Amanda said nothing.
“Anyway.” Kitty tapped some ash onto the driveway. “I reconciled with my father at the end.” She huffed a bitter laugh. “More money for Henry’s coffers. What’s the saying? God doesn’t close a door without first nailing shut all the windows?”
Amanda offered, “If you testify, I can—”
“You can’t really do anything. We both know that.”
“You can leave him. You can leave him right now.”
“Why would I do that?” She seemed genuinely perplexed. “He’s my husband. I love him.”
Her matter-of-fact tone was as shocking as anything Will had heard today. She really seemed to want an answer.
Amanda asked, “How could you? After all he did?”
Kitty snarled out a long stream of smoke. “You know how it is with men.” She flicked the cigarette into the yard. “Sometimes it’s criminal what a woman has to do.”
thirty-three
Present Day
ONE WEEK LATER
Sara’s greyhounds had been spoiled rotten. Will had started giving them cheese, which Sara had discovered the hard way. Apparently, it was an ongoing thing. The dogs were obsessed. The minute they recognized Will’s street, they started pulling on their leashes like huskies running the Klondike. By the time she got to his driveway, Sara’s arms felt as if they’d been ripped out of the sockets.
She gripped the leashes in one hand as she dug around in her pocket for the key to Will’s house. Thankfully, his Porsche pulled up behind her. He waved as he pulled past. The dogs pounced.
“Look at you,” Will cooed. He rubbed the dogs up and down. “Aren’t you good boys?”
“They’re nasty,” Sara said. “No more cheese.”
Will was laughing when he stood up. “Dogs need cheese. They can’t find it in the wild.”
Sara opened her mouth to counter his argument, but he kissed her so long and so well that she didn’t care anymore.
Will smiled down at her. “Did you hear back from your cousin?”
“We can have his beach house the whole week.”
His smile turned into a grin. He took the leashes. The dogs were considerably better behaved as they led Will up the walkway. Sara couldn’t help but think how much better Will looked. He was back at his real job. He was sleeping through the night. He wasn’t so shell-shocked anymore.
Will waited until Sara had closed the front door to let the dogs off their leashes. They bolted to the kitchen, but Will didn’t follow them. He told Sara, “Henry’s arraignment is next week.”
“We can postpone the beach if—”
“No.”
She watched him empty his pockets, putting his keys and money on the desk. “How’s the case going?”
“Henry’s fighting it, but you can’t argue with DNA.” He slid his paddle holster off his belt. “What about you? How was your day?”
“I need to tell you something.”
He looked wary. Sara couldn’t blame him. He’d had enough bad news lately.
“Your father’s tox screen came back.”
Will straightened the pen on his desk. “What did they find?”
“He had Demerol in his bloodstream. Not a lot.”
He gave her a careful look. “Pills?”
“Medical grade, injectable.”
He asked, “How much is not a lot?”
“He was a big guy, so it’s hard to be sure. I’d guess enough to make him relax but not knock him out completely.” She said, “They found the vial in the refrigerator under the bar. There was a syringe in the disposal box with residue. His fingerprints were on both.”
Will rubbed the side of his face with his fingers. “He never used drugs before. That was his thing. He was against them.”
“You know how bad prisons are. A lot of people change their minds about drugs when they get inside.”
“Where would he get liquid Demerol?”
Sara cast about for an explanation. “The prostitute who visited him the night before could’ve brought it. Did the police ever find her?”
“No,” Will answered. “They never found the nail polish, either.”
Sara knew Will hated loose ends. “Maybe she stole it. Most of those girls are addicts. They’re not having sex with twenty to thirty men a day because it’s fun.”
“What was the cause of death?” He seemed wary of saying the word. “Overdose?”
“His heart wasn’t in great shape. You know these things aren’t always conclusive. The medical examiner listed natural causes, but he could’ve had other drugs on board—inhaled something, swallowed something, had a bad reaction. It’s impossible to test for everything.”
“Did Pete handle the case?”
“No, he’s taken medical leave. It was one of his assistants. He’s a smart guy. I trust him.”
Will kept working his jaw. “Did he suffer?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I wish I could tell you.”
Betty barked. She pranced around Will’s feet. “I’d better feed them.”
He headed toward the kitchen. Sara followed him. Instead of picking up the bowls and getting out the cans from the cabinet, Will stood in the middle of the room.
There was a padded envelope on his kitchen table. A bright red lipstick print kissed the center. Sara instantly recognized Angie Trent’s handiwork. She’d found a note with the same lipstick kiss on her car every morning this week. She doubted very seriously that Angie had written “Whore” inside, but she asked Will anyway, “What does she want?”
“I have no idea.” Will sounded angry, then defensive, as if he could control his wife. “I changed the locks. I don’t know how she got in.”
Sara didn’t bother to respond. Angie was an ex-cop. She knew how to pick a lock. Working vice, she’d learned how to skate back and forth across the lines with impunity.
Will said, “I’ll throw it away.”
Sara tried to quell her irritation. “It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not.” Will picked up the envelope. It wasn’t sealed. The flap opened.
Sara jumped back, though what clattered onto the table was hardly dangerous. At least not anymore.
The prostitute at the Four Seasons had been the last person to see Will’s father alive. She knew the regular girls. She knew how they dressed, where they picked up their johns. More important, she knew that adjusting her hat in full view of the elevator security camera would draw attention to her recently manicured fingernails.
And that still wasn’t enough.
Like a cat leaving a dead animal on its owner’s doorstep, Angie Trent had taken a souvenir from the crime scene so that Will would know exactly what she’d done for him.
Glass bottle. Pointy white cap.
Bombshell red.
It was the missing bottle of Max Factor nail polish.
to Vernon—
for directing my sails
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Ben Hecht said, “Trying to determine what is going on in the world by reading newspapers is like trying to tell time by watching the second hand of a clock.” With that in mind, I perused many 1970s editions of both the Atlanta Journal and Atlanta Constitution, whose archives offered a fascinating glimpse into the daily lives of Atlantans. The Atlanta Daily World offered a sometimes countervailing and often more in-depth take on the same events. Atlanta magazine provided a great source for historical context, including their “best of” issues as well as a shockingly hilarious profile of the swingin’ Riverbend apartment complex. Back issues of Cosmopolitan magazine gave tips on hairstyles, celebrities, and achieving sexual satisfaction—so different from what they focus on today. Newsweek, Time, Ladies’ Home Journal, and the Sears catalogue were also great guides for apparel and decorating. AtlantaTimeMachine.com showcases myriad before and after photos of city hotspots. There are an alarming number of 1970s TV commercials on YouTube that sucked away hours of my life that I will never get back. My only consolation is that the posters spent more time uploading them than I did watching them.