Will had been trapped in the car so long with Amanda that he was worried he was going to develop Stockholm syndrome. He was already feeling himself weaken, especially after Miriam Kwon, mother of Hironobu Kwon, had spit in Amanda’s face.
In Ms. Kwon’s defense, Amanda hadn’t exactly been tender toward the woman. They had practically ambushed her on her front lawn. She’d obviously just come from arranging her son’s funeral. Pamphlets with crosses on them were clutched in her hand as she approached the house. Her street was lined with cars. She’d had to park some distance away. She looked exhausted and limp, the way any mother would look after choosing the coffin in which her only son would be buried.
After mumbling the perfunctory condolences on behalf of the GBI, Amanda had gone straight for the jugular. From Ms. Kwon’s reaction, Will gathered the woman hadn’t been expecting her dead son’s name to be sullied in such a manner, despite the nefarious circumstances surrounding his death. It was the nature of Atlanta news stations that every dead young man under the age of twenty-five was celebrated as an honor student until proven otherwise. According to his criminal record, this particular honor student had been a fan of Oxycontin. Hironobu Kwon had been arrested twice for selling the drug. Only his academic promise had saved him from serious jail time. The judge had ordered him to rehab three months ago. Apparently, that hadn’t worked out too well.
Will checked the time on his cell phone. The recent change to daylight savings time had switched the phone into military hours. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out how to change it back to normal. Thankfully, it was half past noon, which meant he didn’t have to count on his fingers like a monkey.
Not that he didn’t have ample time to perform mathematical equations. Despite traveling almost five hundred miles this morning, they had nothing to show for it. Evelyn Mitchell was still missing. They were about to hit the twenty-four-hour mark since her abduction. The dead bodies were stacking up, and the only clue Will and Amanda had been given thus far had come from the mouth of a death row inmate who had been murdered before the state could kill him.
Their trip to Valdosta State Prison may as well have never happened. Former drug squad detectives Adam Hopkins and Ben Humphrey had stared at Amanda as if gazing through a piece of glass. Will had expected as much. Years ago, they had each refused to talk to Will when he’d shown up on their respective doorsteps. Lloyd Crittenden was dead. Demarcus Alexander and Chuck Finn were probably just as unreachable. Both ex-detectives had left Atlanta as soon as they were released from prison. Will had talked to their parole officers last night. Alexander was on the West Coast trying to rebuild his life. Finn was in Tennessee, wallowing in the misery of drug addiction.
“Heroin,” Will said.
Amanda turned to him, looking as if she’d forgotten that he was in the car. They were heading north on Interstate 85, toward another bad guy who was more than likely going to refuse to talk to them.
He told her, “Boyd Spivey said that Chuck Finn had a belly habit for heroin. According to Sara, Ricardo was packed full of heroin.”
“That’s a very tenuous connection.”
“Here’s another one: Oxy usually leads to heroin addiction.”
“These straws are mighty thin. You can’t throw a brick without hitting a heroin addict these days.” She sighed. “If only we had more bricks.”
Will tapped his fingers against his leg. He’d been holding back something all morning, hoping he’d catch Amanda off guard and get the truth. Now seemed as good a time as any. “Hector Ortiz was Evelyn’s gentleman friend.”
The corner of her mouth turned up. “Is that so?”
“He’s Ignatio Ortiz’s brother, though I gather from your expression that this isn’t a news flash.”
“Ortiz’s cousin,” she corrected. “Are these observations courtesy of Dr. Linton?”
Will felt his teeth start to grind. “You already knew who he was.”
“Would you like to waste the next ten minutes discussing your feelings or do you want to do your job?”
He wanted to spend the next ten minutes throttling her, but Will decided to keep that to himself. “What was Evelyn doing mixed up with the cousin of the guy who runs all the coke in and out of the southeastern United States?”
“Hector was a car salesman, actually.” She glanced at him. There was something like humor in her eyes. “He sold Cadillacs.”
That explained why the man’s name hadn’t come up on Will’s vehicle search. He was driving a dealer car. “Hector had a Texicanos tattoo on his arm.”
“We all make mistakes when we’re young.”
Will tried, “What about the letter A that Evelyn drew under the chair?”
“I thought we were calling that an arrowhead?”
“Almeja rhymes with ‘Amanda.’ ”
“It kind of does, doesn’t it?”
“It’s slang for ‘cunt.’ ”
She laughed. “Why, Will, are you calling me a cunt?”
If she only knew how many times he’d been tempted.
“I suppose I should reward your good police work.” Amanda pulled a folded sheet of paper from the sun visor. She handed it to Will. “Evelyn’s phone calls from the last four weeks.”
He scanned the two pages. “She’s been calling Chattanooga a lot.”
Amanda gave him a curious look. Will glared back at her. He could read, just not quickly and certainly not under scrutiny. The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation’s eastern field office was in Chattanooga. He’d called them constantly to coordinate meth cases while he was working in North Georgia. The 423 area code appeared at least a dozen times in Evelyn’s phone records.
He asked, “Is there something you want to say to me?”
For once, she was silent.
Will pulled out his cell phone to call the number.
“Don’t be stupid. It’s Healing Winds, a rehab facility.”
“Why was she calling there?”
“I had the same question.” She signaled, pulling into the next lane. “They’re not allowed to give out patient information.”
Will checked the dates against the numbers. Evelyn had only started calling the facility in the last ten days, the same time period in which Mrs. Levy said that Hector Ortiz’s visits with Evelyn had picked up.
Will said, “Chuck Finn lives in Tennessee.”
“He lives in Memphis. That’s a five-hour drive from Healing Winds in Chattanooga.”
“He has a serious drug addiction.” Will waited for her to respond. When she didn’t, he said, “Guys get clean, sometimes they want to unburden themselves. Maybe Evelyn was afraid he would start talking.”
“What an interesting theory.”
“Or maybe it took clearing his mind for Chuck to realize that Evelyn was still sitting on her share of the cash.” He pushed on. “It’s hard to find work with a rap sheet like Chuck’s. He was kicked off the force. He spent serious time in prison. He’s got his habit to battle. Even if he’s clean, no one would go out of their way to hire him. Not in this economy.”
Amanda dropped another dollop of information. “There were eight sets of prints in Evelyn’s house, excluding hers and Hector’s. They’ve identified three. One set belonged to Hironobu Kwon, another belonged to Ricardo the heroin mule, and another set belonged to our Hawaiian shirt aficionado. His name is Benny Choo. He’s a forty-two-year-old enforcer for the Yellow Rebels.”
“Yellow Rebels?”
“It’s an Asian gang. Don’t ask me where they got the name. I suppose they’re very proud to be hillbillies. Most of them are.”
“Ling-Ling,” Will guessed. That was who they were going to see. “Spivey said you should talk to Ling-Ling.”
“Julia Ling.”
Will was surprised. “A woman?”
“Yes, a woman. My laws, how the world has changed.” Amanda glanced in the rearview mirror and darted into the next lane. “The nickname comes from the now-disproven perception that she’s not very smart. Her brother likes to rhyme things. ‘Ding-a-ling’ turned into ‘Ling-a-Ling,’ shortened to ‘Ling-Ling.’ ”
Will had no idea what she was talking about. “That makes sense.”
“Madam Ling is the outside boss of the Yellow Rebels. Her brother Roger still pulls the strings from inside, but she runs the day-to-day. If Yellow is making a play for Brown, then it’s being made by Roger via Ling-Ling.”
“What’s he in for?”
“He’s serving life for the rape and murder of two teenage girls. Sixteen and fourteen. They were tricking for him. He didn’t think they were pulling their weight, so he strangled them to death with a dog leash. But not before raping both of them and ripping off their breasts with his teeth.”
Will felt a shudder working its way up his spine. “Why isn’t he on death row?”
“He took a deal. The State was worried about him making an insanity plea—which, between you and me, wouldn’t be much of a stretch, because the man is absolutely nuts. This wasn’t the first time Roger was caught with human flesh between his teeth.”
The shudder made his shoulders flex. “What about the victims?”
“They were both runaways who fell into drugs and prostitution. Their families were more about divine retribution than an eye for an eye.”
Will was familiar with the concept. “They probably ran away for a reason.”
“Young girls usually do.”
“Roger’s sister still supports him?”
She gave him a meaningful look. “Don’t be fooled, Will. Julia talks a very good game, but she could slit your throat and not lose a wink of sleep. These people are not to be messed with. There are procedures that have to be followed. You must show them the utmost respect.”
Will repeated Boyd’s words. “ ‘You can’t go to Yellow without an invitation.’ ”
“You have such a remarkable memory.”
Will checked out the number for the next exit. They were heading toward Buford Highway. Chambodia. “Maybe Boyd was only half right. Heroin is a lot more addictive than coke. If the Yellow Rebels flood the market with cheap heroin, then Los Texicanos will lose its cocaine customer base. That points to a power struggle, but it doesn’t explain why two Asian men and a Texicano were in Evelyn Mitchell’s house looking for something.” Will stopped. She’d sidetracked him again. “Hironobu Kwon and Benny Choo. What’s Ricardo’s last name?”
She smiled. “Very good.” She offered the information like another reward. “Ricardo Ortiz. He’s Ignatio Ortiz’s youngest son.”
Will had interviewed ax murderers who were more forthcoming. “And he was muling heroin.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Are you going to tell me if any of these guys are connected or do I have to find that out on my own?”
“Ricardo Ortiz was thrown into juvie twice, but he never crossed paths inside with Hironobu Kwon. Neither of them have visible connections to Benny Choo, and as I said, Hector Ortiz was just a simple car salesman.” She zipped in front of a delivery truck, cutting off a Hyundai in the process. “Believe me, if I saw a connection between any of these men, we’d be working it.”
“Except for Choo, they’re all young guys, early twenties.” Will tried to think of where they might’ve met. AA meetings. Nightclubs. Basketball courts. Church, maybe. Miriam Kwon wore a gold cross around her neck. Ricardo Ortiz had a cross tattooed on his arm. Stranger things had happened.
Amanda said, “Check the number Evelyn called the day before she was taken. 3:02 p.m.”
Will traced his finger under the first column, finding the time. He moved across. The number had an Atlanta area code. “Am I supposed to recognize this?”
“I’d be surprised if you did. It’s the precinct number for Hartsfield.” Hartsfield-Jackson, Atlanta’s airport. “Vanessa Livingston is the commander. I’ve known the old gal a long time. She partnered with Evelyn after I left APD.”
Will waited, then asked, “And?”
“Evelyn asked her to check for a name on the flight manifests.”
“Ricardo Ortiz,” Will guessed.
“You must’ve gotten your sleep last night.”
He’d stayed up until three listening to the rest of the recordings, apparently for no reason but to find out things that Amanda already knew. “Where did Ricardo fly in from?”
“Sweden.”
Will frowned. He hadn’t been expecting that.
Amanda merged onto the exit ramp for I-285. “Ninety percent of all heroin in the world comes from Afghanistan. Your tax dollars at work.” She slowed for the curve as they went through Spaghetti Junction. “The bulk of the European supply runs through Iran, up into Turkey and farther points north.”
“Like Sweden.”
“Like Sweden.” She accelerated again as they merged into fast-moving traffic. “Ricardo was there for three days. Then he took a flight from Gothenburg to Amsterdam, then straight into Atlanta.”
“Filled with heroin.”
“Filled with heroin.”
Will rubbed his jaw, thinking about what had happened to the young man.
“Someone beat the hell out of him. He was full of balloons. Maybe he couldn’t pass them.”
“That would be a question for the ME.”
Will had assumed that she’d gotten all of this information from the medical examiner’s office. “You didn’t ask him?”
“They’ve kindly promised me their full report by end of business this evening. Why do you think I asked you to have Sara reach out?” She added, “How’s that going, by the way? I’m assuming from your good night’s sleep that there’s not a lot of progress.”
They were coming up on the Buford Highway exit. U.S. Route 23 ran from Jacksonville, Florida, to Mackinaw City, Michigan. The Georgia stretch was around four hundred miles, and the part that went through Chamblee, Norcross, and Doraville was one of the most racially diverse in the area, if not the country. It wasn’t exactly a neighborhood—more like a series of desolate strip malls, flimsy apartment buildings, and gas stations that offered expensive rims and quick title loans. What it lacked in community it made up for in raw commerce.
Will was fairly certain Chambodia was a pejorative term, but the name for the area had stuck, despite DeKalb County’s push to call it the International Corridor. There were all kinds of ethnic subsets, from Portuguese to Hmong. Unlike most urban areas, there didn’t seem to be a clear line of segregation between any of the communities. Subsequently, you could find a Mexican restaurant beside a sushi place, and the farmer’s market was the sort of melting pot that people thought of when they pictured the United States.
The strip was much closer to the land of opportunity than the amber waves of grain in the heartland. People could come here with little more than a work ethic and build a solidly middle-class life. For as long as Will could remember, the demographics were in constant flux. The whites complained when the blacks moved in. The blacks complained when the Hispanics moved in. The Hispanics complained when the Asians moved in. One day they would all be grumbling about the influx of whites. The gerbil wheel of the American dream.
Amanda pulled into the middle strip that served as the turning lane for both sides of the highway. Will saw a bunch of signs stacked one on top of the other like a Jenga game. Some of the characters were unrecognizable, more like pieces of art than letters.
“I’ve had a car sitting on Ling-Ling’s shop all morning. She hasn’t had any visitors.” Amanda floored the gas, narrowly missing a minivan as she made the turn. Horns blared, but she talked over them. “I made some phone calls last night. Roger was transferred to Coastal three months ago. They had him at Augusta for six months prior, but he evened out on his meds, so they sent him back into the cattle shoot.” Augusta Medical Hospital provided Level 4 mental health services to inmates on a transient basis. “Roger’s first day at Coastal ended with a nasty incident involving a bar of soap wrapped in a tube sock. Apparently, he’s not happy with his new accommodations.”
“You’re going to offer to transfer him?”
“If it comes to that.”
“Are you going to use Boyd’s name?”
“That might not be a wise idea.”
“What do you think Roger’s going to give us?” Will did a mental head slap. “You think he’s behind Evelyn’s kidnapping.”
“He may be clinically insane, but he’d never be stupid enough to do something like that.” She gave Will a meaningful look. “Roger’s extremely intelligent. Think chess, not checkers. There’s no gain for him in taking Evelyn. His whole organization would be disrupted.”
“Okay, so, you think Roger knows who’s involved?”
“If you want to know about a crime, ask a criminal.” Her cell phone started to ring. She checked the number. Will felt the car slow. Amanda pulled to the side of the road. She answered the phone, listened, then hit the unlock button on the door. “A little privacy, please?”
Will got out of the SUV. The weather had been spectacular the day before, but now it was cloudy and warm. He walked toward the edge of the strip mall. There was a shack of a restaurant near the street entrance. He guessed from the rocking chair painted on the sign that it was some kind of country-cooking establishment. Strangely, Will didn’t feel his stomach rumble at the thought of food. The last thing he’d had to eat was a bowl of instant grits that he’d forced down this morning. His appetite was gone, which was something he’d only experienced once before in his life—the last time he’d been around Sara Linton.
Will sat down on the curb. Cars whirred by behind him. Fragments of beats bounced from their radios. A glance toward Amanda told him she was going to be a while. She was gesturing with her hands, never a good thing.
He took out his phone and scrolled through the numbers. He should call Faith, but he didn’t have anything he could report and their conversation last night hadn’t ended well. Whatever happened with Evelyn wasn’t going to make things better. No matter what tricky verbal maneuvering Amanda was doing, there were still some hard facts she couldn’t talk around. If the Asians were really making a play for the Texicanos drug market, then Evelyn Mitchell had to be at the center of it. Hector might’ve called himself a car salesman, but he still had the tattoo that connected him to the gang. He still had a cousin in prison running that same gang. His nephew had been shot dead at Evelyn’s house, and Hector himself was dead in Evelyn’s trunk. There was no reason for a cop, especially a retired one, to be mixed up with these kind of bad guys unless there was something dirty going on.
Will looked down at his phone. Thirteen hundred hours. He should go into the setup menu and try to figure out how to switch it back to the normal time display, but Will didn’t have the patience right now. Instead, he scrolled to Sara’s cell phone number, which had three eights in it. He had stared at it so many times over the last few months that he was surprised the numbers weren’t burned into his retinas.
Unless you counted the unfortunate misunderstanding with the lesbian who lived across the street, Will had never been on a real date before. He’d been with Angie since he was eight years old. There had been passion at one time, and for a short while, something that felt close to love, but he could not ever recall a point in his life when he felt happy to be with her. He lived in dread of her showing up on his doorstep. He felt enormous relief when she was gone. Where she got him was the in-between, those rare moments of peace when he got a glimpse of what a settled life could be. They would have meals together and go to the grocery store and work in the yard—or Will would work and Angie would watch—and then at night they’d go to bed and he would find himself lying there with a smile on his face because this was what life was like for the rest of the world.
And then he would wake up in the morning and she’d be gone.
They were too close. That was the problem. They had lived through too much, seen too many horrors, shared too much fear and loathing and pity, to look at each other as something other than victims. Will’s body was like a monument to that misery: the burn marks, the scars, the various slings and arrows he had suffered. For years, he had wanted more from Angie, but Will had recently come to the hard realization that there was nothing more that she could give.
She wasn’t going to change. He knew that truth even when they finally got married, which had come about not through careful planning but because Will had bet Angie that she wouldn’t go through with it. Gambling aside, she was never going to see being with Will as anything other than a safe haven at best and a sacrifice at worst. There was a reason she never touched him unless she wanted something. There was a reason he didn’t try to call her when she disappeared.
He slid his thumb inside his sleeve and felt the beginnings of the long scar that traced up his arm. It was thicker than he remembered. The skin was still tender to the touch.
Will pulled away his hand. Angie had flinched the last time her fingers had accidentally brushed against his bare arm. Her reactions to him were always intense, never half measures. She liked to see how far she could push him. It was her favorite sport: how bad did she have to be before Will finally had enough and abandoned her just like everyone else had in her life?
They had teetered on that line many times, but somehow, she always managed to yank him back at the last second. Even now, Will felt the pull. He hadn’t seen Angie since her mother had died. Deidre Polaski was a junkie and a prostitute who’d overdosed herself into a vegetative coma when Angie was eleven. Her body had held on for twenty-seven years before finally giving up. Four months had passed since the funeral. Not much in the scheme of things—Angie had disappeared for a whole year once—but Will felt a warning in his spine that told him something was wrong. She was in trouble or she was hurt or she was upset. His body knew it just like it knew that it needed to breathe.
They had always been connected like this, even back when they were kids. Especially when they were kids. And if there was one thing Will knew about his wife, it was that she always came to him when things were bad. He didn’t know when she would show up, whether it would be tomorrow or next week, but he knew one day soon he’d come home from work and find Angie sitting on his couch, eating his pudding cups and making derogatory comments about his dog.
That was why Will had gone to Sara’s house last night. He was hiding from Angie. He was fighting the inevitable. And, if he was being honest, he had been aching to see Sara again. That she had bought his excuse about his house being upside down made him think that maybe she had wanted him there, too. As a kid, Will had trained himself to not want things he couldn’t have—the latest toys, shoes that actually fit, home-cooked meals that didn’t come out of a can. His power to deny himself disappeared where Sara Linton was concerned. He could not stop thinking about how her hand had felt on his shoulder when they’d stood in the street yesterday. Her thumb had stroked the side of his neck. She had lifted her heels off the ground so that they were the same height, and for just a second, he’d thought that she was going to kiss him.
“Christ,” Will groaned. He visualized the carnage at Evelyn Mitchell’s house, the blood and brain matter spattered across her kitchen and laundry room. And then he tried to blank his mind completely, because he was pretty sure thinking about sex and then picturing scenes of violence was how serial killers got their start.
The SUV jerked into reverse. Amanda rolled down the window. Will stood.
She told him, “That was a source at APD. Looks like our Type B-negative showed up by the Dumpster at Grady. Unconscious, barely breathing. They found his wallet in one of the trash bags. Marcellus Benedict Estevez. Unemployed. Lives with his grandmother.”
Will wondered why Sara hadn’t called him about this. Maybe she had already left work. Or maybe it wasn’t her job to keep him in the loop. “Did Estevez say anything?”
“He died half an hour ago. We’ll swing by the hospital after this.”
Will thought that was a pointless trip considering the guy was dead. “Did he have something on him?”
“No. Get in.”
“Why are we—”
“I don’t have all day, Will. Wipe the dirt out of your vagina and let’s get going.”
Will got into the SUV. “Did they confirm Estevez is blood type B-negative?”
She punched the gas. “Yes. And his fingerprints have been positively identified as one of the eight sets found in Evelyn’s house.”
He was missing something again. “That was a long conversation for just that little bit of information.”
For once, she was forthcoming. “We got a call-back on Chuck Finn. Why didn’t you tell me that you talked to his parole officer last night?”
“I suppose I was being petty.”
“Well, you certainly showed me. The parole officer did a spot check on Chuck this morning. He’s been gone for two days.”
“Wait a minute.” Will turned toward her. “Chuck’s PO told me last night that he was accounted for. He said that Chuck never missed a sign-in.”
“I’m sure the Tennessee parole office is as overburdened and understaffed as ours is. At least he had the balls to come clean this morning.” She gave him a meaningful look. “Chuck Finn signed himself out of treatment two days ago.”
“Treatment?”
“He was at Healing Winds. He’s on his third month of sobriety.”
Will felt a slight vindication.
“Healing Winds is also where Hironobu Kwon got treatment. They were there at the same time.”
Will had to be silent for a moment. “When did you find all of this out?”
“Just now, Will. Don’t pout. I know an old gal who works in records down at the drug court.” Apparently, Amanda knew an old gal everywhere. “Kwon was sent to Hope Hall for his first offense.” The drug court’s inpatient treatment facility. “The judge wasn’t inclined to give him a second chance on the state’s dime, so the mother stepped in and said she’d secured him a place at Healing Winds.”
“Where he met Chuck Finn.”
“It’s a large facility, but you’re right. It would be quite a stretch to say that these two particular men just happened to be there at the same time.”
Will was shocked to hear her concede the point, but he kept going. “If Chuck told Hironobu Kwon that Evelyn had money sitting around …” He smiled. Finally, something was making sense. “What about the other guy? The Type B-negative who showed up at Grady? Does he have any connection to Chuck or Hironobu?”
“Marcellus Estevez has never been arrested. He was born and raised in Miami, Florida. Two years ago, he moved to Carrollton to attend West Georgia College. He dropped out last quarter. He hasn’t had contact with his family since.”
Another kid in his mid-twenties who had gotten mixed up with some very bad people. “You seem to know an awful lot about Estevez.”
“APD has already spoken with his parents. They filed a missing persons report as soon as the school informed them that their son wasn’t attending class.”
“Since when is Atlanta sharing information with us?”
“Let’s just say I reached out to some old friends.”
Will was beginning to form an image of a network of steely old ballbusters who either owed Amanda a favor or had worked with Evelyn at some point in their long careers.
She said, “The point is that we don’t know how Type B, Marcellus Estevez, ties into this. Except for Hironobu Kwon and Chuck Finn, there’s no hint of a connection between anyone else in the house. They all went to different high schools. Not all of them were in college, but the ones who were didn’t go together. They didn’t meet in prison. None of them share a gang affiliation or a social club. They all have different backgrounds, different ethnicities.”
Will felt like she was being honest at least about this. In any investigation involving multiple perpetrators, the key was always to find out how they knew each other. Human beings were largely predictable in their habits. If you found out where they met, how they knew each other, or what had brought them together, then you could generally find someone outside the group, just hovering around the periphery, who wanted to talk.
He told her what he’d been thinking since he first saw Evelyn’s upturned house. “This feels like a personal vendetta.”
“Most vendettas are.”
“No, I mean it feels like it’s about something more than money.”
“That will be one of the many questions we ask these imbeciles once we have the cuffs on them.” Amanda twisted the steering wheel, taking a sudden turn that jerked Will to the side. “I’m sorry.”
He couldn’t remember a time Amanda had ever apologized for anything. He stared at her profile. Her jaw was more prominent than usual. Her skin was sallow. She was looking downright beaten. And she had given him more information in the last ten minutes than she had in the last twenty-four hours. “Is something else going on?”
“No.” She stopped in front of a large commercial warehouse with six loading docks. There were no cargo trucks, but several vehicles were parked in front of the large bay doors. Any one of the vehicles would’ve cost more than Will’s pension—BMWs, Mercedes, even a Bentley.
Amanda circled the lot, making sure there would be no surprises. The space was large enough for an eighteen-wheeler to turn around, and sloped toward the docks to facilitate loading and unloading. She made a lazy U-turn, going back the way they had come. The tires squealed as she cut the wheel hard, taking a space as far from the building as she could get without parking on the grass. Amanda cut the engine. The SUV was directly across from what appeared to be the front office. About fifty yards of wide-open space separated them from the building. A set of crumbling concrete steps led to a glass door. The railing had rusted so badly it keeled to the side. The sign over the entrance had a set of kitchen cabinets bolted to the front. A Confederate flag waved in the breeze. Will read the first word on the sign, then guessed at the rest, “Southern Cabinets? That’s an unusual drug front.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s like watching a dog walk on its hind legs.”
Will got out of the car. He met Amanda behind the SUV. She used the key-fob remote to pop open the trunk. In Valdosta this morning, they had locked up their weapons before going into the prison. The black SUV was regulation GBI, which meant the entire back end was taken up by a large steel cabinet with six drawers. Amanda pressed the combination into the pushbutton lock and pulled open the middle drawer. Her Glock rested in a dark purple velvet bag that had the Crown Royal logo stitched into the hem. She dropped it into her purse while Will clipped his paddle holster onto his belt.
“Hold on.” She reached into the back of the drawer and pulled out a five-shot revolver. This particular type of Smith and Wesson was called an “old-timer,” because mostly old-timers carried them. The gun was lightweight, with an internal hammer that made it easy to conceal. Despite the “Lady Smith” logo etched above the trigger, the recoil could leave a nasty bruise the entire length of your hand. Evelyn Mitchell’s S&W was a similar model, with a cherry handle instead of Amanda’s custom walnut. Will wondered if the two women had bought their guns together on a shopping trip.
Amanda said, “Stand straight. Try not to react. We’re just in view of the camera.”
Will fought to follow her orders as she reached under the back of his jacket and shoved the revolver down his pants. He stared ahead at the warehouse. It was metal, wider than it was deep, about half the length of a football field. The whole building was on a concrete foundation that raised the height of the ground floor by at least four feet, the standard height of a loading dock. Except for the steep flight of concrete steps leading up to the front door, there was no way in and out. At least not unless you were willing to pull yourself up onto the loading dock and muscle open one of the large metal doors.
He asked, “Where are the guys you had sitting on this place?”
“Doraville needed an assist. We’re on our own.”
He watched the camera over the door track back and forth. “This doesn’t seem like a bad idea at all.”
“Stand up straight.” She slapped him on the back, making sure the gun was snug. “And for God’s sake, don’t hold in your stomach or it’ll fall straight through to the ground.” She had to go up on the tips of her toes to pull the trunk closed. “I don’t know why you wear your belt so loose. It’s pointless to even have one if you’re not going to use it right.”
Will walked behind her as she headed toward the entrance. The walk was a brisk one, fifty yards of exposed space. The camera had stopped its sweep to track their progress. They might as well have targets on their chests. He concentrated on the top of Amanda’s head, the way her hair swirled at the crown like a spiral ham.
The glass door opened when they reached the concrete steps to the entrance. Amanda shielded her eyes from the sun, staring up at an angry-looking Asian man. He was huge, his body seemingly comprising equal parts fat and muscle. The guy stood wordlessly, holding open the front door as he watched them make their way up the steps. Will followed Amanda inside. His eyes took their time adjusting in the tiny, airless front office. The fake paneling on the wall had buckled from humidity. The carpet was brown in ways that would repulse a more fastidious man. The whole place smelled of sawdust and oil. Will could hear machines running in the warehouse: finish nailers, compressors, lathes. Guns N’ Roses played on the radio.
Amanda told the man, “Mrs. Ling should be expecting me.” She smiled at the camera mounted above the doorway.
The man didn’t move. Amanda dug into her purse like she was looking for her lipstick. Will didn’t know if she was reaching for her gun or if she just needed lipstick. His answer came when the door was opened by a tall, lithe woman with a grin on her face.
“Mandy Wagner, it’s been ages.” The woman seemed almost pleased. She was Asian, roughly Amanda’s age with short salt-and-pepper hair. She was as thin as a teenager. Her sleeveless shirt showed well-toned arms. She spoke in a distinctive, slow southern drawl. There was something catlike in the languid way she moved, or maybe the smell of pot clinging to her body had something to do with that. She was wearing moccasins with beads on the top, the sort of souvenir you’d find at a tourist trap outside an Indian reservation.
“Julia.” Amanda gave a convincing smile. “It’s so good to see you.” They hugged, and Will saw the woman’s hand linger at Amanda’s waist.
“This is Will Trent, my associate.” She put her hand over Julia’s as she turned to Will. “I hope you don’t mind his tagging along. He’s in training.”
“How fortunate to learn from the best,” Julia cooed. “Tell him to leave his gun on the counter. You too, Mandy. You still using that old Crown Royal bag?”
“Keeps the lint out of the firing pin.” The gun made a thud as she dropped the bag on the counter. The dour man checked the contents, then nodded at his boss. Will wasn’t as quickly compliant. Giving up his gun was not something he was comfortable with.
“Will,” Amanda said. “Don’t embarrass me in front of my friends.”
He unclipped the paddle holster from his belt and put his Glock on the counter.
Julia Ling laughed as she waved them through the door. The warehouse was even bigger than it looked from the outside, but the operation was small, the sort of thing that would’ve fit into a two-car garage. There were at least a dozen men putting together cabinets. Will couldn’t tell whether they were Asian, Hispanic, or anything else, because their hats were pulled down and their faces were turned away. Whoever they were, they were obviously working. The smell of glue was pungent. Sawdust littered the floor. A gigantic Confederate flag served as a divider between the work area and the vacant-looking rear of the building. The stars were yellow instead of white.
Julia led them through another door and they found themselves in a small but well-furnished back office. The carpet underfoot was plush. There were two couches with overstuffed pillows. A plump Chihuahua sat in a recliner by the window, its eyes closed to what little sun came through the panes. Heavy metal bars framed the view to the service alley behind the building.
“Will has a Chihuahua,” Amanda said, because Will hadn’t been emasculated enough today. “What’s its name again?”
Will felt barbed wire sticking in his throat. “Betty.”
“Really?” Julia picked up the dog and sat on the couch with it. She patted the cushion beside her, and Amanda sat down. “This is Arnoldo. He’s a chunky little thing. Is yours long-haired or short?”
Will didn’t know what else to do. He reached around to pull out his wallet, too late remembering Amanda’s revolver. It shifted dangerously, and he sat on the couch across from the women, opening his wallet to show Betty’s picture.
Julia Ling made a tsk-ing sound with her tongue. “Isn’t she adorable?”
“Thank you.” Will took back the picture and dropped his wallet into his coat pocket. “Yours is nice, too.”
Julia had already tuned Will out. She ran her hand along Amanda’s leg. “What brings you here, buttercup?”
Amanda did a good job of blocking out Will, too. “I trust you’ve heard about Evelyn?”
“Yes,” Julia said, drawing out the word. “Poor Almeja. I hope they are kind to her.”
Will fought to keep his mouth from dropping open. Evelyn Mitchell was Almeja.
Amanda laid her hand over Julia’s. Instead of taking it off her knee, she left it there. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything on her whereabouts?”
“Not a peep, but you know I’d come straight to you if I did.”
“Obviously, we’re doing everything we can to make sure she’s returned home safely. I would pull some considerable strings to make this come out right.”
“Yes,” Julia repeated. “She’s a grandmother now, right? Again, I mean. Such a fertile family.” She laughed as if there was a joke between them. “How is that dear, sweet child doing?”
“This is a difficult time for everyone in the family.”
“Yes.” It seemed this was her favorite word.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about Hector.”
“Bless his heart. I was thinking of trading down for a Cadillac.”
“I thought business was going well?”
“It’s not really the time to drive something so flashy.” She lowered her voice. “Carjackings.”
“Awful.” Amanda shook her head.
“These young boys are such a problem.” She tsked her tongue. Will thought he understood at least this part of the conversation. Julia Ling was referring to the young men who had broken into Evelyn’s house. “They see all the gangsters on TV and think it’s so easy. Scarface. The Godfather. Tony Soprano. You can see their little brains spinning. Before long, they get these notions into their heads and they pop off without considering the consequences.” She tsked her tongue again. “I just lost one of my workers through this kind of careless action.”
She meant Benny Choo, the man in the Hawaiian shirt. Will had been right. Julia Ling had sent her strongarm in to clean up the mess Ricardo and his friends had made. And then Faith had killed him.
Amanda must have known this, too, but she treaded carefully. “Your line of business isn’t without its risks. Mr. Choo understood this as well as anyone.”
Julia Ling hesitated long enough to make Will worry for Faith, then finally let out a slow, “Yes. The cost of doing business. I think we’ll let Benny rest in peace.”
Amanda appeared as relieved as Will felt. “I hear your brother’s coping with his new surroundings.”
“Yes,” she said. “ ‘Coping’ is a good word for it. Roger’s never liked the heat. Savannah is practically tropical.”
“You know, there’s a vacancy at the D&C. Perhaps I could see if they’ll take Roger? Might be nice to give him a change of scenery.”
She pretended to think about it. “Still a little too warm.” She smiled. “How about Phillips?”
“Well, that is a nice facility.” It was also where Ignatio Ortiz was serving his manslaughter rap. Amanda shook her head like she was very sorry to say that that particular holiday had already been booked by another family. “Doesn’t seem like the right fit.”
“Baldwin is a better drive for me.”
“Baldwin isn’t really suited to Roger’s temperament.” Most likely because the prison only handled minimum to medium security inmates. “Augusta? It’s close but not too close.”
She wrinkled her nose. “With the sex offender release site?”
“Good point.” Amanda seemed to think on it, though she must’ve already cleared the deal with the state attorney’s office. “You know, Arrendale has started taking in some maximum security prisoners. Only with good behavior, of course, but I’m sure that Roger could swing that.”
She gave a chuckle. “Oh, Mandy. You know Roger. He’s always getting into trouble.”
Amanda’s offer was firm. “Still, I’d think about Arrendale. We could certainly make sure his transition was a pleasant one. Evelyn has a lot of friends who want nothing more than to see that she’s returned home safely. Roger might as well get something for himself in the process.”
Julia stroked the dog. “I’ll see what he says the next time I go visit him.”
“A phone call might be better.” Amanda added, “I’m sure he’ll want to hear about Benny from you rather than a stranger.”
“God rest his soul.” She squeezed Amanda’s leg. “It’s horrible to lose people you care about.”
“It is.”
“I know that you and Evelyn were close.”
“We still are.”
“Why don’t you get rid of Tonto here and we can comfort each other?”
Amanda’s laughter sounded genuinely delighted. She patted Julia’s knee, then stood up from the couch. “Oh, Jules. It’s been nice seeing you again. I wish we could do this more.”
Will started to stand, but then remembered the revolver. He put his hands in his pockets to keep his pants tight enough to hold it in place. All he needed was to break up whatever game Amanda was playing by dropping a gun through the leg of his pants.
Amanda said, “Let me know about Arrendale. It really is a lovely place. The windows are four inches wider in the close-security wing. Lots of sunshine and fresh air. I think Roger will love it.”
“I’ll let you know his decision. I think we can all agree that uncertainty is bad for business.”
“Tell Roger I am at his beck and call.”
Will opened the door for Amanda. They walked back through the shop together. The crew had obviously taken a break. The machines were idle, the stations vacant. The radio had been turned down to a low hum. He mumbled to Amanda, “That was interesting.”
“We’ll see if she does her part.” He could tell she was hopeful. The bounce was back in her walk. “I’d bet my left one Roger knows exactly what happened at Ev’s house yesterday. Julia probably told him herself. She would’ve never let us step foot in here if she wasn’t willing to deal. We’ll know something within the hour. Mark my word.”
“Ms. Ling seems eager to please you.”
She stopped and looked up at him. “Do you really think so? I can never tell if she’s just being affectionate or …” Amanda shrugged in lieu of finishing the sentence.
He thought she was joking, then realized she wasn’t. “I guess. I mean—” He felt himself start to sweat. “You’ve never—”
“Grow up, Will. I did go to college.”
He could still hear her chuckling as they walked toward the front office. Will guessed that he was doomed to have this woman play him like a banjo for the rest of his life. She was almost as bad as Angie.
He was reaching for the doorknob when he heard the first pop, almost like a champagne bottle being uncorked. Then he felt his ear sting, saw the door splinter in front of him, and knew that it was a bullet. And another. And another.
Amanda was faster than Will. She had pulled the gun from the back of his pants, swung around, and fired off two shots, before he hit the floor.
The sound of a machine gun ripped the air. Bullets sprayed inches from his head. There was no telling where the threat was coming from. The back of the warehouse was dark. It could be Ling-Ling, the men who had been working on the cabinets, or both.
“Go!” Amanda yelled. Will shouldered open the door to the front office. Of course their guns were gone from the counter. The disapproving Asian who’d let them in was dead on the floor. Will felt something hard hit him in the back of the head. He was stunned for a few seconds before he realized that Amanda had thrown her purse at him.
Will tucked the bag under his arm and slammed open the front door. The sudden, sharp sunlight blinded him so badly that he tripped down the concrete stairs. The old railing bent under his weight, softening what could’ve been a catastrophic fall. Quickly, he righted himself and headed straight across the parking lot toward the parked SUV. The contents of Amanda’s purse scattered behind him as he searched for the key fob. He thumbed the button and the trunk was open by the time he got to the back of the vehicle. Will pressed the numbers on the combination lock. The drawer rolled open.
In Will’s experience, you were either a shotgun person or a rifle person. Faith preferred the shotgun, which was counterintuitive considering her diminutive stature and the fact that the kick from a shogun could tear your rotator cuff. Will liked the rifle. It was clean, precise, and extremely accurate, even at a hundred fifty feet—a good thing, considering this was the approximate distance between the SUV and the entrance to the building. The GBI provided agents with the Colt AR-15A2, which Will rolled up to his shoulder as the front door shattered open.
Will put his eye to the scope. Amanda handled the sunlight better than he had. Without missing a beat, she bolted down the concrete stairs, firing backward, her shots missing the stocky-looking man who was chasing her. He had on dark sunglasses. A machine gun was in his hands. Instead of taking the easy shot at Amanda’s retreating back, he held up the gun in the air as he jumped down the flight of stairs. It was a cowboy move, which gave Will equal opportunity to pull one of his own. He pressed back on the trigger. The man jerked midair and dropped to the ground.
Will lowered the rifle. He looked for Amanda. She was walking back toward the man on the ground. She held her gun down at her side. She must’ve been out of ammunition. Will pressed his eye to the scope again to give Amanda cover in case anyone else came out of the building. She kicked away the machine gun. He could see her mouth moving.
Without warning, Amanda dove behind the concrete steps. Will took his eye away from the scope so he could locate the new threat. It was the man on the ground. Impossibly, he was still alive. He had Will’s Glock in his hand. It was pointed toward the SUV. He fired off three shots in rapid succession. Will knew the heavy-gauge steel cabinet would shield him, but he still ducked as metal pinged against metal.
The shooting stopped. Will’s heart was pumping so hard that he could feel his pulse throbbing in his stomach. He chanced a look back at the building. The shooter must’ve been hiding behind the Mercedes, probably on the other side of the gas tank. Will lined up the rifle, hoping the guy would do something stupid like poke up his head. The Glock came up instead. Will shot, and the gun quickly receded.
“Police!” Will yelled, because it had to be done. “Show me your hands!”
The guy shot blindly toward the SUV, missing by several yards.
Will mumbled some choice words. He looked at Amanda as if to ask what the plan was. She shook her head, not to tell him no, but in exasperation. If Will had made the first shot, they wouldn’t be having this conversation.
He couldn’t think of a way to gesture to her that he had made the shot—not without getting fired—so he pointed to the magazine jutting out from his rifle to pose the question. Was she out of bullets? Her revolver held five rounds. Unless she’d gotten her speed loader out of her purse, there was not much she could do.
Even from this distance, he saw her annoyed expression. Of course she had gotten her speed loader out of her purse. She had probably stopped to put on some lipstick and make some phone calls, too. He checked the Mercedes again, scanning the sights along the contour of the big sedan. When he looked back at Amanda, she had already spun open the S&W, dropped the empty shells on the ground, and reloaded. She waved her hand at him to get on with it.
“Sir!” Will yelled. “I am giving you one more warning to surrender.”
“Fuck you!” The man shot at Will again, hitting the side door panel of the SUV.
Amanda did a crouched walk to the edge of the concrete stairs, then bent her head to the ground to try to see where the man was hiding. She sat back up. She didn’t look at Will. She didn’t pause to line up the shot. She simply rested her hand on the third step from the bottom and squeezed the trigger.
Television had done a great disservice to bad guys. They didn’t show that bullets could go through Sheetrock walls and metal car doors. They also didn’t explain that a ricochet was nothing like a rubber ball. Bullets came out at a very high velocity, and they wanted to go forward. Shooting a bullet into the ground does not mean it will pop back up in the air. Shooting one into the ground underneath a car means it skips across the pavement, pierces the tire, and, if you are sitting the right way, lodges into your groin.
Which is exactly what happened.
“Jesus Christ!” the man screamed.
Will ordered, “Show me your hands!”
Two hands shot up. “I give! I give!”
This time, Amanda kept her gun trained on the man as she walked over to the car. She kicked away the Glock, then jammed her knee into the man’s back, all the while keeping her eye on the office door.
She was watching the wrong door. One of the cargo bays flew open. A black van screeched out, sailing through the air. Sparks flew as it skipped across the asphalt. Rubber burned. The wheels slid in place before they got purchase. Will saw two young men in the cab. They were wearing black warm-up jackets and matching black baseball caps. The van momentarily blocked his view of Amanda. Will raised the rifle, but he couldn’t shoot—not without risking the bullet cutting through the van and hitting Amanda. Two more quick pops sounded. Gunfire. The van screeched away.
Will ran into the parking lot to line up a shot. He stopped. Amanda was on the ground.
“Amanda?” He felt his chest tighten. His throat didn’t want to work. “Amanda? Are you—”
“Dammit!” she screamed, rolling over so that she could sit up. Her face and chest were covered in blood. “Goddamn it.”
Will dropped to one knee. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Are you shot?”
“I’m fine, you idiot.” She slapped away his hand. “This one’s dead. They tapped him twice in the head while they were driving off.”
Will could see as much. The man’s face was gone.
“That’s a damn good shot out of a moving car.” She glared at him as he helped her up. “Much better than yours. When was the last time you were on the range? This is unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable.”
Will knew better than to argue with her, but if he was the arguing type, he might’ve mentioned what a bad idea it’d been to leave their guns on the counter, or how stupid it was to go into this place without backup.
“I swear to God, Will, when this is over—” She didn’t finish her sentence. She paced off, stepping on the plastic compact from her purse. “Goddamn it!”
Will knelt down in front of the dead man. Out of habit, he checked for a pulse. There was a hole in the black warm-up jacket, about two inches from his heart. It was big enough for Will’s finger to poke through. He tugged down the zip, revealing the top of a military-grade tactical assault vest. The bullet’s full metal jacket had expanded on impact, smashing into the shock plate, flattening out like a dog trying to crawl underneath a couch.
K-5, right in the center of the chest.
Amanda was back. She stared down at the dead man without saying a word. She must have been standing downblast when he was shot. Bits of gray matter stuck to her face. There was a piece of bone in the collar of her blouse.
Will stood up. He couldn’t think of anything to do but offer his handkerchief.
“Thank you.” She wiped her face with a steady hand. The blood smeared like clown makeup. “Thank God I have a change of clothes in the car.” She looked up at him. “Your jacket is ripped.”
He looked at his sleeve. There was a small tear where his shoulder had met asphalt.
“You should always keep a change of clothes in your car. You never know what’s going to happen.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Will rested his hand on the butt of his rifle.
“Ling-Ling’s gone.” Amanda wiped her forehead. “She came out of her office with that stupid dog under her arm. Guns blazing. I’m under no impression that she was trying to save me, but it seemed rather obvious that they were trying to kill her, too.”
Will tried to process this new piece of information. “I assumed the shooters were working for Ling-Ling.”
“If Julia wanted us dead, she would’ve taken both of us out in her office. Didn’t you see the sawed-off shotgun under the couch cushion?”
Will nodded, though he hadn’t seen the gun and the thought of it now brought out a cold sweat. “The shooters worked in her shop. I recognized them from when we first went in. They were putting together cabinets. Why would they try to kill Julia? Or us, for that matter?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Amanda finally realized it wasn’t. “They didn’t want her talking to me. They certainly don’t want her talking to Roger. She must know something.”
Will tried to put the pieces together. “Julia said that the young boys were getting ahead of themselves. Trying to be gangsters. I don’t imagine a bunch of twenty-something-year-old, testosterone-filled guys want to be ordered around by a middle-aged woman.”
“And here I was thinking that men loved that.” Amanda looked down at the dead man. “He’s sweating like a pig. No doubt he was on something.”
Something that had made him capable of taking the impact of a .223-caliber 55-grain full metal jacket to the chest and popping up seconds later like a Toaster Strudel.
Amanda prodded the man with the toe of her shoe, pushing him over so she could check for his wallet. “These youngsters certainly don’t like to leave witnesses.” She slid out the driver’s license. “Juan Armand Castillo. Aged twenty-four. Lives on Leather Stocking Lane in Stone Mountain.” She showed Will the license. Castillo looked like a schoolteacher, not the kind of guy who would chase a GBI agent into a parking lot with a machine gun.
She unzipped Castillo’s jacket the rest of the way. Her Glock was tucked into his pants. She took it out, saying, “Well, at least he didn’t shoot at me with my own gun.”
Will helped her unloop the side clasps on the Kevlar vest.
“He smells, too.” Amanda lifted up the shirt, checking his chest. “No tattoos.” She checked his arms. “Nothing.”
“Try the hands.”
Castillo’s fists were clenched. She uncurled the fingers with her bare hand, which was technically against every procedure in the book, but Will was an accomplice already, so it didn’t really matter.
She said, “Nothing.”
Will scanned the parking lot. There were only two cars now, the Bentley and the Mercedes. “Do you think someone else is inside?”
“The Bentley is Ling-Ling’s. I imagine she keeps another car close by that she’s using right now to go as far underground as possible. The Merc belongs to Perry.” She explained, “The dead man in the front office.”
“You certainly seem to know a lot about these people. Mandy.”
“I’m in no mood for that, Will.”
“Julia Ling is high up in the pecking order. She’s practically the beak.”
“Is there a reason you’re talking like Foghorn Leghorn?”
“I’m just saying that it takes either a large set of balls or an extreme amount of stupidity to try to take out someone with Julia Ling’s kind of juice. Her brother’s not going to just roll over. You told me yourself that he’s practically insane. Shooting at his sister is an open act of war.”
“Finally, a salient point.” She handed back his handkerchief. “Did you get a good look at the men in the van?”
He shook his head. “Young, I guess. Sunglasses. Hats. Jackets. Nothing else I could swear to.”
“I’m not asking you to swear. I’m asking you to—” The air was pierced by the sound of sirens. “Took them long enough.”
Will guessed the first gunshot had been fired less than five minutes ago. By his calculations, that was pretty good response time.
He asked, “Did you get a look at them?”
She shook her head. “I suppose we should be looking for someone with drive-by experience.”
She was right about the shots. Nailing someone in the head, twice, from a moving vehicle, even at a short distance, was not something you got lucky at. It took practice, and obviously Castillo’s killer hadn’t worried about missing.
Will asked, “Why didn’t they shoot you?”
“Are you complaining or asking a question?” Amanda rubbed something off her arm. She looked down at Castillo. “I guess we’re down to two now. At least our odds are getting better.”
She was talking about the fingerprints found at Evelyn’s house. “It’s three.”
She shook her head, still looking down at the corpse.
He counted it out on his fingers. “Evelyn killed Hironobu Kwon. Faith took care of Ricardo Ortiz and Benny Choo. Marcellus Estevez died at Grady, and Juan Castillo here makes five.” She didn’t say anything. He worried about his math. “Eight sets of prints at Evelyn’s house minus five dead guys equals three.”
She watched the squad cars speeding down the road. “Two,” she told him. “One tried to kill Sara Linton an hour ago.”