Karin Slaughter - Triptych

Angie told her, “Turn around.” She dabbed some foundation onto the sponge and patted it around Gina’s black eye. “This is Clinique,” she said. “If you go a little lighter than your usual shade, do a little blending with your finger, it helps soften the bruise.”

“Did he hit you, too?”

“No,” Angie answered, concentrating on hiding the bruise. The truth was, Angie had been too drunk to remember exactly what Michael had done. All she knew was that she had woken up the next morning in the backseat of her car with a deep bite mark on her breast and a pain between her legs that took a couple of weeks to go away.

It wasn’t like this was the first time something bad like that had happened, but it was the first time it had happened with a guy from work.

Gina said, “He told me he was with Ken.”

“Wozniak?” Angie asked. Michael’s partner in Homicide. “What was he doing with Ken?”

“He said they went fishing up in the mountains together.”

Angie pressed her lips together, holding back comment. She couldn’t picture Ken with a fishing pole, and even if she could, Ken wasn’t exactly Michael’s kind of guy.

Gina’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Was he rough with you?”

Angie nodded. She used her fingers to tilt up Gina’s chin so she could check her handiwork in the light.

“He’s a bastard,” Gina said, still whispering. “I just want to get away.”

Angie added some more foundation. “You left him?”

“Two days ago.”

“Where are you staying now?”

“With my mother,” she answered. “He told me he’d come get me.”

Angie checked her again. Perfect. “Did you file a report?”

She laughed. “You’re a cop. You know how useless that would be.”

“That’s bullshit,” Angie told her. “You go to DeKalb County and file a report. They don’t give a shit if he’s a cop. They’ll take one look at you and run him in.”

“And then what?” Gina asked. “What happens when he gets out?”

“File a restraining order.”

“Look at my face,” the woman said. “Do you think a restraining order is going to stop him?”

She had a point. Angie remembered her days in uniform, recalled vividly how she had once peeled a bloody restraining order from the hand of a woman who had been beaten to death by her husband. He had used a hammer. Their kids were watching.

Gina washed her hands at the sink. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted you to send Michael a message.”

She turned off the faucet and grabbed a towel to wipe her hands. “You think he’ll listen to me?”

“No,” Angie admitted. She took one of her cards out of her purse. “I want to give you my phone number. Call me if he does anything to you.”

Gina didn’t take the card. “He’s going to do whatever he wants. A phone call isn’t going to save me.” She checked herself in the mirror, smoothed her hair. “Thanks for the makeup. Clinique?” Angie nodded. “I’ll get some at lunch today. If Michael finds out I talked to you, I’m probably going to need it.”

“I won’t tell him.”

Gina leaned against the door, propping it open. “He’ll find out,” she said. “He always finds out about everything.”

Angie stayed in the bathroom a few minutes, trying to regain her composure. She wanted to talk to Will, but what could she say? I went to the hospital to threaten Michael’s wife? He beats the crap out of her and, oh, by the way, he was so rough with me that one night we spent together that I couldn’t pee straight for a month? Like every other emotion in his life, Will had learned to control his sharp temper. Angie knew it was still there, though, right at the surface waiting for something to set it off. If Angie ever told him what had really happened with Michael Ormewood, Will would kill him.

A young girl came into the bathroom, saw Angie and quickly left. Well, that was a real spirit booster. Angie looked at her reflection, the heavy makeup, the white vinyl crotch-dusting skirt and the hot pink haltertop that barely hid her breasts. No wonder people were scared of her.

She went into the hallway, glancing back toward the doors of the emergency room. Tank held both Gina’s hands in his as he talked to her. Angie couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she could guess. Suddenly, Gina started crying, and the man wrapped his arms around her. Angie watched them for a moment, feeling like an intruder but unable to look away.

A therapist had once told Angie that she looked for men who would abuse her because that was all she had ever known. This same therapist had also suggested that the reason Angie kept hurting Will was because she wanted to make him angry, to bring him to the point where he finally hauled off and hit her; then, Angie could finally open herself up to him. Then, she could really love him.

Of course, Angie had lied to the therapist about her relationships, about Will. She wasn’t about to tell a complete stranger the truth. Hell, she had told so many lies by now that she wouldn’t know the truth if it bit her on the ass.

11:31 am

Will sat at his desk, listening to his recording of Angie reading the letter Monroe had written to her mother. He’d heard it enough times by now that he knew it by heart, but he wanted to hear her voice, catch her inflections. Sometimes, he’d look at the letter while he listened to the words, trying to follow along. Angie hated reading aloud and her tone showed it. Will thought if he could read as well as she could he would read out loud all of the time.

He slipped the headphones out of his ears and went back to the diagram he had been drawing in his mind. Will saw things in images, like a storyboard for a movie. Jasmine Allison’s face came to mind. She was still missing. The Atlanta PD was looking, but Will wasn’t certain they were taking this as seriously as he needed them to. Even if they did, where would they look? There were a million places you could stash a little girl-a million more if she didn’t need to breathe while you were doing it.

Aleesha Monroe’s mother wasn’t home; he had called several times that morning until the maid had finally picked up and told him Ms. Monroe wasn’t expected back until noon. Will had put in a call to DeKalb and found out that there was nothing new on the Cynthia Barrett case. He had even sent a forensic team back to the Homes to go over the pay phone. There were only seven quarters in the coin box, and none of them had usable prints.

No leads, no clues to follow up on. All he had was the letter and the slim hope that Miriam Monroe would know something.

Leo Donnelly knocked on Will’s office door as he opened it. “Hey, man.”

Will slid the recorder and headphones into his desk drawer. “What’s going on?”

“You got a minute?”

“Sure.”

Leo closed the door and sat in the chair beside Will’s desk. He looked around the room, obviously nervous. “Nice place you got here.”

Will glanced around, wondering if the detective was being sarcastic. The office was so small that Will had pushed one side of the desk up against the wall so that he didn’t have to climb over it to get out.

Leo rubbed his palms on his cheap trousers as he stared out the window. The man seemed to be in a state of shock.

Will repeated, “What’s going on?”

“I just talked with Greer. He’s my lou, right?”

“Yeah.” Will had met the lieutenant on Monday when he’d asked to be let in on the Monroe case.

Leo’s tone was still incredulous. “He just got a courtesy call from DeKalb PD. Gina filed a restraining order on Mike.”

“Gina Ormewood?” Will sat up in his chair. “What did she list as cause?”