[Georgia 03] Fallen

it. “Amanda was wrong.”
    He turned back around to face her.
    “What she said today. Amanda was wrong.”
    He feigned shock. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say those words out loud before.”
    “ Almeja . The dying man’s last words.” She explained, “The literal translation is right—‘clams’—but it’s not slang for ‘money.’ At least not the way I’ve heard it used.”
    “What’s it slang for?”
    She hated the word, but she said it anyway. “ ‘Cunt.’ ”
    His brow furrowed. “How do you know that?”
    “I work in a large public hospital. I don’t think a week’s gone by since I started without someone calling me some variation of that word.”
    Will dropped the boxes back on the table. “Who called you that?”
    She shook her head. He looked ready to take on her entire patient roster. “The point is, the guy was calling Faith that name. He wasn’t talking about money.”
    Will crossed his arms. He was obviously riled. “Ricardo,” he supplied. “The guy in the backyard who shot at those little girls—his name was Ricardo.” Sara held his gaze. Will kept talking. “Hironobu Kwon was the dead guy in the laundry room. We don’t know anything about the older Asian, except that he had a fondness for Hawaiian shirts and spoke with a southside southern drawl. And then there’s someone else who got injured, probably in a knife fight with Evelyn. You’ll probably see the notice at the hospital when you go back to work. Blood type B-negative, possibly Hispanic, stab wound to the gut, possibly a wound on his hand.”
    “That’s quite a cast of characters.”
    “Trust me, it’s not easy keeping up with them, and I’m not even sure any of them are the real reason all of this is happening.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “This feels personal, like there’s something else at play. You don’t wait around four years to rob somebody. It’s got to be about something more than money.”
    “They say it’s the root of all evil for a reason.” Sara’s husband had always loved money motivations. In her experience, he tended to be right. “This injured guy—the one with the gut wound—is he in a gang?” Will nodded.
    “They generally have their own doctors. They’re not bad—I’ve seen some of their handiwork at the ER. But a belly wound is pretty sophisticated to treat. They might need blood, and B-negative is hard to come by. They’d also need a sterile operating environment, medicines that you can’t just grab at your local drugstore. They’d only be at a hospital pharmacy.”
    “Can you give me a list? I can have it added to the alert.”
    “Of course.” She went to the kitchen to find a pad and paper.
    He stayed by the dining room table. “How long could someone live with a stab wound in their belly? It bled a lot at the scene.”
    “It depends. Hours, maybe days. Triage can buy some time, but anything close to a week would be a miracle.”
    “You mind if I eat my dinner while you do that?” He opened the Styrofoam box. She saw two foot-long hot dogs soaked in chili. He sniffed, then frowned. “I guess the guy at the gas station was going to throw them out for a reason.” Still, he picked up one of the hot dogs.
    “Don’t you dare.”
    “It’s probably fine.”
    “Sit down.” She took out a frying pan from the cabinet and found a carton of eggs in the refrigerator. Will sat at the bar across from the stainless steel cooktop. The Styrofoam box was on the counter beside him. Bob poked it with his nose, then backed away.
    She asked, “Was that really your dinner—two hot dogs and a Krispy Kreme doughnut?”
    “Four doughnuts.”
    “What does your cholesterol look like?”
    “I guess it’s white like what they show in the commercials.”
    “Very funny.” She wrapped the Styrofoam container in aluminum foil and threw it into the trash. “Why do you think Faith’s mother wasn’t kidnapped?”
    “I didn’t actually say that. I just think a lot of things aren’t adding up.” He watched Sara break eggs into a bowl. “I don’t think she left willingly. She wouldn’t do that to her family. But I think she might know her kidnappers. Like, they had a previous working relationship.”
    “How?”
    He stood and walked to the dining room table, where he took out a handful of yellow folders from one of the boxes. He grabbed the bag of doughnuts before sitting back down at the kitchen bar. “Boyd Spivey,” he said, opening the top file