The only outlier was Chuck Finn, who seemed more cerebral than his colleagues. Finn had been in the process of earning his PhD in Italian renaissance art when he was busted. His lifestyle wasn’t as lavish as the others’. He’d used his ill-gotten gains to educate himself and travel the world. He must’ve complemented the team in more subtle ways. Evelyn Mitchell had obviously handpicked each man for a reason. Some were leaders. Some, like Chuck Finn, were obviously followers. They all fit the same general profile: overachievers with a reputation in the department for doing whatever had to be done. Three were white. Two were black. One was part Cherokee Indian. All of them had given up everything for cold, hard cash.
Will flipped over the tape in the Walkman. He sat with his eyes closed, headphones tucked into his ears. She could hear the squeak of the wheels working in the tape player.
The next stack of folders detailed all of the high-dollar busts the team had made, and presumably skimmed from, over the years. Sara had thought these files would be the hardest to get through, but they all turned out to be fairly mundane. Such was the nature of the illegal drug trade that most of the men the team had arrested were either dead or incarcerated when Evelyn’s squad was busted. Only a few were still on the street, but they were obviously active. Sara recognized some of the names from the nightly news. Two looked promising for their own reasons. She set their files aside for Will.
Sara checked the time. It was well past midnight and she had an early shift in the morning. As if on cue, her mouth opened in such a wide yawn that her jaw popped. She glanced at Will to make sure he hadn’t seen. There was still a large stack of folders in front of her. She was only halfway through, but she couldn’t make herself stop if she wanted to. It was like trying to put together all the clues in a mystery novel. The good guys were just as corrupt as the villains. The villains seemed to take the graft as a cost of doing business. Both probably had a long list of justifications for their illegal actions.
She tackled the next pile of folders. The six men on Evelyn’s team had never gone to trial, but they must have been close to starting when the deals were made. The prosecution’s list of potential witnesses had been highly screened, but no more so than those representing the defendants. The names would be familiar to Will, but still, Sara carefully read through each file. After a solid hour of comparing statements, she let herself move on to the last file, which she’d held back as a reward for not giving up.
Evelyn Mitchell’s booking photo showed a trim woman with an unreadable expression on her face. She must have felt humiliated to be booked and processed after spending so much time on the other side of the table. Nothing about her expression gave that away. Her mouth was set in a tight line. Her eyes stared blankly ahead. Her hair was blonde, like Faith’s, with gray streaking through at the temples. Blue eyes, 138 pounds, five-nine—a little taller than her daughter.
Her career was the sort that garnered pioneer awards from the local Women’s Club, which Captain Mitchell had twice received. Her promotion to detective was preceded by a hostage negotiation that had resulted in the freeing of two children and the death of a serial child molester. Her lieutenant rank came almost ten years after passing the test with the highest grade yet recorded. Her captainship was the result of a gender-bias lawsuit filed with the EEOC.
Evelyn had worked her way up the hard way, paying her dues on the street. She had two degrees, one from Georgia Tech, both with honors. She was a mother, a grandmother, a widow. Her children were in what Sara thought of as service—one to her community, the other to his country. Her husband had worked a solidly respectable job as an insurance salesman. In many ways, she reminded Sara of her own mother. Cathy Linton wasn’t the sort of woman to carry a gun, but she was driven to do what she believed was right for herself and her family.
But she would’ve never taken a bribe. Cathy was painfully honest, the sort of person who would turn around and drive fifty miles back to a tourist trap in Florida because they had given her too much change. Maybe this explained why Faith could work with Will. If someone had told Sara that her mother had stolen almost a million dollars, she would’ve laughed in their face. It was the stuff of fairy tales. Faith didn’t just think he was wrong about her mother. She thought he was deluded.
Will changed out another tape.
Sara motioned for him to take off his headphones. “It doesn’t add up.”
“What doesn’t?”
“You said each team member netted just shy of a million dollars. You’ve accounted for sixty thousand, at best, in the out-of-state account that was opened in Bill Mitchell’s name. Evelyn doesn’t drive a Porsche. She doesn’t have a mistress. Faith and her brother weren’t in private schools, and the only vacations she took were to Jekyll Island with her grandson.”
“It adds up after today,” he reminded her. “Whoever took Evelyn wants that money.”
“I don’t buy it.”
Most cops defended their cases like they would defend their children. Will just asked, “Why?”
“Gut feeling. Instinct. I just don’t buy it.”
“Faith doesn’t know about the bank account.”
“I won’t tell her.”
He sat up, clasping his hands together. “I’ve been listening to my early interviews with Evelyn. She talks about her husband, mostly.”
“Bill, right? He was an insurance agent.”
“He died a few years before the case was brought against Evelyn.”
Sara braced herself for a widow question, but Will went in another direction.
“The year before Bill died, he was sued by the family of a policyholder for a claim denial. They said Bill filled out some paperwork incorrectly. A father of three had a rare kind of heart defect. The company denied treatment.”
This wasn’t a new story to Sara. “They said it was a pre-existing condition.”
“Only it wasn’t—at least not diagnosed. The family got a lawyer, but it was too late. The guy ended up dying because the wrong box was checked on a form. Three days later, his widow gets a letter in the mail from the insurance company saying that Bill Mitchell, the originating agent, made a mistake on the forms and her husband’s treatment was approved.”
“That’s awful.”
“Bill took it hard. He was a very careful man. His reputation was important to him, important to his work. He got an ulcer worrying about it.”
That wasn’t technically how ulcers worked, but she told him, “Go on.”
“He was eventually cleared. They found the original forms. The insurance company had screwed up, not Bill. Some data entry person had clicked the wrong box. No malfeasance, just incompetence.” Will waved this away. “Anyway, what Evelyn said was that Bill never got past it. It made her crazy because he wouldn’t let it go. They argued about it. She thought he was just feeling sorry for himself. She accused him of being paranoid. He said people at work treated him differently. A lot of people thought the company took the bullet and it was really Bill’s mistake.”
Sara was dubious. “An insurance company took the bullet?”
“People get crazy ideas,” Will said. “Anyway, Bill felt like it wiped out all the good he’d done over the years. Evelyn said that when the cancer came—Bill died of pancreatic cancer three months after his diagnosis—she thought part of the reason he couldn’t fight it was that he had this guilt hanging over his head. And that she had never forgiven him for that, for not fighting the cancer. He just kind of accepted it and then waited to die.”
Pancreatic cancer was not easily vanquished. The chances for long-term survival were less than five percent. “Stress like that can certainly impair your immune system.”
“Evelyn was worried that the same thing was going to happen to her.”
“That she’d get cancer?”
“No. That the investigation would ruin her life, even if she was cleared. That it would hang over her head forever. She said that in all the years since her husband had died, she had never wanted h
im back more than she did that day so that she could tell him that she finally understood.”
Sara considered the weight of the statement. “That sounds like something an innocent person would say.”
“It does.”
“Does that mean you’re leaning away from your original conclusion?”
“It’s very kind of you to phrase your question so diplomatically.” He grinned. “I don’t know. My case was shut down before I could wrap it up to my satisfaction. Evelyn signed her papers and took her retirement. Amanda didn’t even tell me it was over. I heard it on the news one morning—decorated officer retiring from the force to spend more time with her family.”
“You think she got away with it.”
“I keep coming back to one thing: she was in charge of a team that stole a whole lot of money. Either she turned a blind eye or she’s not as good as she reads on paper.” Will picked at the plastic seam on one of the audiotapes. “And there’s still the bank account. It might not seem like much compared to millions, but sixty thousand is a chunk of change. And it’s in her husband’s name, not hers. Why not change it over now that he’s dead? Why still keep it a secret?”
“All good points.”
He was quiet for a moment, the only sound in the room his thumbnail picking at the plastic seam. “Faith didn’t call me when it happened. I didn’t have my cell, so it would’ve been pointless, but she didn’t call me.” He paused. “I thought maybe she didn’t trust me because it was her mother involved.”
“I doubt she was even thinking about that. You know how your brain just blanks out when something like that happens. Did you ask her about it?”
“She’s got a lot more on her mind right now than holding my hand.” He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “Maybe I should write about it in my diary.” He started packing up the boxes. “Anyway, I’ll let you get to bed. Did you find anything I should know about?”
Sara pulled out the two files she’d set aside. “These guys might deserve a closer look. They were in the high-dollar busts. One of them was also on Spivey’s defense witness list. I flagged him because he has a history of kidnapping for leverage over rival gangs.”
Will opened the top file.
Sara supplied the name. “Ignatio Ortiz.”
Will groaned. “He’s in Phillips State Prison on a manslaughter attempt.”
“So, it won’t be hard to find him.”
“He runs Los Texicanos.”
Sara was familiar with the gang. She had treated her share of kids who were involved in the organization. Not many of them walked out of the ER in one piece.
Will said, “If Ortiz is wrapped up in this, he’ll never talk to us. If he’s not, then he’ll never talk to us. Whichever it is, driving to the prison would be three or four hours out of our day for nothing.”
“He was going to be called as a witness for Spivey’s defense.”
“Boyd had a surprising number of thugs willing to testify that he hadn’t touched their money. There was a whole roster of criminals willing to stand up for Evelyn’s team.”
“Did you get anything from Boyd at the prison?”
Will frowned. “Amanda interviewed him. They talked in some kind of code. One thing I picked up on was that Boyd said the Asians were trying to cut the Mexicans out of the supply side.”
“Los Texicanos,” Sara provided.
“Amanda told me their preferred method is slitting throats.”
Sara put her hand to her neck, trying not to shudder. “You think that Evelyn was still doing business with these drug dealers?”
He closed Ortiz’s file. “I can’t see how. She doesn’t have any juice without her badge. And I can’t picture her as a kingpin unless she’s some kind of sociopath. Granny-Nanny by day, drug lord by night.”
“You said Ortiz is in prison for attempted manslaughter. Who’d he try to kill?”
“His brother. He found him in bed with his wife.”
“Maybe this is the brother.” Sara opened the next file. “Hector Ortiz,” she told him. “He’s not a bad guy on paper, but he made the defense witness list. I pulled him because he has the same last name as Ignatio.”
Will unclipped the mugshot from the file to get a closer look. “Is your gut still telling you that Evelyn is innocent?”
Sara looked at her watch. She had to be at work in five hours. “My gut has turned in for the night. What is it?”
He held up Hector Ortiz’s photograph. The man was bald with a salt-and-pepper goatee. His shirt was rumpled. He held up his arm to show a tattoo to the camera: a green and red Texas star with a rattlesnake wrapped around it.
Will said, “Meet Evelyn’s gentleman friend.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE OPEN-HANDED SLAPS HAD TURNED INTO PUNCHES HOURS ago. Days ago? Evelyn wasn’t sure. She was blindfolded, sitting in total darkness. Something dripped—faucet, gutter, blood—she didn’t know. Her body was so riddled with pain that even when she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block out every screaming muscle, every broken bone, nothing felt undamaged.
She panted out a laugh. Blood sprayed from her mouth. Her missing finger. There was one bone that wasn’t broken, one piece of flesh that wasn’t bruised.
They had started on her feet, beating the soles with a galvanized metal pipe. It was a form of torture they had apparently seen in a movie, which Evelyn knew because one of them had helpfully coached, “The dude was swinging it back higher, like this.” The sensation Evelyn had felt could not be called pain. It was a searing of the skin that her blood carried like fire through her entire body.
Like most women, it was rape that had always terrified her, but she knew now that there were far worse dangers. There was at least an animalistic logic to the crime of rape. These men were not deriving pleasure from hurting her. Their reward came from the cheers of their friends. They were trying to impress each other, pulling a game of one-upmanship to see who could make her scream the loudest. And Evelyn did scream. She screamed so loud that she was sure that her vocal cords would rupture. She screamed from pain. She screamed from terror. She screamed from anger, fury, loss. She screamed most of all because these competing emotions felt like burning hot lava rushing up her throat.
At one point, they’d had a protracted discussion about where her vagus nerve was located. Three of them took turns, punching her in the general area of her kidneys until, like children hitting a piñata, one hit pay dirt. They’d laughed uncontrollably as Evelyn seized as if electrocuted. The feeling was one of primal terror. She had never in her life felt so close to death. She had urinated herself. She had screamed into the darkness until there was no sound coming out of her mouth.
And then they had broken her leg. Not a clean break, but the result of the heavy metal pipe pounding again and again against her leg until there was the resounding crunch of a single bone splintering into two.
One of them pressed his hand over the break, his putrid breath in her ear. “This is what that stupid bitch did to Ricardo.”
That stupid bitch was her baby. They had no way of knowing how the words had given Evelyn hope. She had been knocked out, dragged from the scene, shortly after Faith’s car had pulled into the driveway. Evelyn had come to in the back of a van. The engine noise had been rumbling in her ears, but she’d heard two distinct gunshots, the second following the first by a good forty seconds.
But now Evelyn knew the answer to the only question that kept her from just giving up. Faith was alive. She had gotten away. After that, every horror they visited on her was inconsequential. She thought of Emma in her daughter’s arms, Jeremy together with his mother. Zeke would be there. He was so full of anger, but he had always taken care of his sister. The APD would surround them like a shroud. Will Trent would lay down his life to protect Faith. Amanda would move heaven and earth to find justice.
“Almeja …” Evelyn’s voice was raspy in the close space.
All that she could ask was for her children to be safe. No one co
uld get her out of this. There was no promise of salvation. Amanda could not talk her through this pain. Bill Mitchell would not come riding up on his white horse to save her.
She had been so stupid. One mistake so many years ago. One terrible, stupid mistake.
Evelyn spit out a broken tooth. Her last right molar. She could feel the raw nerve responding to the cold in the air. She tried to cover the spot with her tongue as she breathed through her mouth. She had to keep the airway open. Her nose was broken. If she stopped breathing, or passed out with blood in her throat, she would choke to death. She should welcome the relief, but instead the thought of death still terrified her. Evelyn had always been a fighter. It was in her nature to dig in her heels the more she was pushed. And yet, she could feel herself starting to break—not from the pain, but from exhaustion. She could feel her resolve draining away like water through a sieve. If she gave in, they might get what they wanted. Her mouth might move, her voice might work, despite her mind willing her to be silent.
And then what?
They would have to kill her. She knew who they were, even though they had worn masks and blindfolded her. She knew their voices. Their names. Their smells. She knew what they were planning, what they had already done.
Hector.
She had found him in the trunk of her car. Even with a silencer, there was no such thing as a quiet gunshot. Evelyn had heard the noise twice in her life, and she instantly recognized the snip of gas passing through a metal cylinder.
At least she had protected Emma. At least she had made certain that her daughter’s child was safe.
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