The Kept Woman (Will Trent 8)

Will stood up. ‘The patrol car can access footage from the street cameras.’

He didn’t wait for a response. He jogged up the aisle. He was outside and in the parking lot by the time they exited the building. Will pulled open the cruiser’s passenger-side door and got into the car. The uni gave a startled bark.

Will pointed to the laptop mounted on the dash. ‘I need the footage from every camera in the area.’

‘I was just pulling that up for your boss.’ The uni punched some keys. ‘These are the ones you want to see. I got two different angles, one from the street that runs in front of the funeral home, one that runs along the back.’

Faith opened the back door and slid into the car.

Amanda knelt beside Will. She told the uni, ‘Dunlop, tell me you found something.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Dunlop pointed to the screen. ‘This is right after the funeral van left at eight twenty-two.’

The prank call for a bogus body pick-up. Not a joke from another mortuary student, but a ruse to get Belcamino out of the building.

‘This is where the car first comes in.’ Dunlop turned the laptop around. Will saw the street corner, the rear entrance to the service alley. The night vision was fuzzy. The street lights weren’t helping. At 8:24:32, Angie’s black Monte Carlo SS turned into the alley that ran behind the funeral home. The driver’s face was a blob. A flash of blonde hair under a black hoodie. The car disappeared from the camera’s view as it rolled up the paved alley.

Will hit the arrow key, fast-forwarding the video to pick up the car again. Six minutes passed before the Monte Carlo drove back down the service alley and turned onto the street.

Faith said, ‘She went to the back door where the elevator is. She came back out. Six minutes is enough time to put a body in the freezer.’

Dunlop reached over and tapped some keys. ‘It picks up again here on the front street view.’

The Monte Carlo turned into the lot, using the entrance that was fifteen feet away from where they were. Angie’s car glided into the handicapped parking space. The driver got out. The roof of the car was about four and a half feet off the ground. The woman was around five-eight, close to Angie’s height. She was overweight, not like Angie, or maybe she had bulked up her clothes. The long-sleeved hoodie must have been sweltering, but she kept the hood on, head down, hands deep in her pockets as she walked up the street.

Faith asked, ‘Is it Angie?’

Will shook his head. He was out of the identifying Angie business.

‘Could be Delilah Palmer,’ Faith guessed. ‘Blonde hair, but Delilah changed her hair a lot.’

Amanda said, ‘Dunlop, where do you pick her up next?’

‘Nowhere. She’s either lucky or she knows the cameras.’ He tapped another few keys. He fast-forwarded and reversed through several different street angles before giving up. ‘She could’ve walked under the bridge, jumped into a car on the interstate. Headed up to Tech. Downtown. There are lots of blind spots where she could’a parked another car or had somebody waiting for her. Hell . . .’ He shrugged. ‘She could’ve jumped on a bus.’

‘Check the buses,’ Will said, because that sounded like something Angie would do. Or maybe not. He was the last person who could predict her behavior.

Amanda’s knees popped as she stood up. ‘Tell me about this Josephine Figaroa.’

‘Basketball wife.’ Faith got out of the car. ‘Oxy. That’s all I know.’

Will said, ‘The husband. Reuben “Fig” Figaroa, one of Marcus Rippy’s alibi witnesses for the night of the rape. He’s a power forward. Very physical. Rebounds well on defense. Kip Kilpatrick’s client.’

‘This hole just keeps getting deeper,’ Amanda said.

‘Here’s her DL.’ Faith showed them her phone. She had pulled up Josephine Figaroa’s driver’s license.

Will studied the photo. Dark hair. Thin and tall. Almond-shaped eyes. Olive skin. She looked like Angie from twenty years ago.

Did she look like Will? Did she have his height? Did she have his problems?

Amanda said, ‘Inasmuch as you can tell anything, the photo resembles the woman in the basement.’

Faith said, ‘She’s a carbon copy of Angie.’

Will said nothing.

‘You two.’ Amanda waved over Collier and his partner. They had been so quiet that Will had forgotten they were there. ‘Ng. Take off those stupid sunglasses. I put you on missing person reports. Josephine Figaroa. Did she come up?’

‘Fig’s wife?’ His face was small without the glasses. ‘No, she wasn’t in any of my searches. I would recognize the name.’

Amanda told Faith, ‘You’ll come with me to talk to the husband. See if we can get an ID, figure out whether or not the wife is missing in the first place. I don’t trust Angie as far as I can throw her, and believe me, if she was here, I would throw her.’

Collier said, ‘The wife’s a pill popper. She did a two-day stint in the Fulton lockup. Got out Saturday. Supposed to be going to rehab this morning.’

‘And now she’s at a funeral home with knife wounds in her chest.’ Amanda tucked her hands into her hips. ‘I don’t trust any of this. Angie’s misdirecting us for a reason. She’s buying time so she can make her play.’

‘What’s the play?’ Collier asked. ‘This is a lot of dead bodies for a game.’

Amanda said, ‘It’s only a game to her.’

‘Josephine has a kid.’ Faith held up her phone again. ‘I found the husband’s Facebook page. Anthony. Six years old.’

Anthony. Jo Figaroa’s son. Angie’s daughter. Will’s grandson?

The picture showed a small boy with a furtive smile.

‘Look at the shape of his eyes,’ Faith said. ‘Those are some strong genes.’

Were they Will’s genes, too?

1989. Angie was stuck in a group home with over a dozen other kids.

Except for that time when she wasn’t.

Faith said, ‘There’s not a missing six-year-old white boy on the wire. We’d know about it immediately.’

Ng said, ‘That’s for damn sure.’

‘Collier,’ Amanda said. ‘What’s your progress on locating Delilah Palmer?’

‘I was gonna tell you before. We found her rental car abandoned in Lakewood. Wiped clean.’

‘Dammit, Collier!’ Faith slammed her hand on the trunk of the cruiser. ‘You found her car? I have to hear about your God damm gas station hot dogs but you can’t text me when—’

Will realized that Sara had disappeared.

He scanned the front of the building, the lawn, the parking lot. He walked toward the street. She was behind her BMW, leaning against the bumper, staring into the distance. The overhead light put a halo around her. Her expression was unreadable. He didn’t know if she was upset or concerned or afraid or furious.

They were ending the day exactly the same way they had started it.

Will walked away from the noise and the screaming and maybe even his job, because he didn’t care about any of them anymore.

He told Sara, ‘Let’s go home.’

She gave him the keys. He opened the passenger door for her, then walked around the front and got behind the wheel. He was backing out of the space when she took his hand. Will felt his heart lift in his chest. This wasn’t the Xanax. Sara’s presence soothed him. Earlier tonight, she had been willing to walk away from him—not to hurt him, but because she only ever wanted what was best for him.