The Will Trent Series 5-Book Bundle

by Karin Slaughter

  Frank glanced at himself in the mirror. Lena stared at his reflection. He looked like he was two steps from falling into the grave.

  She peeled off the Band-Aids on the side of her hand. The wound was red and raw. “Your shot went wild. Did you even realize I was hit?”

  His throat worked as he swallowed. He probably wanted a drink. By the looks of him, he needed it.

  “What happened, Frank? You had your gun out. Tommy came for you. You pulled the trigger and shot me. How did you get cut on the arm? How did a hundred-thirty-pound wimp of a kid get past you with a goddamn letter opener?”

  “I told you that he cut me with the knife. He was wrong about the letter opener.”

  “You know, for a cop, you’re a shitty liar.”

  Frank braced himself on the sink. He could barely stand. “Tommy doesn’t mention a letter opener in his confession.”

  Lena’s voice was more like a snarl. “Because I’ve got about two drips of loyalty left for you, old man, and they’ve been circling the drain all damn day. Tell me what happened in that garage.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

  “How did Tommy get past you? Did you black out? Did you fall?”

  “It doesn’t matter. He ran. That’s the point. Everything that happened after that is on him.”

  “We didn’t identify ourselves in the garage. We were just three people pointing guns at his head.”

  He glared at her. “I’m glad to hear you admitting you did something wrong today, princess.”

  Lena felt overwhelmed with fury, ready to do any kind of damage she could. “When Brad shouted ‘Police,’ Tommy stopped. He turned around. He had the letter opener in his hand. Brad ran into it. Tommy didn’t mean to stab him. I’ll tell that to anyone who asks me.”

  “He killed that girl in cold blood. You telling me you don’t care about that?”

  “Of course I care about that,” she snapped. “Jesus, Frank, I’m not saying he didn’t do it. I’m saying the minute Tommy gets a lawyer, you’re screwed.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Let’s hope the judge agrees with you, otherwise he’ll invalidate the arrest, the confession, everything that came out of finding Tommy in that garage. That kid’s gonna get away with murder because you can’t stand up straight without a bottle of whisky in you.” She put her face inches from his. “Is that how you want to be remembered, Frank? As the cop who let a killer get away because he couldn’t stay off the booze while he was on the job?”

  Frank turned on the faucet again. He splashed water on his face, the back of his neck. She saw his hands were shaking again. His knuckles were busted up. There were deep scratch marks on his wrist. How hard had Frank hit Tommy that the boy’s teeth had managed to break through Frank’s leather gloves?

  She said, “It’s your fault this went bad. Tommy got past you. I don’t know what you were doing rolling on the floor, how your arm got cut, but I do know if you had done your job and stopped him at the door—”

  “Shut up, Lena.”

  “Screw you.”

  “I’m still your boss.”

  “Not anymore, you drunk, worthless bastard.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her resignation. When he didn’t take it, she threw it in his face. “I’m done with you.”

  He didn’t pick up the letter. He didn’t shoot back a stream of obscenities. Instead, he asked, “Which pen did you use?”

  “What?”

  “Your pen that Jeffrey gave you. Is that the one you used?”

  “Are you trying to guilt me into staying? You’re going to tread on Jeffrey’s memory so I’ll stick around to help you clean up this mess?”

  “Where’s your pen?” When she didn’t volunteer it, he started searching her coat, patting her pockets. She resisted, and he slapped her around, throwing her against the wall.

  “Get away from me!” She shoved him back into the sink. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  He looked her in the eye for the first time since he’d walked into the room. “Tommy killed himself in the cells.”

  Lena put her hand to her mouth.

  “He cut his wrists open with an ink cartridge. The metal kind that you use in good pens. Good pens like the ones Jeffrey gave us.”

  Lena’s hands wouldn’t work for a few seconds. She found the pen where she always kept it—inside the spiral of the notebook in her back pocket. She twisted the barrel. The ballpoint didn’t come out. “Shit,” Lena hissed, unscrewing the cap. “No … no …” The pen was empty. “How did he get …” She felt sick with grief. Her stomach clenched. “What did he …”

  Frank asked, “Did you frisk him before you put him in the cells?”

  “Of course I—” Had she? Had Lena taken the time to pat him down or just thrown him into a cell as fast as she could so she could get to the hospital?

  “It’s a good thing he didn’t attack anybody while he was back there. He already killed one person and stabbed a cop.”

  She couldn’t stand anymore. Her knees gave out. She sank to the floor. “He’s really dead? Are you sure?”

  “He bled out.”

  Lena put her head in her hands. “Why?”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I didn’t …” She shook her head, trying to clear out the image of Tommy Braham lying dead. He had been upset when she’d locked him up, but suicidal? She didn’t think so. Even as rushed as she was to get to the hospital, Lena would have said something to the booking officer if she thought Tommy needed to be watched. “Why did he do it?”

  “Must’ve been something you said.”

  She looked up at Frank. He was paying her back now. She could tell it by the petty look in his eyes.

  He added, “At least that’s what Sara Linton thinks.”

  “What does Sara have to do with this?”

  “I called her because Tommy, your prisoner, wouldn’t calm down. I thought she could give him something to help. She was there when I found him.”

  Lena knew she should be worried about her own hide, but all she could think about was Tommy Braham. What had gotten into him? What had pushed that stupid kid over the edge?

  “She’s got some bigwig from the GBI down here to look into the case. Knox has already dealt with him. He’s figured out Tommy got the pen from one of us.”

  Lena tasted something awful in the back of her throat. Tommy was her prisoner. He was in her care. Legally, he was her responsibility. “Do they know the cartridge came from me?”

  Frank dug around in his coat pocket. He tossed Lena a cardboard packet. She recognized the Cross logo. A new ink cartridge was wrapped in a plastic shell.

  She asked, “Did you just buy this?”

  “I’m not that stupid,” he told her. “I buy them online. You can’t get the cartridges local.”

  Everyone else did, too. It was a pain in the butt, but the gift meant a lot, especially now that Jeffrey was gone. Lena had a stack of ten cartridges in a box back home.

  Frank said, “We’re both in trouble on this.”

  Lena didn’t respond. She was running through her time with Tommy, trying to figure out when he’d decided to take his own life. Had he said anything to her before she locked the cell door? Lena didn’t think so. Maybe that was one of the many clues she had missed. Tommy had calmed down too quickly after she’d left the room to get him some tissues. She had taken him back to the cells shortly after. He’d been sniffling, but he’d kept his mouth shut, even as she shut the heavy metal door. They always said the quiet ones were the ones who had made up their minds. How had she missed that? How had she not noticed?

  Frank said, “We need to stick together, get our stories straight.”

  She shook her head. How did she get into this mess? Why was it that the minute she crawled out of one pile of shit, she fell back into another one?

  “Sara’s out for blood. Your blood. She thinks she’s finally found a way to punish you for what you did
to Jeffrey.”

  Lena’s head shot up. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “We both know different from that, don’t we?”

  His words cut straight through her. “You’re a bastard. You know that?”

  “Yeah, well, back at you.”

  Lena felt her hand stinging. She was gripping the plastic packet hard enough to cut into her skin. She tried to pry it open, but her nails were too short. She ended up biting the cardboard with her teeth and ripping it away from the plastic.

  Frank asked, “How solid is that confession?”

  She jammed the new cartridge into her pen. “Tommy admitted to everything. He put it on paper.”

  “You better shout that to whoever listens or his daddy’s gonna sue you for everything you have.”

  She snorted. “A fifteen-year-old Celica and an eighty-thousand-dollar mortgage on a sixty-thousand-dollar house? He can have the keys right now.”

  “You’ll lose your badge.”

  “Maybe I should.” She gave up on the pen. She gave up on everything. Four years ago, Lena would have been scrambling for a way to cover this up. Now, all she wanted to do was tell the truth and move on. “This doesn’t change anything, Frank. Tommy was my responsibility. I’ll take the consequences. But you’ll have to take yours, too.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like that.”

  She looked up at him, wondering at the sudden shift. “What do you mean?”

  “Tommy killed that girl. You think anybody’s gonna care about some little retard murderer slitting his wrists in a jail cell?” Frank wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He killed that girl, Lee. He stabbed her through the neck like he was taking down an animal. All because she wouldn’t let him get his pecker off.”

  Lena closed her eyes. She was so damn tired that she couldn’t think. But she knew Frank was right. No one would care about Tommy’s death. But that didn’t mean it was okay. That didn’t change what happened in the garage today, or fix the damage that had been done to Brad.

  She told him, “Your drinking is out of hand. I didn’t say anything about Brad being unfit. Maybe he’ll be okay or maybe my silence will end up meaning the death of him. I don’t know. I’m not gonna watch the same thing happen to you. You’re not fit for duty, Frank. You shouldn’t be behind the wheel of a car, let alone carrying a gun.”

  Frank knelt down in front of her. “There’s a hell of a lot more you could lose than just your shield, Lena. Think about that.”

  “There’s nothing to think about. I’ve made up my mind.”

  “I could always put in a word with Gavin Wayne about your little boyfriend.”

  “Be sure to brush the whisky off your breath before you do.”

  “We both know the kind of trouble I could make.”

  “Jared will know I made a mistake,” Lena said. “And he’ll know I stood up to take the consequences.”

  “When did you turn so noble?”

  She didn’t answer, but the thought of Tommy Braham sitting in those cells, scraping away at his wrists with Lena’s ink pen, made her feel like the least noble person on the planet. How had she managed to fuck up so much in so little time?

  Frank pressed, “Does your little boyfriend really know you, Lena? I mean, really know you?” His lips curled up in a smile. “Think about all the things you’ve told me over the years. All those squad cars we sat in together. All those late nights and early mornings after Jeffrey died.” He showed his yellow teeth. “You’re a dirty cop, Lee. You think your boyfriend’s gonna forgive that?”

  “I’m not dirty.” She had stepped right up to the line many times, but Lena had never crossed it. “I’m a good cop, and you know it.”

  “You sure about that?” He sneered at her. “Brad got stabbed while you were standing with your thumb up your ass. You talked a nineteen-year-old retard into killing himself. I got a witness in the next cell who will say anything I tell him to as long as I let him go back to his wife.”

  Lena felt her heart stop in her chest.

  “You think I’m just gonna walk away from my pension, lay down my gun and my shield, because you’ve developed a conscience?” He spat out a laugh. “Trust me, girl, you don’t want me to start telling people what I know about you, because by the time I shut up, you’ll be lucky if you don’t find yourself sitting on the wrong side of a jail door.”

  “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

  “You strut around town like you’re some hot piece of shit wearing your bad reputation on your sleeve. Wasn’t that what Jeffrey was always warning you about? Too many burned bridges. Too many people in town with knives in their backs.”

  “Shut up, Frank.”

  “The thing about having a bad reputation is that folks will believe just about anything people say about you.” He sat back on his heels. “The chief could’ve gotten away with murder because no one thought he was capable of doing anything bad. You think people feel that way about you? You think they trust your character?”

  “You can’t prove anything and you know it.”

  “Do I need to?” He smiled again, his lips peeling back from his teeth. “I’ve lived in this town all my life. People know me. They trust me—trust what I tell them. And if I say you’re a dirty cop …” He shrugged.

  Lena’s chest was so tight she could barely breathe.

  “Maybe I’ll ask ol’ Jared out for a beer,” Frank continued. “I bet Sara Linton wouldn’t mind tagging along, either. What do you think of that? The two of them together having a nice chat about you?” Lena stared her hate into him. Frank’s rheumy eyes glared back. “Don’t forget what a son of a bitch I am, girlie. And don’t for a minute think I won’t throw your worthless ass under the bus to save mine.”

  She knew he was serious. She knew the threat was as real and as dangerous as a ticking bomb.

  Frank took out his flask. He carefully unscrewed the top and took a long drink.

  Lena’s voice was barely above a whisper. “What do you want me to do?”

  Frank smiled in a way that made her feel like she was something he’d just scraped off his shoe. “Just stick to the truth. Tommy confessed to killing Allison. He stabbed Brad. Nothing else matters.” Frank shrugged again. “You play by my rules until we’re clear of this, and maybe I’ll let you go over to Macon and be with your little boyfriend.”

  “What else?” she asked. There was always something else.

  He pulled a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket. Now that it was close up, Lena wondered how she’d ever thought it was real—the thick, dull blade, the fake leather handle. The letter opener.

  He tossed the bag onto her lap. “Get rid of it.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sara sat at the dining room table thumbing through a magazine while her sister and mother played cards. Her cousin Hareton had joined them half an hour ago, dropping by without a phone call as usual. Hare was two years older than Sara. They had always competed in everything, which was why he had made her go out into the pouring rain to look at his brand-new BMW 750Li. How he could afford such a luxurious car on a rural doctor’s salary was beyond her, but Sara had made the appropriate noises because she didn’t have the strength to do otherwise.

  She loved her cousin, but sometimes it seemed as if his goal in life was to get on her nerves. He made fun of her height. He called her “Red” just to annoy her. The worst part was that everyone thought he was charming. Even her own mother thought he walked on water—a particularly sore point considering Cathy did not extend this rose-colored view to her own children. The biggest problem Sara had with Hare was that he never came across a situation he couldn’t make light of, which could be a heavy burden to those around him.

  Sara finished her magazine and started over from the beginning, wondering why none of the pages looked familiar. She was too distracted to read and too smart to try to have a conversation with anyone at the table. Especially Hare, who seemed determined to catch her eye.

  Finally, she as
ked, “What?”

  He slapped a card down on the table. “How’s the weather up there, Red?”

  Sara gave him the same look she’d given him thirty years ago when he’d first asked her that question. “Balmy.”

  He put down another card. Tessa and Cathy groaned. “You’re on vacation, Red. What’s the problem?”

  Sara closed the magazine, fighting the desire to tell him that she was sorry she wasn’t more upbeat, but that she couldn’t quite get the image out of her mind of Tommy Braham lying dead on the jailhouse floor. A quick glance at her mother told Sara that Cathy knew exactly what she was thinking.

  “I’m expecting someone,” she finally confessed. “Will Trent. He’s an agent with the GBI.”

  Cathy’s eyes narrowed. “What’s a GBI agent doing here?”

  “He’s investigating the murder at the lake.”

  “And the death at the police station.” Cathy spoke pointedly. “Why is he coming to the house?”

  “He missed supper. I thought you could—”

  “Am I responsible for feeding strangers now?”

  Tessa, as usual, didn’t help matters. “You’re gonna be responsible for putting him up for the night, too.” She told Sara, “The hotel’s closed for remodeling. Unless he wants to drive forty-five minutes into Cooperstown, you’d better go straighten up the apartment over the garage.”

  Sara held back the curse that came to her lips. Hare was leaning forward, chin resting in his hands, as if he was watching a movie.

  Cathy shuffled through the cards again. The noise was made louder by the tension. “How does this man know you?”

  “Police officers are always at the hospital.” Not technically a lie, but close enough.

  “What’s going on here, Sara?”

  She shrugged, the gesture feeling so fake that she had trouble letting her shoulders drop back down. “It’s complicated.”

  “Complicated?” Cathy echoed. “That sure did happen fast.” She slapped the cards down on the table as she stood up. “I guess I’ll go tell your father to put some pants on.”

  Tessa waited until their mother had left. “You might as well tell her, Sissy. She’ll get it out of you somehow.”