After the Michael Walton case, she’d moved to Atlanta, and within a year, she’d needed a resource for wires and discreet recording devices. A colleague had pointed her in the direction of Happ’s Hot Spot, a little gaming spot in the middle of one of Atlanta’s more dangerous areas. Ama had nearly run through the door of the building, not daring to hope, and there he was, his smile all teeth, hair stacked a foot high on his head. He’d wrapped her up in a hug, and she’d nearly come apart at the seams.
This time, he came around the counter and held her gently. “I can’t believe you’re up and out already.”
“I’m up against an evil wizard. There’s no time to rest,” she said into the divot beneath his collarbone.
“How can I help?”
She pulled back so she could look at him. “I need a GPS tracker. I need it small. And I need it to be able to send a location, or have some kind of frequency on it that can be sent to a second party remotely and easily.”
“Why don’t you tell me the situation you need it for and I can tailor to suit.” He squeezed her hands before returning to his position behind the counter.
“I need to go somewhere I shouldn’t be, and I need to be found, but no one can know I’m going until I get there.”
“Okay.” Durante narrowed his eyes, studying her. “This sounds like some risky business you’re getting into. You need company?”
“No company, just your expertise. Can you do it?”
“It’s going to have limits as far as range and how many numbers it’ll access. It’ll have to be limited to one-way communication, too.”
“That’s fine. One more thing.” Ama leaned over the counter. “Can you make it waterproof and able to fit inside a tampon applicator?”
“Are you questioning my skills or the security of my masculinity?” Durante pulled a box of Tampax tampons out from under the counter.
“I’ll need it delivered to me in person. I’m up in Tarson at the Sleep Inn Motel. How fast can you have it to me?”
“Twenty-four hours. I’ll bring it to you myself. Leave the phone numbers you want it to be able to communicate with and I should have everything else I need, or I’ll call you.”
“Do you want me to leave a deposit?”
Durante pursed his lips. “Ama, how long we go back?”
“All the way back,” she said. She kissed him on the cheek, breathing him in. He was nearly forty-four years old in the middle of a city made of brick and stone and noise, and yet he still smelled like trees and the pages of a new book.
MARTIN Chapter 65 | 5:00 PM, December 6, 2006 | Tarson, Georgia
MARTIN WAS SEARCHING SURROUNDING STATES’ DMV databases for any registrations for Jonathon Walks when Captain’s face appeared above his screen.
“Look, Martin, the DA is on my ass. We either need to charge Eddie or turn him loose,” he said.
“I don’t like either of those options. What about protective custody? We’ll tell the DA he’s a witness to a major crime and we’ll have more for them ASAP.”
“That might work. But I am not keeping that man locked up in that office anymore. You’re here, he’s here. You’re home, he’s home—at your home. We don’t let anyone else know where he’s staying. Now go home, and take Eddie with you. And take a shower. You smell.”
An hour later, Martin was sitting in his living room staring at his notes, wishing Mrs. Walton had been able to locate just one picture of Michael from the year he allegedly died, when his cell phone rang.
“Martin,” he answered.
“Lindsey drove Ama to Atlanta. She stopped by a storefront off Bankhead, like an electronics pawnshop or something,” explained the deputy he’d assigned to tail her. “We went in after she left, but nobody was really handing out information. Some people were playing games. They had some old computer parts and gaming systems for sale.”
“What the hell is she doing?” Martin muttered, more to himself than to the deputy on the other end of the line. Between speculation about Ama, Michael Walton, Janie Walton, and Jonathon Walks, the only solution Martin’s mind kept rolling back to was an Ambien and a Valium. He was too wired to sleep, too tired to think.
Another call beeped on the line. Martin looked down. It was Ama. “Shit,” he muttered.
“Everything okay?” Eddie asked from where he was sitting on the floor in the corner, a box of cheese pizza in front of him. He’d gone so long without saying something that Martin had forgotten he was there.
Martin nodded, then told the deputy on the phone, “I gotta go,” and clicked over to Ama’s call.
“Detective Locklear,” he said.
“You know who this is. Don’t play pro with me.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I need Eddie Stevens’s phone number.”
“Can I ask why?”
“To invite him to the fundraiser, personally, and to apologize for the hardship this incident has created for him. I plan to publicly clear his name, so I want to make sure he’s there.”
“I’m going to have to get back to you on that,” Martin said in order to stall, eyeing Eddie.
“Well, I’ve changed the date to this Saturday, so get back to me quickly.”
Martin froze. What kind of strings did Ama have to yank to move the event? He couldn’t imagine the money she was putting up in rush fees. The event was going to cost more than it made. Martin was right—this auction was a smoke screen for Hazel.
“I can help you here,” he said. “Whatever it is you’re trying to do. I won’t involve the department. It’ll be just me and you. No other brass. I swear.”
Ama went silent, but the line was still there, a faint buzz in his ear.
“Ama, please.” He wanted to tell her he was figuring it out, pieces of it, anyway, but he didn’t want to push. She was sitting dead center on the fence of indecision, and he knew the more he said, the faster she’d jump back to her own side and keep the boundary between them.
“Saturday, during the auction, Eddie is going to get a message from an unknown number. Tell him to expect it. When he gets it, help him figure out what it means, and then go with him. Don’t bring anything or anyone but a gun. Maybe two. Yes, bring two. And give one to Eddie. He’s a good shot.”
“I need more than this.”
“That’s all I can tell you,” she said quickly.
“Here’s his number—are you ready?” Martin asked, keeping his words slow and calm, trying to draw her off whatever mental ledge she was standing on. He relayed the number twice through, confirming she’d heard it right.
“Ama, let me help you,” he whispered. He knew he sounded like he was begging, but he didn’t care. He was begging.
“I think event planning is probably out of your job description,” Ama replied, and Martin could tell she was pulling her face away from the phone, ready to hang up.
“Ama!”
The line went dead.
“Dammit.” Martin scowled, furious with himself for burning the bridge with Ama in her motel room, for throwing her father’s past in her face. It had been an unfair shot to take, and he knew it.