Bureau of Investigation on any caller ID.
She asked, “Are you getting sugar on my phone?”
“Yes.” He dialed the number. The phone rang once.
“Mailbox Center Station,” a chirpy young man said. “This is Bryan. How can I help you?”
“Bryan.” Will made his voice higher and added a thick South Georgia drawl. “This is special agent Nick Shelton with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. I’m filling out an official warrant for a perpetrator who rents post office box thirty-four twenty-one at your location. The judge is requesting the name of the box holder before he’ll approve the warrant to send out the fugitive apprehension team.”
Faith shook her head at the subterfuge, because anyone with a passing understanding of how the law worked would laugh in his face.
Bryan did not laugh.
Faith’s eyes bulged as they heard him typing on a keyboard.
He said, “Yes, sir—I mean, Special Agent. Let me … I’ve got it … Okay, so three-four-two-one is rented to Miranda Newberry. Do you need her address?”
Faith knocked over her pencil cup scrambling for something to write with.
Will said, “Go ahead, son.”
“It’s 4825 Dutch Drive, Marietta, 30062.”
“Thanks, fella.” Will hung up the phone.
“Holy shit!” Faith threw up her arms like a ref calling a field goal. “That was amazing!”
“Miranda Newberry.”
Faith swung around to her computer. She started typing, then frowning, then growling. “Oh, for the love of—”
Will waited as she furiously clicked the mouse.
Finally, Faith said, “Miranda Newberry is an unmarried, twenty-nine-year-old CPA who graduated from Georgia State and spends most of her time on crime blogs and—are you kidding me? She’s on six different YA message boards. That’s exactly what I need, a white suburban millennial dictating what books are culturally appropriate for my brown daughter.”
“Fraud,” Will said, because it wasn’t necessarily a crime to impersonate someone online, but it was definitely illegal to do it for money. “Impersonating a police officer?”
“Oh, shit, look.” Faith pointed to the screen. “She just Insta’d a photo of the Big Chicken. She says she’s meeting her boyfriend for lunch in an hour.”
Will stood up. “I’ll drive.”
The Big Chicken was located at the intersection of Cobb Parkway and Roswell Road. The name came from the nearly sixty-foot tall sign that was shaped like a giant chicken sticking up its head from an otherwise unremarkable Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant. Locals used it as a landmark. Directions were given based on whether they were before or after, to the left or to the right, of the Big Chicken.
Will glanced over his shoulder as the door opened. The KFC was packed with lunch-goers from local businesses. He saw Faith holding down their spot at a booth in the back. She was looking down at her phone. They had gotten here fifteen minutes ahead of Miranda Newberry, who was running fifteen minutes late.
The door opened. He glanced over his shoulder again.
Still no Miranda Newberry.
Will finished filling up his cup with Dr Pepper at the soda machine. He walked back toward Faith, scanning the other booths. Miranda Newberry’s Facebook banner had showed a very thin woman holding two Pomeranians she had dressed like Bonnie and Clyde. Will had silently endured Faith’s small dog jokes. Betty, his dog, was a chihuahua. Sometimes, people got stuck with small dogs and all they could do was take care of them.
“Nothing.” Faith was still bent over her phone as he sat down across from her. “She’s clearly a liar. She could’ve been lying about meeting her boyfriend. I bet he lives in Canada.”
Will said nothing. He had fond memories of his own Canadian girlfriend from high school. She had been a supermodel.
He asked, “Do you want something else to eat?”
Faith scrunched up her face. Her salad had looked like someone had already eaten it. She asked, “Why am I so annoyed about her young adult book reviews?”
Will drank his Dr Pepper.
“Okay, I admit I look like the textbook white lady who screams at the guy working the omelet station because cheese costs fifty cents extra.” She took a breath. “But the only reason, and I mean the only reason, I never tried coke was because of what happened to Regina Morrow. And don’t even get me started on Go Ask Alice. That book scared the ever-loving shit out of me. I had no idea what the hell Angel Dust was and I was still terrified. Does it matter if some two-hundred-year-old ghostwriter thought ‘dig it, man’ was how young people talked?”
The door opened.
Faith tensed.
Will shook his head.
Faith ripped a handful of napkins from the dispenser