Broken by Karin Slaughter Page B

didn’t seem like an option. He’d been expecting news from Faith—that her baby was finally coming or, even better, that it was already here.
    But, no, it was Amanda Wagner, telling him, “We don’t say no to a cop’s widow.”
    Will had put a tarp over the trench, but something told him his two days of digging would be erased by a mudslide by the time he got back home. If he ever made it back home. It seemed like he was destined to spend the rest of his life standing in the pouring-down rain outside this Podunk police station.
    He was about to tap on the glass again when a light finally came on inside the building. An elderly woman headed toward the door, taking her time as she waddled across the carpeted lobby. She was large, a bright red prairie-style dress draping over her like a tent. Her gray hair was wrapped up in a bun on the top of her head, held there by a butterfly clip. A gold necklace with a cross dangled into her ample cleavage.
    She put her hand on the lock, but didn’t open it. Her voice was muffled through the glass. “Help you?”
    Will took out his ID and showed it to her. She leaned in, scrutinizing the photograph, comparing it with the man in front of her. “You look better with your hair longer.”
    “Thank you.” He tried to blink away the rain pouring into his eyes.
    She waited for him to say something else, but Will held his tongue. Finally, she relented, unlocking the door.
    The temperature inside was negligibly warm, but at least he was out from the rain. Will ran his fingers through his hair, trying to get the wet out. He stamped his feet to knock off the damp.
    “You’re making a mess,” the woman said.
    “I apologize,” Will told her, wondering if he could ask for a towel. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. He smelled perfume. Sara’s perfume.
    The woman gave him a steely look, as if she could read what was going through Will’s mind and didn’t like it. “You gonna just stand there all night sniffing your handkerchief? I got supper to make.”
    He folded the cloth and put it back in his pocket. “I’m Agent Trent from the GBI.”
    “I already read that on your ID.” She looked him up and down in open appraisal, obviously not liking what she saw. “I’m Marla Simms, the station secretary.”
    “Nice to meet you, Ms. Simms. Can you tell me where Chief Wallace is?”
    “Mrs.” Her tone was cutting. “Not sure if you heard, but one of our boys was almost killed today. Struck down in the street while trying to do his job. We’ve been a little busy with that.”
    Will nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I did hear that. I hope Detective Stephens is going to be okay.”
    “That boy has worked here since he was eighteen years old.”
    “My prayers are with his family,” Will offered, knowing religion paid currency in small towns. “If Chief Wallace isn’t available, may I speak with the booking officer?”
    She seemed annoyed that he knew such a position existed. Frank Wallace had obviously given her the task of stalling the asshole from the GBI. Will could almost see the wheels in her head turning as she tried to figure out a way around his question.
    Will politely pressed, “I know that the prisoners aren’t left unattended. Are you in charge of the cells?”
    “Larry Knox is back there,” she finally answered. “I was about to leave. I already locked up all the files, so if you want—”
    Will had tucked the file Sara had given him down the front of his pants so that it wouldn’t get wet. He lifted his sweater and handed Marla the file. “Can you fax these twelve pages for me?”
    She seemed hesitant to take the papers. He couldn’t blame her. The file was warm from being pressed against his body. “The phone number is—”
    “Hold on.” She extracted a pen from somewhere deep inside her hair. It was plastic, a retractable Bic that you’d find in any office setting. “Go ahead.”
    He gave her his partner’s fax number. The woman took her time