Tina Whittle_Tai Randall Mystery 01 (17 page)

Chapter 32

So he did get a ticket, a massive one, and we did have to go to the station. Garrity’s station. He met us at the door. He did not look happy.

“I’m going to do what I can about this,” he said. “In the meantime, in my office, both of you.”

Trey immediately complied. I hung back a little. “Go easy on him.”

Garrity stared at me. “Don’t worry about him, my friend. It’s you that needs to worry.”

“Me? What did I do?”

Garrity just pointed. “Now.”

***

His office was tiny and cramped, his desk a landscape of papers and envelopes. Trey stood by the window, watching the parking lot. I moved to the desk. There were only two pictures on it. One was a studio portrait of a smiling toddler wearing a Braves hat. The other was a candid shot. I picked it up.

In it, Trey was smiling for the camera, his mouth open like he was either laughing or about to say something. He was wearing a distressed leather jacket and a dark green Izod shirt, and his hair fell over his forehead, messy and long on top. Garrity stood to his right—they had their arms around each other’s shoulders. I imagined beer and peanuts, a house band playing eighties cover.

Trey saw what I was holding. “You remember this?” I said.

He shook his head. “No.”

I put the photo back on Garrity’s desk. “I think I would have liked you.”

“I think I would have liked me too.”

Just then Garrity came in. His voice was clipped. “Trey, you wait out front.” Then he looked straight at me, and I didn’t like the look one bit.

“This won’t take long,” he said.

***

I sat opposite the desk. Garrity, however, remained standing, propped against a file cabinet. I couldn’t stand the suspense.

“Did they catch him?”

“They caught him.”

“Good, I can’t wait to hear—”

“You just had to say ‘wanted killer,’ didn’t you?”

I spread my hands. “It was Bulldog! You know, Bulldog, presumed dead, murder suspect?”

“Which was all the more reason to let the cops handle it.”

“What cops? We were all alone!”

He wasn’t listening. “It wasn’t worth the risk.”

“Oh, please, Trey’s a crackerjack behind the wheel.”

“Yeah, well, it didn’t help him last time, did it?”

“That’s bullshit!” I shook my head. “Trey is not some invalid—”

“Who are you to be telling me what he’s like? I’ve known him for ten years, you’ve known him, what? A week?”

For some reason, this infuriated me. “You’re just mad because you don’t know him anymore, and you’re wondering if maybe you never did.”

Garrity stared at me. His voice was calm. “Trey was in a coma for five days, on a respirator for most of them. Catheter, feeding tube, the whole nine yards. People came, and then they left. Real quick.”

I saw tears, hard ones, like diamonds. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“But I was there every single day. And I made deals with God—bring him back and I’ll stop smoking. Don’t let him die and I’ll give ten percent to the church. You find God real quick in ICU, let me tell you.”

He blinked, and the tears disappeared. “The only thing is, I don’t know if my prayers were answered or not, because he didn’t die, but he sure as hell didn’t come back.”

He was waiting for me to argue, and I started to say something, then decided I had no right. So I got up and walked out. I paused at the threshold. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

He didn’t reply, so I headed for the lobby to find Trey, closing the door softly behind me.

***

Marisa was waiting for us back at Phoenix. She wasted no time on small talk. “Agent Davidson with the GBI needs copies of the revised TSCM plan ASAP. He’s in your office. I didn’t tell him that you were busy being booked and printed.”

Trey didn’t flinch. “I was not.”

She held up her hand. “Whatever. Revamp them based on the new data sheets and get them to him, and me. You’ve got a meeting with Landon at four today. And I need a 302 on this morning’s little adventure before you leave.”

“Of course.”

Then she turned to me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

“The same goes for you. Get a report to Trey by three-thirty, follow the 302 format.”

“The what?”

“Three-oh-two. You’re supposedly good at research—look it up. I’ve cleared space in the secondary area for you. And you need to return calls from Jake Whitaker—he’s still can’t find your number and left two voice mails for you here.”

I knew Nikki was to blame for the missing phone number, but I didn’t say anything about that. “I’m on it.”

She waved Trey toward the elevators. “Get to work. If you’re done playing Thelma to her Louise, that is.”

Trey obliged. Marisa watched him go—for a moment I caught the slippage of the mask, the taut white fear at the corner of her eyes, underneath more layers of foundation that I cared to count. Then she turned smoothly and headed for her office. Even in heels, she moved with an invisible book on her head.

***

Secondary area, as it turned out, meant surplus room. I flopped in the chair, this faux leather number, and inspected my temporary headquarters—eight by eight, no window, one bleak spare desk. On the plus side, it did have a working computer with external Internet access—Phoenix’s intraoffice system was off limits, however. I started to pull up my e-mail, then hesitated. I picked up the phone instead.

Rico wasn’t answering—again—so I left a message. “Bring lunch, whatever you want, my treat. Just one little favor in return.”

I told him what I wanted and then tried Eric. More voice mail. So I called Jake Whitaker, who was practically apoplectic with anxiety.

“I heard what happened this morning—that Bulldog person was here.”

“Apparently so.”

“I thought he was dead.”

“Apparently not.”

“The cops said he was trying to get into Eliza’s apartment.” A nervous silence. “You don’t think he was after me, do you?”

Not the question I expected. “Why would he be after you?”

“Because he thinks I know something.”

“Do you?”

“No! But who knows what that lunatic’s thinking.”

I tried to sound soothing, but Whitaker was having none of it. I promised I’d let him know something as soon as there was anything to know, but that didn’t mollify him and he hung up abruptly.

Okay, I thought, that was interesting. Why in the world would Whitaker think Bulldog might be after him? Before I could figure out that puzzle, however, my phone rang.

It was Garrity. “Look, what I meant to say was, be careful. Please. And then I meant to say that I was glad you were working with him, at some point that should have been in the conversation.”

“Before or after you lectured me?”

“Probably before. Listen, you have to be careful. You say stuff like ‘wanted killer’ and every damn rule goes bam, right out the window.”

“But it was an emergency!”

“No, arterial bleeding is an emergency, not chasing down suspects. And you don’t want Trey breaking his rules for anything less, trust me.” A pause. “So do you want to hear what they got from Bulldog or not?”

“Let me grab a pen.”

His story was short, but oh, was it interesting. Eliza had called him a month or so ago, wanting some pot, a little meth. He’d ponied the stuff right up, and—he’d admitted—moved to Atlanta where he tried to renew the romantic relationship. She kept putting him off, which just made him more persistent. This was why he’d been following her the Wednesday she went to Eric’s house, why he’d followed her back to her place. Only she’d refused to talk to him.

“Big surprise there,” I said.

“Yeah, well, Bulldog saw her talking to your brother and freaked. He admitted that he got loud, maybe a little rough with the hands.”

“The fight that Jake Whitaker heard.”

“Right. He denies being the one to play rough with her the night of Mardi Gras, though. He said she had the bruises when he saw her.”

“You believe him?”

“No. Anyway, Eliza threatened to call the cops, so he left the premises. Sort of. His idea of leaving the premises was to hang around the gate waiting for her to appear again.”

“No wonder she didn’t go meet Eric for dinner. There was a nutcase outside.”

“Yeah, that’ll put a damper on your social life.”

“But psychotic or not, his version of events makes sense.”

“Oh, yes,” Garrity agreed. “Lots of sense. Only one problem—they found her purse in the floorboard of his truck, everything in it but the cash, along with what’s looking like the murder weapon.”

I almost dropped the phone. “Get out!”

“Nope. Thirty-eight revolver. Some blood on it—still waiting for the DNA on that, but it’s her type, and it’s consistent with the bullet they pulled from her skull, according to the ME anyway. No fingerprints though. Looks like someone wiped it.”

“Who’s it registered to?”

“Nobody. It’s a throwaway.”

“So is he admitting anything?”

“No, but he’ll crack soon enough. He’s too stupid to maintain a story for long.”

“He was smart enough to keep from being blown up,” I reminded him.

Garrity made a noise. “Lucky enough, you mean. He’d stepped across the street to get some beer and cigarettes when the place went up. Stupid people shouldn’t mess with meth—they incinerate themselves eventually.”

“Any chance it was deliberate?”

“Interesting you should say that. Bulldog’s claiming that he’s being framed and that the explosion was a deliberate attempt on his life.”

“Is that possible?”

“Sure. Blowing up a meth lab is cake—a second grader could do it. Plus the gun is the alleged weapon until the forensics come back. No matter—he’s denying any knowledge of how it got in his truck.”

“Just like he’s denying killing her?”

“Just like. And just like he’s denying having anything to do with you either, not the break-in, not the threatening pictures. Says he doesn’t even know who you are.”

So much for my prime suspect. From the looks of things, I had plenty more to choose from, however. “Do the Beaumonts know about this development?”

“Chances are good they’re gearing up for a press conference as we speak.”

“Maybe not.”

Then I told him about Mark Beaumont’s decision to downplay things for a while. I also mentioned that Trey had been drafted for Senator Adams’ reception that weekend in an effort to keep it as low-key as possible while still maximizing the its political potential.

I looked up to see Rico standing in my doorway, waving a Varsity takeout box. I motioned him inside.

“But if they’re pinning this on Bulldog, then my back-stage pass is about to expire. I’m only good as long as the case is unsolved.”

Garrity took a beat. “I meant what I said earlier. Be careful with Trey.”

Suddenly, I knew what it was that was constantly zipping between them. I’d thought it was some man thing, but it wasn’t. It was fraternal, yes, but more like a big-brother-little-brother relationship. And Garrity was the big brother—protective, anxious, always trying to hide it.

“I’ll be very careful,” I promised, “but it’s a moot point. Marisa’s got him desk-bound.”

“Not surprised. But you know what? It’s nice to know he’s still got a little vroom-vroom in him.”

“The Iceman Melteth.”

“Maybe. Just maybe.”

Chapter 33

Rico placed a bag on my desk. “Nice suit.”

I preened for him. “You like? It came in real handy during the morning car chase and my subsequent trip downtown. My third.”

He laughed. Then he stopped laughing. “You’re serious?”

“As the proverbial heart attack. And speaking of…” I peered into the bag. “All right, chili dogs.”

So we sat in the secondary room, and I filled him in on my morning. He ate delicately, fastidiously even, whereas I managed to blop ketchup on my pants. I papered myself with napkins and kept eating.

“Where’s Hot Guy?” Rico said.

I licked my lips. “Grounded, like me.”

“No wonder you’re in a hurry with this little project.” He pulled a portable drive from his pocket. “All the people you don’t trust are tied up somewhere else.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I trust Trey.”

Rico looked surprised. “That’s new.”

“I guess it is. But it’s true.” I licked my fingers. “Did you bring the program?”

“So now we change the subject. Yes, I’ve got it.” Rico bellied up to my computer. “I’ve got to be at Lakewood in two hours. Some of us do more than tool around in Ferraris for a living.”

I smiled. Then I rolled my chair beside him and peered over his shoulder as he got to work. “You know the club scene, right?”

“Sure.”

“How’s Dylan Flint fit into it?”

Rico kept his eyes on the screen. “I see him a lot, especially at the new places, usually riding somebody else’s coattails past the velvet rope. But he’s popular—that sex tape thing is serious juice.”

“Any idea why he’d be hanging around the Beaumonts? Or a place like Phoenix?”

“Looking for dirt. Remember when Bobby Brown got arrested at the steak place over in Dekalb? The next day pictures are all over the place, including Dylan’s trifling little blog.”

“Yeah, well, I’m on the trifling little blog now.”

“Doing what?”

“Tooling around in a Ferrari. I don’t get it, Rico. Why in the world would he try to be a real photographer on the one hand and mess around with crap like that on the other?”

“Because it means he’s in. He’s in because he notices you and you’re in because you’re noticed—I deal with this shit all the time.” He sucked in a long slow breath. “It’s crack is what it is. Messes up your head.”

I kept thinking about the glimpse of myself on Dylan’s website. I did look exotic through the window of a Ferrari, sunglassed and untouchable. More fascinating than I really was, mysterious even. Rico read my thoughts.

“Don’t go getting all up in that, girlfriend. It’s poison.” Then he looked at the rest of the photographs spread out on the table. He tapped the one of Eliza. “That the dead girl?”

“That’s her.”

“Who’s everybody else?”

“Eric you know. That’s Senator Adams and a bunch of his friends. Eliza, with Nikki from the other night, and Trey, once again in Hot Guy mode. And that’s Gabriella, massage therapist to the stars.”

I looked at Trey’s face, at Gabriella’s. His expression was utterly neutral. But in her dressing room, I’d seen something shifting between them. Tectonics at work, I suspected, deep buried things.

Rico frowned. “Do you think they’re a couple?”

I sighed. “I have no idea. I haven’t asked him. It’s not like we’re dating—or any other ‘ing’ words for that matter, so—”

“Not Hot Guy. Them.”

He tapped the photograph. Eliza and Nikki. And it all suddenly fell into place.

“Omigod, you really think so?”

“It’s pretty obvious.”

“But nobody’s said anything!”

“Nobody would. This Eliza girl gets shot to death and dumped in a driveway, the collective antennae go up, you know what I’m saying?”

I knew what he was saying. “But why stay in the closet in Atlanta? This place is almost as out as San Francisco.”

Rico shrugged. “If I worked for someone like Mark Beaumont, Mr. Family Values Conservative himself, I’d sure keep it on the QT. Hell, yeah, I would.”

I thought of Janie and her crucifix, the way her fingers sought it, toyed with it. There were lots of reasons to keep such things to yourself besides employment.

“Do you think the cops know?” I said.

“Maybe yes, maybe no. Either way, I’m thinking there’s a lot of stuff that a lot of people aren’t telling. This computer’s clean, by the way.”

A happy green light was flashing on the screen. Rico’s program had found nothing suspicious—no viruses, no worms, no key loggers, nothing that would allow someone to creep in when I wasn’t paying attention.

“So nobody’s spying on me?”

“Nobody at all.”

“So I was being paranoid?”

He grinned. “You know what they say about paranoia. But nobody’s snooping on this particular computer. It’s safe. I’ll check the one at Dexter’s shop the next time I’m there. Assuming you’ve taken that racist piece of rag down.”

“No more Confederate flag. I promise.”

Rico finished up quickly after that, and I walked him to his car. When we reached it, he turned and looked at me seriously, which was an unusual expression for him.

“You be careful. There are people out there who don’t play, you know what I’m saying?”

I didn’t reply for a moment. Then I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “You be careful too, Rico.”

He looked at me for a long second, then the gravity melted from his face. He made a fist and punched it at my chest, fast, like a snake striking. I put my hands up and smacked it away.

He grinned. “Look at you, getting all dangerous and shit.”