Triptych

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

9:30 am

Will watched Pete Hanson’s hands as the medical examiner deftly sewed together Cynthia Barrett’s abdomen and chest. Her skin tugged up as the doctor pulled the baseball stitch through the Y-incision he’d made at the beginning of the autopsy. During the procedure, Will had concentrated on the parts of the body rather than the whole, but now there was no avoiding the fact that Cynthia Barrett was a human being, little more than a child. With her slim build and delicate features, she had an almost elfin quality about her. How a man could hurt this girl was beyond him.

“It’s a sad thing,” Pete said, as if he could read Will’s mind.

“Yes.” Will had been gritting his teeth from the moment he entered the morgue. In his law-enforcement career, Will had seen all kinds of damage done to people, but he still found himself shocked when he saw a child victimized. He always thought about Angie, the horrible things that had been done to her when she was just a little girl. It made his stomach hurt.

The doors opened and Michael Ormewood walked in. There were dark circles under his eyes and he still had a piece of tissue stuck to his chin where he had apparently cut himself shaving.

“Sorry I’m late,” Michael apologized.

Will looked at his watch; the movement was reflexive, but when he looked back up, he could see Michael’s irritation.

“That’s fine,” Will said, realizing too late that he had said the wrong thing. He tried, “Dr. Hanson was just finishing up. You didn’t miss anything.”

Michael kept silent, and Pete broke the tension, saying, “I’m so sorry for your loss, Detective.”

After a few seconds, Michael nodded his head. He wiped his mouth, rolling the tissue off his chin. He looked surprised at the bloody paper between his fingers and threw it in the trashcan. “It’s been a little hard at home.”

“I can imagine.” Pete patted him on the shoulder. “My condolences.”

“Yes,” Will agreed, not knowing what else to say.

“She was just a neighbor, but still…” The smile on Michael’s face seemed forced, as if he was having trouble keeping his emotions in. “It eats you up when something bad happens to an innocent kid like that.” Will saw his gaze settle onto the body, noticed the flash of despair in the other man’s eyes. Michael reached out as if to touch the blonde hair, then pulled his hand back. Will remembered how Michael had acted this same way the day before when they had first seen the body. It was as if Cynthia was the man’s own child instead of a neighbor’s.

“Poor baby,” Michael whispered.

“Yes,” Pete concurred.

“I’m sorry, guys,” Michael apologized. He cleared his throat a few times, seemed to try to get himself together. “What have you got, Pete?”

“I was just about to do my summary report with Agent Trent.” Pete started to roll back the sheet covering the lower half of the body.

Michael flinched visibly. “Just give me the highlights, okay?”

Pete rolled the sheet back up, stopping just under the girl’s neck, telling them, “I believe she tripped and hit her head. The force from the fall shattered her skull above the left temporal lobe. Her neck twisted on impact, snapping the spinal cord at C-2. Death was instantaneous. An unfortunate accident, but for the missing tongue.”

Michael asked, “Did they locate it yet?”

“No,” Will answered, then asked Pete, “Could you go over the differences between the two murders?”

“Of course,” Pete replied. “Unlike your prostitute, this girl’s tongue was not bitten off, but cut. Most likely a serrated knife was used. A lesser man might not notice, but I’m certain it’s different.”

Michael asked, “How can you tell?”

“The cut is not clean, like your biter.” The doctor snapped his teeth together to illustrate, the sound echoing in the tiled room. “What’s more, I would expect a crescent pattern, because the teeth are not in a straight line in the mouth, but curved. If you look…” He had been about to open the girl’s mouth, but seemed to change his mind. “There are several test marks where whoever removed her tongue obviously had difficulty getting a grip on it. The tongue slid and the blade caught. Your guy was determined, though. He accomplished the task on the third or fourth try.”

“It was slick?” Will asked. “From blood? Saliva?”

“There would have been little blood because she was already dead by the time the mutilation occurred. I would assume his grip was compromised because the tongue is so small. Further, a grown man would have difficulty reaching his hand into her mouth. It’s very narrow.”

Michael was nodding, but he didn’t seem to be listening to Pete. His eyes were still locked on the girl and a single tear rolled down his cheek. He looked away for just a second, using the back of his hand to wipe the tear, pretending to be rubbing his nose.

“And of course the missing tongue is interesting,” Pete opined. “In the other cases, the tongue was always left with the victim. Perhaps your perpetrator has graduated to taking souvenirs?”

“That’s common with serial killers,” Will told them, trying to draw Michael out. Maybe the man was back too soon. Angie had said that he loved children. Perhaps, like Will, this was harder on him because of the girl’s age. And, Barrett was his neighbor, so Michael had probably watched her grow up. That kind of thing would be hard on anyone, even without a trip to the morgue to see her cut open.

Michael cleared his throat twice, finally asking, “Was she raped?”

Pete equivocated, and Will waited to see how he would answer, and how that answer would affect Michael. “There are definitely signs of forcible entry, but it’s difficult to say whether the act was consensual or not.” Pete shrugged. “Of course, if the rape was post mortem, then there wouldn’t be signs of vaginal trauma because the force reflex would be gone.”

There was a tight smile on Michael’s face, the kind you gave when you were anything but pleased.

Will reminded, “You said that she’s sexually experienced. Maybe we should find out if there’s a boyfriend in her life.”

“I asked Gina about that last night,” Michael offered, explaining, “Gina’s my wife.” Will nodded and he continued, “Cynthia wasn’t dating anybody. She was a really good kid. Phil never had a moment’s trouble with her.”

Will knew the father was a traveling salesman who had been on the other side of the country when his daughter was murdered. “When will he be back?”

“This afternoon at the latest,” Michael answered. “I’d like to knock off early so I can go check on him.” He turned to Will. “I’ll let you know if he has anything useful.”

Will nodded, understanding the message: Michael would talk to the father alone. Part of Will was glad he was being spared the task.

Michael asked Pete, “Did you get any DNA?”

“Some.”

“I’ll run it upstairs for you.”

“Thank you,” Pete said, walking over to the counter by the door. He handed Michael a sealed paper bag containing Cynthia Barrett’s rape kit.

Will asked Michael, “Do you think there’s a connection between these cases and the ones I showed you yesterday?”

The other man’s gaze was back on Cynthia’s face. “No question about it,” he answered. “He’s obviously escalating.”

Will asked, “Is there anyone you’ve come across since the Monroe murder who might look good for this?”

The detective shook his head. “That’s all I thought about last night. There’s nobody I can think of who would do this.” He paused a second before suggesting, “I figure it’s somebody who was watching the Monroe crime scene when I showed up. I went straight home after. They probably followed me. Jesus!” He put his hand to his forehead. “They could have gotten Tim. My wife…” He dropped his hand. “I’ve moved my family out of the house. They’re not safe with this maniac out there.”

“That’s probably best,” Pete said. He put his hand on Michael’s arm. “I’m so sorry, Detective. I’m so sorry that this has happened to you.”

Michael nodded, and Will saw that he had tears in his eyes again. “She was a good kid,” Michael managed. “Nobody deserves this kind of thing, but Cynthia…” He shook his head. “We’ve got to catch this guy. I won’t feel safe until the warden’s putting the needle in this fucker’s arm.” He looked right at Will, repeating himself. “I won’t feel safe.”

Will leaned against Michael Ormewood’s car, waiting for the detective to join him. He flipped open his cell phone and stared at the screen, wanting to call Angie. There was something she was not telling him. He had known her long enough to figure out when she was hiding something. Maybe he could ring her up and ask if she’d remembered anything else about Michael. Angie had worked with the detective. She knew about his extracurricular activities. She had to know more than she was letting on.

“Shit,” Will whispered, snapping the phone closed. What an idiot. She had probably slept with the man. He was just her type: a married, unavailable asshole who was bound to use her, then walk away.

Will inhaled and let out a long sigh of breath, feeling his own stupidity overwhelm him. He had been worried about John Shelley when Michael Ormewood was the latest jerk in her life. Will wondered if she was still seeing him. They had been standing pretty close together when he’d found them in the hallway yesterday. Though, last night, Angie had been brutal about Ormewood when Will had asked her about him. If she was still sleeping with him, Will was certain she would have said so then. Or maybe not. Two years had passed. This was the longest he and Angie had ever gone without talking to each other. Things might have changed.

No, nothing ever changed.

“Shit,” Will repeated. He put his hands on the roof of the car and pressed his forehead against them. What could he do? Go confront her? Demand she tell him what she’d been doing for the last two years?

Will dropped his hands and turned as the stair door banged open. Ormewood was walking across the parking lot, one hand in his pocket, a half-smile on his face. He didn’t look tired anymore. The man actually looked pleased. He’d probably dropped by Angie’s desk on his way to delivering the rape kit to the lab. He might have even grabbed a quickie in the supply closet for all Will knew.

“Sorry I took so long,” Michael said as he unlocked the car doors. “Had to see a man about a dog.”

“Right,” Will mumbled, sliding into the passenger’s seat. He looked out the window, waiting for Michael to get in and start the car. If he clenched his jaw any harder, his back teeth were going to break.

Michael put his arm along the back of Will’s seat as he reversed out of the parking space. He shifted into drive and headed out of the garage, saluting the guard at the gate as they passed.

“What a shitty day,” he said, slipping on a pair of dark sunglasses. “You got kids?”

“No,” Will said, thinking this was the second time Michael Orme-wood had asked him that question. Maybe Angie had told him Will wouldn’t have kids. He had a mental image of her and Ormewood splayed out in bed, postcoital bliss turning into a game of telling secrets. Would Angie do that? Would she betray Will like that?

“I can’t imagine what Phil’s thinking right now,” Michael said. “If something ever happened to Tim, I’d feel like my heart had been ripped out of my chest. He’s a part of me, you know?”

“I can see that.”

“What about a wife?” Michael asked. “You married?”

Will turned to look at him, trying to figure out where he was going with these questions. “No,” he said.

“Seeing somebody?”

Will bristled, but he tried to control it. “No.”

“Gina,” Michael said, oblivious. “She works at Piedmont in the ER. What’s that they always say about cops? They either marry nurses or hookers?”

Considering Michael had left his last assignment under such a dark cloud, Will thought it was pretty dangerous for him to be joking about prostitutes.

Will began, “That Polaski woman…” He tried to think of something an asshole would say about a woman. All he could come up with was, “She’s pretty attractive.”

Michael looked surprised, like he might not have considered Will had a penis. “Yeah,” he said. “Listen-man to man-I’d stay away from that one.”

“Why’s that?”

“She’s got a temper. Know what I mean? She looks real sweet, but inside, she’s a class-A ball-breaker.”

Will leaned his elbow on the door, stared out the side window.

So, he had slept with her.

Michael changed the subject. “I’m sorry I kind of lost my shit yesterday when I saw Cynthia. I’ve been doing Homicide for a while now, but you never expect something like that to happen, to actually know the person.”

Will counted the telephone poles, saw the billboards and street signs in a blur of letters that would never make sense at this speed. “Yeah.”

“I’ve gotta tell you, I’ll never be able to do this job the same way again. Notify people, I mean. Puts it in a whole new light when you know the person involved, know the victim and the parent and all.”

“I imagine so.”

“Did you get a chance to look at that Monroe file?”

“I skimmed through it,” Will lied, relying on what Angie had told him about the prostitute. “You arrested her a few times when you were in Vice.”

Michael finally seemed to feel the tension in the air. He gave Will a sideways glance. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Polaski told me that yesterday. I’d forgotten all about it. Those sweeps. You ever work Vice?” Will managed to shake his head. “You can go through a hundred of ‘em in a week. It’s all chasing your tail, no pun intended. You lock ’em up and they’re out on the street an hour later.”

“You never dealt with her pimp before? Baby G?”

Michael shrugged. “Not that I remember. These guys grow up so fast. One minute they’re a little kid skipping school, the next they’re toting a nine-mil and running everything from pussy to meth.” He shrugged again. Maybe that was where Angie picked up the gesture. “Baby G might know me from before, but he didn’t let on if he did. You think he’s got something to do with the murders? I never checked his alibi for Sunday night.”

“He was with us when Cynthia was killed,” Will reminded him.

“I’m sure he’s got plenty of soldiers to do his dirty work.”

Will nodded.

“I need to look through my Vice files. I’ll take them home tonight.”

Will felt the need to offer, “I can help, if you like.”

“No.” His tone had been sharp, but he softened it with an explanation. “You know how it is. You only put down half the information in the reports. The rest you keep in your head so they can’t trap you when you’re on the stand, say you wrote one thing when you meant another.”

“Right.” Will stole another glance at Michael Ormewood. He was not as tall as Will but he had the usual dark good looks and a solid build Angie was always attracted to. He obviously didn’t work out as much as Will, but he hadn’t gone to seed, either. Maybe he had played football in high school. Will had loved football, but he’d been too ashamed to join any team sports that would require him to strip down in the locker room. Ormewood had probably been some kind of all-star, the captain of the team, the one all the other guys looked up to.

Will took another deep breath and let it out slowly.

This was really great. One stray thought about Angie sleeping with Ormewood and suddenly Will was reliving his failed high school sports dreams. Will knew that Angie would never tell any man much about anything. Meeting new conquests was a game she played, a game where she got to reinvent herself. Telling them the truth about her past would spoil her fun. If she wanted to be with someone serious, someone who knew her inside and out, she would stay with Will.

Michael tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Greer told me I could take some personal time. I don’t know. Sitting on my hands isn’t something I’m good at. I’d never forgive myself if I missed something and this guy took another life. He could be out there right now looking for a new victim.”

“Yeah,” Will agreed, realizing that in his personal quest to emasculate himself he’d failed to notice that Michael was talking to him as an equal rather than an adversary.

Michael drove through the Homes, passing the same teenagers on their bikes that Will had noticed the day before.

“We should bust them up,” Michael said. “They should be in school.”

“Why wasn’t Cynthia in school?” Will questioned.

“I dunno. Maybe she wasn’t feeling well.”

“What’s her attendance record like?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Her father was out of town most of the time. She was alone a lot without parental supervision.”

“Gina and I did the best we could looking out for her.” He had taken Wills words as a condemnation.

“Did your mother-in-law often see her at home during the day?”

“You’d have to ask Barbara that,” Michael said, parking the car in front of building nine.

“Do you mind if I do?”

“Barbara and I are pretty close, and she never mentioned anything to me about Cynthia being home. I’ll ask her, okay? But I think that’s a dead end. Cyn was a good kid. She got great grades in school, never got in trouble. Phil always said she was an angel.”

“You seem to know a lot about her.”

Michael looked at his hands on the steering wheel. When he spoke, it seemed he was confiding in Will. “We tried to look out for her. Phil was never home. His wife ran off with some loser about six years ago, never looked back. He did his best, but I dunno…” He turned to Will. “Your best isn’t good enough when you have a kid-you have to do better. You change your priorities, don’t drive a new car every two years, don’t wear expensive suits and go out to dinner and movies all the time. You sacrifice.”

“Phil didn’t do that?”

“I think I’ve said enough,” Michael told him, taking the key out of the ignition. “He’s got enough in his life right now without his friends talking about him behind his back.”

Michael opened the car door. He said, “The BMW’s gone,” meaning the pimp was probably not home.

Will followed him to the grandmother’s flat, which was on the bottom floor. They knocked several times but even though they could hear a television blaring inside and the old woman laughing along with the studio audience, no one answered.

Will asked, “Monroe’s apartment is on the top floor?”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “I wouldn’t take the elevator if I were you.”

Will followed Michael up the stairs. Except for the grandmother’s apartment, the building was quiet. People were either at work or sleeping off last night, and the only sound was their footsteps making scuffing noises against the stairs.

Toward the top, Will slowed his pace, stopping where Aleesha Monroe’s body had been found. Blood stained the stairs, despite the fact that someone had obviously tried to clean up the marks.

“She died here,” Michael told him, stopping on the landing to catch his breath.

Will knelt to look at the pattern, the bloody ghost of the handprint climbing the stairs. The crime scene photos were bad enough, but there was something eerie about being in this place where the woman had died.

“I don’t think he meant for her to die,” Michael said.

Will looked up, thinking the man had said this at least twice before. “Why is that?”

“She rolled onto her back.” He indicated the outline where Monroe had lain. “The blood must have pooled and she choked to death.” He waited a second, looking down at the bloody stairs. “It’s sad, but it hap-pens.

Will didn’t think he’d ever had a case where this had happened before, but he nodded as if people accidentally died this way all of the time. He asked, “What do you think happened?”

Michael squinted up the stairs as if he could see it all unfolding. “I’m guessing they were in the apartment when some kind of dispute broke out. The John left and maybe she didn’t want him to. They scuffled here,” he indicated the steps, “then it went bad.”

“Was the door locked or unlocked when the first cop got here?”

“Unlocked.”

Will played the scene in his mind, thinking Michael’s scenario was as likely as any. “Do you have the key?”

“Yep.” Michael took a plastic bag out of his pocket. He unrolled it and showed Will a key with a red tag. “It was in her purse.”

“Did you find anything else?”

“Makeup, couple of dollars and some lint.”

“Let’s go,” Will said, continuing up the stairs. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing up as they got closer to the top. Will had never been one to believe in ghosts and goblins, but there was no denying that a murder scene had a certain feel to it, an energy that told you violent death had occurred.

“Here we go,” Michael said, slicing the yellow police tape with the edge of the key. He unlocked the door. “After you.”

Aleesha Monroe had obviously not been rich, but from the looks of her apartment, she had taken great care of her few nice things. Besides the small bathroom, there were only two rooms in the apartment, a bedroom in one and a kitchen/living room space in the other. What struck Will was that the place was surprisingly clean. No dirty dishes were decaying in the sink and the same stink that hung out in the hall didn’t seem to permeate the walls.

Will asked Michael, “This is how it looked when you got here?” Yep.

Michael’s team had already tossed the place two nights ago. The fact that he now stood back by the door, leaning against the frame, indicated clearly that he thought this was a waste of time.

Will ignored this message as he walked carefully around the room, looking for anything unusual. The kitchen was an efficiency with a single cabinet and only two drawers for storage. One was used for silverware, the other contained the usual household items that found their way into the junk drawer: a couple of pens, an array of receipts and a ring of keys that probably had outlived the doors they opened.

He stopped at a plant by the window. The soil was bone dry; the plant was dead. The glass table by the couch was sparkling clean, the matching coffee table just as pristine. There was a neat stack of magazines beside an ashtray that had obviously been wiped out. There didn’t seem to be any dust on the floor or for that matter any indication that an addict had lived here. Will had been into many a junkie’s home and knew how they lived. Heroin was especially bad. Smack heads were like sick animals who had stopped grooming, and their surroundings generally reflected this.

Will saw telltale signs of black dusting powder on the doorjambs and windowsills, but he still asked, “Did you find many fingerprints?”

“About sixty thousand,” Michael said.

“Not on the glass tables?”

Michael was looking out into the hall as if he’d heard a noise. “She must’a brought her Johns up here. There was enough DNA on the sheets to clone an entire village.”

Will walked into the bedroom, making a mental note to follow up on the question. He checked the drawers, noting that the clothes hadn’t been rifled through. The closet was packed with clothes, an old Hoover tucked in between boxes of shoes. The vacuum’s bag was empty. The scene-of-crime techs had removed it for closer examination. They had probably taken the sheets off the bed, too. Monroe’s mattress was bare, a bloodstain flowering out from the center.

Michael stood in the bedroom door. He obviously thought he could anticipate Will’s next question. “Menstrual blood, Pete says. She must have been on the rag.”

Will was silent, continuing his search in the bedroom, still thinking about the clean glass tables. He could hear Michael walking around in the other room, impatient. Will followed the black dusting powder where the crime scene techs had looked for fingerprints on all the usual surfaces: the edge of the nightstand, the doorknobs, the small chest that held mostly T-shirts and jeans. They must have checked the tables in the other room. The absence of dust indicated that the glass had been clean of prints.

Michael asked, “Did you see the story in the paper this morning?”

“No,” Will admitted. For obvious reasons, he got most of his news from the television.

“Monroe was the second story after some scandal over at the hospital.”

Will got on his hands and knees, checking under the bed. “Did you release her name yet?”

“Can’t until we find next of kin.” Michael added, “We’re holding back on the tongue thing, too.”

Will sat back on his heels, looking around the room. “She didn’t list her parents on any of her arrests?”

“Just Baby G.”

He opened the drawer in the bedside table. Empty. “No address book?”

“She didn’t have a telephone-no land line, no cell.”

“That’s odd.”

“Everything costs money. Either you got it or you don’t.” Michael was still watching Will. “Mind if I ask you what you think you’re gonna find?”

“I just want a feel of the place,” Will answered, though he was getting plenty more than that. Either Aleesha Monroe was the Mr. Clean of hookers or someone had taken great care to scrub down her apartment.

Will stood and walked back into the main room. Michael was at the front door again, arms folded across his chest. Why hadn’t he noticed that the apartment had been cleaned? Even an armchair detective with nothing but television cop shows for training would have picked up on this detail.

Will said, “Sink’s been scrubbed clean.” The sponge was still damp and when he held it to his nose, he caught the strong odor of bleach.

“You sniffing that for a reason?” Michael asked. He was watching Will carefully, no longer casually leaning against the doorjamb.

Will dropped the sponge back in the sink. “She have any money stashed in here?” he asked, purposefully avoiding Michael’s question.

“It’s in the log.”

Will hadn’t had time to decipher the scene-of-crime log, so he said, “Run it down for me.”

Michael was obviously irritated by the request, but he still provided, “She had some cash in a sock shoved down the back of the couch. There was about eight bucks in it. Her kit was in a metal box on the kitchen counter. Syringes, foil, a lighter, the usual.”

“No drugs?”

“Residue in the bottom of the tin, but nothing we found.”

“So, she had to work.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “She didn’t have a choice.”

Will turned back to the bathroom. The shower curtain was a spotless dark blue, as were the matching rug on the floor and cover on the toilet seat. He lifted the rug, noting that the linoleum floor had been swept.

Thirty-two minutes for a cruiser to show up. The killer had counted on the slow response time, taken advantage of it so he could clean up after himself. There was no sign of panic here, no rush to cover his tracks and get out. The guy knew what he was doing.

“Well?” Michael asked. He was standing outside the bathroom, watching Will.

“She kept a clean house,” Will said, opening the medicine cabinet. Besides the usual Tylenol and toothpaste, it was pretty much as he would have expected. He said, “No condoms here.”

“I thought we’d established that the perp brought them.”

“Maybe,” Will answered, thinking that he trusted Angie more on the matter. He stopped in the doorway because the detective was blocking his way. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Michael took a step back. “I just get the feeling you’re checking my work.”

“I told you I’m not,” Will said, though being honest, he was beginning to question Michael’s skills as a detective. A blind man could see the apartment had been scrubbed top to bottom.

Will asked, “Did you already call in the cleaners?”

“What?”

“I saw the stairs had been scrubbed,” Will told him. “I assumed you called in a crew to clean up.”

“Must have been one of the tenants,” Michael answered, walking toward the door. “Tape wasn’t cut and I didn’t call anybody. I can ask Leo.”

“That’s fine. I was just curious.” Will pulled the door closed. He was twisting the key in the lock just as a loud bang rang through the stairwell, followed by a child’s scream.

Will passed Michael on the stairs, grabbing the banister as he swung across the landing. He could hear more screaming, a second child yelling, “Help!” as he bolted down the last set of stairs and threw open the door.

“Help!” a small boy screamed as he ran across the parking lot, a girl chasing him.

“Oh, fer fuck…” Michael breathed. He was panting from the run. “Jesus Christ,” he exhaled, bending at the waist.

The boy darted onto a small patch of grass that had the mailboxes for the building. He circled once before the girl caught up with him. She was sitting on his back by the time Will reached them.

“You give that back!” she demanded, delivering a sharp kidney punch to her captive.

“Jazz!” the boy screamed.

“Hold up,” Will said. “Come on.” Gently, he took the girl’s arm.

She jerked away from him, snapping, “This ain’t none of your business, fool.”

“All right,” Will said, kneeling down to talk to the boy. “You all right?”

The boy rolled onto his back. Will guessed the wind had been knocked out of him. He helped the boy sit up, knowing that would help. The kid was probably nine or ten, but the clothes he was wearing seemed better suited for a grown man. Even his shoes were too large for his feet.

Will asked the girl, “Tell me what happened here.”

“He took my-” She stopped as Michael joined them, her mouth open, eyes wide with fear as she stared at Michael.

“It’s all right,” Michael told her, holding out his hands. The girl hadn’t pegged Will but Michael might as well have worn a sign around his neck that read “cop.” She had probably been taught at her mother’s knee that you don’t talk to the police.

She stepped back, reaching for her brother and yanking him up by one arm. “You get away from us. We ain’t got nothing to say to you.”

Michael indicated the boy. “This your brother?” He smiled at the boy. “What’s your name, buddy? I’ve got a son about your age.”

“Don’t talk to him,” the girl cautioned.

“We’re not here to bang you up,” Will assured her. She looked about thirteen or fourteen, but the way her little fists were balled up told him he didn’t want to be sitting on the ground if she got angry enough to start swinging.

He told her, “We’re looking into something bad that happened here Sunday night.”

“Leesha,” the boy said, just as the girl clamped her hand around his mouth. He squirmed impatiently. Obviously, the boy had something to say that his sister did not want them to hear.

“What’s your name?” Michael asked.

“We ain’t got nothing to say,” the girl repeated. “We didn’t see nothing on Sunday night. We didn’t see nothing. Ain’t that right, Cedric?”

“You said-” the boy tried, but his mouth was covered again before he could get anything else out.

Michael lowered his voice, asking Will, “Which one do you want?”

Will offered, “Your choice.”

“You sure?”

Will nodded.

“All right.” Michael raised his voice. “Girl, this is the last time I’m going to ask this. What’s your name?”

She stood defiant, but answered, “Jasmine.”

“That’s a pretty name,” Michael tried. When she didn’t soften, his voice became authoritative again. “Come with me.”

“The fuck you say.”

Michael exchanged a look with Will. “That’s quite a mouth you’ve got on you, little girl.”

“I ain’t your little girl!”

“Sweetheart, do you really want to make this hard?” Michael put his hands on his hips. The gesture would have been almost feminine if not for the fact that his jacket swung open, revealing his holstered nine-millimeter. Typical cop move: scare them early and scare them often. It worked. Fear flashed in her eyes, and she looked down at the ground, all of the fight gone out of her.

Michael actually winked at Will, as if to say, “That’s how you do it.” He asked Jasmine, “Is your mother inside?”

“She at work.”

“Who’s watching you?”

She mumbled something.

“What’s that?”

She glanced at the boy. “I asked if Cedric gonna be okay.”

“He’s your brother?” Michael asked.

She hesitated, then nodded.

“He’s going to be fine once you and I figure out who’s supposed to be watching you and why you aren’t in school.” He put his hand on the girl’s shoulder and led her back toward the building. “You shouldn’t be running around screaming like that.”

She mumbled something again that Will couldn’t hear. Michael laughed, then told her, “We’ll see about that.”

Will watched them go into the building, then turned back to the boy. “Cedric?” he asked. “That’s your name, right?”

The boy nodded.

“Come with me.” He held out his hand but the child gave an ugly frown.

“I ain’t no kid, bitch.”

Will sighed. He leaned against the mailboxes, tried to make this go a little easier. “I just need to ask you some questions.”

Cedric echoed his sister. “I ain’t got nothing to say to you.” His lower lip went out in an exaggerated pout and he crossed his stick-thin arms over his chest in an imitation of a gangster. Will would have laughed but for the fact that the kid probably had more access to weapons than most cops did.

“Hey,” Will began, trying another tactic. “What did the number zero say to the number eight?”

Cedric shrugged, but Will could tell he was curious.

“ ‘Nice belt.” “

Cedric’s mouth went up in a smile before he caught himself. “That was lame, man.”

“I know,” Will admitted. “I’m just trying to get you to talk to me.”

“Nothin‘ to talk about.”

“Did you know Aleesha?”

His bony shoulders went up in another shrug, but he was still a child and hadn’t yet mastered the ability to hide his emotions.

“Aleesha was a friend of yours?” Will guessed. “Maybe she looked out for you?”

Again, the shoulders went up.

“I asked around about her, you know? Asked some friends about her. Seemed to me that she was a really nice lady.”

Cedric stubbed his toe against the concrete. “Maybe.”

“Did she look out for you?”

“My granny told me to keep away because of what Leesha did.”

“Yeah,” Will said. “I guess Aleesha didn’t have a very good job. But she was nice to you, wasn’t she?”

This time, he nodded.

“It’s hard to lose a friend.”

“My cousin AH died last year. Got shot in his bed.”

Will knelt down in front of the boy. “Did you see something that night, Cedric?”

His eyes were red with tears he obviously didn’t want to fall.

“You can tell me, Cedric. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to get you into any trouble downtown. All I care about is finding out who killed Aleesha, because she was a good lady. You know she was a good lady. She looked out for you and now it’s time you looked out for her.”

“I can’t tell you nothing.”

Will parsed the sentence. “Can’t or won’t?” He thought of something. “Did somebody threaten you? Maybe Baby G?”

Cedric shook his head.

“I’m just trying to find out who hurt your friend.” Will tried, “You can trust me.”

The child’s gaze turned hard, and the gangster face came back. “Trust ain’t a word I know.”

Will hadn’t grown up in the Homes, but as a kid, he had confided in plenty of adults who wouldn’t-or couldn’t-help him. There was no telling who was good or bad. A shiny badge did not necessarily help point the way.

“You see this?” Will asked, putting his finger to the side of his face, touching the scar that twisted its way down his neck. “This is what I got once for telling on somebody. I wasn’t that much older than you.”

Cedric tilted his head, looked at the scar. “Did it hurt?”

“At first,” Will admitted. “But then I couldn’t feel it anymore, and when I woke up, I was in a hospital.”

“Were you sick?”

“I lost a lot of blood.”

“Were you going to die?”

Will had wanted to, but he had told the story to draw out Cedric, not confess his darkest secrets. “The doctors took care of me.”

The boy stared at the scar a moment longer before he nodded his approval. On the streets, a near-death experience was a badge of honor, especially if it came by dangerous means.

Will reached into his pocket and took out a business card. “This is my cell phone number, okay? You think of anything, or just need to talk, you call me. All right? It doesn’t even have to be about Aleesha.”

Cedric glanced at Will’s scar again, then quickly palmed the card in case anyone was watching. “Can I go now?”

“Yeah,” Will said. “But you call me, okay? Call me day or night.”

“Right.” He darted off, his hand trailing down the row of mailboxes as he headed for the street.

Will straightened, turning around to see Michael walking across the parking lot again, this time without Jasmine. As the other man got closer, Will saw that he had a scratch down the side of his face. Blood was trickling into his collar.

Will looked back at the building, then at Michael. “You okay?”

“She hit me. Can you believe that? What is she, twelve?” He shook his head, more shocked than angry. “I was following her up the stairs and before I knew it, she bolted. I went after her, grabbed her leg, and the little thing turned around and whapped me across the face with her fist.” He slung out his own fist to illustrate. “Good thing she punched me like a girl, huh?” Will had never understood that phrase. He’d only ever had one woman punch him, and Angie always put her shoulder into it.

Michael was staring back up at the building. A curtain twitched, and he said, “That’s her place. Third floor up.”

“Is her mother home?”

“Shit,” he said, his tone asking if Will was actually that stupid. Michael touched the gash on his cheek then looked at the blood on the tips of his fingers. “I guess her fingernail caught me or something. Does it look bad?”

“Not too bad,” Will lied. He took out his handkerchief and offered it to Michael. “Do you want to go get her or something?”

“What? Throw the cuffs on her and get my picture on the nightly news for roughing up a child? No thank you. Besides, she wouldn’t talk to us now if her hair was on fire.” He sat on the curb with a groan. Will didn’t know what else to do but join him.

Michael laughed again. “Christ, she got me.” He looked at the dots of blood on the handkerchief. “I should’ve let you handle her. Maybe she would have responded to a softer touch.” He realized what he’d said. “Hey, no offense-”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Still,” Michael said, folding the handkerchief in two, then pressing it to his cheek again. He said, “I didn’t know people still carried these.”

“Old habit,” Will admitted. Ms. Flannery had made all the boys in the state home carry handkerchiefs in their pockets. Will had never questioned the practice, just assumed that it was something normal boys did.

Michael asked, “You get anything from her brother?”

“Cedric’s not talking.”

“You think he knows anything?”

Will did, but for some reason he felt the need to lie. “No. He doesn’t know anything.”

“You sure?”

“Positive,” Will said. “He’s got a big mouth. He would’ve talked.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t kick you in the balls or something.” Michael folded the handkerchief again and started to hand it back to Will. “Sorry,” he said, taking it back. “I’ll get my wife to clean this for you.”

“That’s okay.” Will took the cloth, feeling uncomfortable at the prospect of Michael Ormewood’s wife doing his laundry.

“Man,” Michael said, resting his elbows on his knees, dropping his head. “I gotta say, the girl reminds me a lot of Cynthia. Got that same fire in her eyes, you know?”

“That so?” Will asked, thinking Michael was painting a very different picture of the neighbor than the one he had offered before.

“Cyn was a good kid, don’t get me wrong about that. It’s just she had that rebellious streak, too. Your parents divorced?”

Will was caught off-guard by the question. His face must have shown it.

“None of my business, right?” Michael rubbed the back of his neck, looking up at the building again. “My father died when I was about her age. Maybe that’s why I kind of took care of her.”

Will wasn’t sure which girl the man was talking about now.

“I was just thinking that you get a little rebellious streak when you’re a teenager and that it gets worse if your parents split up at the same time. You start to push things, right? Trying to test the limits, see how far you can go before they pull you back. My mom yanked me back by the collar-we’re talking Wile E. Coyote yanked. She was always looking out for me, always using the heavy hand. Kids today, their parents don’t do that. They don’t want to be the bad guy.”

Will guessed, “Cynthia was a little wilder than Phil knew?”

“Maybe a little wilder than I knew,” he admitted. “Or than I wanted to know.”

“That sounds like an honest mistake.”

Michael smiled at Will. “There was this girl I knew back in high school. God, she was gorgeous. Wouldn’t give me the time of day. My cousin hooked her. He was just this scrawny-ass kid, didn’t have a hair anywhere on his body except for his head.” Michael glanced at him. “You know the type I’m talking about?”

Will nodded because it seemed expected of him.

“Total pud puller,” Michael continued. “And he ends up with this beautiful girl. Not just that, but she’s letting him touch her, going to let him do her.” His laugh was different this time. “I was usually the one who scored, you know? Not him.” He turned, facing Will. “I’m thinking I shouldn’t have chased her.”

Will was confused. “Jasmine?”

Michael turned back, looking at the building. “I should’ve just let her go, but there was this second where… you know how when your brain thinks of about a billion things at the same time? I kept thinking about Cynthia running, and how she tripped over that fence. I should’ve fixed that fence last year. I should have fucking fixed that fence.” He put his fists to his eyes. “Oh, God.”

Will was at a loss. An hour ago, he had wanted to pummel this man to the ground for sleeping with Angie. Now he just felt sorry for him.

Michael continued, “That’s what I was thinking about when Jasmine ran-Cynthia running across our yard. And without even thinking, I grabbed her foot to stop her. You know-so she wouldn’t get hurt like Cynthia did.” He turned to Will. “I think I need that time off Greer was talking about. This is hitting me harder than I thought it would. Do you mind?”

Will was surprised by the question, but readily agreed. “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry to let you down like this. I sound like a freaking woman. Hell, I’m acting like one, too. All this crazy talk; you must think I’m some kind of psycho or something.” He shook his head again. “I think a couple of days is what I need. Just some time to get over this, come to terms with what happened.”

“It’s okay,” Will said, thinking he was glad that Michael had come to this conclusion on his own. It was clear now that the other man had been fighting to hold it together all morning. “You do what you need to do.”

“I just need to be kept in the loop. I need to know what’s going on. Would you mind that? I don’t want to step on your toes, buddy. I just can’t be out there cut off from everything. I know you’re gonna catch this fucker, but I need to know what’s going on with the case.”

Will wasn’t happy about it, but he offered, “Call whenever you want.”

“Thank you,” Michael said. Will heard the relief in the other man’s voice, read the gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you.”