“Me, neither.”
Faith tapped her phone over to Google Maps to make sure they were heading in the right direction. Will did not have satnav in his ancient Porsche 911. The car was nice inside, hand-restored by Will to its former glory, but unfortunately those glory days had been before cup holders and global warming. The air conditioner only went as low as warm.
“Here.” She pointed to the right. “Go down Crescent Avenue. The parking garage is accessed from the back of the building.”
Will put on the blinker. “Do we call her ahead of time or show up in her office?”
Faith considered the options as they waited out the light. “Zanger refused to talk to the cops. She sent Dirk-slash-Miranda a cease and desist letter. She’s made it clear that she doesn’t want an investigation.”
“She’s a tax litigator, not a criminal lawyer. A phone call from the GBI would probably rattle the hell out of her.” He added, “But us showing up in person …?”
Faith said, “We’re talking about freaking out a woman who was probably brutally attacked, right? Like, that was the worst day of her life, and she’s spent the last two years trying to forget about it, and now we’re going to show up with our badges and pick at that scab until it bleeds?”
“I can think of three possibilities.” Will counted them out on his fingers, “She’s either traumatized about what happened and that’s why she can’t talk about it. Or she’s afraid the attacker will come back and hurt her again, also traumatizing. Or she’s scared of the publicity because she was traumatized by it during her nasty divorce. Or she could be all of those things, but it doesn’t matter because any way you look at it, she’s traumatized and we’re trying to force her into doing something she doesn’t want to do, which is talk about what happened.”
Faith asked the question that they had both been avoiding. “What if she was hurt like Tommi Humphrey?”
The car went silent.
With very little effort, Faith was able to put herself back in the briefing room this morning. Sara was holding up the photograph of the splintered wooden end of the hammer.
Four months.
120 days.
That was the length of time Tommi Humphrey had to endure before doctors could begin to repair the physical damage to her body. The psychological damage would probably take an eternity. The young woman had tried to hang herself the day Daryl Nesbitt was convicted for possession of child pornography. Amanda had told Sara to reach out to her. Maybe that wasn’t possible. Maybe Tommi Humphrey had finally taken her own life and found peace in her grave.
Faith told Will, “I can’t imagine how Tommi Humphrey could’ve ever moved past what happened to her.”
Will cleared his throat. “Probably by not talking about it.”
“Yeah.”
The car went quiet again. Faith felt weighted down, like her blood had turned to sand.
Will said, “I can—”
“I’ll do it.” Faith dialed the main number for Guthrie, Hodges and Zanger. She talked to a way too snooty-sounding receptionist, giving her full GBI credentials and asking to speak to Callie Zanger.
Will had made the turn onto Crescent and was looking for the entrance to the parking garage by the time Zanger came on the line.
“What’s this about?” Zanger’s voice sounded as sharp as her chin.
Faith said, “I’m Special Agent—”
“I know who you are. What do you want?” Zanger was speaking in a hoarse whisper. She sounded panicked, which was agonizing, but also presented an opening.
Faith went with the easiest possibility first. “I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. Zanger, but my boss, the deputy director of the GBI, got a call from a reporter this morning. She referred it to our public relations department, but we needed to follow up with you on a few things.”
“What few things?” she demanded. “You say no comment and let it go.”
Faith glanced at Will. He had pulled into a parking space on the street.
Faith said, “Unfortunately, we’re a government agency. We really don’t have the option of a no comment. We are answerable to the people.”
“Bullshit,” she hissed. “I don’t have to—”
“I understand that you are under no obligation to talk to me.” Faith tried another possibility. “I think you want to, though. I think you’re scared that what happened to you will happen again.”
“You’re wrong about that.”
She sounded damn sure of herself. Faith said, “This will be completely off the record.”
“There’s no such thing as off the record.”
“Look,” Faith was out of possibilities. “I’m outside the parking garage to your building. There’s a restaurant across the street. I’ll be at the bar for the next ten minutes, then I’m coming up to your office to talk to you in person.”
“God damn you.”
The phone banged down twice before Zanger got the receiver into the cradle.
Faith felt disgusted with herself. The last thing she had heard was Callie Zanger’s pained cry.
She put her head in her hands. “I hate my job.”
Will said, “She’ll expect you to be alone.”
“I know.”
Faith got out of the car. The sand in her veins continued to weigh her down as she walked toward the trendy-looking restaurant. Loud music was playing on the outdoor patio. She caught her own reflection in the glass door as she opened it. Will was twenty feet behind her, keeping his distance because he didn’t want to spook Callie Zanger if she actually showed up.
Faith prayed the woman would meet her at the bar. The phone call had probably set off a small explosion inside the office. Showing up in person with Will, flashing their IDs, would be a nuclear detonation.
She looked at her watch as she took her place at the empty bar. Nine more minutes. She ordered an iced tea from a bartender wearing a stupid porkpie hat. Seven more minutes. Faith looked around the restaurant. Late afternoon. She was the only person at the bar. Will was one of three single men in suits sitting at three separate tables.
In Callie Zanger’s shoes, Faith would have been furious about the intrusion into her life. But Faith had to think about Pia Danske’s shoes. Joan Feeney’s. Shay Van Dorne’s. Alexandra McAllister’s. Rebecca Caterino’s. Leslie Truong’s. There were so many victims that Faith could not recall all of their names. She took her phone out of her purse. She accessed Miranda’s spreadsheet. Eight years. Nineteen women. Twenty if you added in Tommi Humphrey.
“Detective Mitchell?”
Faith didn’t correct her on the title. She recognized Callie Zanger from her photos. The tax attorney wasn’t wearing as much make-up and her hair was pulled back, but she was still a beautiful woman, even when she slumped down on the barstool beside Faith.
Callie told the bartender, “Double Kettle One with a lime twist.”
Faith heard a practiced cadence in the woman’s order. She would expect a high-priced tax attorney to be into wine or even whiskey. Vodka straight from the bottle was a drinker’s drink.
Callie said, “Are you with that other detective? Masterson?”
“No, and he’s not a detective.”
Callie shook her head in distaste. “Let me guess, he’s a reporter?”
Faith studied the woman. She looked so beaten down. Was she recovering the same way Tommi Humphrey was recovering? Faith silently berated herself for letting her emotions get in the way. She worked to summon her professional reserve.
“Ma’am?” The bartender tipped his hat as he placed the vodka double on the bar.
Faith looked down at the drink, which was a very generous pour.
Callie didn’t seem to notice. She stirred the cocktail straw around the glass. She waited for the bartender to leave before telling Faith, “I hate men who wear hats to make up for not having a personality.”
Faith immediately liked this woman.
“This is about Rod?” Callie asked.
“Why do you think I’m here about your ex-husband?”
“Because my ex-husband is the one who abducted me.”
Faith watched the woman gulp down half her drink. She didn’t know what to do. Rod Zanger had not been any part of any possibilities. She reached for her purse to find her notebook.
“Off the record,” Callie said. “That’s what you promised on the phone.”
Faith closed her purse.
Callie finished the drink in another gulp. She signaled for a refill. “Nothing’s really off the record, is it?”
Faith couldn’t lie to this woman. “No.”
Callie took the straw out of her empty glass and slid it end-over-end against the bar. “I was thirteen years old the first time a man touched me without my permission.”
Faith watched the straw slip through the woman’s fingers.
“I was getting my teeth cleaned, and the dentist grabbed my breasts. I never told anybody.” She looked at Faith. “Why didn’t I tell anybody?”
Faith shook her head. She had her own stories she could tell. “Because he’d call you a lying bitch.”
Callie laughed. “They call me that anyway.”
Faith laughed, too, but she was putting the clues together. “Did your husband hurt you?”