The Will Trent Series 5-Book Bundle

by Karin Slaughter

  “No wallet,” the nurse said. “Nothing in his pockets but lint.”

  “Sir?” Sara tried, opening the man’s eyes. His pupils were fixed and dilated. She checked for a head injury, gently pressing her fingers in a clockwise pattern around his skull. At the occipital bone, she felt a fracture that splintered into the brainpan. She looked at her gloved hand. There was no fresh blood from the wound.

  The nurse pulled the curtain closed to give the man some privacy. “X-ray? CT the belly?”

  Sara was technically doing the regular attending’s job. She asked, “Can you get Krakauer?”

  The nurse left, and Sara did a more thorough exam, though she was sure Krakauer would take one look at the man’s vitals and agree with her. There was no emergency here. The patient could not survive general anesthesia and he likely would not survive his injuries. They could only load him up with antibiotics and wait for time to decide the patient’s fate.

  The privacy curtain pulled back. A young man peered in. He was clean-shaven, wearing a black warm-up jacket and a black baseball hat pulled down low on his head.

  “You can’t be back here,” she told him. “If you’re looking for—”

  He punched Sara in the chest so hard that she fell back onto the floor. Her shoulder slammed against one of the trays. Metal instruments clattered around her—scalpels, hemostats, scissors. The young man pointed a gun at the patient’s head and shot him twice at pointblank range.

  Sara heard screaming. It was her. The sound was coming out of her own mouth. The man pointed the gun at her head and she stopped. He moved toward her. She groped blindly for something to protect herself. Her hand wrapped around one of the scalpels.

  He was closer, almost on top of her. Was he going to shoot her or was he going to leave? Sara didn’t give him time to decide. She slashed out, cutting the inside of his thigh. The man groaned, dropping the gun. The wound was deep. Blood sprayed from the femoral artery. He fell to one knee. They both saw the gun at the same time. She kicked it away. He reached for Sara instead, grabbing the hand that held the scalpel. She tried to pull back but his grip tightened around her wrists. Panic took hold as she realized what he was doing. The blade was moving toward her neck. She used both her hands, trying to push him away as he inched the blade closer and closer.

  “Please … no …”

  He was on top of her, pressing her into the ground with the weight of his body. She stared into his green eyes. The whites were crisscrossed with a road map of red. His mouth was a straight line. His body shook so hard that she felt it in her spine.

  “Drop it!” George, the security guard, stood with his gun locked out in front of him. “Now, asshole!”

  Sara felt the man’s grip tighten. Both their hands were shaking from pushing in opposite directions.

  “Drop it now!”

  “Please,” Sara begged. Her muscles couldn’t take much more. Her hands were starting to weaken.

  Without warning, the pressure stopped. Sara watched the scalpel swing up, the blade slice into the man’s flesh. He kept his hand wrapped tightly around hers as over and over again he plunged the scalpel into his own throat.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Will had been trapped in the car so long with Amanda that he was worried he was going to develop Stockholm syndrome. He was already feeling himself weaken, especially after Miriam Kwon, mother of Hironobu Kwon, had spit in Amanda’s face.

  In Ms. Kwon’s defense, Amanda hadn’t exactly been tender toward the woman. They had practically ambushed her on her front lawn. She’d obviously just come from arranging her son’s funeral. Pamphlets with crosses on them were clutched in her hand as she approached the house. Her street was lined with cars. She’d had to park some distance away. She looked exhausted and limp, the way any mother would look after choosing the coffin in which her only son would be buried.

  After mumbling the perfunctory condolences on behalf of the GBI, Amanda had gone straight for the jugular. From Ms. Kwon’s reaction, Will gathered the woman hadn’t been expecting her dead son’s name to be sullied in such a manner, despite the nefarious circumstances surrounding his death. It was the nature of Atlanta news stations that every dead young man under the age of twenty-five was celebrated as an honor student until proven otherwise. According to his criminal record, this particular honor student had been a fan of Oxycontin. Hironobu Kwon had been arrested twice for selling the drug. Only his academic promise had saved him from serious jail time. The judge had ordered him to rehab three months ago. Apparently, that hadn’t worked out too well.

  Will checked the time on his cell phone. The recent change to daylight savings time had switched the phone into military hours. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out how to change it back to normal. Thankfully, it was half past noon, which meant he didn’t have to count on his fingers like a monkey.

  Not that he didn’t have ample time to perform mathematical equations. Despite traveling almost five hundred miles this morning, they had nothing to show for it. Evelyn Mitchell was still missing. They were about to hit the twenty-four-hour mark since her abduction. The dead bodies were stacking up, and the only clue Will and Amanda had been given thus far had come from the mouth of a death row inmate who had been murdered before the state could kill him.

  Their trip to Valdosta State Prison may as well have never happened. Former drug squad detectives Adam Hopkins and Ben Humphrey had stared at Amanda as if gazing through a piece of glass. Will had expected as much. Years ago, they had each refused to talk to Will when he’d shown up on their respective doorsteps. Lloyd Crittenden was dead. Demarcus Alexander and Chuck Finn were probably just as unreachable. Both ex-detectives had left Atlanta as soon as they were released from prison. Will had talked to their parole officers last night. Alexander was on the West Coast trying to rebuild his life. Finn was in Tennessee, wallowing in the misery of drug addiction.

  “Heroin,” Will said.

  Amanda turned to him, looking as if she’d forgotten that he was in the car. They were heading north on Interstate 85, toward another bad guy who was more than likely going to refuse to talk to them.

  He told her, “Boyd Spivey said that Chuck Finn had a belly habit for heroin. According to Sara, Ricardo was packed full of heroin.”

  “That’s a very tenuous connection.”

  “Here’s another one: Oxy usually leads to heroin addiction.”

  “These straws are mighty thin. You can’t throw a brick without hitting a heroin addict these days.” She sighed. “If only we had more bricks.”

  Will tapped his fingers against his leg. He’d been holding back something all morning, hoping he’d catch Amanda off guard and get the truth. Now seemed as good a time as any. “Hector Ortiz was Evelyn’s gentleman friend.”

  The corner of her mouth turned up. “Is that so?”

  “He’s Ignatio Ortiz’s brother, though I gather from your expression that this isn’t a news flash.”

  “Ortiz’s cousin,” she corrected. “Are these observations courtesy of Dr. Linton?”

  Will felt his teeth start to grind. “You already knew who he was.”

  “Would you like to waste the next ten minutes discussing your feelings or do you want to do your job?”

  He wanted to spend the next ten minutes throttling her, but Will decided to keep that to himself. “What was Evelyn doing mixed up with the cousin of the guy who runs all the coke in and out of the southeastern United States?”

  “Hector was a car salesman, actually.” She glanced at him. There was something like humor in her eyes. “He sold Cadillacs.”

  That explained why the man’s name hadn’t come up on Will’s vehicle search. He was driving a dealer car. “Hector had a Texicanos tattoo on his arm.”

  “We all make mistakes when we’re young.”

  Will tried, “What about the letter A that Evelyn drew under the chair?”

  “I thought we were calling that an arrowhead?”

  “Almeja rhymes with ‘Aman
da.’ ”

  “It kind of does, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s slang for ‘cunt.’ ”

  She laughed. “Why, Will, are you calling me a cunt?”

  If she only knew how many times he’d been tempted.

  “I suppose I should reward your good police work.” Amanda pulled a folded sheet of paper from the sun visor. She handed it to Will. “Evelyn’s phone calls from the last four weeks.”

  He scanned the two pages. “She’s been calling Chattanooga a lot.”

  Amanda gave him a curious look. Will glared back at her. He could read, just not quickly and certainly not under scrutiny. The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation’s eastern field office was in Chattanooga. He’d called them constantly to coordinate meth cases while he was working in North Georgia. The 423 area code appeared at least a dozen times in Evelyn’s phone records.

  He asked, “Is there something you want to say to me?”

  For once, she was silent.

  Will pulled out his cell phone to call the number.

  “Don’t be stupid. It’s Healing Winds, a rehab facility.”

  “Why was she calling there?”

  “I had the same question.” She signaled, pulling into the next lane. “They’re not allowed to give out patient information.”

  Will checked the dates against the numbers. Evelyn had only started calling the facility in the last ten days, the same time period in which Mrs. Levy said that Hector Ortiz’s visits with Evelyn had picked up.

  Will said, “Chuck Finn lives in Tennessee.”

  “He lives in Memphis. That’s a five-hour drive from Healing Winds in Chattanooga.”

  “He has a serious drug addiction.” Will waited for her to respond. When she didn’t, he said, “Guys get clean, sometimes they want to unburden themselves. Maybe Evelyn was afraid he would start talking.”

  “What an interesting theory.”

  “Or maybe it took clearing his mind for Chuck to realize that Evelyn was still sitting on her share of the cash.” He pushed on. “It’s hard to find work with a rap sheet like Chuck’s. He was kicked off the force. He spent serious time in prison. He’s got his habit to battle. Even if he’s clean, no one would go out of their way to hire him. Not in this economy.”

  Amanda dropped another dollop of information. “There were eight sets of prints in Evelyn’s house, excluding hers and Hector’s. They’ve identified three. One set belonged to Hironobu Kwon, another belonged to Ricardo the heroin mule, and another set belonged to our Hawaiian shirt aficionado. His name is Benny Choo. He’s a forty-two-year-old enforcer for the Yellow Rebels.”

  “Yellow Rebels?”

  “It’s an Asian gang. Don’t ask me where they got the name. I suppose they’re very proud to be hillbillies. Most of them are.”

  “Ling-Ling,” Will guessed. That was who they were going to see. “Spivey said you should talk to Ling-Ling.”

  “Julia Ling.”

  Will was surprised. “A woman?”

  “Yes, a woman. My laws, how the world has changed.” Amanda glanced in the rearview mirror and darted into the next lane. “The nickname comes from the now-disproven perception that she’s not very smart. Her brother likes to rhyme things. ‘Ding-a-ling’ turned into ‘Ling-a-Ling,’ shortened to ‘Ling-Ling.’ ”

  Will had no idea what she was talking about. “That makes sense.”

  “Madam Ling is the outside boss of the Yellow Rebels. Her brother Roger still pulls the strings from inside, but she runs the day-to-day. If Yellow is making a play for Brown, then it’s being made by Roger via Ling-Ling.”

  “What’s he in for?”

  “He’s serving life for the rape and murder of two teenage girls. Sixteen and fourteen. They were tricking for him. He didn’t think they were pulling their weight, so he strangled them to death with a dog leash. But not before raping both of them and ripping off their breasts with his teeth.”

  Will felt a shudder working its way up his spine. “Why isn’t he on death row?”

  “He took a deal. The State was worried about him making an insanity plea—which, between you and me, wouldn’t be much of a stretch, because the man is absolutely nuts. This wasn’t the first time Roger was caught with human flesh between his teeth.”

  The shudder made his shoulders flex. “What about the victims?”

  “They were both runaways who fell into drugs and prostitution. Their families were more about divine retribution than an eye for an eye.”

  Will was familiar with the concept. “They probably ran away for a reason.”

  “Young girls usually do.”

  “Roger’s sister still supports him?”

  She gave him a meaningful look. “Don’t be fooled, Will. Julia talks a very good game, but she could slit your throat and not lose a wink of sleep. These people are not to be messed with. There are procedures that have to be followed. You must show them the utmost respect.”

  Will repeated Boyd’s words. “ ‘You can’t go to Yellow without an invitation.’ ”

  “You have such a remarkable memory.”

  Will checked out the number for the next exit. They were heading toward Buford Highway. Chambodia. “Maybe Boyd was only half right. Heroin is a lot more addictive than coke. If the Yellow Rebels flood the market with cheap heroin, then Los Texicanos will lose its cocaine customer base. That points to a power struggle, but it doesn’t explain why two Asian men and a Texicano were in Evelyn Mitchell’s house looking for something.” Will stopped. She’d sidetracked him again. “Hironobu Kwon and Benny Choo. What’s Ricardo’s last name?”

  She smiled. “Very good.” She offered the information like another reward. “Ricardo Ortiz. He’s Ignatio Ortiz’s youngest son.”

  Will had interviewed ax murderers who were more forthcoming. “And he was muling heroin.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Are you going to tell me if any of these guys are connected or do I have to find that out on my own?”

  “Ricardo Ortiz was thrown into juvie twice, but he never crossed paths inside with Hironobu Kwon. Neither of them have visible connections to Benny Choo, and as I said, Hector Ortiz was just a simple car salesman.” She zipped in front of a delivery truck, cutting off a Hyundai in the process. “Believe me, if I saw a connection between any of these men, we’d be working it.”

  “Except for Choo, they’re all young guys, early twenties.” Will tried to think of where they might’ve met. AA meetings. Nightclubs. Basketball courts. Church, maybe. Miriam Kwon wore a gold cross around her neck. Ricardo Ortiz had a cross tattooed on his arm. Stranger things had happened.

  Amanda said, “Check the number Evelyn called the day before she was taken. 3:02 p.m.”

  Will traced his finger under the first column, finding the time. He moved across. The number had an Atlanta area code. “Am I supposed to recognize this?”

  “I’d be surprised if you did. It’s the precinct number for Hartsfield.” Hartsfield-Jackson, Atlanta’s airport. “Vanessa Livingston is the commander. I’ve known the old gal a long time. She partnered with Evelyn after I left APD.”

  Will waited, then asked, “And?”

  “Evelyn asked her to check for a name on the flight manifests.”

  “Ricardo Ortiz,” Will guessed.

  “You must’ve gotten your sleep last night.”

  He’d stayed up until three listening to the rest of the recordings, apparently for no reason but to find out things that Amanda already knew. “Where did Ricardo fly in from?”

  “Sweden.”

  Will frowned. He hadn’t been expecting that.

  Amanda merged onto the exit ramp for I-285. “Ninety percent of all heroin in the world comes from Afghanistan. Your tax dollars at work.” She slowed for the curve as they went through Spaghetti Junction. “The bulk of the European supply runs through Iran, up into Turkey and farther points north.”

  “Like Sweden.”

  “Like Sweden.” She accelerated again as they merged
into fast-moving traffic. “Ricardo was there for three days. Then he took a flight from Gothenburg to Amsterdam, then straight into Atlanta.”

  “Filled with heroin.”

  “Filled with heroin.”

  Will rubbed his jaw, thinking about what had happened to the young man.

  “Someone beat the hell out of him. He was full of balloons. Maybe he couldn’t pass them.”

  “That would be a question for the ME.”

  Will had assumed that she’d gotten all of this information from the medical examiner’s office. “You didn’t ask him?”

  “They’ve kindly promised me their full report by end of business this evening. Why do you think I asked you to have Sara reach out?” She added, “How’s that going, by the way? I’m assuming from your good night’s sleep that there’s not a lot of progress.”

  They were coming up on the Buford Highway exit. U.S. Route 23 ran from Jacksonville, Florida, to Mackinaw City, Michigan. The Georgia stretch was around four hundred miles, and the part that went through Chamblee, Norcross, and Doraville was one of the most racially diverse in the area, if not the country. It wasn’t exactly a neighborhood—more like a series of desolate strip malls, flimsy apartment buildings, and gas stations that offered expensive rims and quick title loans. What it lacked in community it made up for in raw commerce.

  Will was fairly certain Chambodia was a pejorative term, but the name for the area had stuck, despite DeKalb County’s push to call it the International Corridor. There were all kinds of ethnic subsets, from Portuguese to Hmong. Unlike most urban areas, there didn’t seem to be a clear line of segregation between any of the communities. Subsequently, you could find a Mexican restaurant beside a sushi place, and the farmer’s market was the sort of melting pot that people thought of when they pictured the United States.

  The strip was much closer to the land of opportunity than the amber waves of grain in the heartland. People could come here with little more than a work ethic and build a solidly middle-class life. For as long as Will could remember, the demographics were in constant flux. The whites complained when the blacks moved in. The blacks complained when the Hispanics moved in. The Hispanics complained when the Asians moved in. One day they would all be grumbling about the influx of whites. The gerbil wheel of the American dream.