Fallen

CHAPTER FOUR

THE GEORGIA DIAGNOSTIC AND CLASSIFICATION PRISON WAS located in Jackson, about an hour south of Atlanta. The drive was usually a quick shot down I-75, but the Atlanta Motor Speedway was having some kind of exhibition event that slowed traffic to a crawl. Undeterred, Amanda kept hopping on and off the shoulder, jerking the wheel quickly to pass groups of sluggish cars. The SUV’s tires made a strumming sound as they grazed the rumble strips meant to deter drivers from leaving the roadway. Between the noise and the vibration, Will found himself fighting an unexpected wave of motion sickness.

Finally, they made it through the worst of the traffic. At the speedway exit, Amanda took one last dash onto the shoulder, then popped the SUV back onto the road. The tires skipped. The chassis shook. Will rolled down the window for some fresh air to help settle his stomach. The wind slapped his face so hard that he felt his skin ripple.

Amanda pressed the button to roll the window back up, giving him the look she reserved for stupid people and children. They were going over a hundred miles an hour. Will was lucky he hadn’t been sucked out the window.

She let out a long sigh as she stared back at the road. One hand rested in her lap, while the other was firmly wrapped around the steering wheel. She was wearing her usual power suit: a bright blue skirt and matching jacket with a light-colored blouse underneath. Her high-heel shoes exactly matched the color of her suit. Her fingernails were trim but manicured. Her hair was its usual helmet of salt-and-pepper gray. Most days, Amanda seemed to have more energy than all the men on her team. Now, she looked tired, and Will could see the worry lines around her eyes were more pronounced.

She said, “Tell me about Spivey.”

Will tried to click his brain back over to his old case against Captain Evelyn Mitchell’s team. Boyd Spivey was the former lead detective on the narcotics squad who was currently biding his time on death row. Will had talked to the man only once before Spivey’s lawyers advised him to keep his mouth shut. “I don’t find it hard to believe he beat someone to death with his fists. He was a big guy, taller than me, carried about fifty more pounds, all of it muscle.”

“Gym rat?”

“I’d guess steroids gave him a boost.”

“How did that work for him?”

“They made him uncontrollably angry,” Will recalled. “He’s not as smart as he thinks, but I wasn’t able to get him to confess, so maybe I’m not either.”

“You still sent him to prison.”

“He sent himself to prison. His house in the city was paid for. His house at the lake was paid for. All three of his kids were in private school. His wife worked ten hours a week and drove a top-of-the-line Mercedes. His mistress drove a BMW. He kept his brand new Porsche 911 parked in her driveway.”

“Men and their cars,” she mumbled. “He doesn’t sound very smart to me.”

“He didn’t think anyone would ask questions.”

“Generally, they don’t.”

“Spivey was good at keeping his mouth shut.”

“As I recall, all of them were.”

She was right. In a corruption case, the usual strategy was to find the weakest member and persuade him or her to turn on his or her fellow conspirators in exchange for a lighter sentence. The six detectives belonging to Evelyn Mitchell’s narcotics squad had proven immune to this strategy. None of them would turn on the other, and all of them routinely insisted that Captain Mitchell had nothing to do with their alleged crimes. They went out of their way to protect their boss. It was both admirable and incredibly frustrating.

Will said, “Spivey worked on Evelyn’s squad for twelve years—longer than any of them.”

“She trusted him.”

“Yes,” Will agreed. “Two peas in a pod.”

Amanda cut him a sharp look. “Careful.”

Will felt his jaw tighten so hard that the bone ached. He didn’t see how ignoring the most important part of this case was going to get them anywhere. Amanda knew as well as Will that her friend was guilty as hell. Evelyn hadn’t lived large, but like Spivey, she’d been stupid in her own way.

Faith’s father had been an insurance broker, solidly middle class with the usual kinds of debts that people had: car payments, mortgage, credit cards. Yet, during Will’s investigation, he’d found an out-of-state bank account in Bill Mitchell’s name. At the time, the man had been dead for six years. Though the account balance always hovered around ten thousand dollars, the activity showed monthly deposits since his death that totaled up to almost sixty thousand dollars. It was clearly a shell account, the kind of thing prosecutors called a smoking gun. With Bill dead, Evelyn was the only signatory. Money was taken out and deposited with her ATM card at an Atlanta branch of the bank. Her dead husband wasn’t the one who was keeping the activities spread apart and the deposits shy of the limit that would throw up a red flag at Homeland Security.

As far as Will knew, Evelyn Mitchell had never been asked about the account. He’d figured it would come out during her trial, but her trial had never happened. There had been a press conference announcing her retirement, and that was the end of the story.

Until now.

Amanda flipped down the visor to block the sun. Clipped to the underside were a couple of yellow claim tickets that looked like they were from a dry cleaner. The sun wasn’t doing her any favors. She didn’t look tired anymore. She looked haggard.

She said, “Something’s bothering you.”

He resisted uttering the biggest “duh” ever vocalized in the history of the world.

“Not that,” she said, as if she could read his mind. “Faith didn’t call you for help because she knew that she was going to do the wrong thing.”

Will looked out the window.

“You would’ve made her wait for backup.”

He hated the relief her words brought.

“She’s always been headstrong.”

He felt the need to say, “She didn’t do the wrong thing.”

“That’s my boy.”

Will watched the trees along the highway blend into a sea of green. “Do you think there’s going to be a ransom?”

“I hope so.” They both knew that a ransom pointed to a living hostage, or at least the opportunity to demand proof of life.

He said, “This feels personal.”

“How so?”

He shook his head. “The way the house was torn up. There’s mad, and then there’s furious.”

“I don’t imagine the old girl sat by quietly while they performed their search.”

“Probably not.” Evelyn Mitchell was no Amanda Wagner, but Will could easily see her taunting the men who were tearing up her house. You didn’t get to be one of the first female captains on the Atlanta police force by being sweet. “They were obviously looking for money.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Clams—the last word Ricardo said to Faith before he died. You said it’s slang for money. Ergo, they were looking for money.”

“In the silverware drawer?”

Another good point. Cash was nice, but it was cumbersome. A pile worth kidnapping an ex-Atlanta police captain for would fill several silverware drawers.

He said, “The arrow was pointing into the backyard.”

“What arrow?”

Will suppressed a groan. She wasn’t usually this obvious. “The arrow drawn in Evelyn’s blood underneath the chair she was duct-taped to. I know you saw it. You hissed at me like an air compressor.”

“You really should work on your metaphors.” She was silent for a beat, probably considering the most circuitous route to take him to nowhere. “You think Evelyn has buried treasure in her backyard?”

He had to admit this was unlikely, especially considering the Mitchell backyard was on full display to the rest of the neighbors, most of whom were retired and seemed to have ample time to spy. Besides, Will couldn’t picture Faith’s mother out with a shovel and a flashlight in the middle of the night. Then again, it wasn’t like she could put it in the bank.

“Safe deposit box,” Will tried. “Maybe they were looking for a key.”

“Evelyn would have to go to the bank and sign in to get access. They’d compare her signature, ask for her ID. Our kidnapper had to know her picture would be on every television station the minute he took her.”

Will silently conceded the point. Besides, the same rule applied. A large amount of cash took up space. Diamonds and gold were more for Hollywood movies. In real life, stolen jewels fetched pennies on the dollar.

She asked, “What about the crime scene? Do you think Charlie got it right?”

Will went on the defense. “Mittal did most of the talking.”

“Okay, you’ve covered Charlie’s ass. Now answer my question.”

“The Los Texicanos in the trunk of the Malibu, Evelyn’s gentleman friend. He throws it all out.”

She nodded. “He wasn’t stabbed. He died from a shot to the head, plus, he’s B-positive. That still leaves us with our B-negative out there with a nasty wound.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Will resisted the urge to add, “and you know it.” Amanda wasn’t just tying his hands behind his back. She was blindfolding him and sending him toward the edge of a cliff. Her refusal to talk about or even acknowledge Evelyn Mitchell’s sordid past wasn’t going to help Faith and it sure as hell wasn’t going to get her mother back in one piece. Evelyn had worked in narcotics. She was obviously in contact, almost daily, with a higher-up in Los Texicanos, the gang that ran the drug trade in and out of Atlanta. They should be back in the city talking to the gang units and putting together the last few weeks of Evelyn’s life, not making a fool’s errand to visit a guy who had nothing to lose and a history of stubborn silence.

“Come on, Dr. Trent,” Amanda chided. “Don’t make me pull teeth.”

Will let his ego get in the way for a few more seconds before saying, “Evelyn’s gentleman friend. His wallet was missing. He didn’t have any ID or money on him. The only thing in his pockets was the key to Evelyn’s Malibu. She must’ve given it to him.”

“Keep going.”

“She was making lunch for two people. There were four slices of bread in the toaster. Faith was late. Evelyn didn’t know what time she’d be home, but she would assume Faith would call when she was on her way. There were groceries in the trunk of the Malibu. The receipt says Evelyn used her debit card at the Kroger at 12:02. The gentleman was bringing in the groceries while she fixed lunch.”

Amanda smiled. “I often forget how smart you are, but then something like this happens and it makes me realize why I hired you.”

Will ignored the backhanded compliment. “So, Evelyn’s making lunch. She starts to wonder where her gentleman friend is. She goes outside and finds his body in the trunk. She grabs Emma and hides her in the shed. If she’d grabbed Emma after cutting her hand, like Dr. Mittal said, there would’ve been blood somewhere on the car seat. Evelyn’s strong, but she’s not Hercules. The car seat, even without a baby in it, is pretty heavy. She couldn’t dead lift one of those things off the counter with one hand—at least not safely. She’d have to cup the bottom with her free hand. Emma’s little, but she’s got some heft to her.”

Amanda supplied, “Evelyn spent time in the shed. She moved the blankets around. There’s no blood on them. She dialed the combination lock on the safe. There’s no blood on the dial. The floor is clean. She was bleeding after she locked the door.”

“I’m not an expert on kitchen injuries, but you don’t generally cut your ring finger when you’re slicing something. It’s usually the thumb or the index finger.”

“Another good point.” Amanda checked the rearview mirror and changed lanes. “Okay, what did she do next?”

“Like you said. Evelyn hides the baby, then gets her gun out of the safe, goes back into the house and shoots Kwon, who’s waiting to ambush her from the laundry room. Then, she’s overpowered by a second man, probably our mystery blood type B-negative. Evelyn’s gun gets knocked out of her hand during the struggle. She stabs B-negative, but there’s a third guy, Mr. Hawaiian Shirt. He gets Evelyn’s gun off the floor and stops the struggle. He asks her where the thing is that they’re looking for. She tells them to go to hell. She’s duct-taped to the chair while they search the house.”

“That sounds plausible.”

It sounded confusing. There were so many bad guys that Will was having a hard time keeping track of them. Two Asians, one Hispanic, possibly two—maybe a third man, race unknown—a house being searched for God only knew what and a missing sixty-three-year-old ex-cop who had her share of secrets.

Then there was the even larger question that Will knew better than to ask: why hadn’t Evelyn called for help? By Will’s count, she’d had at least two opportunities to make a call or run for help: when she first heard the noise, and after she shot Hironobu Kwon in the laundry room. And yet, she had stayed.

“What are you thinking?”

Will knew better than to give an honest answer. “I’m wondering how they got her out of the house without anyone seeing.”

Amanda reminded him, “You’re assuming Roz Levy is being forthcoming.”

“Do you think she’s involved in this?”

“I think she’s a wily old bitch who wouldn’t piss on you if your hair was on fire.”

Will supposed the venom in her tone came from experience.

Amanda said, “This wasn’t spur-of-the-moment. Some planning went into it. They didn’t all walk there. There was a car somewhere, maybe a van. There’s a dogleg alley jutting into Little John Trail. They would’ve gone out the back, exiting into Evelyn’s backyard. You follow the fence line between the neighbors and you’re there in two minutes.”

“How many men do you think were there?”

“We’ve got three dead on scene. There’s the injured B-negative and at least one able-bodied man. There’s no way Evelyn would’ve gone to a second location without a fight. She would’ve risked being shot first. There had to be someone there who was strong enough to tie her up or subdue her.”

Will didn’t add that they could’ve just as easily injured or killed her and removed the body. “We’ll know for sure when we get the fingerprints. They all must’ve touched something.”

Abruptly, Amanda changed the subject. “Have you and Faith ever talked about your case against her mother?”

“Not really. I’ve never told her about the bank account, because there’s no reason. She assumes I was wrong. A lot of people do. My case was never made in court. Evelyn retired with full benefits. It’s not a hard conclusion to jump to.”

She nodded as if she was giving her approval. “The man in the trunk, the one you call Evelyn’s gentleman friend. Let’s talk about him.”

“If he was bringing in groceries, that implies they had a personal relationship.”

“That’s certainly possible.”

Will thought about the guy. He’d been shot in the back of the head. His wallet and ID were not the only things missing from his person. He didn’t have a cell phone. He didn’t have the thick gold watch he’d been wearing in the picture Mrs. Levy had taken. His clothes were nondescript—Nikes with Dr. Scholl’s orthopedic inserts, J. Crew jeans, and a Banana Republic shirt that had cost a lot of money considering he hadn’t bothered to iron it. There was a smattering of gray in the black goatee on his chin. The stubble on his shiny head indicated he was hiding male pattern baldness rather than making a bold statement in style. Except for the Los Texicanos star on his forearm, he could’ve been a stockbroker having a midlife crisis.

Amanda said, “I’ve checked with Narcotics. There’ve been some grumblings about the Asians making a play for the powder cocaine trade. It’s been up for grabs since the BMF went down.”

The Black Mafia Family. They had controlled coke sales from Atlanta to LA, with Detroit in between. “That’s a lot of money. The Family was pulling down hundreds of millions of dollars a year.”

“Los Texicanos was calling the shots. They’ve always been suppliers, not distributors. It’s a smart way to play it. That’s why they’ve survived all these years. Despite what Charlie thinks about race, they don’t care if the dealer is black or brown or purple, so long as the money’s green.”

Will had never worked a major drug case. “I don’t know much about the organization.”

“Los Texicanos started back in the mid-sixties at the Atlanta Pen. The population demographic back then was almost the exact reverse of what it is now—seventy percent white, thirty black. Crack cocaine changed that overnight. It worked faster than forced busing. There were still only a handful of Mexicans in the joint, and they ganged up to keep from getting their throats cut. You know how it goes.”

Will nodded. Just about every gang in America had started as a group of minorities, be they Irish, Jewish, Italian, or other, banding together for survival. It generally took a couple of years before they started doing worse than was done to them. “What’s the structure?”

“Pretty loose. No one’s going to chart like MS-13.” She was referring to what was often called the most dangerous gang in the world. Their organizational structure rivaled the military’s, and their loyalty was so fierce that they’d never been successfully infiltrated.

Amanda explained, “In the early years, Los Texicanos was on the front page of the paper every single day, sometimes in both editions. Shootouts in the street, heroin, pot, numbers, prostitution, robbery. Their calling card was branding children. They didn’t just go after the person who crossed them. They’d go after a daughter, son, niece, nephew. They’d cut open their faces, once across the forehead, then a vertical line down the nose to the chin.”

Without thinking, Will put his hand to the scar along his jaw.

“There was one point during the Atlanta Child Murders investigation when Los Texicanos was at the top of our list. This was early on, the fall of ’79. I was the glorified assistant of the senior liaison for Fulton, Cobb, and Clayton. Evelyn was on the Atlanta task force, mostly fetching coffee until it was time to talk to the parents, then it all fell to her. The general consensus was that the Texicanos were trying to send a broader message to the clientele. It seems ludicrous now, but at the time, we were hoping it was them.” She switched on the blinker and changed lanes. “You were around four then, so you won’t remember, but it was a very tense time. The entire metro area was terrified.”

“Sounds like it,” he said, surprised she knew his age.

“It wasn’t long after the Child Murders that one of the top Texicanos was taken down during an internal struggle. They’re tight-knit. We never found out what happened or who took over, but we know the new guy was much more business-oriented. No more violence for the sake of violence. He prioritized the business, taking out the riskier component. His motto was to keep the coke flowing and the blood off the streets. Once they went underground, we were glad to ignore them.”

“Who’s in charge now?”

“Ignatio Ortiz is the only name we have. He’s the face of the gang. There are two others, but they keep an incredibly low profile and you’ll never find all three of them together in the same place. Before you ask, Ortiz is in Phillips State Prison serving his third year of seven without parole for attempted manslaughter.”

“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 exit 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 swagger 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.”

He looked down at the table. “They only let me shower once a week.”

Her voice had a teasing lilt. “Now, that’s cruel and unusual.”

Will checked the camera that was zoomed in on Boyd’s face. There was a smile playing at his lips.

Amanda’s high heels echoed in the concrete room as she walked over to the chair. The metal legs scraped across the floor. She sat down, primly crossing her legs, letting her hands rest in her lap.

Boyd let his eyes linger. “You look good, Mandy.”

“I’ve been keeping myself busy.”

“With what?”

“You’ve heard about Evelyn.”

“We don’t have TVs in here.”

She laughed. “You probably knew I was coming here before I did. This place could put CNN out of business.”

He shrugged, as if it was out of his hands. “Is Faith okay?”

“Tip-top.”

“I hear she K-fived both guys.”

A K-five indicated the center ring on a paper target, the kill shot. Amanda told him, “One was to the head.”

“Ouch.” He faked a cringe. “How’s Emma?”

“A handful. I’m sorry I don’t have a picture for you. I left my purse in the car.”

“The pedophiles would’ve stolen it anyway.”

“What an appalling lack of decorum.”

He smiled with his teeth. They were chipped and broken, the sort of souvenirs you got from fighting dirty. “I remember the day Faith got her gold shield.” He sat back in his chair, shackles dragging across the table. “Ev was beaming like a Maglite.”

“I think we all were,” Amanda admitted, and Will let it sink in that his boss knew Boyd Spivey a hell of a lot better than she’d let on in the car. “How’ve you been, Boyd? They treating you okay?”

“Okay enough.” He smiled again, then stopped himself. “Sorry about my teeth. Didn’t see any point in getting them fixed.”

“It’s no worse than the smell.”

He gave her a sheepish glance. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard a woman’s voice.”

“I hate to say it, but that’s the nicest thing a man has said to me all year.”

He laughed. “Hard times for us both, I guess.”

Amanda let the moment stretch out for a few more seconds.

He said, “I guess we should get to the reason you’re here.”

“We can do whatever you want.” Her tone implied she could talk to him all day, but Boyd got the message.

He asked, “Who took her?”

“We think it was a group of Asians.”

His brow furrowed. Despite the orange jumper and the hellhole he called home, a piece of Boyd Spivey was still a cop. “Yellow doesn’t have traction in the city. Brown’s been grooming black to do its bidding again.”

“Brown’s involved in this, but I’m not sure how.”

He nodded, indicating he was taking all this in but didn’t know what to make of it. “Brown don’t like getting their hands dirty.”

“Shit rolls downhill.”

“Did they send a sign?” Proof of life. Amanda shook her head. “What do they want to trade her for?”

“You tell me.”

He was silent.

She said, “We both know Evelyn was clean, but could there be blowback?”

He glanced at the camera, then looked down at his hands. “I can’t see it. She was under the umbrella. No matter what happened, ain’t one man from the team wouldn’t still lay down his life for her. You don’t turn your back on family.”

Will had always thought Evelyn was protected on both sides of the law. Hearing it validated was no consolation.

Amanda told the man, “You know Chuck Finn and Demarcus Alexander are already out?”

He nodded. “Chuck stayed down South. Demarcus went out to LA where his mama’s people live.”

Amanda must have already known the answer, but she asked him, “Are they keeping their noses clean?”

“Chuck’s got a belly habit for back-to-backs.” Meaning he was shooting heroin, then smoking crack chasers. “Brother’s gonna end up back in the joint if he don’t die on the street first.”

“Has he pissed anybody off?”

“Not that I’ve heard. Chuck’s a cotton shooter, Mandy. He’d fuck his own mama for the swill in a spoon.”

“And Demarcus?”

“I guess he’s as clean as you can be with a felony rap hanging over your head.”

“I hear he’s working on getting his electrician’s license.”

“Good for him.” Boyd seemed genuinely pleased. “Have you talked to Hump and Hop?” He meant Ben Humphrey and Adam Hopkins, his fellow detectives who were currently serving time at Valdosta State Prison.

Amanda gauged her words. “Should I talk to them?”

“It’d be worth a try, but I doubt they’re still keyed in. They got four years left. Keeping their noses clean, and I don’t guess they’d be too forthcoming with you considering your hand in their current incarceration.” He shrugged. “Me, I got nothing to lose.”

“I heard you got your date.”

“September first.” The room went quiet, as if whatever air was left had been sucked out. Boyd cleared his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his neck. “Gives you perspective on things.”

Amanda leaned forward. “Like what?”

“Like not seeing my kids grow up. Never having the chance to hold my grandbabies.” His throat worked again. “I loved being on the street, chasing down the bad guys. I had this dream the other night. We were in the raid van. Evelyn had that stupid song playing—you remember the one?”

“ ‘Would I Lie to You?’ ”

“Annie Lennox. Stone cold. I could still hear it playing when I woke up. Pounding in my head, even though I ain’t heard music in—what?—four years?” He shook his head sadly. “It’s like a drug, ain’t it? You bust down that door, you clear out all the trash, and then you wake up the next day and do it again.” He opened his hands as much as he could with the shackles. “They paid us for that shit? Come on. We shoulda been paying them.”

She nodded, but Will was thinking about the fact that they had managed to pay themselves in myriad other ways.

Boyd said, “I was supposed to be a good man. But, this place …” He glanced around the room. “It darkens your soul.”

“If you’d stayed clean, you’d be out by now.”

He stared blankly at the wall behind her. “They got it on tape—me going after those guys.” There was no humor in the smile that came to his lips, just darkness and loss. “I had it in my head that it went down different, but they played it at my trial. Tape don’t lie, right?”

“Right.”

He cleared his throat twice before he could speak. “There was this guy beating that guard with his fists, wrapping a towel around the brother’s neck. Eyes glowing like something out of a freak show. Screaming like a goddamn animal. It got me to thinking about my time on the streets. All those bad guys I took down, all those men I thought were monsters, and then I look at that guy on the tape, that monster taking down that guard, and I realize that it’s me.” His voice was almost a whisper. “That was me beating that man. That was me killing two guys—over what? And that’s when it hit me: I’ve turned into everything I fought against all those years.” He sniffed. There were tears in his eyes. “You become what you hate.”

“Sometimes.”

Will couldn’t tell if Boyd was feeling sorry for the men he’d killed or sorry for himself. Probably, it was a combination of both. Everyone knew they were going to die eventually, but Boyd Spivey had the actual date and time. He knew the method. He knew when he would eat his last meal, take his last crap, say his last prayer. And then they would come for him and he would have to stand up and walk on his own two feet toward the last place he would ever lay down his head.

Boyd had to clear his throat again before he could speak. “I hear Yellow’s been encroaching down the highway. You should talk to Ling-Ling over in Chambodia.” Will didn’t recognize the name, but he knew that Chambodia was the term used to describe the stretch of Buford Highway inside the Chamblee city limits. It was a mecca for Asian and Latino immigrants. “You can’t go straight to Yellow. Not without an invitation. Tell Ling-Ling Spivey said keep it on the DL.” The down low—don’t tell anyone. “Watch your back. Sounds to me like this thing is getting out of hand.”

“Anything else?”

Will saw Boyd’s mouth move, but he couldn’t make out the words. Will asked the guard, “Did you hear what he said?”

The guard shook his head. “No idea. Looked like ‘amen’ or something like that.”

Will checked Amanda’s reaction. She was nodding.

“All right.” Boyd’s tone indicated they were finished. His eyes followed Amanda as she got up from the chair. He asked, “You know what I miss the most?”

“What’s that?”

“Standing when a lady enters the room.”

“You always had good manners.”

He smiled, showing his busted teeth. “Take care of yourself, Mandy. Make sure Evelyn gets back home to her babies.”

She walked around the table and stood a few feet from the prisoner. Will felt his stomach clench. The guard beside him tensed. There was nothing to worry about. Amanda put her hand to Boyd’s cheek, and then she left the room.

“Christ,” the guard breathed. “Crazy bitch.”

“Watch it,” Will warned the man. Amanda may have been a crazy bitch, but she was his crazy bitch. He opened the door and met her out in the hallway. The cameras hadn’t been focused on her face, but Will could tell now that she had been sweating inside the tiny, airless room. Or maybe it had been Boyd who brought out that reaction in her.

The two guards were back on point, standing on either side of Amanda and Will. Over her shoulder, he saw Boyd being duck-walked down the hall in his hand and leg shackles. There was only one guard with him, a small man whose hand barely wrapped around the prisoner’s arm.

Amanda turned around. She watched Boyd until he disappeared around the corner. She said, “It’s guys like that who make me want to bring back Old Sparky.”

The guards gave off deep belly laughs that echoed down the hallway. Amanda had been pretty soft on Spivey and she had to let them know it was all for show. Her act in the tiny room had been pretty convincing. Will had been momentarily fooled, even though the one time he’d heard Amanda ask about the death penalty, her response had been to say that the only issue she had with it was they didn’t kill them fast enough.

“Ma’am?” one of the guards asked. He indicated the gate at the end of the hall.

“Thank you.” Amanda followed him toward the exit. She checked her watch, telling Will, “It’s coming up on four o’clock. We’ve got at least an hour and a half back to Atlanta if we’re lucky. Valdosta is two and a half hours south of here, but it’ll be closer to four with traffic. We’ll never make it in time for a visit. I can pull some strings, but I don’t know the new warden and even if I did, I doubt he’d be foolish enough to yank two men out of maximum security that late at night.” Prisons ran on routine, and anything that changed that routine brought the risk of sparking up violence.

Will asked, “You still want me to go through my case files on the investigation?”

“Of course.” She said it like there had never been any question that they would talk about the investigation that led to Evelyn Mitchell’s forced retirement. “Meet me at the office at five tomorrow morning. We’ll talk about the case on the drive down to Valdosta. That’s about three hours each way. It shouldn’t take more than half an hour each to talk to Ben and Adam—if they’ll talk at all. That’ll put us back in town by noon at the latest to talk with Miriam Kwon.”

Will had almost forgotten about the dead kid in the laundry room. What he clearly remembered was that Amanda had skated over the fact that she knew Boyd Spivey well enough for him to call her Mandy. Will had to assume that Ben Humphrey and Adam Hopkins were on the same familiar terms, which meant that yet again Amanda was working her own case within the case.

She told him, “I’ll make some calls to parole in Memphis and Los Angeles to reach out to Chuck Finn and Demarcus Alexander. All we can do is send them a message that Evelyn’s in trouble and we’re willing to listen if they’re willing to talk.”

“They were all very loyal to Evelyn.”

She stopped at the gate, waiting for the guard to find the key. “Yes, they were.”

“Who’s Ling-Ling?”

“We’ll get to that.”

Will opened his mouth to speak, but the air was pierced by a shrill alarm. The emergency lights flashed. One of the guards grabbed Will by the arm. Instinct took over, and Will jerked away from him. Amanda had obviously had a similar reaction, but she didn’t stop there. She ran down the hall, her heels popping against the tile floor. Will jogged after her. He rounded the corner and nearly knocked into her when she came to a dead stop.

Amanda didn’t speak. She didn’t gasp or cry out. She just grabbed his arm, nails digging through the thin cotton of his T-shirt.

Boyd Spivey lay dead at the end of the hallway. His head was turned at an unnatural angle from his body. The guard beside him was bleeding from a large slit in his throat. Will went to the man. He dropped to his knees and pressed his hands to the wound, trying to stanch the flow. It was too late. Blood pooled onto the floor like a lopsided halo. The man’s eyes locked on Will’s, filling with panic, and then filling with nothing at all.