CHAPTER EIGHT
MEMBERS OF THE PRESS WERE CLUSTERED AROUND THE entrance of Grady Hospital, momentarily displacing the pigeons but not the homeless people, who appeared determined to be included in every background shot. Will pulled into one of the reserved parking spots out front, hoping they could sneak in unnoticed. The prospect did not seem likely. News vans had their satellite dishes pointed skyward, and perfectly pressed reporters stood with mikes in their hands, breathlessly reporting the tragic story of the child who was abandoned at City Foods this morning.
Will got out of the car, telling Faith, "Amanda thought the kid would take the heat off us for a while. She's going to go ballistic when she finds out they might be connected."
Faith offered, "I'll tell her if you want me to."
He tucked his hands into his pockets as he walked beside her. "If I get a vote here, I'd rather you snap at me than feel sorry for me."
"I can do both."
He chuckled, although the fact that he'd missed the list of emergency numbers taped to the refrigerator was about as funny as his inability to read Jackie Zabel's name off her driver's license while the woman hung lifeless over his head. "Candy's right, Faith. She called it in one."
"You would have shown the list to me," Faith defended. "Jackie Zabel's sister wasn't even home. I doubt a five-minute delay in leaving a message on her answering machine will make a huge difference."
Will kept his mouth shut. They both knew she was stretching things. In some cases, five minutes made all the difference in the world.
Faith continued, "And if you hadn't stayed under that tree with the license last night, you might not have found the body until daylight. If ever."
Will saw the reporters were studying each person who walked to the front entrance of the hospital, trying to ascertain whether or not they were important to their story.
He told Faith, "One day, you're going to have to stop making excuses for me."
"One day, you're going to have to get your head out of your ass."
Will kept walking. Faith was right about one thing—she could snap at him and feel sorry for him at the same time. The revelation brought him no comfort. Faith's blood ran blue—not the old-money kind, but the cop kind—and she had the same knee-jerk response that had been drilled into Angie every single day at the police academy, every single second on the street. When your partner or your squad was attacked, you defended him no matter what. Us against them, damn the truth, damn what was right.
"Will—" Faith was cut off as the reporters swarmed around her. They had pegged Faith for a cop as she walked across the parking lot while Will, as usual, had gotten a free pass.
Will held out his hand, blocking a camera, using his elbow to push away a photographer with an Atlanta Journal logo on the back of his jacket.
"Faith? Faith?" a man called.
She turned around, spotting a reporter, and shook her head as she kept walking.
"Come on, babe!" the man called. Will thought that with his scruffy beard and rumpled clothes, he looked just like the kind of guy who could get away with calling a woman "babe."
Faith turned away, but she kept shaking her head as she walked toward the entrance.
Will waited until they were inside the building, past the metal detectors, to ask, "How do you know that guy?"
"Sam works for the Atlanta Beacon. He did a ride-along with me when I was working patrol."
Will seldom thought about Faith's life before him, the fact that she had worn a uniform and driven a squad car before she became a detective.
Faith gave a laugh Will didn't quite understand. "We were hot and heavy for a few years."
"What happened?"
"He didn't like that I had a kid. And I didn't like that he was an alcoholic."
"Well . . ." Will tried to think of something to say. "He seems all right."
"He does seem that way," she answered.
Will watched the reporters press their cameras against the glass, trying desperately for a shot. Grady Hospital was a public area, but the press needed permission to film inside the building and they had all learned at one time or another that the security guards had no qualms about tossing them out on their ears if they started to bug the patients or—worse—the staff.
"Will," Faith said, and he could tell from her voice that she wanted to go back to talking about the list on the fridge, Will's glaring illiteracy.
He said something that he knew would sidetrack her. "Why did Dr. Linton tell you all that stuff ?"
"What stuff ?"
"About her husband and being a coroner down south."
"People tell me things."
That was true enough. Faith had the cop's gift of being quiet so that other people talked just to fill the silence. "What else did she say?"
She smiled like a cat. "Why? Do you want me to put a note in her locker?"
Will felt stupid again, but this kind of stupid was far worse.
Faith asked, "How's Angie doing?"
He shot back, "How's Victor?"
And they were quiet the rest of the journey through the lobby.
"Hey, hey!" Leo held out his arms as he walked toward Faith. "Look at the big GBI girl!" He gave her a bear hug that, surprisingly, Faith allowed. "You're looking good, Faith. Real good."
She waved him off with a disbelieving laugh that would've seemed girlish if Will hadn't known her better.
"Good to see you, man," Leo boomed, shooting out his hand.
Will tried not to wrinkle his nose at the stench of cigarette smoke coming off the detective. Leo Donnelly was of average height and average build and, unfortunately, was a well-below-average cop. He was good at following orders, but thinking on his own was something the man just didn't want to do. While this was hardly surprising in a homicide detective who had come up in the 1980s, Leo represented exactly the kind of cop that Will hated: sloppy, arrogant, not afraid to use his hands if a suspect needed loosening up.
Will tried to keep things pleasant, shaking the man's hand, asking, "How's it going, Leo?"
"Can't complain," he answered, then started to do exactly that as they walked toward the emergency room. "I'm two years away from full retirement and they're trying to push me out. I think it's the medical—y'all remember that problem I had with my prostate." Neither one of them responded, but that didn't stop Leo. "Fucking city insurance is refusing to pay for some of my medication. I'm telling you, don't get sick or they'll screw you six ways to Sunday."
"What medication?" Faith asked. Will wondered why she was encouraging him.
"Fucking Viagra. Six bucks a pill. First time in my life I've ever had to pay for sex."
"I find that hard to believe," Faith commented. "Tell us about this kid. Any leads on the mom?"
"Zilch. Car's registered to a Pauline McGhee. We found blood at the scene—not a lot but enough, you know? This wasn't a nosebleed."
"Anything in the car?"
"Just her purse, her wallet—license confirms it's McGhee. Keys were in the ignition. The kid—Felix—was sleeping in the back."