One man is standing alone by the burning barrel. He is wearing my coat.
Where is my father’s walking stick?
I haul to my feet, steadying myself on the dumpster.
“I just want my walking stick,” I say.
He glances at me and pokes at the fire with a piece of rebar, conjuring sparks. I don’t see my father’s walking stick, but he has it. I know he does.
“You keep on wanting, then,” he says.
“Garnet sent me,” I say, and it comes out like a plea. The man pauses his stirring.
“I threw that stick in the dumpster,” he says after a few seconds. “It’s got bad juju on it. I think you best leave it behind. You leave it in the trash, then you can stay, and you won’t have any more trouble. If you take it out, you best get on out of my alley and not ever come back,” he says.
I lean into the dumpster, retrieve my father’s stick, wondering at the vibration I feel when I touch the wood, if that’s the juju he’s talking about. I glance at the man, who watches me from under a hood of lowered eyelids, hands still and clasped at his front like he’s standing over a casket, listening to a preacher talk to God about someone who’s neither in the ground nor in heaven. The hum from my father’s stick grows stronger, tunneling from my palm, up my arm, and into my chest. I want shelter. I want security. But this feeling, this electricity, is akin to a heartbeat, to breathing, and I cannot imagine waking up tomorrow without it within reach.
I pulse my grip, turn around, and limp away.
MARTIN Chapter 31 | 7:45 AM, December 2, 2006 | Tarson, Georgia
MARTIN WAS STOOPED OVER HIS notepad, studying the details of Ama’s external injuries despite the explicit instructions Captain had given him to cease all work on the case, when the main door to the station swung open. A heavy-set, middle-aged woman blew in like a storm come ashore, her graying hair pulled back, face flushed, features severe with intent. Sunlight glared in after her, and Martin was nearly afraid to look at the clock, although he could tell by smelling himself that he’d been in the same clothes for at least twenty-four hours.
“Who’s in charge here?” she blustered to no one in particular.
“In charge of what, ma’am?” Martin asked, swiping at the wrinkles on his shirt as he pushed back from his desk.
“The case! Ama Chaplin’s case!” She glared harder.
Martin stole a glimpse of the captain’s office to verify that he hadn’t yet returned from his meeting at the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, at which he was planning to hand them the damn reins to Ama’s case. Save Martin and this woman, this section of the station was empty.
He stood. “I’m Detective Martin Locklear. How can I help you?”
“Why haven’t charges been filed yet? Why isn’t anyone telling me anything?”
“What is your relationship with Ama Chaplin?” Martin asked. He drew his pad of paper closer to him with a finger.
“I’m her assistant.”
“Lindsey Harold?” Martin recalled. Her name had appeared on the call log multiple times. They’d tried to question her formally over the phone twice, but she had been so adamant to do the questioning herself that they’d gotten absolutely nowhere.
“That’s correct.” Lindsey exhaled through her slender nose, nostrils flaring, and crossed her arms at her front. “If anyone at your station had done their job the first time I called, she might never have been taken by that man. I tried to give you information before all this started and no one would listen.”
“The first time you called, you asked us to run a plate on a van legally parked in a parking lot. The second time you called it was after 5:30 PM Whatever happened to Ama had very likely already begun. This isn’t on you.”
Her expression turned to stone. “It’s on you.”
“It’s on the man who did this.” Martin leveled his gaze at her, sizing her up in a matter of seconds: highly anxious, usually right, underestimated, and overlooked. He’d worked this personality type more times than he could count.
He started again. “I’ve really needed your help, actually.”
“Clearly.”
“Tell me about your role as Ama’s assistant. What do you do for her?”
“I make and take phone calls. I do research. I grab her lunch or coffee.”
“She called you when she felt unsafe, Lindsey. I think you’re more to her than a gopher.”
Lindsey blinked, and she shifted foot to foot. “We spend a lot of time together. It’s part of the job.”
He gestured to the chair next to him, inviting her to sit. She perched on the front of the chair, her back rigid, both feet flat on the floor.
“Right now, I need the help of someone who knows Ama well. Some pieces of this case are not adding up. I need to understand more of who Ama is and who might want to hurt her. This looks very personal, and we can’t find any evidence that she knows the man from the parking lot. Whoever did this to your friend knew her before today.”
“Ama doesn’t really have friends.”
“None?” Martin leaned back, watching her closely.
“None who would do this, and none who would talk to you.”
“You’re a smart woman who works for a criminal defense attorney. I’m sure you have a head full of statistics about how many victims know their attacker and how seldom it’s a random event,” he pressed.
“I’m telling you, it’s the wrong tree.”
Martin nodded, making a note to dig deeper into Ama’s personal life. Lindsey would probably be more cooperative if he had specific details. She might be good at stonewalling, but she didn’t strike him as a liar. “What about enemies?” he asked.
“She doesn’t have a lot of enemies, either. Not like that. Prosecutors don’t like her because she’s good at tearing apart their cases, but they respect her, too. She’s not dirty. She plays by the rules. Most of the time. As much as any of them do.”
“Sure.” Martin nodded.
“Sometimes victims’ families will send her nasty letters. I think her car was spray-painted once, but that was a couple years ago. There hasn’t been anything recent. And she just lost a huge case. No angry families there.”
“What kind of case?”
“Vehicular homicide. It’s been all over the news.”
“I’m new in town. And I don’t have cable.”
“Pro athlete was involved in an auto crash. There was a fatality in the other car. Six-month-old infant. He’s looking at fifteen years in prison. He wasn’t even driving.”
Her gaze briefly sought the window. Martin would’ve bet the bank the athlete was absolutely in the driver’s seat.
“You don’t think her client would come after her?” he asked. “Or maybe a teammate? A fan?”
“She didn’t tell anyone she was coming up here. We got the verdict, she grabbed her gym bag out of her office closet, and she split. She didn’t even tell me where she was until after she got there. No one knew. I even called… around. She hadn’t told anyone.”
“Do you know why she became a defense attorney? It’s a cold line of work,” Martin asked, shifting tactics. He starred the earlier note he’d made about Ama’s alleged lack of friends. He wished he could subpoena Lindsey’s phone records, but he had no cause.