwhelming sadness had taken hold. Every time she opened her mouth to speak, she shut it for fear of crying.
Duke picked up the telephone on the first ring. His voice was gravelly, probably from too many after-dinner cigarettes. “Hello?”
“Daddy, it’s me.”
“No, Daddy.”
He waited, then asked, “Car break down?”
“No, sir.”
She heard his recliner squeak. “What is it? I know something’s bothering you. You were sulking all night.”
Amanda caught her reflection in the chrome of the pay phone. She was twenty-five years old. She had touched a dead person last weekend. She had stared down a pimp yesterday morning. Helped examine a dead girl last night. She had stood up to Butch Bonnie in the street. She should be able to have a frank conversation with her father.
She asked, “Why did you have me transferred to crossing guard duty?”
“What?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “I didn’t transfer you. Who the hell transferred you?” She could hear papers rustling, a pen clicking. “Give me the jackass’s name. I’ll talk to him about a transfer.”
“You didn’t do it?”
“Why would I transfer you out when I’m gonna be back at my old squad in less than a month?”
He was right. What’s more, if Duke was displeased with someone, he generally told them to their face. “I’m on crossing duty, starting tomorrow.” She’d already called dispatch to verify it was true. “Along with Evelyn Mitchell.”
“Mitchell?” His tone changed. “What’re you doing with that pushy broad? I told you to stay away from her.”
“I know you did, but we’re working a case together.”
He grunted. “What kind of case?”
“Two girls have been murdered.” She added, “White girls. They lived at Techwood Homes.”
“Whores, I guess?”
“Yes, they were.”
He was silent, obviously thinking. “This have something to do with that nigger got charged for killing a white girl?”
She heard the flick of his lighter, a huff of air as he exhaled. “That why you were at the jail yesterday morning?”
Amanda couldn’t swallow past the lump in her throat. She saw her life starting to disappear before her eyes. Her apartment. Her job. Her freedom.
Duke said, “Heard you stared that coon down. Locked yourself in a room with him.”
Amanda didn’t answer. Hearing Duke say the words made her realize how crazy she had been. How stupid. She was lucky she’d escaped with her life.
Duke asked, “Were you scared?”
She knew he would see through a lie. “I was terrified.”
“But you didn’t let him see it.”
“No, sir.”
She heard him take another long drag on his cigarette. “I guess you think you’re going to be out late tonight?”
“I—” Amanda didn’t know what to say. She glanced down the street. The moon was almost full in the sky. The black wooden cross cast a shadow across the sidewalk in front of the soup kitchen. “We’re staking out a possible suspect.”
“We?”
She let the question go unanswered.
“What evidence do you got?”
“Nothing,” she admitted. “Just—” She searched for a better explanation, but could only come up with, “Women’s intuition.”
“Don’t call it that,” he ordered. “Call it a hunch. You feel it in your gut, not between your legs.”
Amanda didn’t know what to say other than, “All right.”
He coughed a few times. “That’s Rick Landry’s case you’re poking around, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I wouldn’t trust that idiot to find his asshole in a snowstorm.” His chuckle turned into a sharp cough. “If you’re out late, you’ll need your sleep. I’ll get myself breakfast tomorrow morning.”
The phone clicked in her ear. Amanda stared at the receiver as if the plastic mouthpiece could explain to her what had just happened. She didn’t look up until a pair of headlights flashed for her attention.
Evelyn’s Falcon station wagon smelled of candy and cheap wine. She smiled as Amanda settled into the passenger’s seat. “You okay?”
“Just puzzled.” She told Evelyn about the phone call with her father.
“Well.” Evelyn sounded circumspect. “Do you think he’s telling the truth?”
“Yes.” Duke was a lot of things, but he was not a liar.
“Then he must be telling the truth.”
Amanda knew that Evelyn would never trust Duke. She could understand why. As far as the other woman was concerned, he was cut from the same cloth as Rick Landry and Butch Bonnie. And maybe he was, but he was still Amanda’s father.
Evelyn stared down the street at the soup kitchen. “Is Ulster even in there?”
“He’s cleaning up.” Amanda had walked by earlier and seen James Ulster lifting a large soup pot off the table. His back was to her, but she’d still quickened her step. “There’s a green van parked behind the building. I called in the license plate—it’s registered to the church. There were some religious tracts in the front seat, a Bible on the dash. It has wooden crates in the back, a bunch of ropes. I guess he uses them to keep the food from spilling.”
“Delivering food to the needy. That sounds like a serial killer to me.”
“Surely you can think of one?”
Evelyn wasn’t up for teasing. “Driving over here, part of me felt like I was going to my own funeral.” She crossed her arms low on her waist. “Our last day on the job, or at least our real job. The job we want to do. I don’t think I can fit into my crossing guard uniform anymore. I thought that thing was retired.”
Amanda didn’t want to talk about it. “Did you call Georgia Baptist?”
“Callahan’s fiancée is named Eileen Sapperson so at least we were told the truth about that. She didn’t show up for work this morning. No home phone number. No address. Another Doug Henning magical disappearance.”
“Another dead end,” Amanda noted. Miss Lula hadn’t been able to find anyone at Techwood who remembered seeing a man fitting Hank Bennett’s description, and while plenty of people knew the hulking Mr. Ulster, none of them had ever seen him cause trouble. It was hard to make enemies of people to whom you were bringing a hot meal.
Evelyn said, “James Ulster is at Techwood every Monday and Friday, the same days the victims were found.”
“He’s in and out so much that no one would notice him,” Amanda added. “He knew Kitty, at least. He knew enough about Mary Halston to say that Trey had a thing for her. He probably knew Lucy Bennett, too.”
“He’s the only one who puts the girls as alive recently. Jane Delray, Hank Bennett, Trey Callahan, Juice—they all say the three girls have been gone at least a year.”
“Maybe Ulster is Butch’s CI. He could’ve said Lucy Bennett was dead so her brother would stop looking for her.”
“Was he really looking for her?” Evelyn asked. “As far as we know, he stopped when he found Kitty. And none of this explains why Hodge sent us out in the first place. Or who transferred us if it wasn’t your father. Any of it.”
Amanda couldn’t bear the thought of spinning it all around again. No matter how many times they talked it through, the construction paper puzzle would likely never be solved. Evelyn had her family to go home to. Amanda had her schoolwork, a major paper to write. They had never really been assigned this case, and tomorrow, their authority would be no greater than that conferred upon them by screaming school-aged adolescents.
Evelyn said, “I was thinking—what would happen if I really did file a sexual discrimination suit?” She rested her hand on the steering wheel. “What would they do? The law is on my side. Butch is right. We can’t keep threatening it without following through. It’s lost its teeth.”
“You’d never get promoted again. They’d stick you at the airport, which is only marginally more humiliating than crossing duty.” Amanda felt the need to tell her, “But I would testify for you. I saw what Rick did. And Butch. They had no right to do that.”
“Oh, Mandy, you’re such a good friend.” She reached out and grabbed Amanda’s hand. “You’ve made this stupid job almost bearable.”
Amanda looked down at their hands. Evelyn’s were so much more elegant than her own. “You’ve never called me Mandy before.”
“You don’t really seem like one.”
Amanda didn’t feel like one anymore. Did a Mandy go into a jailhouse and rattle a pimp? Did a Mandy stand up to bullies and call them nasty names?
Evelyn said, “You know, I was so scared of you when Hodge first sent us on that call.”
Amanda didn’t have to ask why. If this week had taught her anything, it was that the Wagner name was not the asset she once believed.
Evelyn said, “But you turned out to be so swell. If there’s anything good that came out of this, it’s our friendship.”
Amanda had been fighting weepiness all night. She could only nod.
Evelyn squeezed her hand before letting go. “I don’t have many friends. Any friends, really.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Oh, I used to have lots of them.” She twisted her fingers into her hair. “Bill and I would go to parties every weekend. Two or three. Sometimes four.” She let out a long sigh. “Everyone thought it was a gas when I joined the force, but then they saw I wasn’t going to quit and suddenly there was nothing we could talk about. I didn’t want to swap recipes or plan bake sales. They couldn’t understand why I would want to do a man’s job. You should hear my mother-in-law on the subject.” She laughed ruefully. “This job changes you. It changes how you think, how you see the world. I don’t care what the boys say. We are cops. We live it and breathe it as much as they do.”
“You don’t see Butch and Landry out here right now.”
“No, they’re probably home with their families.”
Amanda doubted that. “Their mistresses, more likely.”
“Hey, that’s him.” They saw Ulster locking the front door of the building. The darkness did him no favors. He was a hulking man. Amanda could not imagine anyone putting up much of a struggle against such raw power.
He glanced up the street. Both Amanda and Evelyn ducked, but Ulster didn’t seem to notice the red station wagon, or if he did, he didn’t think much of it. In retrospect, the car—with its children’s toys in the back and crayons melted into the carpet—was the perfect cover.
Amanda held her breath as she waited for Ulster to reappear. It felt like hours but was only minutes before Evelyn finally said, “Here he comes.”
The green van turned onto Juniper. They stayed hunched down as it passed. Evelyn cranked the key. The engine sputtered, then caught. She pushed the knob to make sure the headlights were off, then swung the nose out into the street and smoothly entered the opposite lane.
“You’re getting better at this,” Amanda said.
“Last hurrah,” she muttered.
There were no streetlights on Juniper. The moon was enough to drive by, and where she couldn’t see, Evelyn coasted her way through.
Ulster took a left onto Piedmont Avenue. He drove deep into Bedford Pine. The stench of Buttermilk Bottom filled the car, but they kept the windows down.
“Where is he going?” Evelyn asked.
Amanda shook her head. She had no idea.
The van braked at the last minute, taking a sharp turn onto Ralph McGill. Amanda directed, “Cut over to Courtland.”
Evelyn had to reverse to make the turn. “Do you think he spotted us?”
“I don’t know.” Their headlights were still off. The car’s interior was dark. “Maybe he’s just being careful.”
“Why would he be careful?” Evelyn sucked in her breath. The green van was up ahead. “There he is.”
They followed the van up Courtland. The road was a straight shot. Evelyn hung back at least a hundred yards. When the van turned onto Pine, the lights from Crawford Long Hospital illuminated the interior. They saw Ulster’s unmistakable frame. Evelyn slowed, peering down the street before making the turn to follow him. The lights from the expressway made the going more difficult. He turned onto Spring Street.
“Evelyn,” Amanda said.
“I know.” She followed him up North Avenue. Past the Varsity. Over the expressway. He was going to Techwood. “Get my radio.”
Amanda found Evelyn’s purse on the back seat. The revolver was cold in her hands. She passed this to Evelyn, who kept one hand on the wheel as she slid the gun underneath her leg.
Amanda clicked the radio. “Dispatch?”
There was no answer.
“Dispatch, this is unit sixteen. Over?”
The radio clicked. “Unit twenty-three to unit sixteen,” a man’s voice said. “You gals need some help?”
Amanda gripped the radio in her hand. She had called for dispatch, not some hillbilly out on patrol.
“Copy sixteen?” the man asked. “What’s your locale?”
Amanda spoke through gritted teeth. “Techwood Homes.”
“Repeat, please.”
Amanda enunciated the words. “Tech. Wood. Homes.”
“Copy that. Perry Homes.”
“Jesus,” Evelyn hissed. “He thinks this is a joke.”
Amanda clutched the radio as hard as she could, wanting to break it over the man’s head. She put her finger to the button, but couldn’t bring herself to press it.
“Amanda,” Evelyn mumbled. Her voice had a tone of warning.
Up ahead, the green van didn’t slow to turn on Techwood Drive. Instead, it continued straight, going into the heart of the ghetto.
“This isn’t good,” Evelyn said. “There’s no reason for him to be here.”
Amanda didn’t bother to vocalize her agreement. They were in a part of town that no one—black, white, cop, or criminal—willingly entered after dark.
The van turned again. Evelyn slowed, nosing into the turn, making sure they weren’t sitting ducks. Just ahead, they saw the van’s taillights glowing softly. Ulster obviously knew where he was going. His pace was slow and deliberate.
Amanda tried the radio again. “Dispatch, sixteen going north on Cherry.”
The man in unit twenty-three answered. “What’s that, sixteen? You wanna gimme your cherry?”
There was more clicking as the radio was jammed.
Dispatch cut through the chatter. “Ten-thirty-four, all units. Sixteen, repeat your ten-twenty.”
Evelyn said, “That’s Rachel Foster.” The women in dispatch were the only ones who could override the nonsense. Evelyn grabbed the radio. “Sixteen heading north on Cherry. Possible thirty-four on a green Dodge van. Georgia license plate—” She squinted at the van. “Charlie, Victor, William, eight-eight-eight.”
Rachel said, “Verify ten-twenty, unit sixteen?”
Amanda took the radio so Evelyn could return both hands to the wheel. “Verify Cherry Street, Dispatch. Heading north.”
“Are you kidding me?” Rachel’s tone was terse. She knew the streets better than most cops on the road. “Sixteen?”
The car was silent. They both stared at the green van heading deep into the ghetto. Was Ulster leading them into a trap?
“Sixteen?” Rachel repeated.
Amanda said, “Verify heading North on Cherry.”
Static filled the seconds. Rachel said, “Give me five minutes. Hold your location. Repeat, hold.”
Amanda put the radio in her lap. Evelyn kept driving.
Amanda asked, “Why did you report the van as possibly stolen?”
“All we need is whoever that cowboy is on unit twenty-three rushing in here with lights and sirens.”
“Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.” Amanda had never been in this part of town. She doubted any white woman ever had. There were no street signs. No lights on inside the houses that dotted either side of the street. Even the moon seemed to glow less brightly here.
The van took another left. The air felt too thick. Amanda had to breathe through her mouth. The street was lined with junker cars on both sides. If Evelyn followed Ulster, there would be no way to hide the station wagon from him. In the end, they didn’t need to. The van’s brake lights flashed as he slowed down and turned into the driveway of a clapboard house. As with the others, there were no lights on inside. Electricity was a luxury in this part of town.
“Are they abandoned?” Evelyn asked, meaning the houses. Some of them were boarded up. Others were so dilapidated that the roofs had caved in.
“I can’t tell.”
They both sat in the car. Ulster got out of the van and entered the house. Neither woman knew what to do. They couldn’t very well kick down the door and go in guns blazing.
Amanda said, “Rachel should’ve radioed back by now.”
Evelyn kept her hands gripped around the steering wheel. They both stared at Ulster’s house. A light came on in one of the back rooms. It cut a sliver of white across the front of the green van parked in the driveway.
Evelyn’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Would you think I was a coward if I said we should call in unit twenty-three?”
Amanda had been wondering how to ask the same question. “He could tell Ulster the van was reported stolen.”
“And ask to look around inside the house.”
And get shot in the face. Or chest. Or punched. Or stabbed. Or beaten.
Amanda pressed the button on the radio. “Twenty-three?” There was only static. Even the clicks were gone. “Dispatch?”
“Shit,” Evelyn cursed. “We’re probably in a pocket.” There were dead spots all over the city. Evelyn put the car in reverse. “It was working the last block over. We can—”
A scream pierced the air. It was feral, terror inducing. Something inside of Amanda recoiled. Her body broke out in a cold sweat. Every muscle tensed. The sound triggered a primitive urge to flee.
“My God,” Evelyn gasped. “Was that an animal?”
Amanda could still hear the sound echoing in her ears. She’d never heard anything so terrifying in her life.
Suddenly, the radio came to life. “Sixteen? Twenty-three here. You foxes reconsider my offer?”
“Thank God,” Evelyn whispered. She pressed the button, but didn’t have time to speak.
The second scream was like a knife cutting straight through Amanda’s heart. It wasn’t an animal. It was the desperate cry of a woman begging for help.
The radio crackled. “Sixteen, what the hell was that?”
Amanda’s purse was on the floorboard. She reached inside and pulled out her revolver. She grabbed the door handle.
Evelyn’s foot slipped off the brake. “What are you doing?”
“Stop the car.” It was rolling back. “Stop the car.”
“Amanda, you can’t—”
The woman screamed again.
Amanda pushed open the door. She stumbled as she got out of the car. Her knee dug into the asphalt. Her hose ripped. She couldn’t stop herself. Wouldn’t stop herself. “Get twenty-three. Get everybody you can.” Evelyn yelled for her to wait, but Amanda kicked off her shoes and started running.
The woman screamed again. She was in the house. Ulster’s house.
Amanda tightened her grip on the revolver as she ran down the street. Her arms pumped. Her vision tunneled. She slipped as she rounded into Ulster’s driveway. Her hose bunched up at the balls of her feet. She slowed. The front door was shut. The only light was toward the back of the house.
Amanda tried to quiet her breathing, keeping her mouth open, taking in gulps of air. She squeezed past the van. She crouched down low, though no one could see her. The house blocked the moonlight, painting everything in shadow. She pointed her revolver straight ahead, finger on the trigger, not on the side like they had taught her, because she was going to shoot anybody who walked into her path.
The scream came again. It wasn’t as loud this time, but it was more desperate. More frightened.
Amanda steeled herself as she approached the open window. The light was coming through a pair of heavy black curtains. She could hear the woman moaning with each breath. Almost mewing. Carefully, Amanda peered through the part in the curtains. She saw an old washstand. A sink. A bed. The woman was there. Sitting up. Blonde hair streaked red. Emaciated but for her distended belly. The skin on her arms and shoulders was a bloody pulp. Her lips and eyelids were torn where she’d ripped them open. Blood coated every inch of her skin—her face, her throat, her chest.
The girl screamed again, but not before Amanda heard something behind her.
A shoe scuffing on concrete.
Amanda started to turn, but a large hand grabbed her from behind.