Faith said, “I’m useless. I suck. I’m a terrible human being.”
“It’s okay.” Will was desperate to erase the last five minutes of this conversation. He tried, “‘There’s a thousand reasons we should go about our day.’”
“You asshole, don’t you dare try to put a song from Frozen in my head.” She jerked her chair back to her computer, obviously getting the message. “Did you see Nick? He was looking for you.”
Nick was probably rinsing his balls in the bathroom sink. “He said his notes jogged his memory. Tolliver wasn’t satisfied with the profile.”
“You mean the Chief?”
He loved her for saying that. “Tolliver thought it was the tail wagging the dog.”
Faith drummed her fingers on the desk. “We all know the FBI isn’t infallible. Look at that scandal over ballistics testing. Or the scandal over microscopic hair analysis. Or the scandal over scandals.”
Will finished the sticky bun. “What about the photocopies of Lena’s notes?”
Faith laughed. “They read like Dickens. I mean, actual Dickens. Like, someone edited and copyedited and printed them up for public consumption. Even her handwriting looks like a typewriter.”
Will couldn’t be disappointed because he wasn’t surprised.
Faith asked, “Why did Tolliver keep her around?”
She wasn’t expecting a response, but he had one. “There’s something to be said for giving somebody a second chance. There’s also something to be said for not wanting to admit you made a mistake.”
“You think he was blinded by his own stubbornness?”
“That’s Sara’s theory, that he couldn’t admit that he was wrong about her. My theory is that Lena was his gray rabbit.” Will had seen the dynamic playing out in multiple police stations over the years. “The Chief needs some dirty work done, he sends his gray rabbit hopping into the gray areas so that he can keep his hands lily white. He can’t fire her because she knows all of his secrets. He can’t let her go because he might need her again. Usually, neither one of them sees it as a hostile, transactional relationship, but they both get something out of it. Friends in foxholes, maybe.”
Faith was silent for as long as you would expect to be silent if you were smearing a dead cop who happened to be the dead husband of one of your best friends. “That makes a hell of a lot of sense. She’s been playing the same role on the Macon force, too.”
He licked the sugar off his fingers.
“Okay, this has nothing to do with Lena.” Faith clasped her hands on the desk, facing him. “I actually do have relationship advice, and it’s the same thing I told Jeremy, and probably the last thing you want to hear: Talk to Sara. In person. Tell her how you feel. Tell her how to fix it. She loves you. You love her. Work it out.”
Will rubbed his jaw. His fingers were sticky. He nodded toward Faith’s computer. Images from Gerald Caterino’s murder closet were paused on the screen. “Anything?”
“Sadness,” Faith rolled back to her monitor. “I know how crime affects families. I see it every day, and it’s soul-killing and awful, but I look at everything Gerald has done—the freedom of information requests and the lawyers and the lawsuits and the PIs and the notes and phone calls and all the money he’s spent, and I just …”
She shook her head because there was nothing more to say.
He told her, “Amanda’s pushing on Masterson. I don’t know why, but she smells something rotten and she’s usually right.”
“Short of driving to Austin and sitting on their laps, I’m not sure I can do anything to make the ISP move faster.” She slid a printout across her desk. “Look at this invoice from Detective Dirk. Past due. And that’s the most recent one. Caterino is into this asshole for almost thirty grand.”
Will saw the numbers at the top of the page. “This has a street address. I thought you said all of the checks were mailed to a post office box?”
She slid over another piece of paper with a map, web address, and phone number. “Mail Center Station. It’s at one of those shipping stores where you can rent a post office box and get a street address.”
Will was familiar with the service. His ex-wife had been a prolific user of shadow addresses. He had been forced on a few occasions to track her down through less than legal means.
He asked, “What sounds more threatening to an average person on the street, telling them you’ve got a warrant or telling them you’ve got a subpoena?”
She considered the question. “I dunno, half the federal government has ignored subpoenas. I guess a warrant?”
Will punched the speakerphone button on Faith’s landline, knowing it showed up as the Georgia Bureau of Investigation on any caller ID.
She asked, “Are you getting sugar on my phone?”
“Yes.” He dialed the number. The phone rang once.
“Mailbox Center Station,” a chirpy young man said. “This is Bryan. How can I help you?”
“Bryan.” Will made his voice higher and added a thick South Georgia drawl. “This is special agent Nick Shelton with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. I’m filling out an official warrant for a perpetrator who rents post office box thirty-four twenty-one at your location. The judge is requesting the name of the box holder before he’ll approve the warrant to send out the fugitive apprehension team.”
Faith shook her head at the subterfuge, because anyone with a passing understanding of how the law worked would laugh in his face.
Bryan did not laugh.
Faith’s eyes bulged as they heard him typing on a keyboard.
He said, “Yes, sir—I mean, Special Agent. Let me … I’ve got it … Okay, so three-four-two-one is rented to Miranda Newberry. Do you need her address?”
Faith knocked over her pencil cup scrambling for something to write with.
Will said, “Go ahead, son.”
“It’s 4825 Dutch Drive, Marietta, 30062.”
“Thanks, fella.” Will hung up the phone.
“Holy shit!” Faith threw up her arms like a ref calling a field goal. “That was
