Fractured, page 32
part #2 of Will Trent Series
“Faith?”
“Great.” She made herself smile.
He opened his office door. “Are you sure you can’t grab a quick bite? I know that fast food isn’t very romantic . . .”
If Victor wasn’t ready to see her bitchy side, he certainly didn’t need to watch her wolfing down a chili steak sideways with a PC. “I appreciate the invitation, but I’ve got to meet my partner on this case.”
“How’s it going?” he asked, leading her to the building lobby and outside. “Any luck?”
“Some,” she admitted, but wasn’t more specific than that. Evan Bernard’s arrest did not feel like an accomplishment when they still had no idea where Emma Campano was.
“It must be hard for you,” he said, squinting in the sun as they walked past the football stadium. Large brick buildings were opposite; more student housing.
“The not knowing is hard,” she admitted. “I keep thinking about the girl, what it must feel like for her parents.”
He pressed his hand to the small of her back, indicating a one-way street on the right. Faith took the turn, and he continued talking. “I’ve dealt with a lot of students’ problems over the years, but nothing like this. The whole campus feels tense. I can’t imagine what it’s like at the girls’ school. We’ve lost students before, but never to violence.”
Faith was quiet, listening to the soothing sound of his voice, enjoying the sensation of his touch through her thin cotton blouse.
“This way,” Victor said, indicating where the sidewalk narrowed. A tall iron railing cut into the sidewalk, the ground sloping downward.
Faith stopped. They were about two blocks from the North Avenue bridge that crossed I-75 and led to the Varsity. “What’s this?”
“You’ve never used the tunnel before?” Victor asked. She shook her head and he explained, “It’s a shortcut under the interstate. I wouldn’t use it in the middle of the night, but it’s perfectly safe now.” He took her hand as if to assure her—as if she didn’t have a gun on her hip and the ability to use it.
He continued playing the part of tour guide as they walked. “The Varsity was founded by a Tech student by the name of Frank Gordy. He opened it mainly to service the school, but that’s changed quite a bit over the years. We try not to let our students know Gordy dropped out of school in 1925 to start the restaurant. Between Steve Jobs and Bill Gates, it’s hard enough to convince technology majors that there’s actually a reason to complete your degree.”
“You know I can’t say anything,” Faith commented. She’d told him last night that she had dropped out of college a year from graduating. Jeremy had inherited her love of math, and seeing him get his degree was more than enough.
Victor reminded, “Tech has a wonderful adult enrollment program.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she answered, humoring him. You didn’t need trigonometry to arrest a vagrant for public intoxication.
They were inside the tunnel, but Victor did not move his hand from her back. Above, Faith could hear the rumble of traffic passing over their heads. She wondered how many Tech engineers had worked on the highway project, and whether or not the city planners had known about the secret passageway. The tunnel was large, about twelve feet wide and at least twenty yards long. The ceiling was low, and though Faith wasn’t normally the type, she felt a bit claustrophobic.
Victor continued, “I’m sure you know that the Varsity is the largest drive-in fast-food restaurant in the world. It covers two city blocks. This tunnel comes out on the north side of the building at Third Street.”
“I don’t remember this part of the tour when Jeremy visited the campus.”
“It’s a well-kept secret. You should see this place during football games. It’s wall to wall.”
Faith felt herself sweating, even though it was cooler underground. Her heart started pounding for no reason and no matter how far they walked, the stairs lining the tunnel exit seemed to get farther away.
“Hey.” He sounded concerned. “You okay?”
She nodded her head, feeling silly. “I just—” She realized she was clutching the envelope and slipped out the pictures to make sure she hadn’t creased them. When she looked up at Victor, she felt her panic from a few moments before start to return. His face was hard, angry.
She asked, “What is it?”
He glared at her, his fury almost tangible. “What are you doing with pictures of Evan Bernard?”
“How do you—”
He quickly closed the space between them, grabbing her right arm. His grip was tight. He was left-handed. Why hadn’t she noticed that before?
“Victor—” she breathed, panic taking hold.
“Tell me what you know,” he demanded. “Tell me right now.”
Faith felt her right arm go numb where Victor was grabbing her. “What are you talking about?” she asked, her heart beating hard enough to hurt.
He pressed, “Was this some kind of sting operation?”
“To catch you doing what?”
“I have no connection to that man. You tell them that.”
“You’re hurting me.”
Victor let go of her. He looked down at her bare arm, the mark he had made. “I’m sorry,” he said, walking back to his side of the tunnel. He ran his fingers through his hair, pacing nervously. “I don’t know Evan Bernard. I had no idea what he was doing. I never saw him with students, I never even saw him on campus.”
She rubbed her arm, trying to get the feeling back. “Victor, what the hell are you talking about?”
Victor put his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels. “Just tell me, Faith. Does this mean anything to you, or are you investigating me?”
“For what? What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He shook his head. “I really liked you, and this was all some kind of game, wasn’t it?”
“Game?” she demanded. “I’ve spent the last three days trying to find the sick fuck who killed two people and abducted another to do God knows what to her. You think this is some sort of game?”
“Faith—”
“No,” she snapped. “You don’t get to sound like the reasonable one here. Tell me exactly what’s going on, Victor, starting with your connection to Evan Bernard.”
“He’s been a part-time tutor for over twenty years. Our students aren’t exactly well versed in liberal arts. He helped them with their course work.”
“Was Adam Humphrey one of his students?”
“No, we fired Bernard last year. He taught remedial classes during summer term. We found out he was having an affair with a student. Several students. He’s suing us—he’s suing me—for wrongful termination.”
“Why you personally?”
“Because the program fell under student services. Bernard’s suing anyone who was remotely connected with the tutoring program. He lost his state pension, his benefits, his retirement.”
“It’s illegal for him to have sex with students.”
“Not unless you catch him red-handed,” he countered in disgust. “None of the girls would testify against him.”
“Then how did you find out?”
“One of them came forward. He was pretty rough with her. There was some kind of fight and she got hurt. She didn’t come to us until a few weeks later. I tried to get her to go to the police, but she wouldn’t. Her word against his, right? She was scared of being paraded in front of the media. She was scared of being ostracized by the campus.” His lips went into a thin line. “It’s disgusting enough that it happened, but for him to sue us . . .”
“Why isn’t this public knowledge?”
“Because he wants money, not headlines, and the university sure as hell isn’t going to call up CNN and give them the scoop. It’s only about the money, Faith. That’s all it ever boils down to.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“He teaches at a high school. Did you know that?”
“The lawyers told us not to contact them. He could sue us for slander.”
“It’s not slander if you’re telling the truth.”
“That’s a high-minded attitude when you’re not looking at fifty thousand dollars in legal bills to defend yourself against a bastard you’ve never even met.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry, Faith. I saw the photos and I thought they sent you to get me.”
“It’s not a criminal case.”
“I know that,” he said. “I’m just so . . .” He shook his head, leaving her to fill in the blanks. “I’m paranoid. I worked damn hard to get where I am and I don’t want to lose my job and my house because of some asshole who can’t keep his dick in his pocket.” He shook his head again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t use that kind of language. I shouldn’t have grabbed you, either. I’m under a tremendous amount of stress. That’s not an excuse. I know that.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this before? We spent the night together talking about everything but this.”
“For the same reason you didn’t talk about your case. It was nice to just talk to a human being about normal stuff. I’ve been dealing with this lawsuit all summer. I just wanted somebody who sees me as Victor the nice guy, not the administrator who’s being sued because students got poached on his watch.”
Faith wrapped her arms around her waist, frustration building to the boiling point. Emma Campano had been abducted by a madman. How many more people had been standing idly by while the girl was being brutalized, her friends were being killed? “You have no idea what you’ve done.” He tried to respond and she shook her head. “This man could be connected to my case, Victor. He was sleeping with one of the girls who died. His sperm was found inside her body.”
His mouth opened in shock. “What are you saying?”
“That Evan Bernard is a suspect in our case.”
“He kidnapped that girl? He killed . . .” Victor seemed truly horrified by the prospect.
She was so angry that she felt tears come into her eyes. “We don’t know, but if you’d shared this information with me two days ago, you might have spared another girl from—”
Footsteps echoed in the tunnel. Faith shielded her eyes from the harsh lights and made out a round figure making its way toward them. As the man got closer, she could see that he was wearing shorts, a T-shirt and a white lab coat that was stained with catsup.
“Chuck,” Victor said, his voice strained as he tried to get back his composure. He reached toward Faith, but she shrugged him off. He still managed introductions. “This is Faith Mitchell. We were just coming to find you.”
By way of greeting, Chuck said, “Shockrete.”
Faith asked, “Sorry?”
“Your gray powder is Shockrete. It’s a high-density concrete that’s reinforced with titanium fibers.”
“What’s it used for?”
“Retaining walls, wine cellars, skateboard parks, swimming pools.” He glanced around. “Tunnels.”
“Like this one?”
“This baby’s old,” he said, patting the low ceiling. “Besides, I found granite in the mix.”
“Like Stone Mountain?” she asked, referencing a mountain that was several miles outside the city.
“That particular granite is known for its clusters of tourmaline, which aren’t common to other granites. I’m no igneous petrologist, but my guess is that it’s our trusty three-hundred-million-year-old Atlanta bedrock.”
She tried to put him back on point. “So it came from a tunnel in the city?”
“I’d say a construction site.”
“What kind?”
“Any kind, really. Shockrete’s sprayed on the walls, the ceiling, to hold back soil.”
“Would it be used in water main construction, fixing lines under the road?”
“Almost exclusively. As a matter of fact—”
There was more, but Faith was running too fast to hear him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
WILL REPEATED HIS question. “What does the concrete powder look like?”
“Like you’d expect,” Petty answered, indicating the glass door Will had just walked through.
He could see it now. Light gray footprints across the blue carpet. Will glanced around the room, the furiously working copiers, the empty storefront. Anyone who had been in the Copy Right or the parking lot could have tracked through the concrete dust and deposited it anywhere, but only one of them was holding a knife that matched the one used to kill Kayla Alexander and Adam Humphrey.
He asked Petty, “Are you the only one here?”
The man nodded, chewing another bite of steak. “Warren should be back soon. He’s out making a delivery.”
“He has a van?”
“Nah, it’s just down the street. We walk over the deliveries sometimes. It kind of breaks the monotony.”
Outside, the jackhammer kicked in, the vibrations so hard that Will could feel the floor shaking under his feet.
Will raised his voice, asking, “Do you ever make deliveries?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“What?” Will asked, though he had heard the man well enough. “I can’t hear you over the jackhammer.”
“I said sometimes.”
Will shook his head, pretending he still couldn’t hear. This wasn’t going to be like Evan Bernard. Will would not leave this building without a suspect in handcuffs and a solid case to back the arrest. Petty had the knife, he had the opportunity and he certainly had the motive—what better way to end his illustrious career at the Copy Right than to retire with a million dollars cold hard cash in his pocket? Having Emma Campano in the process would be icing on the cake.
Was that enough, though? Was this pathetic pothead the kind of man who could beat a girl to death and take another away for his own pleasure? Faith had said she’d be the ruler of the world if she could spot a killer from a hundred paces. Was Lionel Petty someone who hid murder in his heart, or was he just caught up in something bad—the wrong place at the wrong time?
Either way, Will wanted to get Petty away from the exit and in an enclosed space where he could talk to him. He especially wanted him to put down the knife.
He told the man, “I still can’t hear you.”
Petty cupped his hands to his mouth, making a joke of it. “Sometimes I make deliveries!”
Will knew the office was in back of the room. He guessed that all the paperwork would be kept there. He yelled to Petty, “I need to see who you deliver to.”
Petty nodded, dropping the knife and standing up. He started to leave, then changed his mind. Will reached around to his paddle holster as Petty’s fingers moved toward the knife, but the man only scooped up a handful of French fries. He ate them as he led Will to the back of the store. At the door to the office, he pulled out a ring of keys.
Will asked, “Does Warren always leave those with you?”
“Never, man.” He jammed a key into the lock, pushed open the door and sat down in front of the desk. The noise was somewhat buffered in the small room, and Petty spoke in a normal tone. “Warren forgot his keys last night. I don’t know what’s up with him. He keeps forgetting things.” He opened a desk drawer and started to riffle the files. “It’s hilarious, because he really hates to fuck up.”
Will stood in the doorway, feeling the breeze of the air-conditioning freeze the sweat on his back, gluing his shirt and vest together. He leaned into the door frame, reaching his hand around to his back, finding his gun snugly tucked into the paddle holster.
Petty mumbled to himself as he searched the files. “Sorry, man, Warren has his own system for filing things.”
“Take your time,” Will said. He looked at the CDs lining the walls, the way the colored jewel cases were stacked together in their own particular order. It reminded him of his own CD collection at home, the way he identified certain albums not by their words, but by their colors, their recording logos, their artwork.
Will felt a prickling sensation work its way up his spine. “What about the customer files on the shelves? Does Warren have a system for those, too?”
“The CDs?” Petty laughed. “Shit, man, I can’t even begin to tell you how he’s got those filed. I’m not even allowed to touch them.”
“But Warren knows where everything is, right?”
“He can find it with his eyes closed.”
Will doubted that. Warren would need to see the colors, the patterns, before he could find the disc he needed. “Were you working here the day Emma was abducted?”
“I was off, man. Total headache.”
“Is Warren left-handed?”
Petty held up his hand in response. Will couldn’t tell which one it was; discerning between left and right was something his brain could not easily manage.
“Here we go,” Petty said, pulling out a file. “Ignore the typos. Warren’s such a freaktard. He’s, like, incapable of spelling anything, but he won’t admit it.”
“What do you mean?” Will asked, though he already knew the answer. Warren color-coded the CDs, relying on visual cues to help him find the right file. The evidence had been staring Will in the face the first time he’d come into the manager’s office to look at the security tape. Warren used the color-coding system for the same reason as Will: he could not read.
Petty said, “Warren’s all right most of the time, but the dude won’t admit he’s wrong about anything. It’s like working in the fucking White House around here.”
“I meant the typos. You said he can’t spell. What do you mean?”
Petty shrugged, handing him a sheet of paper. “Like that, man. I mean, it’s like he’s in kindergarten, right?”
Will glanced down at the sheet. His stomach roiled. He couldn’t see anything but lines.
“Wait till you see this.” Petty opened another drawer, and between the hanging files, Will saw several knives like the one Petty had been gripping.
“Where did you get those?”
Petty leaned down, stretching his hand to the back of the drawer. “Uh, the cafeteria down the street. Are you going to report us?”
