Next, Faith looked through the duffel. The clothes inside were designer—Donna Karan, Jones of New York. The Jimmy Choos were particularly impressive, especially to Faith, who was wearing a skirt that was the equivalent of a camping tent, since she couldn’t find any pants in her closet that would button anymore. Jacquelyn Zabel apparently suffered no such sartorial quandaries, and Faith wondered why someone who could obviously afford otherwise chose to stay in this awful house.
So, Jacquelyn had apparently been sleeping in the room. The neatly made bed, a glass of water and a pair of reading glasses on the table beside it all pointed to a recent inhabitant. There was also a giant, hospital-size bottle of aspirin. Faith opened the container and found it half empty. She would probably need some aspirin herself if she were packing up her mother’s home. Faith had seen the heartbreak her father suffered when he’d had to put his mother in an assisted-living facility. The man had passed away years ago, but Faith knew that he had never gotten over having to put his mother in a home.
Unbidden, Faith felt her eyes fill with tears. She let out a groan, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Since she’d seen a plus sign on the pregnancy test, a day hadn’t gone by without Faith’s brain conjuring some story to make her burst into tears.
She returned to the duffel. She was feeling around for pieces of paper—a notebook, a journal, a plane ticket—when she heard yelling coming from the other side of the house. Faith found Will in the kitchen. A very large and very angry woman was screaming in his face.
“You pigs have no right to be here!”
Faith thought the woman looked just like the type of aging hippie who would use the word “pigs.” Her hair was braided down her back and she was wearing a horse-blanket shawl around her body in lieu of a shirt. Faith guessed that the woman was officially the last holdout in the neighborhood, soon to be the crappiest house on the street. She didn’t look like the yoga-loving mommies who probably lived in the renovated mansions.
Will remained remarkably cool, leaning against the refrigerator with a hand in his pocket. “Ma’am, I need you to calm down.”
“Fuck you,” she shot back. “Fuck you, too,” she added, seeing Faith in the doorway. Close up, Faith thought the woman was in her late forties. It was hard to tell, though, since her face was twisted into an angry red knot. She had the sort of features that seemed built for fury.
Will asked, “Did you know Gwendolyn Zabel?”
“You have no right to question me without a lawyer.”
Faith rolled her eyes, reveling in the sheer childish joy of the gesture.
Will was more mature in his approach. “Can you tell me your name?”
She turned instantly reticent. “Why?”
“I’d like to know what to call you.”
She seemed to scroll through her options. “Candy.”
“All right, Candy. I’m Special Agent Trent with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, this is Special Agent Mitchell. I’m sorry to tell you that Mrs. Zabel’s daughter has been in an accident.”
Candy pulled the blanket closer. “Was she drinking?”
Will asked, “Did you know Jacquelyn?”
“Jackie.” Candy shrugged her shoulders. “She was here for a few weeks to get her mother’s house sold. We talked.”
“Did she use a real estate agent or sell it herself?”
“She used a local agent.” The woman shifted her stance, blocking Faith from her view. “Is Jackie okay?”
“I’m afraid she’s not. She was killed in the accident.”
Candy put her hand to her mouth.
“Have you seen anyone hanging around the house? Anyone suspicious?”
“Of course not. I’d call the police.”
Faith suppressed a snort. The ones who screamed about the pigs were always the ones who called the police for help at the first whiff of trouble.
Will asked, “Does Jackie have any family we can get in touch with?”
“Are you fucking blind?” Candy demanded. She jerked her head toward the refrigerator. Faith could see a list of names and phone numbers taped to the door that Will was leaning against. The words emergency numbers were typed in bold print at the top, less than six inches away from his face. “Christ, don’t they teach you people to read?”
Will looked absolutely mortified, and Faith would have slapped the woman if she had been standing close enough. Instead, she said, “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to go downtown and make a formal statement.”
Will caught her eye, shook his head, but Faith was so furious she struggled to keep her voice from shaking. “We’ll get a cruiser to take you to City Hall East. It’ll only take a few hours.”
“Why?” the woman demanded. “Why do you need me to—”
Faith took out her cell phone and dialed her old partner at the Atlanta Police Department. Leo Donnelly owed her a favor—make that several favors—and she intended to use them to make this woman’s life as difficult as possible.
Candy said, “I’ll talk to you here. You don’t need to take me downtown.”
“Your friend Jackie is dead,” Faith said, her anger making her tone sharp. “Either you’re helping our investigation or you’re obstructing it.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, holding up her hands in surrender. “What do you want to know?”
Faith glanced at Will, who was looking at his shoes. She pressed her thumb on the end button, disconnecting the call to Leo. She asked Candy, “When’s the last time you saw Jackie?”
“Last weekend. She came over for some company.”
“What kind of company?”
Candy equivocated, and Faith started to dial Leo’s number again.
“All right,” the woman groaned. “Jesus. We smoked some weed. She was freaked out about all this shit. She hadn’t visited her mom in a while. None of us knew how bad it had gotten.”
“ ‘None of us’ meaning who?”
“Me and a couple of the neighbors. We kept an eye on Gwen. She’s an old woman. Her daughters live out of state.”
They must have not kept too close an eye on her if they hadn’t realized she was living in a firetrap. “Do you know the other daughter?”
“Joelyn,” she answered, nodding toward the list on the fridge. “She doesn’t visit. At least, she hasn’t in the ten years I’ve lived here.”
Faith glanced at Will again. He was staring somewhere over Candy’s shoulder. She asked the woman, “The last time you saw Jackie was a week ago?”
“That’s right.”
“What about her car?”
“It was in the driveway until a couple of days ago.”
“A couple as in two?”
“I guess it’s closer to four or five. I’ve got a life. It’s not like I track the comings and goings of the neighborhood.”
Faith ignored the sarcasm. “Have you seen anyone suspicious hanging around?”
“I told you no.”
“Who was the real estate agent?”
She named one of the top Realtors in town, a man who advertised on every available bus stop in the city. “Jackie didn’t even meet him. They handled it all on the phone. He had the house sold before the sign even went up in the yard. There’s a developer who has a standing offer on all the lots, and he closes in ten days with cash.”
Faith knew this was not uncommon. Her own poor house had been subject to many such offers over the years—none of them worth taking because then she wouldn’t be able to afford a new house in her own neighborhood. “What about movers?”
“Look at all this shit.” Candy slapped her hand against a crumbling pile of papers. “The last thing Jackie told me was that she was going to have one of those construction Dumpsters delivered.”
Will cleared his throat. He wasn’t looking at the wall anymore, but he wasn’t exactly looking at the witness, either. “Why not just leave everything here?” he asked. “It’s mostly trash. The builder is going to bulldoze it anyway.”
Candy see
med appalled by the prospect. “This was her mother’s house. She grew up here. Her childhood is buried under all this shit. You can’t just throw that all away.”
He took out his phone as if it had rung. Faith knew the vibration feature was broken. Amanda had nearly gutted him in a meeting last week when it had started ringing. Still, Will looked at the display, then said, “Excuse me.” He left by the back door, using his foot to move a pile of magazines out of the way.
Candy asked, “What’s his problem?”
“He’s allergic to bitches,” Faith quipped, though if that were true, Will would be covered in a head-to-toe rash after this morning. “How often did Jackie visit her mother?”
“I’m not her social secretary.”
“Maybe if I take you downtown, it’ll jog your memory.”
“Jesus,” she muttered. “Okay. Maybe a couple of times a year—if that.”
“And you’ve never seen Joelyn, her sister, visit?”
“Nope.”
“Did you spend much time with Jackie?”
“Not much. I wouldn’t call us friends or anything.”
“What about when you smoked together last week? Did she say anything about her life?”
“She told me the nursing home she sent her mom off to cost fifty grand a year.”
Faith suppressed the urge to whistle. “There goes any profit from the house.”
Candy didn’t seem to think so. “Gwen’s been failing for a while now. She won’t last the year. Jackie said might as well get her something nice on her way out.”
“Where’s the home?”
“Sarasota.”
Jackie Zabel lived on the Florida Panhandle, about five hours’ drive away from Sarasota. Not too close and not too far. Faith said, “The doors weren’t locked when we got here.”
Candy shook her head. “Jackie lived in a gated community. She never locked her doors. One night, she left her keys in her car. I couldn’t believe it when I saw them in the ignition. It was dumb luck that it wasn’t stolen.” She added ruefully, “But Jackie was always pretty lucky.”
“Was she seeing anyone?”
Candy turned reticent again.
Faith waited her out.
Finally, the woman said, “She wasn’t that nice, okay? I mean, she was fine to get stoned with, but she was kind of a bitch about things, and men wanted to fuck her, but they didn’t want to talk to her afterward. You know what I mean?”
Faith wasn’t in a position to judge. “What things was she a bitch about?”
“The best way to drive up from Florida. The right kind of gas to put in your car. The proper way to throw out the freaking trash.” She indicated the cluttered kitchen. “That’s why she was doing this all by herself. Jackie’s loaded. She could afford to pay a crew to clean out this place in two days. She didn’t trust anyone else to do it the right way. That’s the only reason she’s been staying here. She’s a control freak.”
Faith thought about the neatly tied bundles out by the street. “You said she wasn’t seeing anyone. Were there any men in her life—ex-husbands? Ex-boyfriends?”
“Who knows? She didn’t confide in me much and Gwen hasn’t known the day of the week for the last ten years. Honestly, I think Jackie just needed a couple of tokes to take off the edge, and she knew I was holding.”
“Why’d you let her?”
“She was okay when she unclenched.”
“You asked if she’d been in a drunk-driving accident.”
“I know she got stopped in Florida. She was really pissed about that.” Candy was sure to add, “Those stops are completely bogus. One measly glass of wine and they’re cuffing you like you’re some kind of criminal. They just want to make their quota.”
Faith had done many of those stops herself. She knew she had saved lives just as sure as she knew Candy had probably had her own run-ins with the cops. “So, you didn’t like Jackie, but you spent time with her. You didn’t know her well but you knew she was fighting a DUI rap. What’s going on here?”
“It’s easier to go with the flow, you know? I don’t like causing trouble.”
She certainly seemed fine with causing it for other people. Faith took out her notebook. “What’s your last name?”
“Smith.”
Faith gave her a sharp look.
“I’m serious. It’s Candace Courtney Smith. I live in the only other shitty house on the street.” Candy glanced out the window at Will. Faith saw that he was talking to one of the uniformed patrolmen. She could tell from the way the other man was shaking his head that they hadn’t found anything useful.
Candy said, “I’m sorry I snapped. I just don’t like the police around.”
“Why is that?”
She shrugged. “I had some problems a while back.”
Faith had already guessed as much. Candy certainly had the angry disposition of a person who had sat in the back of a squad car on more than one occasion. “What kind of problems?”
She shrugged again. “I’m only saying this because you’re going to find out about it and come running back here like I’m an ax murderer.”
“Go on.”
“I got picked up on a solicitation when I was in my twenties.”
Faith was unsurprised. She guessed, “You met a guy who got you hooked on drugs?”
“Romeo and Juliet,” Candy confirmed. “Asshole left me holding his stash. He said I wouldn’t go down for it.”
There had to be a mathematical formula out there that calculated to the second how long it took a woman whose boyfriend got her hooked on drugs to get turned out on the street in order to support both their habits. Faith imagined the equation involved a lot of zeroes behind the decimal point.
Faith asked, “How long were you in for?”
“Shit,” she laughed. “I flipped on the asshole and his dealer. I didn’t spend day one in prison.”
Still not surprised.
The woman said, “I stopped the hard stuff a long time ago. The weed just keeps me mellow.” She glanced at Will again. Obviously, there was something about him that was making her nervous.
Faith called her on it. “What are you so worried about?”
“He doesn’t look like a cop.”
“What does he look like?”
She shook her head. “He reminds me of my first boyfriend, all quiet and nice, but his temper—” She smacked her hand into her palm. “He beat me pretty bad. Broke my nose. Broke my leg once when I didn’t earn out for him.” She rubbed her knee. “Still hurts me when it’s cold.”
Faith saw where this was going. It wasn’t Candy’s fault that she’d tricked herself out to get high and more than likely failed her share of Breathalyzers. The evil boyfriend was to blame, or the stupid cop meeting his quota, and now Will was getting his turn as the bad guy, too.
Candy was a skilled enough manipulator to know when she was losing her audience. “I’m not lying to you.”
“I don’t care about the sordid details of your tragic past,” Faith stated. “Tell me what you’re really worried about.”
She debated for a few seconds. “I take care of my daughter now. I’m straight.”
“Ah,” Faith said. The woman was worried her child would be taken away.
Candy nodded toward Will. “He reminds me of those bastards from the state.”
Will as a social worker certainly was a better fit than Will as an abusive boyfriend. “How old is your daughter?”
“She’s almost four. I didn’t think I’d be able to—All the shit I’ve been through.” Candy smiled, her face changing from an angry fist into something that might be called a moderately attractive plum. “Hannah’s a little sweetheart. She loved Jackie a lot, wanted to be like her with her nice car and her fancy clothes.”
Faith didn’t think Jackie sounded like the kind of woman who wanted a three-year-old pawing her Jimmy Choos, not least of all because kids tended to be sticky at that age. “Did Jackie like her?”
Candy shrugg
ed. “Who doesn’t like kids?” She finally asked the question that a less self-absorbed person would’ve asked ten minutes ago. “So, what happened? Was she drunk?”
“She was murdered.”
Candy opened her mouth, then closed it. “Killed?”
Faith nodded.
“Who would do that? Who would want to hurt her?”
Faith had seen this enough times to know where it was heading. It was the reason she had held back the true cause of Jacquelyn Zabel’s death. No one wanted to speak ill of the dead, even a fried-out hippie wannabe with an anger problem.
“She wasn’t bad,” Candy insisted. “I mean, she was good deep down.”
“I’m sure she was,” Faith agreed, though the opposite was more likely true.
Candy’s lip quivered. “How am I gonna tell Hannah that she’s dead?”
Faith’s phone rang, which was just as well because she did not know how to answer the question. Worse, part of her didn’t care, now that she’d wrung out all the information she needed. Candy Smith was hardly number one on the list of horrible parents, but she wasn’t a stellar human being, either, and there was a three-year-old child out there who was probably paying for it.
Faith answered the phone. “Mitchell.”
Detective Leo Donnelly asked, “Did you just call me?”
“I hit the wrong button,” she lied.
“I was about to call you anyway. You put out that BOLO, right?”
He meant the Be On the Look Out Faith had sent around to all the zones this morning. Faith held up her finger to Candy, asking for a minute, then walked back into the family room. “What’ve you got?”
“Not exactly a miss-per,” he said, meaning a missing person. “Uniform patrol found a kid asleep in an SUV this morning, mom nowhere to be found.”
“And?” Faith asked, knowing there had to be more. Leo was a homicide detective. He didn’t get called out to coordinate social services.
The Will Trent Series 5-Book Bundle Page 92