Fallen

by Karin Slaughter

  Julia Ling’s Chihuahua. Will cleared his throat. “He’s fine.”

  “Is she letting him get fat? I told her not to let him get fat.”

  “He seems …” Will struggled for an answer. “She’s not letting him starve.”

  “Naldo’s a cool little dude,” Ling said. “I always say a Chihuahua is only as high strung as his owner. You agree with that?”

  Will hadn’t given it much thought, but he said, “I guess that makes sense. Mine’s pretty laid back.”

  “What’s her name again?”

  There was a point to this after all. Ling was confirming that he was talking to the right man. “Betty.”

  He had passed the test. “Good to meet you in person, Mr. Trent.” Ling shifted, and Will saw most of his neck. A tattoo of a dragon went up his vertebrae. The wings were spread across his shaved head. The eyes were bright yellow.

  Ling said, “My sister’s pretty freaked out.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Those little shits tried to kill her.” His voice was hard, exactly the kind of tone you’d expect from a man who’d mutilated and killed two women. “They wouldn’t be actin’ so tough if I wasn’t locked up in here. I’d be bringin’ them some pains in their brains. You feel me?”

  Will looked at the guard. The man was tensed like a bulldog ready to fight. Or flee, which seemed the smarter option. Will thought about the raid team waiting, and wondered what Roger Ling could do in sixty-one seconds. A lot, probably.

  Ling said, “You know why I asked to speak with you?”

  Will was honest. “I have no idea.”

  “ ’Cause I don’t trust nothin’ that bitch has to say.”

  Obviously, he meant Amanda. “That’s probably smart.”

  He laughed. Will listened to the sound echoing through the cell. There was no joy in the noise. It was chilling, almost maniacal. Will wondered if Ling’s victims had heard this laughter while they were being strangled to death with Arnoldo’s leash.

  Ling said, “We gotta end this. Too much blood on the street is bad for business.”

  “Tell me how to make that happen.”

  “I got word from Ignatio. He understands Yellow isn’t behind this. He wants peace.”

  Will wasn’t exactly a gang expert, but he doubted that the leader of Los Texicanos would turn the other cheek over his son being beaten and killed. He told Ling as much. “I would assume Mr. Ortiz wants vengeance.”

  “Nah, man. No vengeance. Ricardo dug his own grave. Ignatio knows that. Make sure Faith knows that, too. She did what she had to do. Family is family, am I right?”

  Will didn’t like this man knowing Faith’s name, and he sure as hell didn’t trust his assurances. Still, he said, “I’ll tell her.”

  Ling echoed his sister’s words. “These young guys are crazy, man. Got no sense of the value of life. You bust your ass to make the world good for them. You give them brand new cars and send them to private schools, and the minute they’re on their own, pow, they turn around and pop you one.”

  Will thought “pow” was a bit of an understatement, but he kept that thought to himself.

  “Ricardo was at Westminster,” Ling said. “You know that?”

  Will was familiar with the private school, which cost upwards of twenty-five thousand dollars a year. He also knew from Hironobu Kwon’s file that he’d attended Westminster on a math scholarship. So, another connection.

  Ling said, “Ignatio thought he could buy his son a different life, but them spoiled rich kids got him hooked on Oxy.”

  “Was Ricardo in rehab?”

  “Shit, little dude lived in rehab.” He shifted again. Will could hear the material of his stiff orange shirt rub against the metal door. “You got kids?”

  “No.”

  “Not that you know of, right?” He laughed as if this was funny. “I got three. Two ex-wives always bitchin’ at me for money. I give it to ’em, though. They keep my boys in line, don’t let my daughter dress like no whore. Keep their noses clean.” His shoulder raised in a shrug. “What can you do, though? It’s in the blood sometimes. No matter how many times you show them the right way, they get to a certain age and they get ideas into their heads. They think maybe they don’t have to work their way up. They see what other people got and think they can just walk in and take it.”

  Ling seemed to know a lot about Ignatio Ortiz’s parenting woes. Odd, especially considering the two were locked down in separate prisons that were almost an entire state away from each other. Boyd Spivey had been wrong. Yellow wasn’t making a play for Brown. Yellow was working for Brown.

  Will said, “You have a business relationship with Mr. Ortiz.”

  “That’s a fair statement.”

  “Ignatio asked Julia to give his son a job on the legit side of the business.”

  “It’s good for a young man to have a trade. And Ricardo took to it. He had an eye for the work. Most of ’em, they’re just putting together boxes, slapping on doors. Ricky was different. He was smart. Knew how to get the right people on the job. Could’ve run his own shop one day.”

  Will started to understand. “Ricardo got a crew together—Hironobu Kwon and the others worked at your sister’s shop. Maybe they saw the money coming in from the less legitimate side of the business and thought that they deserved a bigger piece. Ortiz would never approve of some upstart gang taking a piece of the Los Texicanos pie, even if it was his own son.”

  “Starting a business is harder than it looks, especially with a franchise. You gotta pay the fees.”

  “You heard about Ricardo’s trip to Sweden.”

  “Hell, everybody heard.” He chuckled as if it was funny. “Problem with being that age is you don’t know when to keep your mouth shut. Young, dumb, and full of come.”

  “Your people talked to Ricardo about his trip.” Will didn’t say that they were probably torturing the young man during the discussion. “Ricardo mentioned that there might be a way to buy himself out of his problem.” Will imagined Ricardo would’ve been willing to trade his own mother by the time they were finished torturing him. “He told you that he could get his hands on some money. A lot of money. Almost a million dollars. Cash.”

  “That sounds like a deal no businessman can say no to.”

  Everything was lining up. Ricardo had taken his crew to Evelyn’s, where they met with a hell of a lot more resistance than they’d anticipated. They had killed Hector. Even if Amanda was right and Hector Ortiz was just a car salesman, there was no getting around that he was Ignatio Ortiz’s cousin. “Ricardo took them to Evelyn’s house to get the money. Only, they didn’t count on her fighting back. They took too many casualties. They had to regroup. And then Faith rolled up.”

  Ling asked, “You heard this story before?”

  Will kept talking. “They took Evelyn somewhere else to question her.”

  “Sounds like a plan, man.”

  “Only, she hasn’t given up the money. If she had, I wouldn’t be here.”

  He laughed. “I don’t know about that, brother. You seem to be missing something in your story.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it.” Will was still at a loss.

  “The only way you can kill a snake is to cut off its head.”

  “Okay.” He still wasn’t following.

  “Far as I can tell, that ol’ snake’s still out there twitchin’.”

  “You mean Evelyn?”

  “Shit, you think that old bitch could get a bunch of kids to follow her? Whore couldn’t even keep her own house in order.” He tsked his tongue the same way his sister had. “Nah, this is man’s work, bro. How do you think they got one over on my sister? Bitches don’t got the balls for this kind of work.”

  Will wasn’t going to argue the point. Gangs were the ultimate boys’ club—more patriarchal than the Catholic Church. Julia Ling had only been in charge at her brother’s pleasure. Generals don’t go into battle. They send their pawns to the
front lines. Hironobu Kwon was shot within minutes of breaching the house. Ricardo Ortiz had been left behind. Benny Choo had held a gun to his head. The man had been beaten. He was abandoned. He was expendable.

  Someone else had tipped them off about Evelyn. Someone else was leading the gang.

  Will said, “Chuck Finn.”

  Ling laughed as if the name surprised him. “Chuckleberry Finn. I thought that brother would be dead by now. Fish sleeping with the fishes.”

  “Is he behind this?”

  Roger didn’t answer. “And old Sledge taken down, too. From what I hear, they did the brother a favor. Go out like a man instead of waiting to be put down like a dog. Can’t say some good ain’t come outta this.”

  “Who’s behind—”

  “Yo, this is over.” Roger Ling banged on the cell door. “Enrique, close it up.”

  The guard started to slide back the panel. Will reached out to stop him. Like a snake striking, Ling’s hand snared out, clamping around Will’s wrist. He pulled so hard that Will’s shoulder slammed into the door. The side of his face was pressed against the cold metal surface. He felt hot breath on his ear. “You know why you’re here, bro?”

  Will pulled back as hard as he could. He pushed with his leg, tried to brace his foot against the bottom of the door.

  Ling’s grip was tight, but his voice implied effortlessness. “Tell Mandy that Evelyn’s gone.” His voice got lower. “Tap-tap. Two in the head. Ding-dong, Almeja is dead.”

  Ling released him. Will fell backward, his shoulders banging into the concrete wall. His heart was going like a metronome. He looked back at the cell door. There was a squeal of metal sliding across metal. The viewing panel closed, but not before Will saw Roger Ling’s eyes. They were flat black, soulless. But there was something else there. A flash of triumph mixed in with bloodlust.

  “When?” Will yelled. “When did it happen?”

  Ling’s voice was muffled behind the door. “Tell Mandy to wear something pretty to the funeral. I always did like her in black.”

  Will brushed himself off. As he walked up the corridor, he wondered which was worse: feeling Roger Ling’s hot breath on his neck or having to tell Amanda and Faith that Evelyn Mitchell was dead.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FAITH GRABBED A GROCERY BUGGY FROM THE LINE OUTSIDE the store. She found an old list in her purse and clutched it in her hand as she walked into the building, pretending like this was just another day at the market. The Atlanta police had taken her Glock to process for ballistics, but they didn’t know about Zeke’s Walther P99 that he kept loaded in his glove compartment. The weight dragged on her purse strap as she hefted it over her shoulder. The Germanmade weapon was well suited for her brother, who’d never seen combat. It was bulky and expensive, the sort of thing you’d carry for show. It could also drop a man at one hundred yards, and, at the end of the day, that was all Faith needed it for.

  She started out in the produce section, taking more time than usual to test the freshness of the oranges piled on display. She dropped a few into a plastic bag, then moved toward the bakery.

  She should’ve left the house hours ago, but she wanted to wait until she got the call from Zeke that Jeremy and Emma were safely ensconced in the visiting officers’ quarters at Dobbins Air Reserve Base. Just getting them all loaded into Jeremy’s Impala had taken forever. Zeke had yelled at the car seat. Jeremy was still pouting about his confiscated iPhone. Emma hadn’t cried, because her big brother was there to soothe her, but Faith had bawled like a baby the minute their car had disappeared at the end of the street.

  Faith had assumed that the men who took her mother were as skilled as they were brazen. Tactically, they had always had the advantage, whether it was taking Evelyn or breaking into Faith’s house. But with two cops sitting in her kitchen and her six-foot-four brother stomping around like a bully spoiling for a fight, there was no way they would try the house again.

  They had gone for Jeremy, the weakest link save for Emma. Faith felt her breath catch as she thought about her children. She had been so worried about her mother that she’d let the rest of her family slip. That wasn’t going to happen again. She was going to keep all of them safe or die trying.

  Faith felt a presence over her shoulder. Someone was watching her. She’d felt eyes on her from the moment she left the house. Casually, Faith turned around. She saw a kid in a Frito-Lay uniform stacking bags onto the shelves. He smiled at her. Faith smiled back, then pushed her cart down the aisle.

  When Faith was a little girl, the Charles Chip man would come every Monday to fill their brown metal tins with potato chips. Tuesdays and Thursdays, the Mathis Dairy truck idled in front of their house while Petro, the driver, put fresh milk in the metal rack by the door in the carport. A half-gallon was ninety-two cents. Orange juice was fifty-two cents. Buttermilk, her father’s favorite, was forty-seven cents. If Faith was good, her mother would let her count out the change to pay Petro. Sometimes, Evelyn would get chocolate milk, fifty-six cents, for special occasions. Birthdays. Good report cards. Winning games. Dance recitals.

  Cosmetics. Vitamins. Shampoo. Greeting cards. Books. Soap. Faith kept piling things into her buggy, willing whoever was there to make contact. She slowed her pace. The cart was nearly full. She checked Jeremy’s iPhone. There were no new messages on his Facebook wall, no emails from GoodKnight92. Faith backtracked through the store, returning the shampoo and the vitamins, perusing the magazines again. She looked at her watch. She’d been here almost an hour and no one had approached her. Ginger would probably start wondering what was taking her so long. The young detective hadn’t seemed fazed when she’d told him that she was going to the grocery store by herself. He was still licking his wounds over Faith taking his gun. She wasn’t sure how much farther she could push him without getting a hard shove back.

  She angled her buggy around an old man who had stopped in the middle of the cereal aisle. Faith knew that they wanted her in the parking lot. They wanted her alone. She should just give in and get it over with. She put her hand on her purse, ready to take it out of the buggy. Logic intervened. They couldn’t abduct her in the middle of the grocery store. They might try, but Faith wouldn’t go anywhere. They would either have to bargain with her or shoot her. She wasn’t leaving this store without a deal that would get her mother back.

  Faith stopped outside the restroom and left her buggy by the door. This was her third trip to the toilet since she’d gotten to the grocery store. She wasn’t just trying to draw them out. One of the many benefits of her diabetes acting up was that her bladder felt constantly full. She pushed open the ladies’ room door and held her breath at the stench. Grime covered the stainless steel walls and tile floor. The air felt greasy. Given a choice, she would’ve waited until she got home, but Faith didn’t have that luxury.

  She checked all four stalls, then went into the handicap space because it was still the least filthy. Her thighs ached as she hovered over the seat. It was a balancing act. She had to keep her purse tucked to her stomach because there was nowhere to hang it and she was afraid the fake leather would become glued to the floor.

  The door opened. Faith looked under the stall. She saw a pair of women’s shoes. Short heels. Fat ankles stuffed into brown support hose. The faucet turned on. The hand towel dispenser cranked. The faucet turned off. The door opened again, then slowly closed.

  Faith closed her eyes and mumbled a prayer of relief. She finished going to the bathroom, flushed the toilet, then hiked her purse back onto her shoulder. The stall door didn’t exactly lock. The thumb latch was missing. She had to stick her pinky into the square opening and twist the metal spindle to get the door open.

  “Hola.”

  Instantly, Faith catalogued everything she could about the man standing in front of her. Medium build, a few inches taller than Faith, around one hundred eighty pounds. Brown skin. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Band-Aid around his left index finger. Tattoo of a snake on the right side of his neck. F
aded blue jeans with holes at the knees. Black warm-up jacket with a bulge at the front that could only be a gun. The brim of his black baseball cap was pulled low. She could still see his face. The smattering of facial hair. The mole on his cheek. He was about Jeremy’s age, but as far from her docile, loving son as could be. Hate seemed to radiate off him. Faith knew his type, had dealt with it many times before. Hair-trigger finger. Full of spite. Too young to be smart, too stupid to grow old.

  Faith put her hand in her purse.

  He pressed the bulge under his jacket. “Wouldn’t do that if I was you.”

  Faith could feel the cold steel of the Walther. The muzzle was pointing toward the man. Her finger was close to the trigger. She could shoot the gun through her purse before he even thought to lift his jacket. “Where is my mother?”

  “ ‘My mother,’ ” he repeated. “You say that like she only belongs to you.”

  “Leave my family out of this.”

  “You ain’t the one in the driver’s seat here.”

  “I need to know that she’s alive.”

  He tilted up his chin and clicked his tongue once against the back of his teeth. The gesture was familiar, the same response Faith had gotten from just about every thug she’d ever arrested. “She’s safe.”

  “How do I know that?”

  He laughed. “You don’t, bitch. You don’t know nothin’.”

  “What do you want?”

  He rubbed his fingers against his thumb. “Money.”

  Faith didn’t know if she could pull the bluff again. “Just tell me where she is and we’ll end this. No one has to get hurt.”

  He laughed again. “Yo, you think I’m that stupid?”

  “How much do you want?”

  “All of it.”

  A stream of curses came to mind. “She never took any money.”

  “She done spun me out this story, bitch. We past that. Gimme the fucking money, and I’ll give you what’s left of her.”

  “Is she alive?”

  “Not for long, you don’t do what I say.”

  Faith felt a bead of sweat roll down her back. “I can have the money tomorrow. By noon.”