Maybe he was half right.
Faith clicked the second link, opening up the file on Jeffrey Tolliver. This was a cop killing. The reports were lengthy, detailed, the kind of narrative you wrote when you wanted to make sure that every single word held up when you were cross-examined in court. Faith read about the man's background, his years of service to the law. There were hyperlinks connecting the cases he had worked, some of which Faith was familiar with from the news, some she knew about from shoptalk around the squad room.
She scrolled through page after page, reading about Tolliver's life, gleaning the character of the man from the respectful way people described him. Faith didn't stop until she got to the crime-scene photos. Tolliver had been killed by a crude pipe bomb. Sara had been standing right there, seen it all happen, watched him die. Faith braced herself, opening up the autopsy files. The pictures were shocking, the damage horrifying. Somehow, photographs from the scene had gotten mixed in: Sara with her hands out so the camera could document the blood spray. Sara's face, caught in close-up, dark blood smearing her mouth, eyes looking as flat and lifeless as her husband's photos from the morgue.
All the files listed the case as still open. No resolution was listed. No arrest. No conviction. Strange, in a cop killing. What had Amanda said about Coastal?
Faith opened up a new browser window. The GBI was responsible for investigating all deaths that occurred on state property. She did a search for deaths at Coastal State Prison in the last four years. There were sixteen in all. Three were homicides—a skinny white supremacist who was beaten to death in the rec room and two African- Americans who were stabbed almost two hundred times between them with the sharpened end of a plastic toothbrush. Faith skimmed the other thirteen: eight suicides, five natural causes. She thought about Amanda's words to Sara Linton: We take care of our own.
Prison guards called it "paroling an inmate to Jesus." The death would have to be quiet, unspectacular, and wholly believable. A cop would know how to cover his tracks. Faith guessed one of the overdoses or suicides was Tolliver's killer—a sad, pitiful death, but justice nonetheless. She felt a lightness in her chest, a relief that the man had been punished, a cop's widow spared a lengthy trial.
Faith closed the files, clicking through them one by one until they were all gone, then opened up Firefox again. She entered Jeffrey Tolliver's name behind Sara Linton's. Articles came up from the local paper. The Grant Observer wasn't exactly in line for a Pulitzer. The front page carried the daily lunch menu for the elementary school and the biggest stories seemed to revolve around the exploits of the high school football team.
Armed with the correct dates, it didn't take Faith long to find the stories on Tolliver's murder. They dominated the paper for weeks. She was surprised to see how handsome he was. There was a picture of him with Sara at some kind of formal affair. He was in a tux. She was in a slinky black dress. She looked radiant beside him, a totally different person. Oddly, it was this picture that made Faith feel bad about her clandestine investigation into Sara Linton's life. The doctor looked so damn blissful in the photograph, like every single thing in her life was complete. Faith looked at the date. The photo had been taken two weeks before Tolliver's death.
On this last revelation, Faith closed down the computer, feeling sad and slightly disgusted with herself. Will was right at least about this—she should not have looked.
As penance for her sins, Faith took out her monitoring device. Her blood sugar was on the high side, and she had to think for a second about what she needed to do. Another needle, another shot. She checked her bag. There were only three insulin pens left and she had not made an appointment with Delia Wallace as she had promised.
Faith pulled up her skirt, exposing her bare thigh. She could still see the needle mark where she had jabbed herself in the bathroom around lunchtime. A small bruise ringed the injection site, and Faith guessed she should try her luck on the other leg this time. Her hand didn't shake as much as it usually did, and it only took to the count of twenty-six for her to sink the needle into her thigh. She sat back in her chair, waiting to feel better. At least a full minute passed, and Faith felt worse.
Tomorrow, she thought. She would make an appointment with Delia Wallace first thing in the morning.
She pushed down her skirt as she stood. The kitchen was a mess, dishes stacked in the sink, trash overflowing. Faith was not naturally a tidy person, but her kitchen was generally spotless. She had been called out to too many homicide scenes where women were found sprawled on the floor of their filthy kitchens. The sight always triggered a snap judgment in Faith, as if the woman deserved to be beaten to death by her boyfriend, shot and killed by a stranger, because she had left dirty dishes in her sink.
She wondered what Will thought when he came onto a crime scene. She had been around countless dead bodies with the man, but his face was always inscrutable. Will's first job in law enforcement had been with the GBI. He had never been in uniform, never been called out on a suspicious smell and found an old woman dead on her couch, or worked patrol, stopping speeders, not knowing if it was going to be a stupid teenager behind the wheel or a gang banger who would put a gun in his face, pull the trigger, rather than have the points on his license.
He was just so damn passive. Faith didn't understand it. Despite the way Will carried himself, he was a big man. He ran every day, rain or shine. He worked out with weights. He had apparently dug a pond in his backyard. There was so much muscle under those suits he wore that his body could have been carved from rock. And yet, there he was this afternoon, sitting with Faith's purse in his lap while he begged Max Galloway for information. If Faith had been in Will's shoes, she would've backed the idiot against the wall and squeezed his testicles until he sang out every detail he knew in high soprano.
But she wasn't Will, and Will wasn't going to do that. He was just going to shake Galloway's hand and thank him for the professional courtesy like some gigantic, half-witted patsy.
She searched the cabinet under the sink for dishwashing powder, only to find an empty box. She left it in the cabinet and went to the fridge to make a note on the grocery list. Faith had written the first three letters of the word before she realized that the item was already on the list. Twice.
"Damn," she whispered, putting her hand to her stomach. How was she going to take care of a child when she could not even take care of herself ? She loved Jeremy, adored everything about him, but Faith had been waiting eighteen years for her life to start, and now that it was here, she was looking at another eighteen-year wait. She would be over fifty by then, eligible for movie discounts through the AARP.
Did she want this? Could she actually do it? Faith couldn't ask her mother to help again. Evelyn loved Jeremy, and she had never complained about taking care of her grandson—not when Faith was away at the police academy, or when she had to work double shifts just to make ends meet—but there was no way that Faith could expect her mother to help out like that again.
But then, who else was there?
Certainly not the baby's father. Victor Martinez was tall, dark, handsome . . . and completely incapable of taking care of himself. He was a dean at Georgia Tech, in charge of nearly twenty thousand students, but he could not keep a clean pair of socks in his drawer to save his life. They had dated for six months before he moved into Faith's house, which had seemed romantic and impetuous until reality settled in. Within a week, Faith was doing Victor's laundry, picking up his dry-cleaning, fixing his meals, cleaning up his messes. It was like raising Jeremy again, except at least with her son, she could punish him for being lazy. The last straw had come when she had just finished cleaning the sink and Victor had dropped a knife covered in peanut butter on the draining board. If Faith had been wearing her gun, she would have shot him.
He moved out the next morning.
Even with all that, Faith couldn't help but feel herself softening toward Victor as she gathered up the drawstring on the trash. That was one good differe
nce between her son and her ex-lover: Victor never had to be told six times to take out the trash. It was one of the chores Faith most hated, and—ridiculously—she felt tears well into her eyes as she thought about having to lift the bag and heft it down the stairs, outside, to the garbage can.
There was a knock at the door; three sharp raps followed by the doorbell chime.
Faith wiped her eyes as she walked down the hall, her cheeks so wet that she had to use her sleeve. She still had her gun on her hip, so she didn't bother to check the peephole.
"This is a switch," Sam Lawson told her. "Women usually cry when I leave, not when I show up."
"What do you want, Sam? It's late."
"You gonna invite me in?" He wiggled his eyebrows. "You know you wanna."
Faith was too tired to argue, so she turned around, letting him follow her back to the kitchen. Sam Lawson was an itch she had really needed to scratch for a few years, but now she couldn't remember why she had bothered. He drank too much. He was married. He didn't like kids. He was convenient and he knew how to make an exit, which, as far as Faith was concerned, meant he left shortly after he had served his purpose.
Okay, now she remembered why she had bothered.
Sam took a glob of gum out of his mouth and dropped it into the trash. "I'm glad I saw you today. I need to tell you something."
Faith braced herself for bad news. "Okay."
"I'm sober now. Almost a year."
"You're here to make amends?"
He laughed. "Hell, Faith. You're about the only person in my life I didn't screw over."
"Only because I kicked you to the curb before you could." Faith pulled the string on the trash, tying it tight.
"Bag's gonna tear."
The plastic ripped just as he said the words.
"Shit," she muttered.
"You want me to—"
"I've got it."
Sam leaned against the counter. "I love watching a woman do manual labor."
She shot him a withering look.
He flashed another smile. "I heard you cracked some heads at Rockdale today."
Faith said a silent curse in her head, remembering that Max Galloway had yet to give them the initial crime-scene reports. She had been so furious that she hadn't thought to follow up on it, and she would be damned if she'd take the man's word for it that everything had been fairly routine.
"Faith?"
She fed him the standard line. "The Rockdale police are cooperating fully with our investigation."
"It's the sister you need to worry about. You seen the news? Joelyn Zabel's all over the place saying your partner's the reason her sister died."
That rankled more than she wanted to let on. "Check the autopsy summary."
"I saw it already," he said. Faith guessed Amanda had shared the report with a few key people in order to spread the news as quickly as possible. "Jacquelyn Zabel killed herself."
"Did you tell that to the sister?" Faith asked.
"She's not interested in the truth."
Faith gave him a pointed look. "Not many people are."
He shrugged. "She got what she wanted from me. She's moved on to network television."
"The Atlanta Beacon's not big enough for her, huh?"
"Why are you being so hard on me?"
"I don't like your job."
"I'm not crazy about yours, either." He went to the sink cabinet and took out the box of trash bags. "Slide a new one over the old one."
Faith took a bag, holding the white plastic in her hands, trying not to think about what Pete had found during the autopsy.
Sam was oblivious as he put back the box. "What's that guy's story, anyway? Trent?"
"All inquiries should go through the public relations office."
Sam had never been one to take no for an answer. "Francis tried to feed me something about Trent getting circle-jerked by Galloway today. Made it out like he was some kinda Keystone Cop."
Faith stopped worrying about the trash. "Who's Francis?"
"Fierro."
Faith took childish pleasure in the girlish name. "And you printed every word the asshole said without bothering to run it by someone who could tell you the truth."
Sam leaned against the counter. "Cut me some slack, babe. I'm just doing my job."
"They let you make excuses in AA?"
"I didn't run the Kidney Killer stuff."
"That's only because it was proved wrong before you went to press."
He laughed. "You never let me bullshit you." He watched her wrestle the old bag into a new one. "Jesus, I've missed you."
Faith gave him another sharp glance, but she felt herself react to his words despite her best intentions. Sam had been her life raft a few years ago—just available enough to be there when she really needed him, but not so much that she felt smothered.
He said, "I didn't print anything about your partner."
"Thank you."
"What's going on with Rockdale anyway? They're really out to get you."
"They care more about screwing us over than finding out who abducted those women." Faith didn't give herself time to consider that she was echoing Will's sentiments. "Sam, it's bad. I saw one of them. This killer—whoever he is . . ." She realized almost too late to whom she was talking.
"Off the record," he said.
"Nothing's ever off the record."
"Of course it is."
Faith knew he was right. She had told Sam secrets in the past that had never been repeated. Secrets about cases. Secrets about her mother, a good cop who had been forced off the job because some of her detectives had been caught skimming off drug busts. Sam had never printed anything Faith had told him, and she should trust him now. Only she couldn't. It wasn't just her anymore. Will was involved. She might hate her partner right now for being a pussy, but she would kill herself before she exposed him to any more scrutiny.
Sam asked, "What's going on with you, babe?"
Faith looked down at the torn trash bag, knowing he'd read everything in her face if she looked up. She remembered the day she'd found out her mother was being forced off the job. Evelyn hadn't wanted comfort. She had wanted to be alone. Faith had felt the same way until Sam showed up. He had talked his way into her house the same way he had tonight. Feeling his arms around her had sent Faith over the edge, and she had sobbed like a child as he held her.
"Babe?"
She snapped open the new trash bag. "I'm tired, I'm cranky, and you don't seem to understand that I'm not going to give you a story."
"I don't want a story." His tone had changed. She looked up at him, surprised to see the smile playing on his lips. "You look . . ."
Faith's mind filled with suggestions: puffy, sweaty, morbidly obese.
"Beautiful," he said, which surprised them both. Sam had never been one for compliments, and Faith certainly wasn't used to getting them.
He pushed away from the counter, moving closer. "There's something about you that's different." He touched her arm, and the rough texture of his palm sent heat rushing through her body. "You just look so . . ." He was close now, staring at her lips like he wanted to kiss them.
"Oh," Faith said, then, "No. Sam." She backed away from him. She'd experienced this the first time she was pregnant—men hitting on her, telling her she was beautiful even when her stomach was so huge she couldn't bend over to tie her own shoes. It must be hormones or pheromones or something. At fourteen, it had been skeevy, at thirty-three it was just annoying. "I'm pregnant."
The words hung between them like a lead balloon. Faith realized this was the first time she had said them aloud.
Sam tried to make a joke out of it. "Wow, I didn't even have to take off my pants."
"I'm serious." She said it again. "I'm pregnant."
"Is it . . ." He seemed at a loss for words. "The father?"
She thought about Victor, his dirty socks in her laundry basket. "He doesn't know."
"You should tell him. He has a right."
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"Since when are you the arbiter of relationship morality?"
"Since I found out my wife had an abortion without telling me." He leaned closer, put his hands on her arms again. "Gretchen didn't think I could handle it." He shrugged, keeping his hands on Faith's arms. "She was probably right, but still."
Faith bit her tongue. Of course Gretchen was right. She would've been better off asking a dingo to help raise her baby. She asked, "Did this happen when you were seeing me?"
"After." He looked down, watching his hand stroke her arm, his fingers tracing the neck of her blouse. "I hadn't hit bottom yet."
"You weren't exactly in a position to make an informed decision."
"We're still trying to work things out."
"Is that why you're here?"
He pressed his mouth to hers. She could feel the rough prickle of his beard, taste the cinnamon gum he'd been chewing. He lifted her onto the counter, his tongue finding hers. It wasn't unpleasant, and when his hands slid up her thighs, lifting her skirt, Faith didn't stop him. She helped him, actually, and in retrospect, she probably shouldn't have, because it ended things a lot sooner than they needed to.
"I'm sorry." Sam shook his head, slightly out of breath. "I didn't mean to—I just—"
Faith didn't care. Even if her mind had blocked out Sam from her conscious thoughts over the years, her body seemed to remember every part of him. It felt so damn good to have his arms around her again, to feel the closeness of somebody who knew about her family and her job and her past—even if that particular body wasn't of much use to her at the moment. She kissed his mouth very gently and with no other meaning than to feel connected again. "It's okay."
Sam pulled back. He was too embarrassed to see that it didn't matter.
"Sammy—"
"I haven't gotten the hang of things being sober."
"It's okay," she repeated, trying to kiss him again.
He stepped back even farther, looking somewhere over her shoulder instead of in her eyes. "You want me to . . ." He made a halfhearted gesture toward her lap.
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