The Kept Woman (Will Trent 8) (22 page)

If Harding and Angie knew each other from before, it made sense that one would tap the other for a job with Kip Kilpatrick. Harding had moved into the Mesa Arms six months ago, so Faith could reasonably assume that’s when he’d started working for Kilpatrick. Angie’s bank account had big checks coming in four months ago, so that meant she had worked for Kilpatrick at least four months.

Faith flipped back to the first page.

All of the arrows pointed to Marcus Rippy.

Her phone buzzed. Another lengthy text came in from Collier. Faith skimmed the lines for meaning, skipping over a report about the indigestion he’d gotten from a gas station hot dog. On Saturday, the day before the murder, Delilah Palmer had rented a black Ford Fusion from a Hertz location on Howell Mill Road. No security footage existed of the transaction. She had used her Visa card. Collier had put out a BOLO on the rental car. He’d also reiterated his heroin-mule theory, pointing out that dealers rented cars because they knew that their own rides would be seized by the cops if they were caught dealing out of them.

Again Faith tapped her pen against the notebook. She didn’t buy Collier’s drug angle. He was a hammer looking for a nail.

Delilah had rented the car Saturday, not Sunday or Monday, which implied that she had lined it up before Harding was murdered. Which could also imply that she knew ahead of time that Harding was in jeopardy and that she might need an escape. But she had used her own license and credit card to book the car. Delilah had been on the streets for years. She was too savvy to use her own name for a getaway.

Faith’s phone vibrated again. Another text, blissfully short.

G
IRLZ SAY
S
OUZA
OD
’D 6 MOS AGO
. D
EAD END
. D
EAD, GET IT?

Faith had to scroll back through her texts to remind herself who Souza was. She found the pertinent missive time-stamped two hours ago. According to some of Collier’s sources in zone six, Virginia Souza was another whore for whom Harding had called in a handful of favors. She worked Delilah’s street corner. She was fairly violent, considering she had been twice charged with assault against a minor. Faith wondered if that minor had been Delilah Palmer.

She looked at the text again. Collier’s sign-off was to say that he was going to talk to the younger whores, who might know something or someone who could point him toward Delilah Palmer’s whereabouts. Or he was talking to young whores because he was Collier. He had signed off with a series of eggplant emojis that, going by Jeremy’s Facebook page, were a stand-in for a bunch of penises.

Faith returned to her notebook. Lots of arrows connecting back to Rippy. Lots of questions. No answers. She should’ve let Collier rot here at the hospital while she tracked down Delilah Palmer. That was the problem with murder cases. You never knew which lead would take you to the solution and which one would sink you
into a black hole. Faith was getting the feeling that she had given Collier the good lead. She was going to throw herself off the roof of this building if he ended up lucking into their bad guy.

Her phone vibrated again. She didn’t want to read another dissertation from Collier’s awesome gumshoe file, but ignorance was a luxury she did not have. She looked at the screen.
CALL FROM WANTANABE, B
.

Faith stood up and walked down the hall for privacy. ‘Mitchell.’

‘Is this Special Agent Faith Mitchell?’ a woman asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Barbara Wantanabe. Violet told me you wanted to talk?’

Faith had almost forgotten about Harding’s next-door neighbor. ‘Thanks for getting back to me. I was wondering if you could tell me about Dale Harding.’

‘Oh, I could give you an earful,’ she said, and then she proceeded to do just that, complaining about the smell from his house, the way he sometimes parked his car with the wheels on the grass, his foul language, the loud volume on his television and radio.

Faith followed along as best she could. Barb was even more verbose than Collier. She had a way of saying something, then contradicting herself, then restating the first thing she had said, then equivocating, and by the fifth time she’d wound herself into a rhetorical knot, Faith started to understand why Harding had hated her so much.

‘And don’t even get me started on the music.’

Faith listened as she started on Harding’s music. The same rap album, morning noon and night. Her grandson said it was Jay Z, something called
The Black Album
. Faith was familiar with the
record, which her own son had played loudly behind the closed door of his room because it was the perfect backdrop to his white male privilege and early acceptance to one of the most prestigious universities in the country.

Faith tuned back into Barb, looking for a chance to jump in. Finally the woman had to stop to take a breath. ‘Did he have visitors?’

‘No,’ Barb said, then, ‘yes. I mean, I think so, yes. He might have had
a
visitor.’

Faith covered her eyes with her hand. ‘I sense some uncertainty.’

‘Well, yes. That’s true. I am uncertain.’

She had to float Collier’s drug-mule theory. ‘Did you see people coming in and out? Like a lot of people who looked like they didn’t fit in with the neighborhood?’

‘No, nothing like that. I would’ve called the police. It’s just that I thought there might be someone else, another person, over there at some point.’

‘At which point?’

‘Recently. Well, no, that’s not right. Last month.’

‘You thought someone was visiting at Dale’s house last month?’

‘Yes. Well, maybe staying there? Visiting might not be the right word.’

Faith gritted her teeth.

‘I mean to say that there could’ve been someone living over there. I think. When Dale was gone. Now, he was usually not there during the day when he first moved in, but later, he was always there. Which was when the problem started. When he was there. Which sounds mean, but there you go.’

Faith tried to wrap her brain around all the information. ‘So, when Dale first moved in six months ago, he was never home, but then you noticed that changed last month?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And around the time that changed, you heard sounds from next door that indicated someone other than Dale might be living there?’

‘Yes.’

Faith waited for the contradictory no, but it never came.

‘I heard sounds, you see.’ Barb paused before the next hedge. ‘Not sounds, per se. I mean, they could’ve been from the television. But who watches television and plays a rap album at the same time?’ She immediately went back on herself. ‘Then again, some people might do that.’

‘They might,’ Faith said. Especially if they wanted to cover up a noise, like a junkie beating on the closet door demanding to be let out. She asked, ‘Did you ever hear any banging?’

‘Banging?’

‘Someone banging on a wall or banging on a door?’

‘Well . . .’ She took her time considering the question.

Faith called up a mental image of the Tahoe floorplan at the Mesa Arms. The guest room was against the shared wall of the duplex. The master was to the outside, which gave the room more windows, but it also afforded more privacy.

Large master closet ideal for keeping women!

Barb said, ‘I guess you could say the noise sounded like a hammer.’

‘Like a hammer pounding something?’

‘Yes, but repeatedly. Maybe he was hanging pictures.’ She paused. ‘No, that would’ve been a lot of pictures. Not that it was constant—the noise—but it was long enough. I suppose he could’ve been assembling some furniture. My son does that for me. But only when he can find the time. My daughter-in-law, you see. But really, with Dale, the excrement was the real problem.’

Faith felt her mind boggle. ‘Say what, now?’

‘Excrement. You know . . .’ she lowered her voice, ‘doo-doo.’

‘Waste?’

‘Human.’

Faith had to repeat the two words together. ‘Human waste?’

‘Yes. In the backyard.’ She sighed. ‘You see, Dale would rinse out this bucket every evening, and at first I thought that he was painting inside, which made sense, because you would listen to music while you paint, yes?’

Faith threw out her hand. ‘Sure.’

‘And so I assumed that he was painting his walls, and not a very nice color, but then my grandson went into the backyard one day looking for twigs for Mr Nimh to chew on. Their teeth grow constantly, you see. Oh!’ She sounded excited. ‘Thank you, by the way, for finding him. I was persona non grata with my daughter-in-law for that particular crime. Believe me, she keeps a list. Now, I wasn’t a big fan of my own mother-in-law, but you do what you have to do, yes? It’s called respect.’

Faith tried to get Barb back on track. ‘Let’s go back to the excrement.’ There were six words she never thought she’d say. ‘You saw Dale cleaning out the bucket every night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Starting when?’

‘Two weeks ago? No.’ She doubled back. ‘Ten days. I would say ten days ago.’

‘A large bucket, not the kind you’d use to mop your floor?’

‘Right. Yes. For paint. Or I suppose solvents, but that size. Big.’

‘And one day your grandson went into the backyard and he found something? Smelled something?’

‘Yes. No. Both. He smelled something, and then he walked over. It was a slime, sort of? Whatever it was, it got all over the bottom of his shoe.’

The rat must have been thrilled.

Barb said, ‘I had to wash the sole with the hose. It was disgusting. And his mother was furious at me. Now, she’s my daughter-in-law, and I know that I have to play by her rules, but honestly—’

‘Did you ask Dale about the excrement?’

‘Oh no. I couldn’t talk to Dale about anything. That would be pointless. He would just curse at me and walk away.’

Faith understood why. ‘Did you ever see a different car at Dale’s house other than his white Kia?’

‘Not that I recall.’ She showed an unusual certainty. ‘No, I’m sure I never did.’

‘Are you home much?’ Faith tried to tread carefully, because a lot of times even well-meaning people stretched the truth. ‘I’m asking because you weren’t home this afternoon.’

‘I’ve been volunteering more at the YMCA. I fold towels, help keep things straightened up. I’m very clean, you see, which is why I had some issues with Dale. I don’t like things messed up. There’s no reason not to pick something up and put it right back where you found it, yes?’

‘Yes.’ Faith covered her eyes with her hand again. The woman never met a tangent she didn’t travel. ‘So you stepped up your volunteering to get away from Dale?’

‘Correct. At first volunteering was just a way to get out of the house for a few hours. And to help people. Of course to help people. But then it became my only respite away from the noise. And the odor. You smelled the odor, yes? I couldn’t live with it all day, you see. It was unbearable.’

Faith wondered if Barb’s absence had been the very thing Harding was pushing for all along. If he was keeping Delilah locked in the closet to dry her out, he would want to make sure no one would hear her screaming and call the police.

Faith asked, ‘When did you start spending more time away?’

‘Last week.’

‘So, seven days ago?’

‘Yes.’

Which meant that Dale had managed to drive her out after three days of relentless torture.

Barb said, ‘I just gave up. It was getting worse and worse. The smell. The noises. I couldn’t take it anymore, and I’m not the type to complain. Violet can verify that.’

Faith had the feeling Violet would do no such thing. ‘Well, I’m very sorry that you had to go through that, Ms Wantanabe. I appreciate your talking to me. If you think of anything else—’

‘It’s sad,’ she interrupted. ‘When he first moved in, I thought he was just a lonely old bachelor. He was obviously having health issues. He didn’t seem very happy. And I thought to myself,
This is a good place for him
. We’re a community here. We all have our differences. As Violet would say, some of us are to the right of
Genghis Khan and the rest are to the left of Pluto, but we look out for each other, you know?’

Faith felt her phone vibrate. ‘Yes, ma’am. It seemed like a nice place. I need to—’

‘You get to a certain age, you learn to look past people’s quirks and idiosyncrasies.’ She gave a long sigh. ‘But I’ll tell you what, honey. There’s no looking past human poop in your backyard.’

‘Well, okay.’ Faith’s phone vibrated again. There was a text from Will. ‘Thank you, ma’am. Call me if you think of anything else.’

Faith ended the call before Barb could toss out another bon mot. She opened Will’s text. He’d sent her a photo of the front of Grady, which was Will’s way of saying he was at the hospital looking for her. Faith texted back an emoji of a dinner plate and a smiling pile of shit, meaning she would meet him in the food court.

She checked the patient board as she walked past the nurses’ station. Jane Doe 2 was still critical. Faith didn’t bother to ask the nurses for an update. They had her card. They had promised to text the minute the patient was coherent enough to talk.

Faith started down the stairs. She tapped the pockets of her cargo pants, making sure her blood testing kit was still there. She had two insulin pens left. She had used a third half an hour ago, so she needed to eat. The problem was that Grady only offered fast-food restaurants. This was great for their new cardiac wing, but it was awful if you were trying to control your diabetes. Not that she felt like controlling anything right now. Faith longed for the days when she could eat herself into a stupor that drowned out her stress.

Will had beaten her to the food court. He was sitting at a quiet table in the back. She didn’t recognize him at first because he was in jeans and a beautiful long-sleeved polo that Sara had obviously sneaked into his wardrobe. He was a nice-looking guy, but he had a habit of blending in, which made him unlike every other cop she had ever met.

Will asked, ‘Is this okay?’

He meant the salad he’d ordered for her. Faith stared at the wilted lettuce and white chicken strips that looked like fingers on a dead man. Will’s tray had two cheeseburgers, large fries, a large Frosty and a Coke.