How was your day?”
“I need to tell you something.”
He looked wary. Sara couldn’t blame him. He’d had enough bad news lately.
“Your father’s tox screen came back.”
Will straightened the pen on his desk. “What did they find?”
“He had Demerol in his bloodstream. Not a lot.”
He gave her a careful look. “Pills?”
“Medical grade, injectable.”
He asked, “How much is not a lot?”
“He was a big guy, so it’s hard to be sure. I’d guess enough to make him relax but not knock him out completely.” She said, “They found the vial in the refrigerator under the bar. There was a syringe in the disposal box with residue. His fingerprints were on both.”
Will rubbed the side of his face with his fingers. “He never used drugs before. That was his thing. He was against them.”
“You know how bad prisons are. A lot of people change their minds about drugs when they get inside.”
“Where would he get liquid Demerol?”
Sara cast about for an explanation. “The prostitute who visited him the night before could’ve brought it. Did the police ever find her?”
“No,” Will answered. “They never found the nail polish, either.”
Sara knew Will hated loose ends. “Maybe she stole it. Most of those girls are addicts. They’re not having sex with twenty to thirty men a day because it’s fun.”
“What was the cause of death?” He seemed wary of saying the word. “Overdose?”
“His heart wasn’t in great shape. You know these things aren’t always conclusive. The medical examiner listed natural causes, but he could’ve had other drugs on board—inhaled something, swallowed something, had a bad reaction. It’s impossible to test for everything.”
“Did Pete handle the case?”
“No, he’s taken medical leave. It was one of his assistants. He’s a smart guy. I trust him.”
Will kept working his jaw. “Did he suffer?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I wish I could tell you.”
Betty barked. She pranced around Will’s feet. “I’d better feed them.”
He headed toward the kitchen. Sara followed him. Instead of picking up the bowls and getting out the cans from the cabinet, Will stood in the middle of the room.
There was a padded envelope on his kitchen table. A bright red lipstick print kissed the center. Sara instantly recognized Angie Trent’s handiwork. She’d found a note with the same lipstick kiss on her car every morning this week. She doubted very seriously that Angie had written “Whore” inside, but she asked Will anyway, “What does she want?”
“I have no idea.” Will sounded angry, then defensive, as if he could control his wife. “I changed the locks. I don’t know how she got in.”
Sara didn’t bother to respond. Angie was an ex-cop. She knew how to pick a lock. Working vice, she’d learned how to skate back and forth across the lines with impunity.
Will said, “I’ll throw it away.”
Sara tried to quell her irritation. “It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not.” Will picked up the envelope. It wasn’t sealed. The flap opened.
Sara jumped back, though what clattered onto the table was hardly dangerous. At least not anymore.
The prostitute at the Four Seasons had been the last person to see Will’s father alive. She knew the regular girls. She knew how they dressed, where they picked up their johns. More important, she knew that adjusting her hat in full view of the elevator security camera would draw attention to her recently manicured fingernails.
And that still wasn’t enough.
Like a cat leaving a dead animal on its owner’s doorstep, Angie Trent had taken a souvenir from the crime scene so that Will would know exactly what she’d done for him.
Glass bottle. Pointy white cap.
Bombshell red.
It was the missing bottle of Max Factor nail polish.
to Vernon—
for directing my sails
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Ben Hecht said, “Trying to determine what is going on in the world by reading newspapers is like trying to tell time by watching the second hand of a clock.” With that in mind, I perused many 1970s editions of both the
I enlisted Daniel Starer at Research for Writers to help pull material I needed for this story. I thought this was a brilliant cheat on my part until the volumes of research arrived on my doorstep and I realized that I would then have to read everything. (A full list can be found on my website.) Dan also located a man named Robert Barnes, who filmed a documentary on the Atlanta Police Force in 1975. Robert, an Atlanta native, was kind enough to send me a copy of the film, which shows much of the Atlanta skyline and features lots of helicopter shots of Techwood Homes and downtown. He also shared his memories of growing up in Atlanta, for which I am very grateful.
I spent many hours either online or in person at the Atlanta History Center, the Auburn Avenue Research Library, the Georgia Tech Library, the Georgia State University Pullman Library, and the Library of Congress. (Hey, didja notice all these places have “library” in their names? Maybe we really do need libraries after all.)
To say I hit paydirt at the Atlanta History Center is an understatement. It was there that I first found mention of Patricia W. Remmington’s
