“I’m sorry.” Faith sounded genuinely disappointed with herself. “My son is fighting with my mother. I promised my daughter I would introduce her to Detective Pikachu if she let me pee in privacy. I did the motherlode cheat because that’s the only way I can give my Sims the life they deserve. Am I really the best person to ask about being an emotionally healthy adult?”
Will studied the sticky bun. The white frosting was melting. He took another large bite.
Faith said, “I’m useless. I suck. I’m a terrible human being.”
“It’s okay.” Will was desperate to erase the last five minutes of this conversation. He tried, “‘There’s a thousand reasons we should go about our day.’”
“You asshole, don’t you dare try to put a song from Frozen in my head.” She jerked her chair back to her computer, obviously getting the message. “Did you see Nick? He was looking for you.”
Nick was probably rinsing his balls in the bathroom sink. “He said his notes jogged his memory. Tolliver wasn’t satisfied with the profile.”
“You mean the Chief?”
He loved her for saying that. “Tolliver thought it was the tail wagging the dog.”
Faith drummed her fingers on the desk. “We all know the FBI isn’t infallible. Look at that scandal over ballistics testing. Or the scandal over microscopic hair analysis. Or the scandal over scandals.”
Will finished the sticky bun. “What about the photocopies of Lena’s notes?”
Faith laughed. “They read like Dickens. I mean, actual Dickens. Like, someone edited and copyedited and printed them up for public consumption. Even her handwriting looks like a typewriter.”
Will couldn’t be disappointed because he wasn’t surprised.
Faith asked, “Why did Tolliver keep her around?”
She wasn’t expecting a response, but he had one. “There’s something to be said for giving somebody a second chance. There’s also something to be said for not wanting to admit you made a mistake.”
“You think he was blinded by his own stubbornness?”
“That’s Sara’s theory, that he couldn’t admit that he was wrong about her. My theory is that Lena was his gray rabbit.” Will had seen the dynamic playing out in multiple police stations over the years. “The Chief needs some dirty work done, he sends his gray rabbit hopping into the gray areas so that he can keep his hands lily white. He can’t fire her because she knows all of his secrets. He can’t let her go because he might need her again. Usually, neither one of them sees it as a hostile, transactional relationship, but they both get something out of it. Friends in foxholes, maybe.”
Faith was silent for as long as you would expect to be silent if you were smearing a dead cop who happened to be the dead husband of one of your best friends. “That makes a hell of a lot of sense. She’s been playing the same role on the Macon force, too.”
He licked the sugar off his fingers.
“Okay, this has nothing to do with Lena.” Faith clasped her hands on the desk, facing him. “I actually do have relationship advice, and it’s the same thing I told Jeremy, and probably the last thing you want to hear: Talk to Sara. In person. Tell her how you feel. Tell her how to fix it. She loves you. You love her. Work it out.”
Will rubbed his jaw. His fingers were sticky. He nodded toward Faith’s computer. Images from Gerald Caterino’s murder closet were paused on the screen. “Anything?”
“Sadness,” Faith rolled back to her monitor. “I know how crime affects families. I see it every day, and it’s soul-killing and awful, but I look at everything Gerald has done—the freedom of information requests and the lawyers and the lawsuits and the PIs and the notes and phone calls and all the money he’s spent, and I just …”
She shook her head because there was nothing more to say.
He told her, “Amanda’s pushing on Masterson. I don’t know why, but she smells something rotten and she’s usually right.”
“Short of driving to Austin and sitting on their laps, I’m not sure I can do anything to make the ISP move faster.” She slid a printout across her desk. “Look at this invoice from Detective Dirk. Past due. And that’s the most recent one. Caterino is into this asshole for almost thirty grand.”
Will saw the numbers at the top of the page. “This has a street address. I thought you said all of the checks were mailed to a post office box?”
She slid over another piece of paper with a map, web address, and phone number. “Mail Center Station. It’s at one of those shipping stores where you can rent a post office box and get a street address.”
Will was familiar with the service. His ex-wife had been a prolific user of shadow addresses. He had been forced on a few occasions to track her down through less than legal means.
He asked, “What sounds more threatening to an average person on the street, telling them you’ve got a warrant or telling them you’ve got a subpoena?”
She considered the question. “I dunno, half the federal government has ignored subpoenas. I guess a warrant?”
Will punched the speakerphone button on Faith’s landline, knowing it showed up as the Georgia Bureau of Investigation on any caller ID.
She asked, “Are you getting sugar on my phone?”
“Yes.” He dialed the number. The phone rang once.
“Mailbox Center Station,” a chirpy young man said. “This is Bryan. How can I help you?”
“Bryan.” Will made his voice higher and added a thick South Georgia drawl. “This is special agent Nick Shelton with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. I’m filling out an official warrant for a perpetrator who rents post office box thirty-four twenty-one at your location. The judge is requesting the name of the box holder before he’ll approve the warrant to send out the fugitive apprehension team.”
Faith shook her head at the subterfuge, because anyone with a passing understanding of how the law worked would laugh in his face.
Bryan did not laugh.
Faith’s eyes bulged as they heard him typing on a keyboard.
He said, “Yes, sir—I mean, Special Agent. Let me … I’ve got it … Okay, so three-four-two-one is rented to Miranda Newberry. Do you need her address?”
Faith knocked over her pencil cup scrambling for something to write with.
Will said, “Go ahead, son.”
“It’s 4825 Dutch Drive, Marietta, 30062.”
“Thanks, fella.” Will hung up the phone.
“Holy shit!” Faith threw up her arms like a ref calling a field goal. “That was amazing!”
“Miranda Newberry.”
Faith swung around to her computer. She started typing, then frowning, then growling. “Oh, for the love of—”
Will waited as she furiously clicked the mouse.
Finally, Faith said, “Miranda Newberry is an unmarried, twenty-nine-year-old CPA who graduated from Georgia State and spends most of her time on crime blogs and—are you kidding me? She’s on six different YA message boards. That’s exactly what I need, a white suburban millennial dictating what books are culturally appropriate for my brown daughter.”
“Fraud,” Will said, because it wasn’t necessarily a crime to impersonate someone online, but it was definitely illegal to do it for money. “Impersonating a police officer?”
“Oh, shit, look.” Faith pointed to the screen. “She just Insta’d a photo of the Big Chicken. She says she’s meeting her boyfriend for lunch in an hour.”
Will stood up. “I’ll drive.”
The Big Chicken was located at the intersection of Cobb Parkway and Roswell Road. The name came from the nearly sixty-foot tall sign that was shaped like a giant chicken sticking up its head from an otherwise unremarkable Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant. Locals used it as a landmark. Directions were given based on whether they were before or after, to the left or to the right, of the Big Chicken.
Will glanced over his shoulder as the door opened. The KFC was packed with lunch-goers from local businesses. He saw Faith holding down thei
r spot at a booth in the back. She was looking down at her phone. They had gotten here fifteen minutes ahead of Miranda Newberry, who was running fifteen minutes late.
The door opened. He glanced over his shoulder again.
Still no Miranda Newberry.
Will finished filling up his cup with Dr Pepper at the soda machine. He walked back toward Faith, scanning the other booths. Miranda Newberry’s Facebook banner had showed a very thin woman holding two Pomeranians she had dressed like Bonnie and Clyde. Will had silently endured Faith’s small dog jokes. Betty, his dog, was a chihuahua. Sometimes, people got stuck with small dogs and all they could do was take care of them.
“Nothing.” Faith was still bent over her phone as he sat down across from her. “She’s clearly a liar. She could’ve been lying about meeting her boyfriend. I bet he lives in Canada.”
Will said nothing. He had fond memories of his own Canadian girlfriend from high school. She had been a supermodel.
He asked, “Do you want something else to eat?”
Faith scrunched up her face. Her salad had looked like someone had already eaten it. She asked, “Why am I so annoyed about her young adult book reviews?”
Will drank his Dr Pepper.
“Okay, I admit I look like the textbook white lady who screams at the guy working the omelet station because cheese costs fifty cents extra.” She took a breath. “But the only reason, and I mean the only reason, I never tried coke was because of what happened to Regina Morrow. And don’t even get me started on Go Ask Alice. That book scared the ever-loving shit out of me. I had no idea what the hell Angel Dust was and I was still terrified. Does it matter if some two-hundred-year-old ghostwriter thought ‘dig it, man’ was how young people talked?”
The door opened.
Faith tensed.
Will shook his head.
Faith ripped a handful of napkins from the dispenser and cleaned off her phone. “Did I tell you the other day, I wiped some guacamole off my iPad and accidentally liked a post by this moron I went to high school wi—”
“Heads up.”
The door had opened again.
Miranda Newberry looked almost exactly like her photos. Her bangs were shorter. She was wearing a bright orange dress with blue and green flowers. Her purse was as big as a feed bag, with dangly tassels and beadwork. Will cataloged the various types of weapons that could be concealed inside, from a switchblade to a .357 Magnum. Judging her based solely on her social media, he assumed it was more likely she had some outfits for her dogs and several stolen credit cards.
Faith turned her camera on selfie mode so she could watch the action behind her.
Miranda did not look around the restaurant like a person who was looking for a boyfriend she was supposed to have lunch with. She stood off to the side of the packed front counter, held up her phone, smiled, took a selfie, then headed back out the door.
Faith jumped out of the booth ahead of Will. They jogged across the dining room. Outside, Miranda did not get into a white Honda CRX that was registered in her name. She stayed on foot, crossing the narrow street that curved behind the Big Chicken. Then she kept going through a row of shrubs.
Will caught up with Faith in the parking lot of a truck dealership.
“I hope we don’t lose sight of her.”
She was joking. The bright orange dress was like a parking cone.
“Where is she going?” Faith edged between two white vans.
Will smelled French fries. “Wendy’s.”
He was right. Miranda headed directly toward the low-slung building and yanked open the door.
Will and Faith slowed their roll. Through the plate glass, he could see Miranda standing in line to order. The Wendy’s was only half-full. There were plenty of spaces in the parking lot. He’d just eaten a three-piece Big Box meal but the smell of fries made him hungry again.
They split off inside the restaurant, taking opposite roles. Will found a booth in the dining room. Faith stood behind Miranda in the line. From his perch, Will could see Faith peering over the woman’s shoulder, reading her phone. Like most people, Miranda was wholly consumed by the screen. She had no idea that a cop was standing behind her, though Faith’s gun was on her hip under her suit jacket.
Will watched two more patrons enter the restaurant. He tried to put himself in Miranda’s position. What kind of person posted a photo of a restaurant that she was not going to eat at, and mentioned a boyfriend that she did not have? He guessed the sort of person who catfished a desperate father and bilked him out of thirty grand.
Faith caught his attention as Miranda waited for her order to be filled. Faith looked pissed, but that was nothing new. The cashier called her up. Faith kept her body turned sideways, placing an order while she kept Miranda in her sightline.
The woman remained oblivious. She was clearly enthralled by whatever was on her phone. Will could see a tiny bump in the back of her neck where the vertebrae had conformed to her head constantly being bent toward a screen.
Miranda finally glanced up. Her order was ready. She took the tray that was waiting for her on the counter. Single, fries, drink. She filled her cup with unsweetened tea. Faith was directly beside her, filling her cup with soda while Miranda moved onto the condiments.
Straw. Napkins. Salt. Plastic silverware. She pumped the ketchup dispenser, filling six tiny paper cups.
Miranda headed toward the side of the dining area where a slim countertop and tall barstools afforded a view of the muffler shop across the street.
“Ma’am?” Faith flashed her ID.
Miranda nearly dropped her tray.
“Over there.” Faith pointed toward Will. She was in her cop’s stance, which instantly drew everyone’s attention. “Move.”
Will watched Miranda’s eyes slide around the dining room. She looked guilty just standing there. Will hadn’t chosen the booth at random. Between his position and Faith’s, they had effectively covered all exit points.
Tea splashed out of Miranda’s cup. Her hands were shaking. She took some very small steps toward the booth. Then some large ones when Faith turned her Cop Attitude to loud. Faith was a petite woman, but she could be menacing when the situation called for it.
Miranda slid into the booth across from Will. Faith got in beside her and pushed Miranda farther along the bench until she was effectively trapped against the wall.
Will made the introductions, because Faith had taken his usual position of being the silent, unpredictable one. “I’m Trent. This is Mitchell.”
Miranda studied his ID. Her hands were still trembling. “Is this real?”
Faith slapped her business card on the table. “Call the number.”
Miranda picked up the card. She stared at it. Her eyes were wet with tears. He could see her jaw working as she gritted her teeth back and forth.
The card went back down on the table.
She took a French fry, dipped it into each of the six ketchups, then shoved it into her mouth.
Will looked at Faith while Miranda silently chewed. He guessed the woman had decided to pretend like they weren’t there until they gave up and left her alone.
Will said, “We’re here to talk to you about Gerald Caterino.”
The chewing paused for a second, but she six-dipped another fry and stuck it into her mouth.
Faith reached over and Jenga-like pulled one of the fries from the pile.
Miranda gave a forced sigh. “I know my rights. I don’t have to talk to the police if I don’t want to.”
Will channeled his inner Faith. “Did you learn that at the police academy, Detective Masterson?”
Miranda stopped chewing. “It’s not illegal to adopt an online pseudonym.”
“Debatable,” Will said, putting his own spin on Faith’s irritated tone. “But it’s illegal to impersonate a police officer. Even a retired one who never existed.”
The news clearly startled her.
Faith put her arm along the back of the booth. He
r jacket hung open. Her gun was visible to anyone who looked down.
Miranda looked down.
She swallowed so hard that the sound carried.
“My dog got sick,” Miranda said. “She needed surgery, and then my car broke down.”
Will asked, “All of that cost $30,000?”
“I worked for free for a whole year before I asked for anything. And then I had to keep charging because—” She realized that her voice was too loud. “I had to keep charging because it would look suspicious if I didn’t.”
“Smart,” Faith said.
Miranda’s eyes cut in her direction, but she told Will, “The Masterson persona gives me validity. No one would listen to me if they knew I was a woman. You have no idea how hard—”
Faith pretended to snore.
Miranda said, “I’ll pay a fine. I’ll return the money. It’s no big deal.”
“You’re a CPA, right?” Will waited for her to nod. “Did you pay taxes on that income?”
Her eyes went shifty again. “Yes.”
Will said, “I need a copy of your private investigator’s license, your Love2CMurder business license and your federal ID number or social security number so I can verify—”
“The money was paid out over two years. That qualifies for a gift tax exemption.”
Faith blew out a stream of air between her lips.
Will used one of Faith’s favorite lines. “Can we cut the bullshit?”
Miranda’s jaw tightened. “I don’t have to talk to you.”
“We can arrest you on the catfishing alone.”
She pushed away the tray. “Look, okay, I accepted Gerald’s gift money, but I was really helping him. Do you think that dinosaur knows how to do a deep dive on the internet?”
Faith couldn’t stay silent. “Is thirty K the going rate for setting up a Google alert and cutting out some articles?”
“I did a heck of a lot more than that. Hours more. I crunched the data. I showed him patterns.” She reached into her purse.
Faith clamped her hand around the woman’s wrist.
“Ow!” Miranda winced. “I was just getting my phone. It’s in my bag.”
Faith took the plastic fork off Miranda’s tray and poked around the feed sack. Finally, she nodded.
The Silent Wife: From the No. 1 Sunday Times bestselling author comes a gripping new crime thriller (Will Trent Series, Book 10) Page 36