“Take it out of savings,” he said.
She snorted a laugh. “What savings?”
Christmas. They had raided their savings for Christmas.
“I’m gonna ask for another shift at the hospital.” She held up her hand to stop his protest. “He’s got to have the best.”
“He’s got to have his mother.”
“How about your mother?” she shot back.
Michael’s jaw set. “I’m not going to ask her for another dime.”
She put down the mug on the table with a thump that spilled coffee onto the back of her hand. There was no way to win this argument—Michael should know, they’d had it practically every week over the last five years. He was already working overtime, trying to bring in extra cash so Tim could have the things he needed. Gina took weekend shifts twice a month, but Michael drew the line at her working holidays. He barely saw her as it was. Sometimes, he thought she planned it that way. They weren’t a married couple anymore; they were a partnership, a nonprofit corporation working for the betterment of Tim. Michael couldn’t even remember the last time they’d had sex.
“Cynthia called last night,” Gina told him. Their spoiled next-door neighbor. “She’s got a loose board or something.”
“Loose board?” he repeated. “Where’s Phil?”
She pressed her palms to the table and stood. “Botswana. Hell, I don’t know, Michael. She just asked if you could fix it and I said yes.”
“Did you want to consult with me about that first?”
“Do it or don’t,” she snapped, tossing the rest of her coffee into the sink. “I need to get dressed for work.”
He watched her back as she made her way down the hall. Every morning was like this: Tim making a mess, them cleaning it up, then some argument about something stupid breaking out. To top things off, Barbara would be here soon, and Michael was sure his mother-in-law would find something to complain about, whether it was her aching back, her paltry social security check, or the fact that he’d given her a retarded grandson. Lately, she had taken to leaving articles on Gulf War Syndrome taped to the refrigerator, the obvious inference being that Michael had done something horrible over in Iraq that had brought this scourge on her family.
Michael went into the bedroom and dressed quickly, skipping his shower so he wouldn’t have to go into the bathroom and deal with Gina again. He saw Barbara’s Toyota pulling into the driveway and grabbed his hammer out of his toolbox, sneaking out the back door as she came in the front.
Part of the chain-link fence around the backyard had been taken out by a tree during the last ice storm and there hadn’t been any money to fix it. He hopped over the broken section, careful not to catch the cuff of his pants on the twisted metal and fall flat on his face. Again.
He knocked at the back door, glancing through the window as he waited for Cynthia to come. She took her sweet time, padding up the hall in a short, babydoll robe that was opened to reveal the camisole and thong she wore underneath. Everything was white, practically see-through. Michael wondered where Phil was. If Gina ever answered the door for Phil dressed this way, Michael would have fucking killed her.
Cynthia slowly worked the locks, bending at the waist, flashing some breast. Her long blonde hair covered her face. The camisole was so low he could see the tips of her pink nipples.
Michael hefted the hammer in his hand, feeling an electric buzz in his head. He should just turn around right now and let her fix her own board. Shit, Phil had to come home sometime; let him do it.
Cynthia flashed him a smile as she opened the door. “Howdy, neighbor.”
“Where’s Phil?”
“Indianapolis,” she said, cupping her hands around her mouth to hide a yawn. “Selling support hose to the masses so he can keep me in the style to which I’ve become accustomed.”
“Right.” He glanced over her shoulder. The kitchen was a pigsty. Crusty plates were stacked in the sink, take-out pizza boxes everywhere, cigarettes flowing out of ashtrays. He saw mold growing on a glass of what looked like orange juice.
He said, “Gina told me you have a loose board.”
She smiled like a cat. “It needs tightening.”
Michael put down the hammer. “Why did you call her?”
“Neighbors help neighbors,” she said, like it was simple. “You told Phil you’d look after me when he was away.”
Phil hadn’t meant like this.
She pulled him inside the house by his shirt collar. “You look so tense.”
“I can’t keep doing this.”
“What are you doing?” she asked, pulling him closer.
He thought of Gina, the way she never looked at him anymore, how it felt when she pushed him away. “I just can’t.”
Her hand pressed hard against the front of his pants. “Feels like you can.”
Michael held his breath, his eyes following the slope of her small breasts to her firm nipples. He felt his tongue slip out between his lips, could almost feel what it would be like to put his mouth on her.
She unzipped his pants and reached in. “You like this?” she asked, moving her thumb in a circular motion.
“Jesus,” he hissed between his teeth. “Yes.”
CHAPTER THREE
Michael felt like shit. Hell, he was shit.
The first time with Cynthia had been an accident. Michael knew that was a lame excuse, it wasn’t like you could just trip and the next thing you know, you’re in somebody’s vagina, but he really did think of it along those lines. Phil had called long-distance from California one night, frantic with worry because he couldn’t reach Cynthia. The man traveled all the time, selling women’s hosiery to the big department stores and probably wetting his whistle along the way. Michael didn’t have proof, but he had worked Vice for three years and he knew the type of businessman who availed himself of the local talent whenever he was on the road. The constant phone calls checking on Cynthia were more like guilt calls, Phil’s way of keeping tabs on her when he couldn’t keep tabs on himself.
Gina had been working nights then, already pulling away from Michael when he reached out to her. Tim’s challenges were becoming more evident and her response had been to throw herself into work, doing double shifts because she couldn’t stand the thought of coming home and dealing with her damaged son. Michael was sick with grief, exhausted from crying himself to sleep at night and just plain damn lonely.
Cynthia was available, more than willing to take his mind off things. After the first time, he had told himself it wouldn’t happen again, and it hadn’t, not for a year at least. Michael had work and Tim, and that was all he thought about until one day last spring when Cynthia had mentioned to Gina that her sink was leaking.
“Go fix it for her,” Gina had told Michael. “Phil’s gone all the time. The poor thing doesn’t have anybody to look out for her.”
He wasn’t in love with Cynthia and Michael wasn’t stupid enough to think she had those kinds of feelings for him. At the ripe old age of forty, he had learned that a woman who was eager to go down on you every time she saw you wasn’t in love—she was looking for something. Maybe Cynthia liked the thrill of banging Michael in Phil’s bed. Maybe she liked the idea of seeing Gina out the kitchen window and knowing she was taking something that belonged to another woman. Michael couldn’t let himself consider her motivations. He knew his own well enough. For those fifteen or twenty minutes he spent next door, his mind went blank and he wasn’t thinking about paying the specialists or making the mortgage or the phone call from the credit card company asking when they could expect some money. Michael was just thinking about Cynthia’s perfect little mouth and his own pleasure.
She would want something someday, though. He wasn’t so stupid that he didn’t at least know that.
“Yo, Mike,” Leo called, rapping his knuckles on Michael’s desk. “Get your head out of your ass.”
“What’s going on?” Michael asked, sitting back in his chair. The station was em
pty but for the two of them, Greer locked behind his office door with the shades drawn.
Michael indicated the closed door. “He jerking off in there again?”
“Got some Lurch-looking freak from the GBI with him.”
“Why?” Michael asked, but he knew why. Last night, Greer had said he was going to call in help on this one, and the next step up the ladder was the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.
“He don’t consult with me,” Leo said, sitting on the edge of Michael’s desk, scattering papers in the process. He did this all the time, no matter how many warnings Michael gave him.
Leo asked, “You get in trouble with the wife last night?”
“No,” Michael lied, letting his eyes travel around the squad room. The place was depressing and dark, the wall of windows looking out at the Home Depot across the street thick with grime that blocked out the morning sun. City Hall East was a twelve-story building, a onetime Sears department store, that sat at the base of a curve in Ponce de Leon Road and took up a whole city block. A railroad track separated the structure from an old Ford factory that had been turned into pricey lofts. The state had bought the abandoned Sears building years ago, turning it into various government offices. There were at least thirty different departments and over five hundred city employees. Michael had worked here for ten years but other than the overcrowded parking garage, he had only seen the three floors the Atlanta Police Department used and the morgue.
“Yo,” Leo repeated, banging the desk again.
Michael pushed his chair from the desk and away from Leo. Between the chain-smoking and constant nips Leo took from the bottle he kept in his locker, the guy had breath like a dog’s fart.
“You daydreaming about some pussy?”
“Shut up,” Michael snapped, thinking he’d hit too close to home. Leo always did—not because he was a good detective, but because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
“I was thinking about going to see Ken later on.” Leo took a tangerine out of his suit pocket and started peeling it. “How’s he doing?”
“Okay,” Michael told him, though the truth was he hadn’t talked to Ken in a week. They had been partners for a while, close as brothers, until Ken had clutched his arm one day and dropped to the ground. He had been talking to Michael about a gorgeous woman he’d met the night before, and for a split second, Michael thought the fall was some kind of joke. Then Ken had started to twitch. His mouth sagged open and he pissed himself right there on the squad room floor. Fifty-three years old and he’d stroked out like an old man. The whole right side of his body was gone now, his arm and leg useless as a wet newspaper. His mouth was permanently twisted so that dribble poured down his chin like he was a baby.
No one from the squad wanted to see him, to hear him try to talk. Ken was a reminder of what was just around the corner for most of them. Too much smoking, too much drinking, two or three failed marriages, all ending with your lonely last days spent catatonic in front of the tube, stuck at some crappy, state-run nursing home.
Greer’s door opened, and a lanky man in a three-piece suit came out. He was toting a leather briefcase that looked like a postage stamp in his large hand. Michael could see why Leo had called the guy Lurch. He was tall, maybe six-four or -five, and whippet thin. His dirty blond hair was cut tight to his head, parted on the side. His upper lip looked funny, too, like someone had cut it in half and put it back together crooked. As usual, Leo had gotten the show wrong. Put some knobs on either side of his neck and the guy could be on The Munsters.
“Ormewood,” Greer said, motioning him over. “This is Special Agent Will Trent from CAT.”
Leo showed his usual grace. “What the fuck is CAT?”
“Special Criminal Apprehension Team,” Greer clarified.
Michael could almost feel Leo straining not to point out that this actually spelled SCAT. Not much shut up his fellow detective, but Trent was standing close to Leo, looming over him by almost a foot. The state guy’s hands were huge, probably big enough to wrap around Leo’s head and crush his skull like a coconut.
Leo was an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid.
Trent said, “I’m part of a special division of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation set up to aid local law enforcement around the state in apprehending violent criminals. My role here is purely advisory.”
He spoke like he was reading from a textbook, carefully enunciating every word. Between that and the three-piece suit, the guy could be a college professor.
“Michael Ormewood.” Michael relented, holding out his hand. Trent took it, not too firm but not limp like he was holding a fish. “This is Leo Donnelly,” Michael introduced, since Leo was occupied with sticking half the tangerine in his mouth, the juice dripping down the back of his hand.
“Detective.” Trent gave Leo a dismissive nod. He glanced at his watch, telling Michael, “The autopsy results won’t be ready for another hour. I’d like to compare notes if you have a minute.”
Michael looked at Greer, wondering exactly what had shifted on the food chain in the last two minutes. He was getting the feeling he had been relegated to the bottom and he didn’t like it.
Greer turned his back to them, waddling toward his office. He tossed over his shoulder, “Keep me in the loop,” as he closed his door.
Michael stared at Trent for a beat. The state guy didn’t look like a cop. Despite his height, he didn’t fill the room. He stood with a hand in his pocket, his left knee bent, almost casual. His shoulders would be pretty broad if he stood up straight, but he didn’t seem inclined to take advantage of his size. He lacked the presence of somebody who was on the job, the “fuck you” attitude that came from arresting every type of scum the earth had to offer.
Michael stared at the man, wondering what would happen if he just told the asshole to fuck off. Between the fight with Gina this morning and his run-in with Cynthia, Michael figured he should give somebody a break today. He waved his hand toward the door. “Conference room’s this way.”
Trent headed up the hall. Michael followed, staring at the man’s shoulders, wondering how he had ended up in the GBI. Usually, the state guys were adrenaline junkies, their bodies so pumped with testosterone that there was the constant sheen of sweat on their foreheads.
Michael asked, “How long you been on the job?”
“Twelve years.”
Michael figured Trent was at least ten years younger than him, but that didn’t tell him what he wanted to know. “Ex-military?” he asked.
“No,” Trent answered, opening the conference room door. The windows were actually clean in this room, and in the sunlight Michael could see a second scar running along the side of Trent’s face. The pink lightened to an almost white as it jagged from his ear down his neck, following his jugular and disappearing into his shirt collar.
Somebody had cut him pretty deep.
“Gulf War,” Michael said, putting his hand to his chest, thinking that might draw the man out. “You sure you weren’t enlisted?”
“Positive,” Trent replied, sitting down at the table. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a stack of brightly colored file folders. In profile, Michael could see his nose had been busted at least a couple of times and wondered if the man was a boxer. He was too thin, though, his body lean, his face angular. No matter what his past, there was something about the guy that set Michael on edge.
Trent was paging through the files, putting the folders into some kind of order, when he noticed Michael was still standing. He said, “Detective Ormewood, I’m on your team.”
“Is that so?”
“I don’t want any glory,” Trent said, though in Michael’s experience, that was what the “G” in “GBI” stood for. The state boys had a reputation for coming in, doing half the work and taking all of the credit.
Trent continued, “I don’t want to steal the spotlight or be on the news when we catch the bad guy. I just want to assist you in your job and then move on.”
“What makes
you think I need assistance?”
Trent looked up from the files, studying Michael for a few seconds. He opened a fluorescent pink folder flat on the table and slid it toward Michael. “Julie Cooper of Tucker,” he said, naming a town about twenty miles outside Atlanta. “Fifteen years old. She was raped and beaten—almost to death—four months ago.”
Michael nodded, flipping through the file, not bothering to read the details. He got to the victim’s photograph and stopped. Long blonde hair, heavy eyeliner, too much lipstick for a girl that age.
Trent opened another folder, this one neon green. “Anna Linder, fourteen, of Snellville.”
Just north of Tucker.
“December third of last year, Linder was abducted while walking to her aunt’s house down the street from her home.” Trent passed the folder to Michael. “Raped, beaten. Same M.O.”
Michael flipped through the file, looking for the photo. Linder’s hair was dark, the bruises around her eyes even darker. He picked up the girl’s picture, studying it closer. Her mouth had been beaten pretty bad, the lip cut, blood dripping down her chin. She had some kind of glitter on her face that picked up the flash from the camera.
“She was found hiding in a ditch in Stone Mountain Park the next day.”
“Okay,” Michael said, waiting for the connection.
“Both girls report being attacked by a man wearing a black ski mask.” Trent laid out an orange folder, a photograph paper-clipped to the top sheet. “Dawn Simmons of Buford.”
Michael did a double take, thinking this girl couldn’t be more than ten. “She’s younger than the others,” he said, disgusted by the thought of some sick fuck touching the child. She wasn’t much older than Tim.
“She was assaulted six months ago,” Trent told him. “She reports that her attacker wore a black ski mask.”
Michael shook his head. Buford was an hour away and the girl was too young. “Coincidence.”
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