The Kept Woman (Will Trent 8)

‘Are you a ball player?’

Will looked up from the magazine. Mrs Lindsay was talking to him.

‘No, ma’am,’ he told her, and then because as far as he knew, it was still technically true, he said, ‘I’m a special agent with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.’

‘Isn’t that interesting?’ She played with the pearls around her neck. ‘Now, the GBI is the state police?’

‘No, ma’am. We’re a statewide agency that provides assistance with criminal investigations, forensic laboratory services and computerized criminal justice information.’

‘Sort of like the FBI, but to the state?’

She had picked it up quicker than most. ‘Yes, ma’am, exactly.’

‘All kinds of cases?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Every kind.’

‘How interesting.’ She started to rummage inside her purse. ‘Are you here for your job? I hope no one is in trouble?’

Will shook his head. ‘No, ma’am. Just some routine questions.’

‘What’s your full name?’

‘Will Trent.’

‘Will Trent. A man with two first names.’ She took out a small notebook with a church glass pattern on the vinyl cover. She picked at the pen inside the spiral.

Will leaned up so he could get his wallet. He fished out one of his business cards. ‘This is me.’

She studied the card. ‘Will Trent, Special Agent, Georgia Bureau of Investigation.’ She smiled at him as she tucked the card into her notebook and returned it to her purse. ‘I like to remember people I meet. How long have you been married?’

Will glanced down at the pawnshop ring on his finger. Was he a widower? What did you call yourself if your wife died when you no longer wanted to be married to her?

‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Lindsay apologized. ‘I’m being nosey. My daughter is always telling me I’m too curious for my own good.’

‘No, ma’am. That’s all right. I’m kind of nosey, too.’

‘I should hope so, considering your job.’ She laughed, so Will laughed too. She told him, ‘I was married for fifty-one years to a wonderful man.’

‘You were a child bride?’

She laughed again. ‘You’re very kind, Special Agent Trent, but no. My husband passed away three years ago.’

Will felt a lump come into his throat. ‘And you have a daughter?’

‘Yes.’ That was all she said. She clutched her purse in her lap. She kept smiling at him. He smiled back.

And then he saw her bottom lip start to quiver.

Her eyes were moist.

Will glanced at the receptionist, who was still typing on her computer.

He lowered his voice, ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Oh yes.’ Her teeth showed in a wide smile, but the lip would not stop its tremble. ‘Everything is wonderful.’

Will noticed that the receptionist had stopped typing. She had the phone to her ear. Mrs Lindsay’s lip had not stopped quivering. She was obviously upset about something.

He tried to sound conversational. ‘Do you live around here?’

‘Just up the street.’

‘Buckhead,’ Will said. ‘My boss lives down the road in those town homes near Peachtree Battle.’

‘That’s a nice area. I’m in the older building at the curve across from the churches.’

‘Jesus Junction,’ Will supplied.

‘The Lord is everywhere.’

Will wasn’t religious, but he said, ‘It’s good to have somebody looking out for you.’

‘You’re so right. I am truly blessed.’

Will felt like he was trapped inside a plasma globe with little sparks of electricity arcing back and forth between him and Mrs Lindsay. They kept staring at each other for at least another ten seconds before the door behind the receptionist’s desk opened.

‘Miss Lindsay?’ A bullet-headed thug wearing a tight-fitting black shirt and even tighter black pants stood in the open doorway. His Boston accent was as thick as his neck. ‘Let’s bring you back, sweetheart.’

Mrs Lindsay gripped her cane and stood, so Will stood too. ‘It was nice meeting you.’

‘You too.’ She offered her hand. He shook it. Her skin was clammy. She bit her lip to stop the tremble. She leaned on her cane to get herself started, then walked through the open door without turning back around.

The thug eyeballed Will a fuck-you before shutting the door behind him. Will took a wild shot in the dark and guessed this was Laslo, and that Laslo worked for Kip Kilpatrick. Behind every fixer was a sleazeball eager to get his hands dirty. Laslo struck Will as the type who came pre-dirtied.

The receptionist said, ‘Mr Kilpatrick should be about five or ten minutes.’

‘More.’ She looked confused, so Will explained, ‘Because you said five to ten minutes before, so now it’s—’

She started pecking on her computer again.

Will stuck his hands into his pockets. He looked at the couch, feeling like Mrs Lindsay might have left something for him. A breadcrumb, maybe.

Nothing.

He walked toward the bathroom door, turned around, and walked back toward the drink sign. He’d been right about the pacing. The receptionist kept giving him annoyed looks as she picked away at her computer keyboard. He wondered if she was updating her Facebook page. What exactly was required of a receptionist if she wasn’t in charge of answering phones? Will considered this as he paced, because the other things he had to consider were too much to bear. He was on his sixth revolution when a loud ding pierced the air.

The elevator doors slid open. Amanda stepped out.

Her expression quickly changed from surprise to fury to her usual mask of indifference. ‘You’re early,’ she said, as if the fact that he was standing in the lobby hadn’t shocked the hell out of her. She turned to the receptionist, ‘Can you find out how much longer Mr Kilpatrick will be?’

The girl picked up the phone. Her fingernails spiked the keypad.

‘Thank you.’ Amanda’s tone was polite, but her shoes gave her away. The heels stabbed into the marble floor like knives. She sat in the chair Will had abandoned. Her feet didn’t reach the ground. She teetered a bit as she tried to keep her balance. Will had never seen Amanda sit all the way back in a chair, but the problem was that this particular chair had been built for someone with a basketball player’s long legs. No wonder Will had been so comfortable.

He told her, ‘Sorry I was early.’

She picked up the Robb Report. ‘I think I prefer you without testicles.’

The receptionist hung up the phone with a clatter. ‘Mr Kilpatrick said he’ll be five or ten minutes.’ For Will’s sake, she added, ‘More.’

‘Thank you.’ Amanda stared at the magazine with a sudden interest in luxury watches.

Will figured he couldn’t piss off Amanda any more than he already had. He resumed his pacing back and forth between the bathroom and the sign. He thought about the second envelope he had found in Angie’s post office box. White, nondescript, more shocking than the first. There was no stamp. Angie had left it for him, and Will had left it locked inside his car. The Kilpatrick envelope was evidence. The second was nobody’s business.