Triptych (Will Trent #1) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,2
of information covered them now. To the right of the front door, someone had scrawled, Kim is a ho! Kim is a ho! Kim is a ho!
Michael was looking up the winding staircase, counting the six flights, when a door creaked open. He turned to find an ancient black woman staring at him, her coal dark eyes peering out around the edge of the steel door.
“Police,” he said, holding up his badge. “Don’t be afraid.”
The door opened wider. She was wearing a floral apron over a stained white T-shirt and jeans. “I ain’t afraid’a you, bitch.”
Clustered behind her were four old women, all but one of them African-American. Michael knew they weren’t here to help. Grady, like any small community, thrived on gossip and these were the mouths that fed the supply line.
Still, he had to ask, “Any of y’all see anything?”
They shook their heads in unison, bobbleheads on the Grady dashboard.
“That’s great,” Michael said, tucking his badge back into his pocket as he headed toward the stairs. “Thanks for helping keep your community safe.”
She snapped, “That’s your job, cocksucker.”
He stopped, his foot still on the bottom stair as he turned back toward her, looking her straight in the eye. She returned the glare, rheumy eyes shifting back and forth like she was reading the book of his life. The woman was younger than the others, probably in her early seventies, but somehow grayer and smaller than her companions. Spidery lines crinkled the skin around her lips, wrinkles etched from years of sucking on cigarettes. A shock of gray streaked through the hair on the top of her head as well as the ones corkscrewing out of her chin like dreadlocks. She wore the most startling shade of orange lipstick he had ever seen on a woman.
He asked, “What’s your name?”
Her chin tilted up in defiance, but she told him, “Nora.”
“Somebody made a nine-one-one call from that phone booth outside.”
“I hope they wash they hands after.”
Michael allowed a smile. “Did you know her?”
“We all knowed her.” Her tone indicated there was a lot more to be told but she wasn’t the one who was going to tell it to some dumb-ass white cop. Obviously, Nora didn’t exactly have a college degree under her belt, but Michael had never set much store by that kind of thing. He could tell from her eyes that the woman was sharp. She had street smarts. You didn’t live to be that old in a place like Grady by being stupid.
Michael took his foot off the step, walking back toward the cluster of women. “She working?”
Nora kept her eye on him, still wary. “Most nights.”
The white woman behind her provided, “She an honest girl.”
Nora tsked her tongue. “Such a young little thing.” There was a hint of challenge in her voice when she said, “No kind of life for her, but what else could she do?”
Michael nodded like he understood. “Did she have any regulars?”
They all shook their heads again, and Nora provided, “She never brought her work home with her.”
Michael waited, wondering if they would add anything else. He counted the seconds off in his head, thinking he’d let it go to twenty. A helicopter flew over the building and car wheels squealed against asphalt a couple of streets over, but no one paid attention. This was the sort of neighborhood where people got nervous if they didn’t hear gunshots at least a couple of times a week. There was a natural order to their lives, and violence—or the threat of it—was as much a part of it as fast food and cheap liquor.
“All right,” Michael said, having counted the seconds to twenty-five. He took out one of his business cards, handing it to Nora as he told her, “Something to wipe your ass on.”
She grunted in disgust, holding the card between her thumb and forefinger. “My ass is bigger than that.”
He gave her a suggestive wink, made his voice a growl. “Don’t think I hadn’t noticed, darlin’.”
She barked a laugh as she slammed the door in his face. She had kept the card, though. He had to take that as a positive sign.
Michael walked back to the stairs, taking the first flight two at a time. All of the buildings at Grady had elevators, but even the ones that worked were dangerous. As a first-year patrolman, Michael had been called out to the Homes on a domestic disturbance and gotten caught in one of the creaky contraptions with a busted radio. He had