The next thing he remembered was waking up with the worst headache he’d ever had in his life. There were shooting pains in his chest and he felt cold, though sweat covered his body. He rolled over, his skin sticking to the sheets. He was thinking that his mother was going to kill him for wetting the bed when he felt her body beside him.
Mary Alice was completely naked. Her neck was twisted to the side, her mouth open and filled with blood. He saw bruises on her legs and other parts of her. Patches of her pubic hair had been ripped out. Bite marks were all over her small breasts.
John was too freaked out to make any noise. He was panting, his bladder pressing for release as he pushed himself back away from her body. The open window was behind him. He reached up, his fingers sliding against the frame. Blood. He had blood all over his hand. He had lain in it all night, his clothes soaking it up like a sponge.
He heard a noise, a “huh-huh-huh,” but it was coming from him. Her face. He couldn’t stop looking at her face. So much blood. His bladder released, a warm, wet liquid flooding down his leg.
He had to get out of here. He had to leave.
John pressed himself against the wall, using his legs to push himself up over the window ledge. He fell through the open window and into the backyard flat on his back, the air puffing out of his lungs in a sharp cough.
He looked up at the sky. It wasn’t yet morning, the sun making the trees gray shadows against black. His legs shook, but he managed to stand, his pants sticking to his thighs, his bloody shirt like a second skin on his back where he had lain beside Mary Alice all night.
John ran, his heart pulsing in his throat.
He had to get out of there.
He had to get home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FEBRUARY 6, 2006
8:02 PM
Will Trent was brushing his dog when the doorbell rang. Betty started barking, her body nearly skittering off the table from the force. He shushed her and was rewarded with a curious look. Will had never told the dog no.
A full minute passed. Will and Betty waited, hoping whoever was at the door would go away, but the doorbell rang again, then three more times in rapid succession.
The dog started barking in earnest. Will sighed, put down the brush and rolled down his shirtsleeves. He scooped up the dog in his hand. The doorbell rang again—six times in a row—as he walked to the front door.
“What the fuck took you so long?”
He looked into the street to see if she was alone. “I’ve been plagued by Jehovah’s Witnesses lately.”
“Might be a good way for you to meet women.” Angie wrinkled her nose. “God, that is one ugly dog.”
Will followed Angie into his house, holding the dog close to his chest, feeling the slight even if the animal hadn’t. Angie was still dressed for work and he remarked, “You look like a prostitute.”
“You look like a corpse in a coffin.”
He pressed his hand to the tie. “You don’t like the suit?”
“What happened to those jeans I bought you?” She flopped onto his couch and let out a sigh of relief, not waiting for his answer. “These fucking shoes,” she complained, sliding out of the six-inch heels and letting them hit the rug. She unpinned her long brown hair and shook it out so it fell around her shoulders. “I am so sick of this fucking job.”
Will put Betty down on the floor. The Chihuahua’s nails clicked across the hardwood as she headed toward the kitchen. He heard her drink some water, then nibble on what was left of her supper. The dog was an unwelcome and, hopefully, temporary companion. Two weeks ago, Will had come back from his morning run to find his elderly neighbor being loaded into an ambulance. The woman had some sort of speech impediment and, judging from the timbre of her voice, a five-pack-a-day habit.
“Watch Betty!” she had screamed across the front lawn, though Will had heard it as Wash Betty!
“What do I do with her?” he had asked, somewhat horrified at the prospect. The woman just glared, so he pointed to the tiny Chihuahua standing on her front porch. “The dog. What about the dog?”
“Brush her!” the woman had screeched, and the ambulance doors had slammed shut.
Will didn’t know the neighbor’s name. Other than her love of listening to The Price Is Right at full volume, he knew little about her. He had no idea where the ambulance had taken her or if she had any family or, for that matter, if she was ever coming back. The only reason he knew the dog’s name was because the woman had a habit of yelling at it.
“Betty!” he would hear in the middle of the night, her voice a deeper baritone than any man’s. “Betty, I told you not to do that!”
Angie had her arms crossed over her chest as she stared up at Will. “You realize you look absolutely ridiculous carrying that little dog around.”
Will sat across from her, leaning back in his chair. He picked up the remote control for the stereo and stopped the audio book he had been listening to. Two very long years had passed since he had talked to Angie Polaski, and now here she was back in his living room like they hadn’t missed a day. She had always been like that, ever since they were children. Pretend nothing was surprising and you would never be surprised.
He said, “Thanks for helping me with the vending machine this morning,” leaving out that he’d almost had a heart attack when he saw her standing in the hallway at City Hall East today.
“What were you doing with Michael Ormewood, anyway?” Again, she didn’t let him answer. “Jesus, I can’t believe that about his neighbor. How weird is that?”
He tried to settle on one topic at a time. “He pulled a case that interested me. How do you know him?”
“Used to work Vice,” she told him. “Do you have anything to snack on?”
Will got up to check the refrigerator, Betty close on his heels. He ate most of his meals out, but the dog liked cheese and he kept some on hand for her.
Angie had followed him into the kitchen. He asked, “When did Ormewood get transferred to Homicide?”
“About six months ago.”
Will had been living in north Georgia six months ago, exiled to busting abandoned chicken farms that had been turned into methamphetamine labs while his boss decided what to do with him.
“Vice was his first big assignment when he got his gold shield,” she said. “He worked it about ten years.”
Will figured she was trying to tell him something. “Why did he leave?”
“Me.” She pulled out a chair and sat at the table. “I told him he had to leave or I’d report him.”
“For?”
“He was diddling some of the girls.”
Will put the cheese down on the counter. “That’s interesting.”
“I thought it was pretty fucking disgusting, but to each his own.”
Will mulled this over a moment, his picture of Michael Ormewood changing yet again. The man was certainly hard to pin down. “Was he doing this the whole ten years he worked Vice?”
“I only worked on his team for a few months. If I had to guess, I’d say yeah.”
He asked, “Is that common?”
She shrugged. “Happens sometimes, especially with the married guys. Free pussy, who’s gonna say no?”