Will told Faith, “I think Detective Adams has decided to grace us with her presence.”

“How does she look?”

Lena had spotted him. Her eyes burned with hatred.

He said, “She looks like she wants to rip out my throat with her teeth.”

“Be careful. You know you have a weakness for bitchy, spiteful women.”

Will didn’t bother to argue. Lena Adams had the same color skin and hair as Angie, though she was obviously of Latin descent, whereas Angie’s origins were vaguely Mediterranean. Lena was shorter, more athletic. There was none of Angie’s womanliness about her—Lena was too cop for that—but she was an attractive woman. She also seemed to share Angie’s talent for stirring things up. Several of the cops were staring at Will with open hostility now. It wouldn’t be long before someone grabbed a pitchfork.

Faith asked, “What’s this email from you?” She answered her own question. “Julie Smith. All right, I’ll see if I can trace the number. The warrant for Tommy Braham’s phone records shouldn’t be a problem considering he’s dead, but I may need an official cause of death before we get access.”

Will kept his eyes on Lena. She was saying something to the group. Probably telling them to check their weapons. “Can you fudge that a little? Julie Smith told Sara that Tommy texted her from jail. The transcript might help find out who she is. Maybe Amanda can call in some favors.”

“Oh, great. Just who I want to talk to first thing in the morning.”

“Can you get her to rush through a search warrant for the garage, too? I want to show the locals what proper procedure looks like.”

“I’m sure she’ll fall over herself trying to accommodate your requests.” Faith gave a heavy groan. “Anything else you want me to ask her?”

“Tell her I want my testicles back.”

“They’re probably already at the bronzer.”

Lena took off her jacket and threw it on a desk. “I need to go.” Will hung up the phone just as the detective stomped toward the office.

Will stood up. He gave one of his winning smiles. “You must be Detective Adams. I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

She stared at the hand he offered. He thought for a minute she might rip it off.

“Is there something wrong, Detective?”

She was obviously so angry she could barely speak. “This office—”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Will interrupted. “It was empty, and I want to make sure I stay out of your way.” His hand was still extended between them. “We’re not to that point yet where you can’t shake my hand. Are we, Detective?”

“We passed that point the minute you sat behind that desk.”

Will dropped his hand. “I was expecting Chief Wallace.”

“Interim Chief,” she corrected, just as raw as Sara on the subject. “Frank’s at the hospital with Brad.”

“I heard Detective Stephens had a rough night, but he seems all right this morning.”

She didn’t answer him, which was just as well. Her accent was full of south Georgia twang, and anger made her words blend like cake batter.

Will indicated the chair. “Please have a seat.”

“I’ll stand.”

“Hope you don’t mind if I sit.” The chair squeaked as he settled back in it. Will steepled his fingers together. He noticed that a pen was clipped to Lena’s breast pocket. It was silver, a Cross just like the one Larry Knox had clipped to his shirt last night. Will glanced at the group of officers who were milling around the coffee machine. They all had pens clipped to their chest pockets, too.

Will smiled. “I’m sure your chief already told you why I’m here.”

He saw her eye twitch. “Tommy.”

“Right, Tommy Braham, and by extension, Allison Spooner. I hope we can wrap this up quickly. I’m sure we’d all rather have this off our plate going into Thanksgiving.”

“This good-guy bullshit isn’t really going to work with me.”

“We both have badges, Detective. Don’t you think you should try to cooperate so we can get to the truth of this matter?”

“You know what I think?” She crossed her arms high on her chest. “I think you’re down here where you don’t belong, sleeping in places you have no right, and trying to get a lot of good people into trouble for shit that’s beyond their control.”

There was a loud knock at the open door. Marla Simms stood ramrod straight, a medium-sized cardboard box gripped between her hands. She walked to the desk and dropped the box with a thud in front of Will.

“Thank you,” he told her retreating back. “Mrs. Simms?” She didn’t turn, but she stopped. “If you don’t mind, I need the audiotape of the 911 call reporting Allison Spooner’s alleged suicide.”

She left without acknowledging the request.

Will looked over the top of the box, eyeing the contents. There were several plastic evidence bags, obviously taken from the scene of Allison Spooner’s death. A pair of white sneakers was in one. Streaks of mud went up the sides and stuck into the treads.

The ring and watch mentioned in Lena’s report were in the other bag. He studied the ring, which was cheap, the sort of thing you gave a girl when you were fifteen and spending fifty dollars on a piece of jewelry from the locked display at Walgreens was a big deal.

He held up the ring. “I gave my wife one of these when we were kids.”

Lena’s nasty look resembled the same one Angie had shown Will when he’d given her the ring.

He pulled another bag out of the box. There was a closed wallet inside. Will managed to pry it open through the plastic. He found a photo of an older woman beside a young girl and another photograph of an orange cat. There were some bills in the cash compartment. Allison Spooner’s student ID and driver’s license were tucked in the back sleeves.

Will looked at the girl’s picture. Faith had guessed right. Allison was very pretty. She also looked younger than her given age. Maybe it was her size. She seemed delicate, almost fragile. He flipped back to the photograph of the older woman, realizing now that the girl beside her was Allison Spooner. The picture had obviously been taken a few years ago. Allison looked like a teenager.

He asked Lena, “Is this all you found in the wallet?” He listed it out for her. “Two photos, forty bucks, the license, and student ID?”

She was staring at the open wallet in his hands. “Frank catalogued it.”

Not exactly an answer, but Will knew that he’d need to choose his battles. He saw there was one more evidence bag in the box. He guessed it contained the contents of Tommy Braham’s pockets. “Gum, thirty-eight cents, and a metal Monopoly game piece of a car.” He looked back up at Lena. “He didn’t have a wallet on him?”

“No.”

“Cell phone?”

“Is there one in the bag?”

Her combative answers were telling him more than she realized. Will asked, “What about his clothes and shoes? Any blood on them? Any stains?”

“Per protocol for a suicide in custody, Frank sent them to the lab. Your lab.”

“The Central GBI lab in Dry Branch?”