The Kept Woman (Will Trent 8) (48 page)

‘Please.’ Reuben indicated the couch. He didn’t wait for the women to sit down. He took the chair that kept his back to the wall. Sitting, he was roughly Faith’s height. His eyes were a weird, almost Confederate gray. There was a long Band-Aid on the side of his shaved head. The bump underneath was the size of a golf ball.

She asked, ‘What happened to your head?’

He didn’t answer. He just stared at her with a look of mild disinterest, the way a lion might look at an ant.

Amanda said, ‘Thank you for talking with us, Mr Figaroa. I’m so sorry for your loss.’ She sat on the couch beside him. She had to teeter on the edge so that her feet would touch the ground. Kilpatrick was slumped into another chair, his feet dangling like Lily Tomlin playing Edith Ann. He seemed more upset than Jo’s husband. His face had not fully recovered from the shock.

Reuben was still looking at Faith, waiting for her to sit.

‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She didn’t want to be scrambling to stand if something went wrong.

There were a lot of things that could go wrong.

She had spotted another assault rifle by the front door, an AK-47 that looked like it had been retrofitted with a bump fire stock, which effectively made the weapon a legal machine gun. There was a second handgun inside a heavy-looking hinged glass box on the coffee table, another Sig Sauer, this one a reverse two-tone Mosquito.

Amanda had a five-shot revolver in her purse that she kept inside a Crown Royal bag. Faith had her Glock in her leg holster. They would be no match for Reuben Figaroa. He was turned in his chair, his elbow resting on the back corner, so that his hand was less than two inches from the Sig on his hip.

Reuben said, ‘What happened to Jo?’

‘We’re not sure,’ Amanda admitted. ‘The autopsy has yet to be performed.’

‘When will that be done?’

‘Later this morning.’

‘Where?’

‘The morgue at Grady Hospital.’

He waited for more details.

‘The medical examiner for the Atlanta Police Department will perform the procedure, but someone from the GBI will be on hand to offer assistance.’

‘I want to be there too.’

Kilpatrick sat up. ‘He’s in shock,’ he told Amanda. ‘Of course he doesn’t want to be there when his wife is autopsied.’ He shot Reuben a look of warning. ‘When did she die?’

‘Perhaps Mr Figaroa can tell us first how he spent yesterday, Monday?’

‘Don’t—’ Kilpatrick said, but Reuben held up a hand to stop him.

‘I was at my doctor’s office first thing Monday morning. As you can see, I’ve recently had surgery on my knee. I had to do a follow-up appointment. After that, I had a business meeting with Kip, then we had another meeting with my lawyer, Ditmar Wittich. Then I was with my various bankers for the rest of the day. City Trust. Bank of America. Wells Fargo. Kip can give you their numbers.’

Kilpatrick said, ‘Obviously none of the people Fig met with can tell you what they talked about, but I can get the times verified. The banks will have security footage. You’ll probably have to get a warrant.’

‘There’s still late Monday night and into this morning.’ Amanda told Reuben, ‘Forgive me, but it seems odd that it’s two in the morning and you’re still dressed in a suit.’

‘That’s why I delayed you at the gate,’ he said. ‘I felt it would be inappropriate to answer the door in my pajamas.’

Amanda nodded, but she didn’t point out that his suit looked like he’d been wearing it all day.

Reuben asked, ‘Where was she found?’

Amanda didn’t answer the question. ‘I was hoping you could help us with the timeline.’ She turned to Kilpatrick. ‘You said that you packed Jo into her car Monday morning?’

‘Figure of speech.’ Kilpatrick saw that he’d painted himself into a corner. ‘I packed the car for her Sunday night. I don’t know what time she left Monday morning.’ Kilpatrick’s eyes kept nervously going to Reuben. ‘So the last I saw her was Sunday night. We were at a party.’

Faith asked, ‘She drove herself to rehab in her own car?’

Kilpatrick had seen Faith looking in the garage at Jo Figaroa’s Range Rover. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘And you?’ Amanda asked Reuben.

‘Sunday night,’ Kilpatrick answered before his client could. ‘Reuben was at the party too. So was Jo. She left early. Had a headache, wanted to pack, I don’t know. Reuben took some pain pills when he got in. This is Sunday night, after the party. He woke up Monday morning and assumed Jo had left for rehab. In a town car, because her Rover was still here.’ He was just making this up as he went along. ‘You know with rehab, they don’t let the patients make any calls home for the first two weeks, so we had no way of knowing whether or not she arrived at the clinic.’

Amanda could’ve punched all kinds of holes in the story, but she only nodded.

Reuben asked, ‘Who killed her?’

‘We’re not sure that she was murdered.’

‘The picture,’ Reuben said. ‘Someone hit her face. Beat her.’ He looked away. His clenched fists were the size of footballs. It was the first time he had registered any emotion about his wife. ‘Who killed her?’

‘Ms. Wagner,’ Kilpatrick interjected. ‘I feel that you should know that Jo had an Oxy habit. Pretty serious. Fig had no idea until she got busted. That’s why she’s in rehab. Was going to rehab.’ He stopped to swallow, clearly flustered. ‘You should be looking for her dealer. Underworld people.’

Faith remembered what Will had said about Angie supplying drugs to young girls. Her way of helping them stay off the streets. Had she supplied drugs to Jo Figaroa, too?

‘You have an impressive gun collection.’ Amanda looked around the room, pretending that she hadn’t noticed the arsenal before. ‘Is it a hobby, or are you worried about your family?’

Reuben fixed his steely gray eyes on her. ‘I take excellent care of my family.’

Kilpatrick said, ‘Ms. Wagner, I’m sure you’re familiar with Georgia HB60 section one through ten. Law enforcement officers are not allowed to ask private law-abiding citizens about guns or permits, or any other weapons, concealed or visible. Especially inside a private home.’

Faith asked, ‘Did Jo say goodbye to Anthony?’

Reuben’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes.’

Faith waited, but he obviously wasn’t going to offer more. ‘Is Anthony here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can we talk to him? Maybe his mother—’

A phone rang, a piercing bell that for some reason made Faith’s hand move toward her gun. Reuben’s hand moved too. Very slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out an iPhone. Faith looked at Kilpatrick. He had moved to the edge of his seat, tensed, waiting. Reuben’s eyes were no longer so steely. His almost stone-like demeanor cracked just a little bit.

They all watched him put the phone to his ear.

‘No,’ he mumbled. He waited. ‘No,’ he mumbled again. He ended the call. He shook his head once at Kilpatrick. He kept the phone in his hand, which was all right by Faith, because she wanted his dominant hand to stay occupied. ‘Sorry,’ he apologized. ‘Private matter.’

‘Reuben?’ An older woman had pushed open one of the doors. She was African American, impeccably dressed, with a choker of pearls around her neck. ‘Would you like me to bring your guests some tea or coffee?’

‘No, ma’am. We’re fine.’ Reuben smoothed down his tie. ‘Thank you. Everything is fine.’

She hesitated, then backed out of the room.

The exchange had taken seconds, but Faith had caught a glimpse of the woman’s face. Her bottom lip was quivering.

Kilpatrick explained, ‘That’s Jo’s mother. She’s got a heart condition. We’ll wait to tell her the news when she can handle it.’

‘Forgive me,’ Amanda said. ‘But was Josephine adopted?’

Reuben had regained his composure. The flat affect was back. ‘Yes. She was an infant when it happened. She never knew her mother.’

‘How sad.’ Amanda coughed into her hand. She patted her chest and coughed again. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you. Could I have some water?’

‘I’ll get it.’ Faith walked toward the kitchen.

Reuben started to stand, but Kilpatrick said, ‘It’s cool.’

Faith saw why it was cool as soon as she entered the kitchen. Bullet head. Tight black clothes. Laslo Zivcovik was sitting at the kitchen island. He was eating ice cream from the carton. The woman who had to be Miss Lindsay stood on the other side. She was wringing a white towel in her hands, clearly unsettled by what was going on in the next room. The pearls hadn’t been Faith’s only tip-off. The older woman’s lip quivered the exact same way Will had described it.

Faith said, ‘What a beautiful kitchen,’ even though the kitchen more closely resembled a padded room at an asylum. The cabinets were white. The appliances were all hidden behind white panels. The marble countertop waterfalled onto the marble floor. Even the open staircase in the back of the room was a painfully bright white.

‘Thank you.’ Miss Lindsay folded the towel. ‘My son-in-law designed it.’

That explained a lot. Reuben might as well be a slab of marble himself. ‘It must be a chore keeping it clean, especially with a little boy. Your daughter must have a lot of help.’

‘No, she does it all on her own. Cleans the house. Does all the cooking. The laundry.’

‘That’s a lot of work.’ Faith repeated, ‘Especially with a little boy.’

Laslo’s spoon clattered onto the counter. He asked Faith, ‘You need something in here?’ His Boston accent made him sound like he had cotton shoved into his cheeks.

Filling a glass of water wouldn’t take long enough, so she said, ‘I volunteered to help with the tea.’

‘I’ll get the kettle.’ Miss Lindsay opened and closed cabinet doors, which told Faith she didn’t visit much.

‘Yo.’ Laslo tapped his spoon on the counter for attention. He pointed to a hot-water dispenser, which meant that Laslo had been here a lot.

‘All these new-fangled gadgets.’ Miss Lindsay started taking down mugs. White. Gigantic. Built for Reuben Figaroa, like everything else in the house.

Faith started filling the mugs with hot water. The kitchen counter was so tall that she felt the need to lean up on her toes. She asked Miss Lindsay, ‘Are you here to watch your grandson?’

She nodded, but didn’t speak.

‘Six years old, so he must be in first grade?’ Faith filled another mug. ‘That’s such a wonderful age. Everything is exciting. They’re so funny and happy all the time. You just want to hold on to them forever.’

Miss Lindsay missed the counter. The mug shattered like ice against the marble floor, white flecks shooting everywhere.

At first, no one moved. They stared at each other in some kind of Mexican stand-off until Laslo told the old woman, ‘Go upstairs, sweetheart. I’ll clean this up.’

Miss Lindsay looked at Faith. Her lip was quivering again.

Faith said, ‘I think you met my partner yesterday. Will Trent.’

Laslo stood up. His boots crunched the broken ceramic on the floor. ‘Go upstairs and take care of Anthony. All this noise down here. You don’t want him to wake up and get scared.’

‘Of course.’ Miss Lindsay bit her lip to stop the quiver. She told Faith, ‘Good evening.’

Her cane clunked against the floor as she walked toward the back staircase. She turned to look at Faith, then she started the arduous climb. What felt like an eternity passed before her feet disappeared.

Laslo’s boots pulverized the broken mug as he took his place back at the kitchen bar. He gripped the spoon. He scooped some ice cream into his mouth and smacked his lips. His eyes were on Faith’s breasts. He said, ‘Nice tits.’

She said, ‘You too.’

Faith used her shoe to kick open the swinging door, knowing it would leave a mark. Amanda was already off the couch, her purse in her hands. She said, ‘Thank you, Mr Figaroa. We’ll be in touch. Again, I’m so sorry for your loss.’

Kilpatrick showed them out. He let them take the lead down the hallway like he was afraid they would dart off and find something he couldn’t explain away.

At the back door, he told Amanda, ‘If you have any more questions for Fig, call my cell. Number’s on my card.’

‘We’ll need him to positively ID the body. A DNA sample would be helpful, too.’

Kilpatrick smirked at the suggestion. No lawyer willingly gave up a client’s DNA. ‘Take another picture once you have her cleaned up. We’ll go from there.’

‘Wonderful,’ Amanda said. ‘I look forward to seeing you in a few hours.’

Kilpatrick wouldn’t stop smirking. ‘Yeah, that on-the-record interview with Marcus that you talked Ditmar into agreeing to
yesterday—that ain’t gonna happen. Call Ditmar if you don’t believe me.’

He didn’t slam the door, because he didn’t have to.

Amanda gripped her purse like she wanted to strangle it as she walked to the car.

Faith walked backward, looking up at the second-floor windows. There were no lights on. No Miss Lindsay peering out from behind the curtains. Faith had the same feeling that Will had described before: something wasn’t right.

They both got into the car. They were both silent until the car was turning onto Cherokee.

Amanda asked, ‘Nothing from the mother?’

‘Laslo was there.’ Faith asked, ‘What about that phone call? Kilpatrick almost jumped out of his skin.’

‘Curiouser and curiouser.’ Amanda said, ‘Reuben Figaroa is an angry man.’

Faith would’ve said ‘duh’ to anyone else. The guns lying around the house. The operating room aesthetic. Reuben Figaroa was a human checklist for a controlling husband. Whether or not that crossed into violence was an open-ended question. At the very least, it made sense that his wife would be popping pills on her way to the grocery store.

What didn’t make sense was why she had been murdered.

Amanda said, ‘His alibi will hold. You know that. And I find it very convenient that his entire day was filled with people who are professionally bound by one legal standard or another to keep their mouths shut.’

‘Angie got her killed,’ Faith guessed. ‘That’s what this is about. Not Marcus Rippy or Kilpatrick or Reuben or any of
that. Angie did one of those Jerry Springer “Surprise, I’m your mother!” things and trapped Jo into doing something that ended up getting her murdered.’

‘Don’t let the tail wag the dog,’ Amanda warned. ‘I’m worried about the son—Anthony. Even I know there should be some toys, or at least a few smudges on the glass coffee table.’