“Do you think he might have gotten too close to the doer in the Monroe case?”

“Cynthia Barrett’s body was fresh when we got there, probably no more than an hour old. I was with Ormewood the whole morning and I didn’t see that we made any great strides toward breaking the case, let alone pushed someone so hard that they jumped in their car, went to his house and mutilated his next-door neighbor.”

Amanda nodded for him to continue.

“We talked to Monroe’s pimp. He didn’t strike me as the type to cut off a good source of income, but obviously I’ll go back at him today.”

“And?”

“And as I said, I’ll talk to Ormewood about this, ask if he saw or did anything unusual the night of the Monroe murder.”

“Is he in today or did he take compassionate leave?”

“I have no idea,” Will answered. “Wherever he is, I’ll find him.”

She picked up one of her messages. “A Leo Donnelly was trying to get your personnel file.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“I sealed it,” she said. “No one needs to smell your dirty laundry.”

“No one but you,” Will corrected. He looked at his watch as he stood. “If that’s all, Dr. Wagner?”

She held her hands out in an open gesture. “By all means, Dr. Trent. Go forth and conquer.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

8:56 AM

John had been forced to get rid of his shoes. He wasn’t sure if he had left any footprints at the scene, but he wasn’t taking any chances. When he got back to the flophouse, he had cut at the soles with a kitchen knife, altering the waffle pattern. Not trusting his luck, he had then gotten on the bus, paying cash so his Trans Card wouldn’t track him, and ridden to Cobb Parkway all the way up in Marietta. There he had walked around for an hour, dragging his feet on the hot asphalt, scoring the soles some more.

At the Target, he’d bought a new pair of sneakers—twenty-six dollars he could ill-afford—then tossed his old shoes into a Dumpster behind a shady-looking Chinese restaurant. His stomach had rumbled at the smells coming from the kitchen. Twenty-six dollars. He could have bought a nice meal, had a waitress bring him food, keep his glass filled with iced tea, talked to her about the crazy weather.

All the tea in the world wasn’t worth going back to prison.

God, he was in such a fucking mess. He shuddered, thinking how that girl’s tongue had felt when he’d pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. Even through the latex glove, he could feel the texture of the thing, the warmness to it from being in her mouth. John put his hand to his own mouth, trying not to vomit. She’d been an innocent, just a little girl who had been too curious, too easily swayed.

John’s only consolation was the thought of Michael Ormewood’s face when he went into his garage in search of the porn he kept in the bottom of his toolbox and found his trusty knife sitting beside his teenage victim’s tongue.

“Shelley!” Art yelled. John bolted up. He had been kneeling beside a sedan, rubbing bug guts off the front bumper.

“Sir?”

“Visitor.” Art jerked his head toward the back of the building. “Make sure you’re off the clock.”

John stood frozen in place. A visitor. No one visited him. He didn’t know anybody.

“Yo, yo,” Ray-Ray mumbled. They had worked out an uneasy peace since the hooker incident.

“Yeah?”

“It’s a girl.” Not a cop, was what he meant.

A girl, John thought, his mind reeling. The only girl he knew was Robin.

He told Ray-Ray, “Thanks, man,” tucking in his shirt as he headed to the back of the car wash. As John punched out, he caught his reflection in the mirror over the clock. Despite the chill in the air, sweat had plastered his hair to his head. Jesus, he probably smelled, too.

John ran his fingers through his hair as he opened the back door. His first thought was that the girl who stood there wasn’t Robin, then that the girl wasn’t really a girl. It was a woman. It was Joyce.

He felt more nervous than if it had actually been the prostitute come to see him, and ashamed by the cheap clothes he was wearing. Joyce was in a nice suit jacket with matching slacks that she sure as shit hadn’t bought at a discount store. The sun was picking out auburn highlights in her hair and he wondered if it was streaked or something she’d always had. He remembered the way Joyce’s face used to twist up when she got angry with him, the smile on her mouth when she gave him an Indian burn and the sneer she’d give when she slapped him for pulling one of her braids. He didn’t, however, remember the color of her hair when they were children.

She greeted him with a demand. “What are you mixed up in, John?”

“When did you start back smoking?”

She took a long drag on the cigarette in her hand and tossed it to the ground. He watched her press the toe of her shoe into it, grinding the butt, probably wishing she was grinding his head in its place.

She let out a stream of smoke. “Answer my question.”

He looked back over his shoulder, though he knew they were alone. “You shouldn’t be here, Joyce.”

“Why won’t you answer my question?”

“Because I don’t want you involved.”

“You don’t want me involved?” she repeated, incredulous. “My life is involved, John. Whether I like it or not, you are my brother.”

He could feel her anger like a heat radiating from her body. Part of him wished she would just haul off and hit him, beat him to a bloody pulp until her fists were broken and her rage was spent.

She said, “How can you have credit cards when you’re in prison?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it allowed?”

“I…” He hadn’t even considered the question, though it was a good one. “I suppose. You can’t have cash, but…” He tried to think it through. You could get a warning or even thrown into solitary for having cash in prison. Everything you bought at the canteen was debited through your account and you weren’t allowed to order anything through the mail.

“I don’t know.”

“You realize if Paul Finney finds out any of this, he’ll sue you in civil court for every dime you have.”

“There’s nothing to get,” John said. His mother’s will had left everything to Joyce for this very reason. Under the victim’s compensation act, if John ever had more than two pennies to rub together, Mary Alice’s family could get it. Mr. Finney was like a circling shark waiting for a drop of John’s blood in the water.

Joyce said, “You own a house in Tennessee.”

He could only stare.

She took a folded sheet of paper out of her coat pocket. “Twenty-nine Elton Road in Ducktown, Tennessee.”

He took the page, which was a Xerox of an original. Across the top were the words, “Official Certificate of Title.” His name was listed above the property address as the owner. “I don’t understand.”

“You own this house free and clear,” she told him. “You paid it off in five years.”

He had never owned anything in his life except a bicycle, and Richard had taken that away from him after his first arrest. “How much did it cost?”