Triptych by Karin Slaughter Page A

contradicted. “Maybe if you lived in the Homes, you would’ve already seen your fill of this kind of violence.”
    “If that were the case,” Trent said, “then why would I report it?” He tried to answer his own question. “Maybe I knew the woman?”
    “If you knew her, then you’d sound more upset than that.” Michael indicated the recorder. The caller had sounded calm, like she was reporting the weather or the score from a particularly boring game.
    “It took over thirty minutes for the unit to come.” Trent didn’t seem to be making a condemnation when he pointed out, “Grady has the slowest response time in the city.”
    “Anybody watching the news would know that.”
    “Or living in the Homes.”
    “We’ve checked everybody in the building, did door-to-doors that night. Nobody’s popping up with a big sign hanging around his neck.”
    “No sex offenders in the buildings?”
    “One, but he was banged up the whole day being interviewed on another case.”
    Trent rewound the tape and played it yet another time, letting it run into the emergency operator saying, Ma’am? Ma’am? Are you there?
    Trent tucked the recorder back into his pocket. “The victim’s a little old, too.”
    “Monroe?” Michael asked, trying to switch gears. Trent was finally talking to him like a cop. “Yeah, if Pete’s right, she’s probably around my age. Your girls were-what-fourteen? Fifteen?”
    “White, too.”
    “Monroe was black, living in the projects, working the streets.”
    “The others were white, middle to upper class, came from solid families, doing well in school.”
    “Maybe he didn’t have time to hunt down a new one,” Michael suggested, feeling like he was walking on a very thin wire. He got that buzzing in his ears again, that something in his head that told him to shut up, don’t trust this new guy, don’t let him fool you.
    “Could be,” Trent allowed, but his tone of voice said he didn’t find it likely.
    Michael kept his mouth closed as he took a right into Grady Homes. The development looked a hell of a lot better at night, darkness covering the worst of its flaws. It was almost ten o’clock on a Monday morning, but kids were milling around on their bikes like they had been freed for the summer. Michael had done this same thing when he was a kid, straddling his Schwinn as he bullshitted with the other kids on his block. Only, Michael hadn’t been passing dime bags out in the open like these kids were doing now, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have had the balls to toss a wave at a couple of cops as they cruised through his neighborhood.
    The BMW was still parked outside of building nine, two teenagers sitting on the hood with their arms crossed over their chests. They looked about fifteen or sixteen, and Michael felt a cold sweat at the soulless look in their eyes as they watched his car pull into the lot. This was the age that scared him most as a cop. They had something to prove, a quest to fulfill in order to grow from boy into man. Spilling blood was the quickest way to cross over.
    Trent was looking at the boys, too. He gave a resigned “Great,” and Michael was relieved to see him still thinking like a cop.
    The front door to the building banged open and they both reached for their guns at the same time. Neither one drew as a short, fireplug of a man stalked down the broken sidewalk, pounding right past Trent’s side of the car without giving them a second look.
    The man wasn’t wearing a shirt and his broad chest showed hints of thick muscle under jiggling fat, his pecs jerking up and down like tits with each step he took. He had an aluminum bat in one hand, and as he got closer to the boys on the car, he wrapped his other hand around the base, ready to break some balls.
    Michael looked at Trent, who said, “Your call,” but he was already getting out of the car.
    “Shit,” Michael hissed, opening his door, getting out just as the fireplug reached the boys.
    “Get the