“You’re saying he would turn on Jeffrey?”
“Never, but he would flip on Lena like a pancake.”
“I thought Brad and Lena were partners?”
“They were,” Will said. “But he’s a Dudley-Do-Right.”
Faith got his meaning. Brad saw things in black and white, which could make you a good cop, but not necessarily a good partner. No one wanted to work with a tattletale.
Will said, “We need to talk to Brad.”
“Put it on the list behind talking to every detective, coroner and next of kin involved in every case from Daryl Nesbitt’s articles.”
Will tipped the bag of Bugles into his mouth and finished the last of the crumbs. Then he took a handful of Jolly Ranchers out of his pocket for dessert and Faith couldn’t watch anymore.
The satnav said to take a right.
Faith drove through an older residential area. Tall dogwoods lined the streets. Large shrubs and ornamental trees filled the front yards. The design reminded Faith of her own in-town neighborhood, where hundreds of split-level ranch-style houses had been built for returning World War II veterans. Hers was one of the few remaining homes that hadn’t been Frankensteined into a McMansion. Faith’s government salary barely covered a broken water heater. If not for her grandmother leaving her the house, she would’ve been forced to live with her mother. Neither one of them would’ve made it out alive.
She slowed down to read the mailbox numbers. “We’re looking for 8472.”
“There.” Will pointed across the street.
Gerald Caterino lived in a fairly modest two-story brick Colonial. The lawn was neatly trimmed zoysia that had yet to go dormant from the change in season. Flowers Faith could not name spilled from terracotta pots. Pavers lined the crushed stone driveway. She pulled in front of a closed wrought-iron gate that blocked the motor court. She saw a kid playing with a basketball on the other side. He looked around eight or nine years old. Faith remembered Caterino’s bio from his company website. She assumed this was the son that Caterino liked to read with.
“Up top.” Will nodded toward a security camera.
Faith scanned the front of the house. There were two cameras covering each corner.
Will said, “That’s not something you get on Amazon.”
Faith agreed. They looked professional, what you’d find in a bank.
The gate took on a different meaning. Faith had lived in Atlanta all of her life. She had seen the gate as just another gate. She reminded herself they were in Milledgeville, where the annual murder rate was zero and every other house on this bucolic, tree-lined street probably had unlocked front doors.
She said, “His daughter was brutally attacked eight years ago.”
“He blames us for what happened after.”
“Not us personally. He blames Grant County.”
Will didn’t respond, but then he didn’t have to. Gerald Caterino’s online activity made it clear that he didn’t see the difference.
Faith allotted herself exactly two seconds to think about the gunshot wound that had been carefully placed between Jeffrey Tolliver’s eyes.
She asked, “Ready?”
Will got out of the car.
Faith found her purse in the backseat. She joined Will at the gate. His elbows rested along the top. He watched the kid chunk the ball toward the basket. It missed by a mile, but the boy still looked to Will for approval.
“Wow, that was so close.” Will gave Faith a slight nod toward the back of the house. “Can you do that again?”
The kid happily chased after the bouncing ball.
Faith had to go up on her tiptoes so she could see the house. There was a screened porch off the back. The shadows provided cover for the man sitting at the table. He leaned forward into the sunlight. What was left of his dark hair was streaked gray. His push-broom mustache was neatly trimmed. His wire-rimmed glasses were on top of his head.
“What do you want?” Gerald Caterino’s angry tone made the hairs go up on the back of Faith’s neck.
“Mr. Caterino.” She already had her ID ready. She held it up over the gate. “I’m Special Agent Mitchell. This is Special Agent Trent. We’re with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. We wondered if we could talk to you.”
He remained seated at the table, telling the kid, “Heath, go check on your sister.”
Heath let the basketball bounce away as he darted inside.
Faith heard a click, then the gate slowly opened.
She made herself go first, walking across the driveway, open to anything that might come. The back yard was as huge as it was well-protected. She saw a six-feet-tall chain-link fence around the perimeter. More cameras were