Triptych

Leo took a few seconds to think of an answer. He finally shrugged. “Women, you know?”

“Didn’t you tell me the other day that Gina filed a restraining order against Michael for beating her?”

“Well…” Leo stopped again. “Yeah. So?”

Will kept walking. “You didn’t seem to think she was making that up.

“No,” Leo admitted. He rubbed his thumb along his chin, a tell Will had picked up on within minutes of meeting the detective. He hoped the man never played poker. “It’s like this,” Leo eventually said, “Mike called me last night and asked me how the case was going.”

“He called me, too.”

“What’d you tell him?”

Will opened the door to the second floor. “Probably the same as you. We don’t have anything to go on.”

“Yeah, but then I mentioned that you’d asked me to pull the sex offenders list. He got all hot and bothered about it. Said it was fucking brilliant.” Leo gave Will an apologetic half-smile. “I don’t think I’m squeezing your toes when I say that going through those files was a Hail Mary if there ever was one.”

Will nodded. Shelley had been included in his group of registered offenders, but the parole sheet lacked the details Caroline had pulled for him. If Angie hadn’t asked Will to look into the man, then Shelley would probably still be out in the street.

Of course, Michael Ormewood had been the one who told Angie about Shelley in the first place.

Leo’s stride was shorter than Will’s. He struggled to keep up as they walked down the hallway, saying, “Point is, Mike’s been on the job almost as long as me. He knows it’s a long shot, too.” Will slowed his pace. “And he also knows that some smack-head pross living in the projects ain’t go

Will stopped, thinking maybe he’d underestimated Leo Do

The detective said, “I’d bet my left one that place was scrubbed down before we got there.”

“You mentioned this to Michael?”

“He argued with me,” Leo admitted. “Mike’s usually an easygoing guy, you know? But he got real pissed when I said the place had been cleaned. He wouldn’t even put it in his report.”

“Maybe he was just being careful?”

“Careful is when you leave out the fact that you found your name in the bitch’s little black book, not when you forget to notice somebody’s rubbed down the place with a gallon of Clorox.”

Will tucked his hands into his pockets. “What are you doing now?”

Leo shrugged. “I got a couple’a three other cases I’m working. Why?”

“You mind going over to Michael’s?”

“What for?”

“Pay him a call,” Will said. “Make sure he’s doing okay.”

“I gotta say,” Leo began, “the way he’s been acting, I’m thinking right now I don’t give a shit one way or the other if the guy is okay.”

“Just check on him,” Will insisted, putting his hand on Leo’s shoulder. “I want to know where he is.”

Leo stared up at him for a few seconds, then nodded. “Sure,” he finally said. “Okay.”

Will put his hand on the doorknob to the interrogation room but didn’t open it. He closed his eyes, trying to center himself. While he was in that room, he couldn’t think about Angie or Michael or Jasmine or anything else that would throw him off his game. John was the target and Will would not settle for anything less than a direct hit.

He knocked once on the door and walked into the room without waiting to be invited. John Shelley sat at the table. His lawyer was leaning across him, holding both his hands in hers.

They moved apart quickly when Will entered the room.

Will said, “I apologize for interrupting.”

The woman stood up. Her voice was strong, indignant. She might have specialized in real estate, but she was still a lawyer. “Is my client under arrest?”

“I’m Special Agent Will Trent,” he told her. “And you are?”

“Katherine Keenan. Can you tell me why my client is here?”

“I believe you’re a real estate lawyer,” Will said. “Are you representing Mr. Shelley in an acquisition?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is he under arrest or not?”

Will started to sit, asking, “Do you mind?”

“Detective, I don’t care whether you sit or stand or levitate into the air. Just stop dicking me around and answer my question.”

John looked down at the table, but not before Will saw him smile.

“All right.” Will sat down across from them, telling the lawyer, “But, if you don’t mind, it’s actually Special Agent Trent. Detectives work in local PD. I’m with State. The Georgia Bureau of Investigation. Perhaps you’ve seen us on the news?”

Keenan was obviously at a loss to the relevance, but John seemed to realize what that difference meant. State turned up the heat. Either the locals couldn’t handle the case or the crime involved several jurisdictions.

John said, “I’m not answering any questions.”

Will told him, “That’s fine, Mr. Shelley. I don’t have any questions for you. If I did, I might ask something like, ”Where were you the evening of December third of last year?“ Or maybe I’d ask about October thirteenth.” If the dates meant anything to John, he wasn’t letting on. Will continued, “Then, I might get curious about last Sunday.” Now, there was a reaction. Will pushed a little more. “You’d remember that day because of the Super Bowl. And the next day, the sixth. That was a Monday. Maybe I’d ask you where you were last Monday.”

Keenan said, “He doesn’t have to answer any of your questions.”

Will spoke directly to John. “You need to trust me.”

John stared at Will the way he might stare at a blank wall.

Will sat back in his chair and listed it off for both of them. “I’ve got a dead hooker, a dead teenager and two little girls north of here who are trying to figure out how to live the rest of their lives after having their tongues bitten off.”

Will was watching the lawyer as he said this. She wasn’t as practiced as John, hadn’t learned how to hide her emotions as well.

Will continued, “I’ve also got a missing little girl. Her name is Jasmine. She’s fourteen. Lives at the Homes with her little brother, Cedric. Last Sunday, a white man with brown hair paid her twenty dollars to make a phone call.”

John clasped his hands together on the table.

“The fu

John worked his hands.

Will told the lawyer, “Ms. Keenan, this is the question that keeps coming up: How does John Shelley know Michael Ormewood?”

She literally gasped at the name.

“Kathy,” John cautioned.

Will explained the situation. “Last Monday, a fifteen-year-old girl died. Somebody cut her tongue out. I can’t help thinking, Mr. Shelley, that twenty years ago, you cut out another little girl’s tongue.”

Keenan couldn’t take it anymore. “It wasn’t cut!”

“Kathy,” John said. “Wait outside.”

“John-”

“Please,” he told her. “Just wait outside. Try to find Joyce.”

She obviously didn’t want to go.

“Please,” he repeated.

“All right,” she told him. “But I’ll be right outside.”

“Actually,” Will began, standing, “you’re not allowed to wait in the hall, Ms. Keenan. Government office, terrorists, you know how it is.” He opened the door for her. “There’s a room for attorneys one floor down, right by the vending machine. You can make some calls there, maybe get a snack.”

She shot daggers at Will as she left the room. If anything, her departure heightened the tension rather than alleviated it.

Will took his time closing the door before sitting back down. He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for John Shelley to speak. At least five minutes of silence ticked by. Will waited a little longer, then decided to give in. “How do you know Michael?”

John’s fists were still clasped on the table, and the fingers tightened. “What did he say?”