Fallen (Will Trent 5)

“The guy who had his throat slit open in front of his kids?”

She nodded. “Thirty years ago, they would’ve killed the children, too. One might say they’ve gotten softer in their old age.”

“I’d hardly call that soft.”

“Inside the joint, the Texicanos are known as throat slitters.”

“The gentleman in the trunk is high up on the food chain.”

“Why do you think that?”

“He’s only got one tattoo.” Young gang members generally used their bodies as a canvas to illustrate their lives, etching tattoos of teardrops under their eyes for every murder, wrapping their elbows and shoulders in cobwebs to show that they’d done time. The tattoos were always rendered in blue ink culled from ballpoint pens, what was called “joint ink,” and they always told a story. Unless their story was so bad that it didn’t need to be told.

Will said, “A clean body means money, power, control. The gentleman is older, probably early sixties. That puts him in on the ground floor of Texicanos. His age is his badge of honor. This isn’t the kind of lifestyle that ensures longevity.”

“You don’t get old by being stupid.”

“You don’t get old by being in a gang.”

“We can only hope the APD shares the gentleman’s identity with us when they manage to track it down.”

Will glanced at her. She stared ahead at the road. He had a niggling suspicion that Amanda already knew who this man was, and exactly what part he played in the Texicanos hierarchy. There was something about the way she’d folded Mrs. Levy’s photograph in her pocket, and he was pretty sure that she had given the old woman some kind of coded message to keep her story to herself.

He asked, “Do you ever listen to AC/DC?”

“Do I look like I listen to AC/DC?”

“It’s a metal band.” He didn’t tell her they’d created one of the bestselling albums in the history of music. “They’ve got a song called ‘Back in Black.’ It was playing when Faith pulled up. I checked the CDs at the house. Evelyn didn’t have it in her collection, and the player was empty when I ejected the tray.”

“What’s it about?”

“Well, the obvious. Being back. Wearing black. It was recorded after the original lead singer of the group died from a drug and alcohol bender.”

“It’s always sad when someone dies of a cliché.”

Will thought about the lyrics, which he happened to know by heart. “It’s about resurrection. Transformation. Coming back from a bad place and telling people who might’ve underestimated you, or made fun of you, that you’re not taking it anymore. Like, you’re cool now. You’re wearing black. You’re a bad guy. Ready to fight back.” He suddenly realized why he’d worn out the record when he was a teenager. “Or something like that.” He swallowed. “It could mean other things.”

“Hm” was all she would give him.

He drummed his fingers on the armrest. “How did you meet Evelyn?”

“We went to Negro school together.”

Will nearly choked on his tongue.

She chuckled at his reaction to what must have been a well-used line. “That’s what they called it back in the stone ages—the Negro Women’s Traffic School. Women were trained separately from men. Our job was to check meters and issue citations for illegally parked cars. Sometimes, we were allowed to talk to prostitutes, but only if the boys allowed us, and usually there was some crude joke about it. Evelyn and I were the only two whites in a group of thirty that graduated that year.” There was a fond smile on her lips. “We were ready to change the world.”

Will knew better than to say what he was thinking, which was that Amanda was a hell of a lot older than she looked.

She obviously guessed his thoughts. “Give me a break, Will. I joined in ’73. The Atlanta you know today was fought for by the women in those classes. Black officers weren’t even authorized to arrest whites until ’62. They didn’t have a precinct building. They had to hang out at the Butler Street YMCA until someone thought to call them. And it was even worse if you were a woman—two strikes, with the third hanging over your head.” Her voice took on a solemn tone. “Every single day was a struggle to do right when everything around you was wrong.”

“Sounds like you and Evelyn went through a trial by fire.”

“You have no idea.”

“Then tell me about it.”

She laughed again, but this time at his fumble. “Are you trying to interrogate me, Dr. Trent?”

“I’m wondering why you’re not talking about the fact that Evelyn obviously had a close, personal relationship with an old-school Texicano who ended up murdered in the trunk of her car.”

She stared ahead at the road. “It does seem odd, doesn’t it?”

“How can we work this case if we’re not going to at least admit what really happened?” She didn’t respond. “We’ll keep it between us, all right? No one else has to know. She’s your friend. I understand that. I spent a lot of time with her myself. She seems like a very agreeable person, and she obviously loves Faith.”

“There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”

“She was taking money like the rest of her team. She must’ve known the Texicanos from—”

Amanda cut him off. “Speaking of Texicanos, let’s go back to Ricardo.”

Will clenched his fist, wanting to punch something.

Amanda let him stew in silence for a while. “I’ve known you an awful long time, Will. I need you to trust me on a few things.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really, but I’m giving you an opportunity here to give me a return on all that benefit of the doubt I’ve deposited into your account over the years.”

His inclination was to tell her exactly where she could put her benefit, but Will had never been the type of man to say the first thing that came into his head. “You’re treating me like a dog on a leash.”

“That’s one interpretation.” She paused for a moment. “Did it ever occur to you that I might be protecting you?”

He scratched the side of his jaw again, feeling the scar that had been ripped into his skin years ago. Will generally shied away from introspection, but a blind man could see that he had strangely dysfunctional relationships with all of the women in his life. Faith was like a bossy older sister. Amanda was the worst mother he’d never had. Angie was a combination of both, which was unsettling for obvious reasons. They could be mean and controlling and Angie especially could be cruel, but Will had never once thought that any of them truly wished him harm. And Amanda was right about at least one thing: she had always protected Will, even on the rare occasion when it put her job at risk.

He said, “We need to call all the Cadillac dealerships in the metro area. The gentleman wasn’t driving a Honda. That’s an expensive ride. There are probably only a handful of those Cadillacs on the road. I think it has a manual transmission. That’s rare in a four-door.”

To his surprise, she said, “Good idea. Set it up.”

Will reached into his pocket, remembering too late that he didn’t have his phone. Or his gun and badge. Or his car for that matter.