A Grant County Collection (81 page)

'Bella told me you went to that church with your sister.'

Sara wondered what else her aunt had told her mother. 'Yes, ma'am.'

'You met Thomas Ward?'

'Yes,' Sara repeated, dropping the ma'am. 'He seems like a very nice man.'

Cathy tapped her fork on the side of the skillet before turning around. She folded her arms over her chest. 'Do you have a question to ask me, or would you rather take the cowardly route and filter it through your aunt Bella again?'

Sara felt a flush work its way up her neck to her face. She hadn't thought it through at the time, but her mother was right. Sara had mentioned her fears to Bella because she knew her aunt would take it back to her mother.

She took a breath, screwing up her courage. 'Was he the one?'

'Yes.'

'Lev is . . .' Sara searched for the words, wishing she
could
do this through her aunt Bella. Her mother's eyes pierced her like needles. 'Lev has red hair.'

'Are you a doctor?' Cathy asked sharply.

'Well, ye –'

'Did you go to medical school?'

'Yes.'

'Then you should know something about genetics.' Cathy was angrier than Sara had seen her mother in a long time. 'Did you even stop to think how your father would feel if he thought you thought even for a minute –' She stopped, obviously trying to control her fury. 'I told you at the time, Sara. I told you it was purely emotional. It was never physical.'

'I know.'

'Have I ever lied to you in my life?'

'No, Mama.'

'It would break your father's heart if he knew . . .' She had been pointing her finger at Sara, but she dropped her hand. 'Sometimes I wonder if you have a brain in your head.' She turned back around to the stove, picking up the fork.

Sara took the rebuff as well as she could, keenly aware that her mother had not really answered her question. Unable to stop herself, she repeated, 'Lev has red hair.'

Cathy dropped the fork, turning back around. 'So did his mother, you idiot!'

Tessa entered the kitchen, a thick book in her hands. 'Whose mother?'

Cathy reined herself in. 'Never you mind.'

'Are you making pancakes?' Tessa asked, dropping the book on the table. Sara read the title,
The Complete Works of Dylan Thomas.

'No,' Cathy mocked. 'I'm turning water into wine.'

Tessa shot a look at Sara. Sara shrugged, as if she wasn't the cause of her mother's fury.

'Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes,' Cathy informed them. 'Set the table.'

Tessa stood in place. 'I actually had plans this morning.'

'Plans to do what?' Cathy asked.

'I told Lev I'd come by the church,' she said, and Sara bit her tongue not to say anything.

Tessa saw the effort and defended, 'This is a hard time for all of them.'

Sara nodded, but Cathy's back was straight as an arrow, her disapproval as obvious as a flashing light.

Tessa tried to tread carefully. 'They're not all bad people just because of what Paul did.'

'I didn't say they were.' Cathy provided, 'Thomas Ward is one of the most upstanding men I have ever met.' She glared at Sara, daring her to say something.

Tessa apologized, 'I'm sorry I'm not going to your church, I just –'

Cathy snapped, 'I know exactly why you're going over there, missy.'

Tessa raised her eyebrows at Sara, but Sara could only shrug again, glad her mother was taking up the fight.

'That is a house of worship.' Cathy pointed her finger at Tessa this time. 'Church is not just another place to get laid.'

Tessa barked a laugh, then stopped when she saw that her mother was serious. 'It's not that,' she defended. 'I like being there.'

'You
like
Leviticus Ward.'

'Well,' Tessa allowed, a smile curling her lips. 'Yeah, but I like being at the church, too.'

Cathy tucked her hands into her hips, looking back and forth between her two daughters as if she didn't know what to do with them.

Tessa said, 'I'm serious, Mama. I want to be there. Not just for Lev. For me.'

Despite her feelings on the subject, Sara backed her up. 'She's telling the truth.'

Cathy pressed her lips together, and for a moment Sara thought she might cry. She had always known that religion was important to her mother, but Cathy had never forced it down their throats. She wanted her children to choose spirituality of their own accord, and Sara could see now how happy she was that Tessa had come around. For a brief moment, Sara felt jealous that she couldn't do the same.

'Breakfast ready?' Eddie bellowed, the front door slamming behind him.

Cathy's grin turned into a scowl as she turned back to the stove. 'Your father thinks I'm running a damn Waffle House.'

Eddie padded into the room, his toes sticking out of his socks. Jeffrey was behind him with the dogs, who promptly came to the table and settled on the floor, waiting for scraps.

Eddie looked at his wife's stiff back, then at his daughters, obviously sensing the tension. 'Car's cleaned,' Eddie offered. He seemed to be waiting for something and Sara thought if he was looking for a medal, he had picked the wrong morning.

Cathy cleared her throat, flipping a pancake in the skillet. 'Thank you, Eddie.'

Sara realized she hadn't told her sister the news. She turned to Tessa. 'Jeffrey and I are getting married.'

Tessa put her finger in her mouth and used it to make a popping noise. The woo-hoo she uttered was far from ecstatic.

Sara sat back in her chair, resting her feet on Bob's belly. As much crap as she had gotten from her family over the last three years, she thought she at least deserved a hearty handshake.

Cathy asked Jeffrey, 'Did you enjoy the chocolate cake I sent you the other night?'

Sara stared down at Bob as if the meaning of life was writ large on his abdomen.

Jeffrey drew out the word, 'Ye-ah,' giving Sara a cutting look that she felt without having to see. 'Best yet.'

'I've got more in the fridge if you want it.'

'That's great,' he told her, his tone sickly sweet. 'Thank you.'

Sara heard a trilling sound, and it took her a moment to realize Jeffrey's cell phone was ringing. She dug around in his jacket pocket and pulled out the phone, handing it to him.

'Tolliver,' he said. He looked confused for a second, then his expression went dark. He walked back into the hall for some privacy. Sara could still hear what he was saying, but there weren't many clues from his side of the conversation. 'When did he leave?' he asked. Then, 'Are you sure you want to do this?' There was a slight pause before he said, 'You're doing the right thing.'

Jeffrey returned to the kitchen, making his apologies. 'I have to go,' he said. 'Eddie, do you mind if I borrow your truck?'

Much to Sara's surprise, her father answered, 'Keys are by the front door,' as if he hadn't spent the last five years hating every bone in Jeffrey's body.

Jeffrey asked, 'Sara?'

She grabbed his jacket and walked with him down the hall. 'What's going on?'

'That was Lena,' he said, excited. 'She said Ethan stole a gun from Nan Thomas last night.'

'Nan has a gun?' Sara asked. She couldn't imagine the librarian having anything more lethal than a set of pinking shears.

'She said it's in his book bag.' Jeffrey took Eddie's keys off the hook by the front door. 'He left for work five minutes ago.'

She handed him his jacket. 'Why is she telling you this?'

'He's still on parole,' Jeffrey reminded her, barely able to control his elation. 'He'll have to serve his full term – ten more years in jail.'

Sara didn't trust any of this. 'I don't understand why she called you.'

'It doesn't matter why,' he said, opening the door. 'What matters is he's going back to jail.'

Sara felt a stab of fear as he walked down the front steps. 'Jeffrey.' She waited for him to turn around. All she could think to say was, 'Be careful.'

He winked at her, as if it was no big deal. 'I'll be back in an hour.'

'He has a gun.'

'So do I,' he reminded her, walking toward her father's truck. He waved, as if to shoo her away. 'Go on. I'll be back before you know it.'

The truck door squeaked open and with great reluctance, she turned to go back inside.

Jeffrey stopped her again, calling, 'Mrs Tolliver?'

Sara turned around, her foolish heart fluttering at the name.

He gave her a crooked smile. 'Save me some cake.'

At this stage in my career, it'd take a 3,000-page book to thank everyone who has supported me along the way. At the top of any list has to be Victoria Sanders and Kate Elton, who I hope aren't both sick of me by now. I am so grateful to all my friends at Random House here and around the world. Working with Kate Miciak, Nita Taublib and Irwyn Applebaum has been such joy. I feel like the luckiest writer on earth to have these folks on my team and I am so happy that Bantam is my new home. The highest praise I can think to give them is they are people who are passionate about reading.

In the UK, Ron Beard, Richard Cable, Susan Sandon, Mark McCallum, Rob Waddington, Faye Brewster, Georgina Hawtrey-Woore and Gail Rebuck (and everyone in between) continue to be much-loved champions. Rina Gill is the best bossy Sheila a girl could ask for. Wendy Grisham whipped out a Bible in the middle of the night, thus saving everyone in this novel from being named 'thingy'.

I had the unbelievable experience of going Down Under this past year and I'd like to thank the folks at RH Australia and RH New Zealand for helping make this the trip of a lifetime. You guys made me feel so welcome even though I was a zillion miles from home. I am especially grateful to Jane Alexander for showing me the kangaroos and not warning me until after the fact that sometimes koalas poo when you hold them (photos can be seen at
www.karinslaughter.com/australia
). Margie Seale and Michael Moynahan deserve high praise indeed. I am humbled by their energetic support.

Further thanks for their support over the years go to Meaghan Dowling, Brian Grogan, Juliette Shapland and Virginia Stanley. Rebecca Keiper, Kim Gombar and Colleen Winters are the cat's pajamas, and I'm so glad for our continued friendship.

Yet again, David Harper, MD, provided me medical information to make Sara sound like she knows what she's doing. Any mistakes are either because I didn't listen to him or because it's just really boring when a doctor does something the right way. On a personal note, I'd like to thank BT, EC, EM, MG and CL for their daily company. FM and JH have been there in a pinch. ML and BB-W loaned me their names (sorry, guys!). Patty O'Ryan was the unfortunate winner of a 'Get your name in a Grant County book!' raffle. Ha! That'll teach you to gamble! Benee Knauer has been as solid as a rock. Renny Gonzalez deserves special commendation for his sweet heart. Ann and Nancy Wilson have taken the sting out of getting older – y'all still rock me. My father made me soup when I went to the mountains to write. When I came home, DA was there – as always, you are my heart.

Karin Slaughter, author of five international bestselling Grant County novels, takes a break from Grant County with
Triptych,
a stand-alone novel set in Atlanta and published by Century in August 2006. She will be returning to the Grant County series with
Skin Privilege,
published in 2007.

Read on for an exclusive extract from
Triptych . . .

The Decatur City Observer
June 17, 1985

Parents found fifteen-year-old Mary Alice Finney dead in their Adams Street home yesterday morning. Police have not released any details of the crime other than to say that they are treating this as a homicide and that those who were last seen with Finney are being questioned. Paul Finney, the girl's father as well as an assistant district attorney for Dekalb County, said in a statement released last night that he has every confidence that the police will bring his daughter's killer to justice. An honor student at Decatur High School, Mary Alice was active in the cheer-leading squad and was recently elected sophomore class president. Sources close to the investigation have confirmed that the girl's body was mutilated.

February 5, 2006

Detective Michael Ormewood listened to the football game on the radio as he drove down Dekalb Avenue toward Grady Homes. The closer he got to the projects, the more tension he felt, his body almost vibrating from the strain by the time he took a right into what most cops considered a war zone. As the Atlanta Housing Authority slowly devoured itself, subsidized communities like Grady were becoming a thing of the past. The in-town real estate was too valuable, the potential for kickback too high. Right up the road was the city of Decatur, with its trendy restaurants and million-dollar houses. Less than a mile in the other direction was Georgia's gold-encrusted capitol dome. Grady was like a worse-case scenario sitting between them, a living reminder that the city too busy to hate was also too busy to take care of its own.

With the game on, the streets were fairly empty; the drug dealers and pimps taking the night off to watch that rarest of miracles occur: the Atlanta Falcons playing in the Super Bowl. This being a Sunday night, the prostitutes were still out making a living, trying to give the church-goers something to confess next week. Some of the girls waved at Michael as he drove past, and he returned the greeting, wondering how many unmarked cars stopped here during the middle of the night, cops telling Dispatch they were taking a ten-minute break, then motioning one of the girls over to help blow off some steam.

Building nine was in the back of the development, the crumbling red brick edifice tagged by the Ratz, one of the new gangs that had moved into the Homes. Four cruisers and another unmarked car were in front of the building, lights rolling, radios squawking. Parked in the residents' spaces were a black BMW and a pimped-out Lincoln Navigator, its ten-thousand-dollar razor rims glittering gold in the streetlights. Michael fought the urge to jerk the steering wheel, take some paint off the seventy-thousand-dollar SUV. It pissed him off to see the expensive cars the bangers drove. In the last month, Michael's kid had shot up about four inches, outgrowing all his jeans, but new clothes would have to wait for Michael's next paycheck. Tim looked like he was waiting for a high tide while Daddy's tax dollars went to help these thugs pay their rent.

Instead of getting out of his car, Michael waited, listening to another few seconds of the game, enjoying a moment's peace before his world turned upside down. Michael had been on the force for almost fifteen years now, going straight from the army to the police, realizing too late that other than the haircut, there wasn't that much difference between the two. He knew that as soon as he got out of his car it would all start up like a clock that was wound too tight. The sleepless nights, the endless leads that never panned out, the bosses breathing down his neck. The press would probably catch onto it, too. Then he'd have cameras stuck in his face every time he left the squad, people asking him why the case wasn't solved, his son seeing it on the news and asking Daddy why people were so mad at him.

Collier, a young beat cop with biceps so thick with muscle that he couldn't put his arms down flat against his sides, tapped on the glass, gesturing for Michael to roll down his window. Collier had made a circling motion with his meaty hand, even though the kid had probably never been in a car with crank windows.

Michael pressed the button on the console, saying, 'Yeah?' as the glass slid down.

'Who's winning?'

'Not Atlanta,' Michael told him, and Collier nodded as if he had expected the news. Atlanta's previous trip to the Super Bowl was several years back. Denver had thumped them 34-19.

Collier asked, 'How's Ken?'

'He's Ken,' Michael answered, not offering an elaboration on his partner's health.

'Could use him on this.' The patrolman jerked his head toward the building. 'It's pretty nasty.'

Michael kept his own counsel. The kid was in his early twenties, probably living in his mother's basement, thinking he was a man because he strapped on a gun every day. Michael had met several Colliers in the Iraqi desert when the first Bush had decided to go in. They were all eager pups with that glint in their eye that told you they had joined up for more than three squares and a free education. They were obsessed with duty and honor, all that shit they'd seen on TV and been fed by the recruiters who plucked them out of high school like ripe cherries. They had been promised technical training and home-side base assignments, anything that would get them to sign on the dotted line. Most of them ended up being shipped off on the first transport plane to the desert, where they got shot before they could put their helmets on.

Ted Greer came out of the building, tugging at his tie like he needed air. The lieutenant was pasty for a black man, spending most of his time behind his desk basking in the fluorescent lights as he waited for his retirement to kick in.

He saw Michael still sitting in the car and scowled. 'You working tonight or just out for a drive?'

Michael took his time getting out, sliding the key out of the ignition just as the half-time commentary started on the radio. The evening was warm for a February, and the air-conditioning units people had stuck in their windows buzzed like bees around a hive.

Greer barked at Collier, 'You got something to do?'

Collier had the sense to leave, tucking his chin to his chest like he'd been popped on the nose.

'Fucking mess,' Greer told Michael. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his forehead. 'Some kind of sick perv got ahold of her.'

Michael had heard as much when he'd gotten the call that pulled him off his living-room couch. 'Where is she?'

'Six flights up.' Greer folded the handkerchief into a neat square and tucked it into his pocket. 'We traced the 911 call to that phone.' He pointed across the street.

Michael stared at the phone booth, a relic of the past. Everybody had cell phones now, especially dealers and bangers.

'Woman's voice,' Greer told him. 'We'll have the tape sometime tomorrow.' He turned back to the building, obviously glad Michael was here to relieve him. 'We're gonna have to call in some help on this one.'

Michael bristled at the suggestion. Statistically, Atlanta was one of the most violent cities in America. A dead hooker was hardly an earth shattering development, especially considering where she was found.

He told Greer, 'That's all I need, more assholes telling me how to do my job.'

'This asshole thinks it's exactly what you need,' the lieutenant countered. Michael knew better than to argue – not because Greer wouldn't tolerate insubordination, but because he'd agree with Michael just to shut him up, then turn around and do whatever the hell he wanted to anyway.

Greer added, 'This one's bad.'

'They're all bad,' Michael reminded him, opening the back door to his car and taking out his suit jacket.

'Girl didn't have a chance,' Greer continued. 'Beat, cut, fucked six ways to Sunday. We got a real sick fuck on our hands.'

Michael put on his jacket, thinking Greer sounded like he was auditioning for HBO. 'Ken's out of the hospital. Said come by the house and see him anytime.'

Greer made some noises about being real busy lately before trotting off toward his car, looking back over his shoulder as if he was afraid Michael would follow. Michael waited until his boss was in his car and pulling out of the lot before he headed toward the building.

Collier stood at the doorway, hand resting on the butt of his gun. He probably thought he was keeping watch, but Michael knew that the person who had committed this crime wasn't going to come back for more. He was finished with the woman. There was nothing else he wanted to do.

Collier said, 'The boss left fast.'

'Thanks for the news flash.'

Michael braced himself as he opened the door, letting the damp, dark building draw him in slowly. Whoever had designed the Homes hadn't been thinking about happy kids coming home from school to warm cookies and milk. They had focused on security, keeping open spaces to a minimum and covering all the light fixtures in steel mesh to protect the bulbs. The walls were exposed concrete with narrow windows tucked into tight little corners, the safety wire embedded in the glass looking like uniform cobwebs. Spray paint covered surfaces that had been painted white once upon a time. Gang tags, warnings and various pieces of information covered them now. To the left of the broken mailboxes, someone had scrawled, 'Kim is a ho! Kim is a ho! Kim is a ho!'

Michael was looking up the winding staircase, counting the six flights, when a door creaked opened. He turned around to find an ancient black woman staring at him, her coal dark eyes peering out around the edge of the steel door.

'Police,' he said, holding up his badge. 'Don't be afraid.'

The door opened wider. She was wearing a floral apron over a stained white tee shirt and jeans. 'I ain't afraid'a you, bitch.'

Clustered behind her were four old women, all but one of them African-American. Michael knew they weren't here to help. Grady, like any small community, thrived on gossip and these were the mouths that fed the supply line.

Still, he had to ask, 'Any of y'all see anything?'

They shook their heads in unison, bobbleheads on the Grady dashboard.

'That's great,' Michael said, tucking his badge back into his pocket as he headed toward the stairs. 'Thanks for helping keep your community safe.'

She snapped, 'That's your job, cocksucker.'

He stopped, his foot still on the bottom stair as he turned toward her, looking her straight in the eye. She returned the glare, rheumy eyes shifting back and forth like she was reading the book of his life. The woman was younger than the others, probably in her early seventies, but somehow grayer and smaller than her companions. Spidery lines crinkled the skin around her lips, wrinkles etched from years of sucking on cigarettes. A shock of gray streaked through the hair on the top of her head as well as the ones corkscrewing out of her chin like dreadlocks. She wore the most startling shade of orange lipstick he had ever seen on a woman.

He asked, 'What's your name?'

Her chin tilted up in defiance, but she told him, 'Nora.'

'Somebody made a 911 call from that phone booth outside.'

'I hope they wash they hands after.'

Michael allowed a smile. 'Did you know her?'

'We all knowed her,' the woman said, her tone indicating there was a lot more to be told but she wasn't the one who was going to tell it to some dumb ass white cop. Obviously, Nora didn't exactly have a college degree under her belt, but Michael had never set much store by that kind of thing. He could tell from her eyes that the woman was sharp. She obviously had street smarts. You didn't live to be that old in a place like Grady by being stupid.

Michael took his foot off the step, walking back toward the crowd of women. 'She working?'

Nora kept her eye on him, still wary. 'Most nights.'

The white woman behind her provided, 'She an honest girl.'

Nora tsked her tongue. 'Such a young little thing.' There was a hint of challenge in her voice when she said, 'No kind of life for her, but what else could she do?'

Michael nodded like he understood. 'Did she have any regulars?'

They all shook their heads, and Nora provided, 'She never brought her work home with her.'

Michael waited, wondering if they would add anything else. He counted the seconds off in his head, thinking he'd let it go to twenty. A helicopter flew over the building and car wheels squealed against asphalt a couple of streets over, but no one paid attention. This was the sort of neighborhood where people got nervous if they didn't hear gunshots at least a couple of times a week. There was a natural order to their lives, and violence – or the threat of it – was as much a part of it as fast food and malt liquor.

'All right,' Michael said, having counted the seconds to twenty-five. He took out one of his business cards, handing it to Nora as he told her, 'Something to wipe your ass on.'

She grunted in disgust, holding the card between her thumb and forefinger. 'My ass is bigger than that.'

He gave her a suggestive wink, made his voice a growl. 'Don't think I hadn't noticed, darlin'.'

She barked a laugh as she slammed the door in his face. She had kept the card, though. He had to take that as a positive sign.

Michael walked back to the stairs, taking the first flight two at a time. All of the buildings at Grady had elevators, but even the ones that worked were dangerous. As a first-year patrolman, Michael had been called out to the Homes on a domestic disturbance and gotten caught in one of the creaky contraptions with a busted radio. He had spent about two hours trying not to add to the overwhelming smell of piss and vomit before his sergeant realized he hadn't reported in and sent somebody to look for him. The old-timers had laughed at his stupidity for another half-hour before helping get him out.

Welcome to the brotherhood.

As Michael started on the second flight of stairs, he felt a change in the air. The smell hit him first: the usual odor of fried foods mingled with beer and sweat, cut by the sudden but unmistakable stench of violent death.

The building had responded to the fatality in the usual way. Instead of the constant thump of rap beating from multiple speakers, Michael heard only the murmur of voices from behind closed doors. Televisions were turned down low, the half-time show serving as background noise while people talked about the girl on the sixth floor and thanked the Lord it was her this time and not their children, their daughters, themselves.

In this relative quiet, sounds started to echo down the stairwell; the familiar rhythms of a crime scene as evidence was gathered, photos taken. Michael stopped at the bottom of the fourth floor landing to catch his breath. He had given up smoking two months ago but his lungs hadn't really believed him. He felt like an asthmatic as he made his way up the next flight of stairs. Above him, someone barked a laugh, and he could hear the other cops join in, participating in the usual bullshit bravado that made it possible for them to do the job.