For once, she was silent.
Will pulled out his cell phone to call the number.
“Don’t be stupid. It’s Healing Winds, a rehab facility.”
“Why was she calling there?”
“I had the same question.” She signaled, pulling into the next lane. “They’re not allowed to give out patient information.”
Will checked the dates against the numbers. Evelyn had only started calling the facility in the last ten days, the same time period in which Mrs. Levy said that Hector Ortiz’s visits with Evelyn had picked up.
Will said, “Chuck Finn lives in Tennessee.”
“He lives in Memphis. That’s a five-hour drive from Healing Winds in Chattanooga.”
“He has a serious drug addiction.” Will waited for her to respond. When she didn’t, he said, “Guys get clean, sometimes they want to unburden themselves. Maybe Evelyn was afraid he would start talking.”
“What an interesting theory.”
“Or maybe it took clearing his mind for Chuck to realize that Evelyn was still sitting on her share of the cash.” He pushed on. “It’s hard to find work with a rap sheet like Chuck’s. He was kicked off the force. He spent serious time in prison. He’s got his habit to battle. Even if he’s clean, no one would go out of their way to hire him. Not in this economy.”
Amanda dropped another dollop of information. “There were eight sets of prints in Evelyn’s house, excluding hers and Hector’s. They’ve identified three. One set belonged to Hironobu Kwon, another belonged to Ricardo the heroin mule, and another set belonged to our Hawaiian shirt aficionado. His name is Benny Choo. He’s a forty-two-year-old enforcer for the Yellow Rebels.”
“Yellow Rebels?”
“It’s an Asian gang. Don’t ask me where they got the name. I suppose they’re very proud to be hillbillies. Most of them are.”
“Ling-Ling,” Will guessed. That was who they were going to see. “Spivey said you should talk to Ling-Ling.”
“Julia Ling.”
Will was surprised. “A woman?”
“Yes, a woman. My laws, how the world has changed.” Amanda glanced in the rearview mirror and darted into the next lane. “The nickname comes from the now-disproven perception that she’s not very smart. Her brother likes to rhyme things. ‘Ding-a-ling’ turned into ‘Ling-a-Ling,’ shortened to ‘Ling-Ling.’ ”
Will had no idea what she was talking about. “That makes sense.”
“Madam Ling is the outside boss of the Yellow Rebels. Her brother Roger still pulls the strings from inside, but she runs the day-to-day. If Yellow is making a play for Brown, then it’s being made by Roger via Ling-Ling.”
“What’s he in for?”
“He’s serving life for the rape and murder of two teenage girls. Sixteen and fourteen. They were tricking for him. He didn’t think they were pulling their weight, so he strangled them to death with a dog leash. But not before raping both of them and ripping off their breasts with his teeth.”
Will felt a shudder working its way up his spine. “Why isn’t he on death row?”
“He took a deal. The State was worried about him making an insanity plea—which, between you and me, wouldn’t be much of a stretch, because the man is absolutely nuts. This wasn’t the first time Roger was caught with human flesh between his teeth.”
The shudder made his shoulders flex. “What about the victims?”
“They were both runaways who fell into drugs and prostitution. Their families were more about divine retribution than an eye for an eye.”
Will was familiar with the concept. “They probably ran away for a reason.”
“Young girls usually do.”
“Roger’s sister still supports him?”
She gave him a meaningful look. “Don’t be fooled, Will. Julia talks a very good game, but she could slit your throat and not lose a wink of sleep. These people are not to be messed with. There are procedures that have to be followed. You must show them the utmost respect.”
Will repeated Boyd’s words. “ ‘You can’t go to Yellow without an invitation.’ ”
“You have such a remarkable memory.”
Will checked out the number for the next exit. They were heading toward Buford Highway. Chambodia. “Maybe Boyd was only half right. Heroin is a lot more addictive than coke. If the Yellow Rebels flood the market with cheap heroin, then Los Texicanos will lose its cocaine customer base. That points to a power struggle, but it doesn’t explain why two Asian men and a Texicano were in Evelyn Mitchell’s house looking for something.” Will stopped. She’d sidetracked him again. “Hironobu Kwon and Benny Choo. What’s Ricardo’s last name?”
She smiled. “Very good.” She offered the information like another reward. “Ricardo Ortiz. He’s Ignatio Ortiz’s youngest son.”
Will had interviewed ax murderers who were more forthcoming. “And he was muling heroin.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Are you going to tell me if any of these guys are connected or do I have to find that out on my own?”
“Ricardo Ortiz was thrown into juvie twice, but he never crossed paths inside with Hironobu Kwon. Neither of them have visible connections to Benny Choo, and as I said, Hector Ortiz was just a simple car salesman.” She zipped in front of a delivery truck, cutting off a Hyundai in the process. “Believe me, if I saw a connection between any of these men, we’d be working it.”
“Except for Choo, they’re all young guys, early twenties.” Will tried to think of where they might’ve met. AA meetings. Nightclubs. Basketball courts. Church, maybe. Miriam Kwon wore a gold cross around her neck. Ricardo Ortiz had a cross tattooed on his arm. Stranger things had happened.
Amanda said, “Check the number Evelyn called the day before she was taken. 3:02 p.m.”
Will traced his finger under the first column, finding the time. He moved across. The number had an Atlanta area code. “Am I supposed to recognize this?”
“I’d be surprised if you did. It’s the precinct number for Hartsfield.” Hartsfield-Jackson, Atlanta’s airport. “Vanessa Livingston is the commander. I’ve known the old gal a long time. She partnered with Evelyn after I left APD.”
Will waited, then asked, “And?”
“Evelyn asked her to check for a name on the flight manifests.”
“Ricardo Ortiz,” Will guessed.
“You must’ve gotten your sleep last night.”
He’d stayed up until three listening to the rest of the recordings, apparently for no reason but to find out things that Amanda already knew. “Where did Ricardo fly in from?”
“Sweden.”
Will frowned. He hadn’t been expecting that.
Amanda merged onto the exit ramp for I-285. “Ninety percent of all heroin in the world comes from Afghanistan. Your tax dollars at work.” She slowed for the curve as they went through Spaghetti Junction. “The bulk of the European supply runs through Iran, up into Turkey and farther points north.”
“Like Sweden.”
“Like Sweden.” She accelerated again as they merged into fast-moving traffic. “Ricardo was there for three days. Then he took a flight from Gothenburg to Amsterdam, then straight into Atlanta.”