The Will Trent Series 5-Book Bundle

by Karin Slaughter

  “Attempted?” That didn’t sound very gangbanger.

  “Came home and found his wife tossing the sheets with his brother. Story goes he missed on purpose.”

  Will assumed Ortiz had no trouble running his business from prison. “Is he worth talking to?”

  “Even if we had cause, he wouldn’t sit with us in a room without his lawyer, who would insist that his client is just an average businessman who let his passion get the best of him.”

  “Has he ever been arrested before?”

  “A few times in his younger days, but nothing major.”

  “So, the gang’s still under the radar.”

  “They come out every now and then to school the younger kids. Do you remember the Father’s Day murder in Buckhead last year?”

  “The guy who had his throat slit open in front of his kids?”

  She nodded. “Thirty years ago, they would’ve killed the children, too. One might say they’ve gotten softer in their old age.”

  “I’d hardly call that soft.”

  “Inside the joint, the Texicanos are known as throat slitters.”

  “The gentleman in the trunk is high up on the food chain.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “He’s only got one tattoo.” Young gang members generally used their bodies as a canvas to illustrate their lives, etching tattoos of teardrops under their eyes for every murder, wrapping their elbows and shoulders in cobwebs to show that they’d done time. The tattoos were always rendered in blue ink culled from ballpoint pens, what was called “joint ink,” and they always told a story. Unless their story was so bad that it didn’t need to be told.

  Will said, “A clean body means money, power, control. The gentleman is older, probably early sixties. That puts him in on the ground floor of Texicanos. His age is his badge of honor. This isn’t the kind of lifestyle that ensures longevity.”

  “You don’t get old by being stupid.”

  “You don’t get old by being in a gang.”

  “We can only hope the APD shares the gentleman’s identity with us when they manage to track it down.”

  Will glanced at her. She stared ahead at the road. He had a niggling suspicion that Amanda already knew who this man was, and exactly what part he played in the Texicanos hierarchy. There was something about the way she’d folded Mrs. Levy’s photograph in her pocket, and he was pretty sure that she had given the old woman some kind of coded message to keep her story to herself.

  He asked, “Do you ever listen to AC/DC?”

  “Do I look like I listen to AC/DC?”

  “It’s a metal band.” He didn’t tell her they’d created one of the bestselling albums in the history of music. “They’ve got a song called ‘Back in Black.’ It was playing when Faith pulled up. I checked the CDs at the house. Evelyn didn’t have it in her collection, and the player was empty when I ejected the tray.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Well, the obvious. Being back. Wearing black. It was recorded after the original lead singer of the group died from a drug and alcohol bender.”

  “It’s always sad when someone dies of a cliché.”

  Will thought about the lyrics, which he happened to know by heart. “It’s about resurrection. Transformation. Coming back from a bad place and telling people who might’ve underestimated you, or made fun of you, that you’re not taking it anymore. Like, you’re cool now. You’re wearing black. You’re a bad guy. Ready to fight back.” He suddenly realized why he’d worn out the record when he was a teenager. “Or something like that.” He swallowed. “It could mean other things.”

  “Hm” was all she would give him.

  He drummed his fingers on the armrest. “How did you meet Evelyn?”

  “We went to Negro school together.”

  Will nearly choked on his tongue.

  She chuckled at his reaction to what must have been a well-used line. “That’s what they called it back in the stone ages—the Negro Women’s Traffic School. Women were trained separately from men. Our job was to check meters and issue citations for illegally parked cars. Sometimes, we were allowed to talk to prostitutes, but only if the boys allowed us, and usually there was some crude joke about it. Evelyn and I were the only two whites in a group of thirty that graduated that year.” There was a fond smile on her lips. “We were ready to change the world.”

  Will knew better than to say what he was thinking, which was that Amanda was a hell of a lot older than she looked.

  She obviously guessed his thoughts. “Give me a break, Will. I joined in ’73. The Atlanta you know today was fought for by the women in those classes. Black officers weren’t even authorized to arrest whites until ’62. They didn’t have a precinct building. They had to hang out at the Butler Street YMCA until someone thought to call them. And it was even worse if you were a woman—two strikes, with the third hanging over your head.” Her voice took on a solemn tone. “Every single day was a struggle to do right when everything around you was wrong.”

  “Sounds like you and Evelyn went through a trial by fire.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Then tell me about it.”

  She laughed again, but this time at his fumble. “Are you trying to interrogate me, Dr. Trent?”

  “I’m wondering why you’re not talking about the fact that Evelyn obviously had a close, personal relationship with an old-school Texicano who ended up murdered in the trunk of her car.”

  She stared ahead at the road. “It does seem odd, doesn’t it?”

  “How can we work this case if we’re not going to at least admit what really happened?” She didn’t respond. “We’ll keep it between us, all right? No one else has to know. She’s your friend. I understand that. I spent a lot of time with her myself. She seems like a very agreeable person, and she obviously loves Faith.”

  “There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”

  “She was taking money like the rest of her team. She must’ve known the Texicanos from—”

  Amanda cut him off. “Speaking of Texicanos, let’s go back to Ricardo.”

  Will clenched his fist, wanting to punch something.

  Amanda let him stew in silence for a while. “I’ve known you an awful long time, Will. I need you to trust me on a few things.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not really, but I’m giving you an opportunity here to give me a return on all that benefit of the doubt I’ve deposited into your account over the years.”

  His inclination was to tell her exactly where she could put her benefit, but Will had never been the type of man to say the first thing that came into his head. “You’re treating me like a dog on a leash.”

  “That’s one interpretation.” She paused for a moment. “Did it ever occur to you that I might be protecting you?”

  He scratched the side of his jaw again, feeling the scar that had been ripped into his skin years ago. Will generally shied away from introspection, but a blind man could see that he had strangely dysfunctional relationships with all of the women in his life. Faith was like a bossy older sister. Amanda was the worst mother he’d never had. Angie was a combination of both, which was unsettling for obvious reasons. They could be mean and controlling and Angie especially could be cruel, but Will had never once thought that any of them truly wished him harm. And Amanda was right about at least one thing: she had always protected Will, even on the rare occasion when it put her job at risk.

  He said, “We need to call all the Cadillac dealerships in the metro area. The gentleman wasn’t driving a Honda. That’s an expensive ride. There are probably only a handful of those Cadillacs on the road. I think it has a manual transmission. That’s rare in a four-door.”

  To his surprise, she said, “Good idea. Set it up.”

  Will reached into his pocket, remembering too late that he didn’t have his phone. Or his gun and badge. Or his car for that matter.

  Amanda tossed him her phone as she took the exi
t without so much as tapping the brake. “What’s going on with you and Sara Linton?”

  He flipped open her phone. “We’re friends.”

  “I worked a case with her husband a few years ago.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Those are some mighty big shoes to fill, friend.”

  Will dialed information and asked for the number of the closest Cadillac dealership to Atlanta.

  As he followed Amanda past the corridor that led to the death chamber, Will had to admit, if only to himself, that he hated visiting prisons—not just the D&C, but any prison. He could handle the constant threat of violence that made every inmate facility feel like a simmering pot that had been left too long on the stove. He could handle the noise and the filth and the dead-eyed stares. What he couldn’t take was the feeling of helplessness that came from confinement.

  The inmates ran their drug trade and other rackets, but at the end of the day, they had no power over the basic things that made them human beings. They couldn’t take a shower when they wanted. They couldn’t go to the bathroom without an audience. They could be strip-searched or cavity-searched at any time. They couldn’t go for a walk or take a book from the library without permission. Their cells were constantly checked for contraband, which could be anything from a car magazine to a roll of dental floss. They ate on someone else’s schedule. The lights were turned off and on by someone else’s clock. By far the worst part was the constant handling they received. Guards were always touching them—wrenching their arms behind their backs, tapping their heads during count, pushing them forward or yanking them back. Nothing belonged to them, not even their own bodies.

  It was like the worst foster home on earth, only with more bars.

  The D&C was the largest prison in Georgia and, among other things, served as one of the main processing centers for all inmates entering the state penal system. There were eight cellblocks with single and double bunk beds in addition to eight more dormitories that warehoused the overflow. As part of their intake, all state prisoners were subjected to a general medical exam, psych evaluation, behavioral testing, and a threat assessment to assign a security rating that determined whether they belonged in a minimum, medium, or maximum facility.

  If they were lucky, this diagnosing and classification process took around six weeks before they were assigned to another prison or moved to the permanent facilities at D&C. Until then, the inmates were on twenty-three-hour lockdown, which meant that but for one hour a day, they were confined to their cells. No cigarettes, coffee, or soda were allowed. They could buy only one newspaper a week. No books were allowed, not even the Bible. There were no TVs. No radios. No phones. There was a yard, but inmates were allowed out only three days a week, and that was weather permitting and only for whatever time was left on their one hour a day. Only long-term residents were allowed visitors, and then it was in a room that was halved by a metal mesh that required you to yell to be heard over the voices of the other visitors. No touching. No hugging. No contact whatsoever.

  Maximum security.

  There was a reason suicide rates in prisons were three times higher than on the outside. It was heartbreaking to think about their living conditions, until you read some of their files. Rape of a minor. Aggravated sodomy with a baseball bat. Domestic violence. Kidnapping. Assault. Shooting. Beating. Mutilating. Stabbing. Slashing. Scalding.

  But the really bad guys were sitting on death row. They’d been convicted of killings so heinous that the only way the state knew how to deal with them was to put them to death. They were segregated from the rest of the population. Their lives were even more limited than the intake prisoners’. Total lockdown. Total isolation. No hour a day in the sunshine. No shared meals. No stepping past the iron bars that held them in their cells except once a week for a shower. Days could pass without hearing another man’s voice. Years could pass without feeling another person’s touch.

  This was where Boyd Spivey was housed. This was where the former highly decorated detective was living while he waited to die.

  Will felt his shoulders hunch as the gate leading to the death row cells swung closed behind him. Prison design lent itself to wide, open corridors where a running man could easily be taken out with a rifle from a hundred yards away. The corners were sharp ninety-degree angles that deliberately discouraged loitering. The ceilings were high to trap the constant heat from so many sweating bodies. Everything was meshed or barred—windows, doors, overhead lights, switches.

  Despite the spring climate, the temperature inside hovered somewhere around eighty. Will instantly regretted the wicking nature of his running shorts under his heavy jeans, which clearly were not meant to be worn in tandem. Amanda, as always, seemed right at home, no matter the greasy-looking bars or the panic buttons that lined the walls every ten feet. D&C’s permanent inmates were classified as violent offenders. A lot of them had nothing to lose and everything to gain by engaging in willful acts of violence. Taking the life of a deputy director of the GBI would be a big feather in any man’s cap. Will didn’t know how they felt about cops who took down other cops, but he didn’t imagine that was much of a distinction for inmates looking to raise their status.

  For this reason, they were escorted by two guards who were approximately the size of commercial refrigerators. One walked in front of Amanda and the other loomed behind Will, making him feel practically dainty. No one was allowed to carry guns into the prison, but each guard had a full array of weaponry on their belts: pepper spray, steel batons, and worst of all a set of jangling keys that seemed to announce with every footstep that the only way out of this place was through thirty locked doors.

  They turned a corner and found a man in a gray suit standing outside yet another locked door. As with every other door in the place, there was a large, red panic button beside the jamb.

  Amanda extended her hand. “Warden Peck, thank you for arranging this visit on such short notice.”

  “Always glad to help, Deputy Director.” He had a gravelly old man’s voice that fit perfectly with his weathered, mahogany face and slicked-back gray mane. “You know you need only pick up the phone.”

  “Would it be a bother to ask if you could print out a list of all the visitors Spivey’s had since he entered the system?”

  Peck obviously thought it was a bother, but he covered for it well. “Spivey’s been in four different facilities. I’ll have to make some calls.”

  “Thank you so much for going through the trouble.” She indicated Will. “This is Agent Trent. He’ll need to be in the observation room. He’s got a somewhat checkered past with the prisoner.”

  “That’s fine. I should warn you that we got Mr. Spivey’s death notice last week. He’s to be executed on the first of September.”

  “Does he know?”

  Peck nodded gravely, and Will could see that he didn’t like this part of his job. “It’s my policy to give the inmates as much information as we can as soon as we can. The news has sobered Mr. Spivey considerably. They generally become quite docile during this time, but don’t be lulled into complacency. If at any point you feel a threat, stand and leave the room immediately. Don’t touch him. Avoid being within reaching distance. For your safety, you’ll be monitored through the cameras and one of my men will be outside the door at all times. Just keep in mind that these men are quick, and they have absolutely nothing to lose.”

  “I’ll just have to be quicker.” She winked at him as if this was some kind of frat party where the boys might get rowdy. “I’m ready when you are.”

  Will was led one door down to the observation room. The space was small and windowless, the sort of prison office that could’ve easily passed for a storage closet. There were three monitors stacked on a metal desk, each showing a different angle of Boyd Spivey in the adjacent room. He was shackled to a chair that was undoubtedly bolted to the floor.

  Four years ago, Spivey hadn’t exactly been handsome, but he’d carried himself with a cop’s swagg
er that made up for his deficits. His reputation was as a practical joker, but a good cop—the guy you’d want to have your back when things went from bad to worse. His file was full of commendations. Even after he’d taken a deal to plead guilty for lesser time, there were men who worked in his station house who refused to believe that Spivey was dirty.

  Now, everything about the man said “con.” He was as hard looking as a piece of honed granite. His skin was pockmarked and puffy. A long, ratty ponytail draped down his back. Prison tattoos decorated his forearms and twisted around his neck. His thick wrists were bolted to a chrome bar welded to the center of the table. His legs were crossed at the ankles. The chains around his leg irons were tightened into a straight line. Will guessed Boyd passed his days working out in his cell. His bright orange uniform was busting at the seams around his overly muscled arms and wide chest.

  Will wondered if the extra weight was a good or bad thing as far as the man’s impending execution was concerned. After several gruesome mishaps with the electric chair, including a man whose chest had burst into flames, Georgia had finally been ordered by the state supreme court to retire Old Sparky. Now, instead of being shaved, stuffed with cotton, and fried to a crisp, the condemned were strapped to a table and given a series of drugs that stopped their breathing, their hearts, and finally their lives. Boyd Spivey would probably get a larger dose than most. It would take a powerful combination of drugs to put down such a large man.

  A crackly cough came through the tiny speakers on the desk. In the next room, Will could see Boyd staring straight ahead at Amanda, who was leaning against the wall despite the chair that was opposite his at the table.

  The tone of Boyd’s voice was surprisingly high for a man of his size. “You too scared to sit across from me?”

  Will had never known Amanda to show fear, and now was no exception. “I don’t mean to be rude, Boyd, but you’ve got an awful smell.”