The Will Trent Series 5-Book Bundle Page 48

  Faith let off the clutch, easing up the car. There was a construction flagman in the opposite lane, directing cars to detour. Sweat poured off his body, his orange caution vest sticking to his chest like a piece of wet toilet paper. Like every other major American city, Atlanta’s infrastructure was falling apart. It seemed like nothing was ever done until disaster struck. You couldn’t leave the house without running into a construction crew. The whole city was a mess.

  Despite her earlier vow, Faith turned up the air-conditioning. Just looking at the construction worker made her feel the heat more. She tried to think about cold things like ice cream and beer as she stared blankly at the truck ahead of them—the dirt hanging off the mud flaps, the American flag on the back window.

  “Is your brother still overseas?”

  Faith was so taken by surprise, all she could say was, “What?”

  “Your brother—he’s a surgeon, right? In the military?”

  She felt violated, though of course Will’s investigation into her mother had given him leave to mine her children’s lives, as well. He would know that Zeke was in the Air Force, serving at Brandenburg. He would also have had access to Faith’s psych evaluations, her school records, her marital history, her child’s history—everything.

  She was incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “It would be disingenuous of me to pretend I know nothing about you.” His tone was completely unreadable, which just annoyed her even more.

  “Disingenuous,” she echoed, thinking there was a reason this man had been assigned to investigate the narcotics squad. Will Trent didn’t act like any cop Faith had ever met. He didn’t dress like one, he didn’t walk like one and he sure as hell didn’t talk like one. It probably meant nothing to him to ruin the lives of men and women who belonged to a family that he could never be a part of.

  Up ahead, the light changed, and she popped the clutch, swerving around the truck and turning right from the left-hand lane. Will’s hands didn’t even move off his knees as she performed this highly illegal maneuver.

  She said, “I have been trying to be civil to you, but my brother, my mother—my whole family—is off-limits. You got that?”

  He didn’t acknowledge her remarks so much as skirt around them. “Do you know your way around Georgia Tech?”

  “You know damn well that I do. You subpoenaed my bank records to make sure I could afford the tuition.”

  The patient way he explained himself set her teeth on edge. “It’s been almost four hours since Adam died, more than that since Emma Campano was taken. Ideally, we would go straight to his room instead of waiting for the legal department to okay our access.”

  “The dean said that was just a formality.”

  “People tend to change their minds about things after they talk to lawyers.”

  She certainly couldn’t argue with that. “We can’t get into the room without a key.”

  He reached around to his jacket in the backseat and pulled out a plastic evidence bag. She could see a key inside. “Charlie found this in the upstairs hallway. We’ll call your contact when we get there, but I see no reason why we shouldn’t try the key while we’re waiting.”

  Faith slowed at another red light, wondering what else he had been holding back. It annoyed her that he didn’t trust her, but then again, she hadn’t really given him a reason to. She allowed, “I know where Towers Hall is.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her hands were hurting from clutching the steering wheel too hard. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. One by one, she released her fingers from the wheel. “I know I sound like a bitch, but my family is off-limits.”

  “That’s a fair request, and you don’t sound that way at all.”

  He stared silently out the window as the car crawled down Tenth Street toward Georgia Tech. Faith turned on the radio and searched for the traffic report. As they crossed over the interstate, she looked down onto I-75, which more closely resembled a parking lot. Over half a million cars used this corridor in and out of the city every day. Emma Campano could have been in any one of them.

  The commuters around them followed the on-ramps to 75/85, so that by the time the Mini was on the other side of the bridge, traffic had returned to a more manageable level. Faith exited Tenth Street to Fowler, following familiar roads winding through the campus.

  The Georgia Institute of Technology occupied around four hundred acres of prime downtown Atlanta real estate. Georgia residents could attend tuition-free thanks to the lottery-funded HOPE scholarship, but academic requirements barred the way for a large chunk of them. Add to that the financial burden of housing, textbooks and lab fees and even more students dropped to the wayside. If you were lucky, you got a full scholarship to take up the slack. If you weren’t, you’d better hope your mother could take out a second mortgage on her house. Tech consistently ranked in the top ten of most college lists and was considered, along with Emory University, to be part of the chain of schools belonging to the Ivy League of the South. You could easily pay your mother back when you graduated.

  Faith slowed the car along Techwood Drive for the students who didn’t seem to understand the purpose of a crosswalk. A group of young men whooped at the sight of a blonde in a Mini, the combination of hormones and the natural lack of social graces inherent in math and science majors causing several of them to stumble over their own feet. Faith ignored them, scanning the streets for a place to park. Campus parking was a nightmare even at the best of times. Finally, she gave up and pulled the Mini into a handicapped parking space. She flipped down the visor to show her police parking permit, hoping local security chose to honor it.

  Will said, “Go ahead and call your contact.”

  Faith talked to the dean’s secretary as Will extricated himself from the car. She ended the call, got out and locked the doors. “Dean Martinez is still talking to legal. We’re supposed to wait here. He’ll join us as soon as he’s off the phone.” Faith pointed to a large, four-story brick building. “That’s Glenn Hall. Towers is right behind it.”

  Will nodded for her to lead the way, but Faith’s gait was considerably shorter than his and they ended up walking side by side. She had never thought of herself as short, but at five-eight, she felt dwarfed by him.

  Classes were still in session, small clusters of students milling around. Though Will was still wearing his vest, his paddle holster and gun were in full view without his jacket. Faith was wearing a short-sleeved cotton shirt and dress pants—sensible considering the hundred-plus temperature, but hardly the best way to conceal the gold shield on her left hip and the gun on her right. The two of them caused quite a stir as they walked toward the quad between Glenn and Towers Hall.

  Still, walking through the campus, seeing all those young faces, Faith realized how badly she wanted to work this case. Setting aside that being partnered with Leo Donnelly was not exactly hitching her wagon to a star, Faith could not fathom what it felt like to lose a child. Talking to Abigail Campano had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done in her life. All the mother could remember were the fights they’d had, the horrible things they’d said to each other. The fact that the woman’s daughter was missing rather than dead didn’t take away any of the horror. Faith wanted to do everything she could to help get Emma back home. Inexplicably, she also felt the need to let Will Trent know that despite today’s screwups, she wasn’t completely useless.

  She started by telling him what little she knew about this part of the Tech campus. “These are both freshman dorms, not coed, about six hundred students between them. They’re the closest to the stadium and the loudest. Parking for freshmen is heavily restricted so not many of them have cars, at least not on campus.” Her feet sunk into the soft grass, and she looked down to check her footing, saying, “Most classes will be over in half an hour—”

  “What are you doing here?”

  She recognized the shoes first. They were the same brand and color she’d see
n on Adam Humphrey’s feet just a few hours ago. Two thin legs stuck out of the top of the sneakers like hairy sticks. His shorts hung around his narrow hips, the top of his boxers showing. He was wearing a torn, faded T-shirt—his Air Force–captain uncle’s least favorite—that read “No Blood for Oil.”

  In retrospect, it seemed likely that she might run into Jeremy, who had been living at Glenn Hall for the last week and a half. Though she knew for a fact that her son was supposed to be in class right now. She had helped him sign up his schedule weeks ago.

  She told him as much. “What happened to intro to biomechanics?”

  “The professor let us out early,” he shot back. “Why are you here?”

  Faith glanced at Will Trent, who stood impassively beside her. She supposed one of the few benefits of his investigation into her mother was his lack of shock over a thirty-three-year-old woman having an eighteen-year-old son.

  Will said, “One of your classmates has been in an accident.”

  Jeremy had been raised by two generations of cops. He knew the language. “You mean he’s dead?”

  Faith didn’t lie to her son. “Yes. I need you to keep this between us for a while. His name was Adam Humphrey. Do you know him?”

  Jeremy shook his head. “Is he a Goatman?” For reasons unknown, residents of Glenn Hall referred to themselves by this title.

  “No,” she told him. “He’s at Towers.”

  “Classes just started. Fartley’s the only guy I know.” Another nickname, this one for his dorm mate. “I can ask around.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said, fighting the urge to reach up and tuck his hair behind his ear. Since his thirteenth birthday, he had been taller than her. On the few occasions when Jeremy allowed public displays of affection, she had to stand on her toes to kiss his forehead. “I’ll come by later.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t, okay? The MILF shit’s getting pretty bad.”

  “Don’t say ‘shit.’ ”

  “Mom.”

  She nodded, a tacit understanding. Jeremy ambled away, his brand-new sixty-dollar book bag dragging in the grass. When Faith was sixteen and lugging her one-year-old son around on her hip, she had blushed furiously when people had referred to him as her little brother. At the age of twenty-five, she would bristle angrily when men assumed that her son’s age had a direct correlation to her level of wantonness. By thirty, she had become comfortable enough with her past to own up to it. Everyone made mistakes, and the truth was that she loved her son. Life had certainly not been easy, but having him with her made all the gawking and disapproval worthwhile.

  Unfortunately, this peace had been quickly shattered when, during freshman orientation last month, Jeremy’s new dormmate had taken one look at Faith and said, “Dude, your girlfriend is hot.”

  Will pointed to the red brick building opposite Glenn Hall. “This is Towers?”

  “Yes,” she said, leading him across the empty quad. “When I spoke with Martinez, the dean of student relations, he told me that Adam’s dormmate is named Harold Nestor, but Nestor hasn’t shown up for classes yet. Martinez said there was some sort of family situation—a sick parent, he thought. It’s doubtful whether the kid will still attend.”

  “Does Nestor have a key to the room?”

  “No. The kid hasn’t even picked up his housing packet yet. As far as Martinez knows, Nestor has never even met Adam.”

  “Let’s confirm that,” Will said. “Does anyone else have a key to the room?”

  “Campus security has a passkey, I would imagine. They don’t really have house masters here—student government runs everything and they haven’t had elections yet.”

  Will tried the front door to the building, but it wouldn’t open.

  Faith pointed to the large red sign warning students not to let strangers into the dorm. She had forgotten about this part. “You need a security card to get in.”

  “Right.” He pressed his face to the glass, checking the lobby. “Empty.”

  “Adam didn’t have a security card in his wallet.” She glanced back at the quad, hoping for a wandering student who could help out, but the field was empty. “I guess we’ll have to wait for Martinez and the lawyers after all.”

  Will had his hands in his pockets as he stared at the many signs on the door. In addition to the red one, there was a blue plaque that had instructions for the handicapped to press the plate on the wall to engage the automatic door as well as a laminated piece of green notebook paper advising students of numbers to call in cases of nonemergencies.

  Will stared straight ahead, brow furrowed in concentration, as if he could open the door with his mind.

  Faith had given up trying to figure him out since the urine incident. She walked over to the building intercom system, which contained a directory of all the student names. Someone had taped a handwritten note over the buzzers that read, “BROKEN!! DO NOT TOUCH!!” Out of curiosity, she scanned the names. Humphrey, A. was beside the number 310.

  Will stood beside her. She thought he was reading the names until he asked, “What’s a MILF?”

  She felt herself blush. “That was a private conversation.”

  “Sorry.”

  He reached for the directory and she pointed out, “It’s broken.”

  He gave her an awkward half-smile. “I can see that.” He pressed the blue handicap plate below the directory. There was a buzz, then an audible click as a lock released and the front door groaned open.

  She waited for a well-earned sarcastic comment. All he did was indicate that she should go into the building ahead of him.

  The lobby was empty, but the smell of young men was overpowering. Faith didn’t know what happened to boys between the ages of fifteen and twenty, but whatever it was made them smell like gym socks and Tiger Balm. How on earth she had never noticed this when she was a teenager herself was one of life’s great mysteries.

  “Cameras,” Will said, pointing them out. “What was the room number again?”

  “Three-ten.”

  He headed for the stairs and Faith followed. The way Will moved made her think he was probably a runner. That would certainly explain why he seemed to have less body fat than a greyhound. Faith quickened her step to follow him, but by the time she reached the top floor, Will was already trying the key in the lock, using the plastic bag to keep his prints off the metal.

  He opened the door, but didn’t go in. Instead, he walked down the hallway. Three-ten was conveniently located next to the kitchen and across from the bathrooms. Will knocked on the door to 311. He waited, but there was no answer. He went down the hall and tried the next door.

  Faith turned her attention to Adam’s room, hearing distant knocks as Will tried each closed door. Like Jeremy’s, the room was around fifteen feet by eleven, basically the size of a prison cell. A bed was on either side with desks at their respective ends. There was a wardrobe and closet for each student. Only one bed had sheets, but the other had a pillow on the end opposite the television. It looked as if Adam had been using both sides of the room in the hopes that Harold Nestor would never show up.

  Will said, “Nobody seems to be home right now.”

  She checked her watch. “Give it about twenty minutes. What do you want me to do?”

  “My gloves are in my jacket. Do you have an extra pair?”

  Faith shook her head. She had long ago gotten out of the habit of carrying a purse on the job and the one pair of gloves she normally kept in her front pocket had been used at the Campano crime scene. “I have a box in my trunk. I can—”

  “I’ll get it,” he said, patting his pockets, a gesture that was quickly becoming familiar. “I left my phone in the pocket, too. I’m batting a thousand today.”

  She handed him the keys. “I’ll make sure no one touches anything.”

  He sprinted back down the hall toward the stairs.

  Faith decided she might as well see what they were up against. She walked over to the first desk, which was overflo
wing with scraps of paper, used textbooks, mechanical pencils and a small pile of magazines. They were all back issues of Get Out, which seemed to specialize in hiking. The other desk held what would be considered college necessities: an LCD television, a PlayStation console, several games and a stack of DVDs with handwritten labels. She recognized the titles of some recent Hollywood blockbusters as well as several that were simply labeled “porn” with stars to indicate, she supposed, their level of pornography.

  One of the desk drawers was partially open, and Faith used a pencil from the other desk to pry it the rest of the way. Inside was a Playboy magazine, two foil-wrapped condoms and a stack of well-thumbed baseball trading cards. The juxtaposition made Faith sad. Adam Humphrey would forever be caught in the stages between being a boy and being a man.

  She knelt down. Nothing was taped under the Formica desktop or shoved between the drawers. Faith checked the other desk, too. She saw the corners of a plastic bag hanging down. She craned her neck, holding back her hair as she went in for a closer look.

  Adam Humphrey probably wasn’t the only boy at Tech who had a bag of pot taped under his desk. Hell, he probably wasn’t the only boy on this floor who had one.

  She stood back up, scanning the room—the Radiohead poster on the wall, the dirty socks and sneakers bunched in the corner, the stack of graphic novels by the bed. His mother must have been feeling indulgent when she let him pick out the black throw rug on the floor and the matching bedspread and sheets.

  Faith imagined what it would be like for the Humphreys to pack up their son’s meager belongings and take them back to Oregon. Was this all that they would have left of their son? Worse for Faith, who would have to tell them that their child was gone? Will had assigned the Kayla Alexander notification to Leo. Was he going to put Faith in the unenviable position of telling the Humphreys that their son had been murdered?