The photo from the rap sheet Will had been about to read was still at his elbow. He held it up, thinking that there was no mistaking that the boy on the screen had grown up to be the felon in the photo.
Will pasted Caroline’s mail into the speech program. He turned up the sound to his speakers, then clicked the menu bar and scrolled down to speak. The words were slow and metallic, their content enough to make him feel like he had been punched in the gut.
The program finished. Will did not need to hear it a second time.
He grabbed his car keys.
Angie’s lieutenant had told Will she was at a liquor store on Cheshire Bridge Road. Will found the store easily enough, but Angie was not among the prostitutes leaning against the building.
He said, “I’m looking for someone.”
“Me, too, handsome.”
“No,” Will said. He knew Angie didn’t go by her real name when she did this, but she had never told him her chosen alias. “She’s about five-eight. Brown hair, brown eyes. Olive skin.”
“Sounds like me, sweetheart.” This came from a short platinum blonde with a gap between her front teeth so pronounced that she whistled when she talked.
Another one said, “You looking for Robin, baby?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, turning to the older woman. She had a black eye that was made worse by the makeup she had spackled over it.
“I’m Lola.” She pushed herself away from the wall. “You her brother?”
“Yes,” Will managed, not bothering to explain. “I need to talk to her.”
“Give it a minute, honey,” Lola soothed him. “She went back to the pokey with a date about ten minutes ago. She should be finishing up about now.”
“Thank you,” Will said. He tucked his hands into his pockets, realizing it was cold. He had been in such a hurry to leave the house that he hadn’t even brought his coat.
Behind him, a car door slammed. A woman got out and while Will was watching, she reached between her legs, wiped herself and shook out her hand. She saw Will, then glanced back at the other girls, a question in her eyes.
Lola provided, “He’s Robin’s brother.”
The woman walked her hooker’s stroll past Will, giving him the once-over. “I had a brother like that, I would’a never left home.”
Will glanced at his watch. He started to pace to try to work out the tension that was coiling every muscle he had into a tight ball, but each second that passed with Angie not showing her face only served to make it worse.
She always did this. She always put herself right in the middle of trouble and did not give a damn that Will suffered the consequences. As long as he had known her, Angie had pushed people as hard as she could, constantly testing their limits. It was a game that would get her killed one day, and then Will would be the one sitting on the couch, some other cop the unlucky bastard who had to hold his hand and tell him that she had been found strangled, beaten, raped, murdered.
The girls had been trash-talking, but Will noticed they’d turned quiet. He heard a rustling from the woods and Angie came out, flashlight in her hand.
She looked at Will, then the girls, then back at Will. Her mouth was set, her eyes lit with fury. She turned on her heel, heading back into the woods, and Will followed her.
“Stop,” he said, trying to keep up. “Would you just stop?”
She wouldn’t listen. All he could do was follow the beam of her flashlight.
About twenty feet into the woods, she turned on him. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Her tone was sharp as a knife.
“I’m just your brother paying you a call.”
Angie looked over his shoulder and Will followed suit. He could clearly see the girls standing in front of the liquor store. They made no attempt to hide their interest.
She whispered hoarsely, trying to keep her voice down. “This is the wrong fucking place for this, Will. Lola already thinks something’s up.”
He shoved John Shelley’s rap sheet in her face. She did a double take when she saw the photograph, and he could have sworn her eyes softened.
“Read it,” he ordered. “Read it to me so that I know I’ve got it right.”
Angie shined the flashlight on the first page. He saw her eyes moving, reading the words. She looked up, said, “Will,” like he was being unreasonable.
“Read it.”
She held the flashlight under her arm, training the beam on the first page, then flipping to the second and third.
Finally, she looked up again. “So?”
He wanted to shake her. “Did you read what it says?”
Taking her time, she turned back to the first page and read aloud in a bored tone, “ ‘Jonathan Winston Shelley, six-one, one hundred ninety-five pounds, brown hair, brown eyes. Prior record: theft by taking. Received May 10, 1986, Coastal State Prison, maximum security, special offender’s wing, age sixteen. Paroled July 22, 2005, age thirty-five. Registered sexual offender, pedophile.’ ” She looked back up, repeated, “So?”
“Read the last page,” he said, meaning the part he’d printed out from Caroline’s e-mail. Shelley’s rap sheet had been brief, just listing the highlights of his crimes, but the records Caroline had found filled in all the blanks in horrid detail.
“Read it,” he demanded.
She didn’t want to. He could tell that from the steely way she glared at him.
He asked, “You want me to read it for you?”
“I only get an hour break for supper.”
He snatched the pages from her hand, tried to find the right section. He was so angry that the words kept reversing on the page, their shapes morphing one into the other. He tried, “Ca…” Will felt a knife-sharp pain in the front of his temple. God damnit, he knew at least two of the words. “Jonathan Shelley.” He tried to pick out another one. “Drain. No, he—dead. He killed—”
Angie put her hand over his. She tried to take the report but he wouldn’t let go. “Come on,” she coaxed, gently, pulling the pages from his grasp.
Will clenched his fists as he stared at the ground. Christ. No wonder she couldn’t stand to be with him.
She spoke softly. “I’m sorry.”
He wanted to sink into the ground, just magically to somewhere else.
“I’m sorry.”
“I read it before.”
“I know you did,” she told him, taking his hand again. “Look at me, Will. I’m sorry.”
He could not look at her.
“You want me to read it out loud?”
“I don’t care what you do.”
“Will.”
He knew he was sounding petulant, but couldn’t stop. “I really don’t.”
The flashlight had fallen to the ground and she reached down to pick it up, still holding on to him. She shined the light on the pages and read, “ ‘On June 15, 1985, Shelley sexually assaulted Mary Alice Finney, a fifteen-year-old white female, then removed her tongue with a serrated kitchen knife, resulting in her death. In addition, Shelley made several deep bite marks in the victim’s flesh and urinated on the body. Shelley’s bloody fingerprints were found at the scene and on the body. The murder weapon was found in Shelley’s bedroom closet. Known drug addictions: heroin, cocaine.’ ”