The Will Trent Series 5-Book Bundle

by Karin Slaughter

  “Something isn’t sitting right,” Will told her. “The scene was too sloppy.”

  “Charlie says that based on the blood and shoe-print evidence he believes that only four people were in the house during the time of the crime.”

  “I know.”

  Amanda added another point that he had yet to consider. “If you’ve got a thing for young girls, you don’t leave one dead at the scene. You take them both with you.”

  “Kayla was a fighter. Maybe she wouldn’t go peacefully.”

  Amanda held up her hands. “We can talk in circles like this all morning and it won’t get us anywhere. I heard the proof of life from the call yesterday. The girl sounded terrified. Not movie terrified, not fake, this-is-how-I-think-I-should-sound-when-I’m-trying-to-sound-terrified terrified. She was making the sorts of noises you only make when you know that you are about to die.”

  Will let her words sink in. Amanda was right. They had both heard true fear before—more times than either of them cared to remember. Emma Campano had not been acting. There was an ungodly tremble to her voice, a harsh rasp to her breathing. You couldn’t make that up. Absolute terror was a secret language you only learned by experience.

  Will asked, “Was there any background noise on Emma’s part of the tape?”

  “They say it’ll be noon at the soonest before they have anything substantive. Preliminarily, there’s traffic noise, a dog barking. The girl was in an enclosed area when her part of the recording was made.”

  “So he drove her somewhere, took her out of the car, then made the recording.”

  “That tells us that the ransom demand wasn’t an afterthought. We’ve seen how these guys work before. They get heated up, they take the girl, they rape her, they kill her, and then they make their plan. This was thought out from the beginning. Before he stepped foot in that house, he bought rope and duct tape. He found a knife. He had a place picked out where he knew he could take her.”

  “If I were a more optimistic person, I would say that proves she’s still alive.”

  “That was yesterday,” Amanda reminded him. “We’ll know about today in a little over two and a half hours.”

  “Was the lab able to tell anything about the kidnapper’s voice?”

  “You were right about him taping it off a computer and playing it back over the phone.” She read from one of the notes, “ ‘The VoiceOver utility is a standard feature found in Apple Macintosh’s universal access software. The voice selected by the caller is called Bahh.’ ” She looked up from the note. “So that narrows our suspect pool down to several million smug Apple computer owners.”

  “Kayla Alexander’s parents should be—”

  “They’re back,” she interrupted. “And you’re not to go within a hundred miles of them without an attorney.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re filing lawsuits against Westfield Academy, the Campanos and the Atlanta Police Department. I’m sure as soon as they realize we’re on the case, they’ll slap us with one, too.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “The school couldn’t keep the girl from leaving, the Campanos couldn’t keep the girl from dying and the police department couldn’t find their asses if you drew them a map.”

  Caroline called from her office, “Evan Bernard is on line three.”

  Will told Amanda, “Please let me handle this.”

  “Are you trying to redeem yourself?”

  “I’m trying not to piss off the man who’s trying to help us.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She pressed the speakerphone button. “Mr. Bernard, this is Amanda Wagner, I’m the deputy director of the special criminal apprehension team. I’ve got agent Will Trent here with me. Thank you so much for helping us this morning.”

  “No problem,” he answered. “The policeman you sent came with his lights and siren blaring right up to the front door.” He gave a forced chuckle. “I have to admit, it was a little disconcerting.”

  Amanda smiled her grandmotherly smile. “Consider it incentive to keep your nose clean.”

  Will shook his head at the silence on the other end of the line. He took over the call, asking, “Mr. Bernard, can you give us your impression of the letters?”

  “I have to admit, I find them curious.”

  “Can you explain why?”

  “The first one, which I would read as ‘she belongs to me,’ just doesn’t ring true. I told you yesterday that each dyslexic is different, and perhaps you’d be better off talking to a linguist for regional dialect and such, but in my opinion, you’re dealing with a phonetic speller, not a dyslexic.”

  Will asked, “How can you be sure?”

  “Well, I’m not.” He made a thinking noise. “All I can speak from is my own experience. With a dyslexic, I would expect the letters to be mixed up, not just misspelled or run together. Transposition is the most notable characteristic. For instance, Emma continually transposed the ‘e’ and ‘l’ in help, spelling it ‘h-l-e-p.’ ”

  Amanda did nothing to hide her impatience. “What about the other ones?”

  “The second one, ‘rapist,’ is correct, of course, but the third one, the ‘lev her along’ for ‘leave her alone’—and again, let me qualify this by saying that each person is different—but the ‘along’ seems odd. Typically, you would not expect to find the ‘g’ there. It’s what I would call a heavy letter, meaning it has a definitive sound within a word. You often see it used for ‘j’ or a ‘j’ used in its place, but you never see it just thrown in for no reason.” He made the thinking noise again. “But then the ‘lev’ gives me pause.”

  Will was having a hard time following all the spelling, but he still asked, “Why is that?”

  “Because, generally, that’s a dyslexic spelling. It’s the word in its purest form. No run-on, no ‘g’ thrown in for effect. I would assume that spell-check added it there.”

  “So, what’s your opinion? Is someone trying to appear dyslexic or do they really have the disorder?”

  “Well …” The man hesitated. “I’m not a doctor. I’m a reading teacher. But if you were to put a gun to my head, I’d say that you are looking at the work of an adult, probably of average intelligence, who simply never learned basic reading skills.”

  Will looked up at Amanda and found her staring back at him. They were both unused to getting straight answers. Just to clarify, Will asked, “You don’t think this person has some sort of reading disability?”

  “You asked for my honest opinion and I gave it to you. I would say that the person who wrote these letters never learned how to properly read or spell. At best, they’re on a second-or third-grade level.”

  Amanda was obviously skeptical. “How is that possible?”

  “I saw it more when I taught in the public school system, but it happens. Kids with all kinds of reading problems can slip through the cracks. You try to help them, but there’s nothing you can really do. That’s one of the reasons I moved to Westfield.”

  In the background, they heard the class bell ring.

  Bernard said, “I’m sorry, but I need to get to class. I can get someone to cover if you—”

  “That’s okay,” Will told him. “Thank you for your time. If you could give those notes back to the patrolman who gave them to you?”

  “Of course. Please call me if anything else comes up. I wish I could have been more help to you.”

  “You were very helpful,” Will told him. “I would appreciate if you kept this conversation to yourself. We don’t want to do anything to jeopardize Emma’s situation.”

  “Of course not. I think our students are damaged enough by this tragedy as it is.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Bernard.”

  Amanda ended the call. “Did you follow any of that?”

  “Yes,” Will said. “Our letter writer is an adult of average intelligence who happens to be a functional illiterate.”

  “You don’t know how refreshing I find it for an expert to g
ive me their honest opinion.”

  Caroline came into the office with a file folder in her hand. “Background checks on the Copy Right employees, and Gordon Chew called to say he’s running half an hour late.”

  Amanda did not bother to thank the woman. She opened the file and skimmed the pages, giving Will the highlights. “Everyone’s clean except for Lionel Edward Petty, who has a drug conviction. During a traffic stop, they found two ounces of pot in his glove compartment.”

  “Was he hit with intent to distribute?” Will asked. Though it was discretionary, one ounce of marijuana would generally buy you a misdemeanor. Two ounces could be construed as drug trafficking.

  Amanda told him, “He ratted out his dealer and they knocked it down to a fine and time served.”

  “Faith found some pot taped under Adam Humphrey’s desk,” Will said. “It’s a tenuous connection, but the Copy Right is close to Tech. If he really was dealing, then he could easily walk to campus during his lunch hour.”

  “I’m sure there are dealers living right on campus who have that business all wrapped up.” She closed the file folder. “I’m getting the runaround from the contractors who had construction crews outside the copy center. My gut says they were using illegals. Maybe we should go back and see if anyone in the store talked to the workers. There’s a Hispanic girl who works the morning shift.” She referenced one of the pages in the folder. “Maria Contreras. Maybe she had some contact with them. Maybe I’m racial profiling. Check the other girls, too. They may have flirted with the men.” She started to hand the sheet to Will, then thought better of it.

  He held out his hand. “I can give it to Faith.”

  She put the paper on the desk and slid it over, making her point loud and clear. “You need a partner, Will.”

  “You know I don’t work well with others.”

  “You seem to be working fine with Faith Mitchell.”

  “Because she knows there’s an end to it.”

  “Ah,” she said. “There it is. The famous Trent self-esteem.”

  He bristled. “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not your mama, Will, but it’s time to grow a pair and stop feeling sorry for yourself because you have a disability.”

  He did not ask why she kept throwing his dyslexia back in his face if she thought his problem was so inconsequential. Amanda had built her career around knowing people’s weak points and exploiting the hell out of them.

  She leaned forward, making sure she had his attention. “You see cases as puzzles and whatever it is that’s so different in your brain makes it possible for you to solve them the way no one else can.” She paused, letting that sink in. “I trusted you with this case because I knew that you could handle it. I don’t need a crisis of confidence from you right now. I need you to go out there and work with Faith and do your job the best way you know how.”

  “Amanda—”

  “And while I’m at it, you could probably do a hell of a lot better than Angie Polaski.”

  “That’s out of line.”

  “Probably, but consider yourself put on notice. When this case is over, I’m going to ask Faith to join the team.”

  “She’s APD. She’ll lose her benefits and pension and—”

  “I’ll worry about the details. You worry about finding a way to tell Faith about your little problem, Special Agent Trent. She’s going to figure it out on her own eventually and she’ll be furious at you for hiding it.” She added, “And I’m not too pleased myself about having to babysit you on this phone call when I could be off doing something that actually moves this case forward instead.”

  He opened his mouth to respond, but she talked over him.

  “No more,” she commanded. Will stood up because she did. “Speaking of pissing away time, I’ve got to go talk to our lawyers about the Alexanders, then I’m heading over to Ansley to wait with the Campanos for the ten-thirty ransom call.” Her heels clicked across the floor as she crossed the room. “Wait for Gordon Chew to see what he comes up with on the threatening notes, then canvass the Copy Right again to see if they remember anything about those construction workers. We’ll reconvene outside the Campano house.” She paused in the doorway, repeating, “Outside the house, Will. I have no idea why Paul Campano covered your ass over the little contretemps you two had, but don’t think for a moment you’ve got me fooled.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Faith covered her mouth as she yawned hard enough to pop her jaw. She was almost punch-drunk with exhaustion after spending most of the night talking to Victor Martinez. Once the restaurant had kicked them out, they had walked to the closed coffee shop next door and sat at one of the metal tables outside. Sweating in the evening heat, being devoured by mosquitoes, neither of them had made a move to leave. They had both had horrendous days. They had both studiously avoided any further conversation about them.

  Faith had told him about her father, how she missed him, her brother in Germany, her relationship with her mother, and of course Jeremy. Victor had listened so intently, his eyes never leaving hers, his fingers stroking hers in ways that made Faith incapable of thinking about anything other than the feel of his skin, that she had finally given up and stared wordlessly back at him until he started talking about himself.

  He had given her the highlights: an early failed marriage, his rise to dean of student services at Georgia Tech. He was the first man in his family to go to college. He was bullying his nieces and nephews to make sure he wasn’t the last. He found out she had dropped out of college and started bullying her, as well.

  When Faith had finally realized it was three in the morning, that she had to get up for work in four hours, she had finally broken the spell. Victor had taken her hand and kissed her on the cheek, then—very gently—on the mouth. He had walked her to her car, then kissed her again before she’d pulled away.

  Even if he never called her again, Faith thought that it was one of the most romantic evenings of her life.

  Will came into the office. “Looks like I’m not going to be investigating bingo applications, after all.” He slumped into the chair behind his desk. His suit was pressed and his face was shaved, but he looked rumpled somehow. “Did you see the press conference this morning?”

  Faith felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She’d barely managed a shower, let alone had time to turn on the television. “What?”

  “The press conference,” he said, as if it was common knowledge. “I thought Amanda pushed it, but it’s not like she consults me on—”

  “There was a press conference?” Faith realized she had stood up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought you’d appreciate the sleep.”

  “Why the hell am I here?” she demanded. “What am I doing—”

  “Hold on,” Will interrupted. He was still sitting in his chair, a confused look on his bruised face. “What did I do now?”

  “What did you do?”

  “Whatever it is, I’m sorry. I really am.” Will leaned forward. “Let’s just talk about this, okay? Please sit down.”

  His genuine remorse took some of the fight out of her. She sat down. “This is ridiculous.”

  “Just tell me what you want to do.”

  “We need to define my position on this case.” He still seemed at a loss, so she gave him some options. “Am I still your lackey or school spokesperson or chauffeur or—”

  A loud bang came from the office next door, followed by laughter. Phones were ringing. The day shift was starting to straggle in. Will seemed to realize this just as Faith did. He squeezed around his desk and pulled the door closed.

  He waited until he was seated again to tell her, “We’re in this together.”

  “Then why aren’t you telling me things?”

  “I just thought …” He still sounded baffled. “I thought you’d appreciate getting some extra sleep. The press conference was just smoke and mirrors. There was no reason for both of us to have to suffer through it.
”

  Faith could think of all kinds of reasons—a chance to talk to Abigail Campano again, to see the mother and father interacting. The opportunity to find out what the reporters had dug up on their own, or just the common God damn courtesy of being included in the case she had been pouring her life into for the last three days.

  Will was looking down at his desk, but Faith had been the mother of a teenage boy long enough to spot guilt when she saw it.

  She asked, “What else?” He didn’t answer, so she pressed. “I know there’s something else, Will. Just go ahead and tell me.”

  A sense of dread filled his voice. “You’re really not going to like it.”

  Faith waited. She could clearly hear the conversation in the next office—cop talk, somebody bragging about kicking the knees out from under an arrest.

  Will said, “I talked to Evan Bernard this morning.”

  “By yourself?”

  “With Amanda.”

  Faith let that sink in. Was it Amanda who didn’t trust her? It would be very like the older woman to make her own decisions and leave Will to clean up the mess. Was Faith mad at the wrong person? On the other hand, if that was the case, if Faith’s being left out was coming from Amanda, then why wasn’t Will telling her?

  She rubbed her eyes, too tired to see through the layers of deceit. “What did he say?”

  “In his opinion, we’re looking at an illiterate adult, not someone with a learning disability.”

  Faith found the leap extraordinary. “He got that from three notes?”

  “I’m just telling you what he said.”

  “How can someone get through school without learning how to read and write?”

  “It happens,” he said, rubbing his jaw.

  Faith felt more than snubbed this time. The press conference was one thing, but she had real questions for Evan Bernard, primarily: how could he be so sure from three short sentences that they were dealing with someone who had a learning disability rather than someone who was perfectly normal and trying to cover his tracks?