Triptych (Will Trent #1) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,98
then he saw the old woman standing in the doorway.
She was in a faded purple housedress with matching socks that slouched down around her thick ankles. A cane was in one hand, a cordless telephone in the other. She wore glasses with black plastic rims and her hair stood out in disarray. A frown creased her face.
“Cedric,” she said, her deep tone resonating through the long hallway. “What are you doing with that man?”
“He a cop, Granny. He gonna help.”
“He is a cop,” the old woman corrected, sounding like a schoolteacher. “And I doubt that very seriously.”
Will was still holding Cedric’s hand, but he used his other one to find the badge in his pocket. He took a step forward to show it to the woman. “Cedric told me that your granddaughter is missing.”
She scrutinized the badge and the identification underneath. “You don’t look much like a cop.”
“No,” Will admitted, tucking his ID back into his pocket. “I’m trying to learn to take that as a compliment.”
“Cedric,” the woman snapped. “Go clean your room.”
“But, Gran—” She stopped him with a sharp look that sent him running.
The old woman opened the door wider and Will saw that her apartment was an exact duplicate of Aleesha Monroe’s. The couch obviously served as a bed; a pillow, sheets and a blanket were neatly folded on the end. Two wingback chairs flanked the couch, slipcovers hiding obvious flaws underneath. The kitchen was clean but cluttered, dishes drying on a rack. Several pairs of underclothes hung from a laundry stand that was tucked into the corner. The bathroom door was open but the bedroom door was closed, a large poster of SpongeBob SquarePants taped to the outside.
“I’m Eleanor Allison,” she informed him, hobbling toward the chair by the window. “I suppose you want to sit down?”
Will realized that his mouth had dropped open. Books were everywhere—some packed into flimsy-looking cases that looked ready to fall over, more stacked around the floor in neat piles.
“Are you surprised that a black woman can read?”
“No, I just—”
“You like to read yourself?”
“Yes,” Will answered, thinking he was only telling a partial lie. For every three audiobooks he listened to, he made himself read at least one complete book. It was a miserable task that took weeks, but he made himself do it to prove that he could.
Eleanor was watching him, and Will tried to mend things. He guessed. “You were a teacher?”
“History,” she told him. She rested her cane beside her leg and propped her foot on a small stool in front of the chair. He saw that her ankles were wrapped in bandages.
She explained, “Arthritis. Had it since I was eighteen years old.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault, is it?” She motioned him toward the chair opposite but he did not take a seat. “Tell me something, Mr. Trent. Since when does a special agent from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation give a hill of beans about a missing black girl?”
He was getting annoyed with her assumptions. “There weren’t any white ones missing today, so we drew straws.”
She gave him a sharp look. “You’re not funny, young man.”
“I’m not a racist pig, either.”
She locked eyes with him for a moment, then nodded as if she’d made up her mind about him. “For goodness’ sake, sit.”
Will finally did as he was told, sinking so low into the old chair that his knees were practically around his ears.
He tried to get to the point. “Cedric called me.”
“And how do you know Cedric?”
“I met him this morning. I was out here with a detective from the Atlanta Police Department investigating the death of the young woman who lived upstairs.”
“Young woman?” she echoed. “She was forty if she was a day.”
Will had heard Pete Hanson say as much during the autopsy, but hearing the old woman say it now somehow gave it more resonance. Aleesha Monroe had been at least twenty-five years older than the other victims. What had made the killer break from his usual target group?
Eleanor asked, “Why is the GBI mixed up in the death of a drug-addicted prostitute?”
“I’m with a division that reaches out to local law enforcement when help is needed.”
“That’s a very fine response, young man, but you’ve not really answered my question.”
“You’re right,” he admitted. “Tell me when you realized that Jasmine was missing.”
She studied him, her gaze steely, lips pursed. He forced himself not to look away, wondering how she had been in the classroom, if she was one of the types who let the dumb