Tina Whittle_Tai Randall Mystery 01 (25 page)

Dylan hadn’t been lying—he hadn’t broken those cameras. It had been Landon all along.

“Dylan,” I said.

Landon made a noise. “First Eliza and then that idiot. Everybody gets in over their head. Eliza, Dylan, Charley. Now you two.” He put his mouth against my ear. “I told you to go home. I told you over and over in so many ways.”

“The bull’s eyes,” I said.

“Bull’s eye,” he repeated.

Trey didn’t speak. Neither did I. I wanted to. I wanted to beg and plead and say I’d do anything—anything—if he’d just let me go. But I couldn’t make my throat open.

“You framed Bulldog,” Trey said.

“Like that was a challenge. The idiot practically framed himself.”

I stared at Trey. He was watching me, not Landon. I saw something shift in his eyes and in his stance. Was he reaching for a weapon? Did he have another gun?

Landon noticed too. He moved the gun from my head and pointed it at Trey. “Don’t be stupid.”

I caught Trey’s eyes again. Did he remember? I hoped to God he did because it was the only chance we had. I closed my eyes, squeezed them tight, muttered what I hoped was a prayer…

And then I went limp.

Landon lunged to catch me, trying to swing the gun back around, but I smashed his arm up and hit the floor rolling, kicking, flailing, screaming. Trey moved so fast he was a blur, catching Landon by the throat and throwing him up against the wall. The gun flew across the room, but Trey ignored it and slammed Landon against the plaster, again and again, while Landon clawed at his hands.

I scrambled for my purse and snatched the gun free. “Let him go, Trey, I’ve got the gun!”

But Trey didn’t let go. He still had his hands on Landon’s throat, his thumbs pressed deep into his windpipe. Landon clutched at his fingers, going blue, choking and sputtering.

I stamped my foot and screamed louder. “Stop it, Trey! Let him go!”

It wasn’t happening. Trey had his face right up in Landon’s, and he was watching him suffocate. Watching him die.

I gripped the gun tightly, took aim, and fired. The recoil jerked my hands, but I hit my target—the crystal lamp across the room shattered in a cacophony. Trey whipped his head around to see what had happened.

“Let him go!” I screamed.

Trey shook his head, like a man waking up after a long sleep. He released his hold, and Landon collapsed to the ground, gasping and wheezing in leaky gurgles. He curled into the fetal position at Trey’s feet, his face ashen.

Trey looked at the glassy shards on the floor, then at Landon, then at me. “Call 911. Tell them we have a victim with a possible crushed windpipe. Tell them to hurry.” And then he held out his hand. “Give me the gun.”

I did. The room smelled like blood and cordite, like the car when I’d found Eliza. I was sick again, violently so. Trey kept the gun on Landon, his eyes on me. The shaking returned, my teeth chattering with each wave.

“This is where you tell me it’s going to be all right,” I said.

Trey holstered the gun. “It’s going to be all right.”

Chapter 48

The next hours were a blur of interrogation as first the police and then EMTs descended. They decided I was okay and tucked me in the backseat of a patrol car where I told my story over and over again. Trey told his story too, but he did it in an ambulance—where nobody would let me near him.

Steve had taken me seriously about calling Garrity, who arrived on the scene not long after Trey and I were separated. To his surprise, I threw my arms around his neck. “How’s Trey?”

“He’ll be okay. But I tell you what, if you ever need to slip somebody a mickey, go with Pellegrino. Bitter, fizzy, dark green bottle. Impossible to detect.”

“What was it?”

“Chloral hydrate. He’s shaking it off now, but it hit him harder than it would have normally—empty stomach, dehydrated from being sick. He knew something was wrong, but before he could get a call through to anyone, Charley cracked him from behind.”

He also told me that they’d rushed Landon to the hospital, and that he was going to be okay. This news actually cheered me. It meant he would face a judge and jury. And it meant that Trey wouldn’t.

“I knew that man was bad news the minute he stepped into my kitchen,” I said.

“Of course you did. In the end, it’s never a surprise. That only happens in the movies.”

And then he started explaining things, like what the procedure would be when I gave my official statement, what I would need to turn over to the cops—the gun, my clothes, etc. I only half-listened. My attention kept drifting to the ambulance. Garrity noticed.

“He’s gonna be fine. And so are you.”

“I know.”

And then I heard a familiar voice, argumentative and strong. “She’s my sister, damn it, let me see her!”

Garrity smiled wanly. “Oh yeah. Eric’s here.”

I made an exasperated face, but it was just pretend. Eric slid into the car, right beside me. He took my chin in his hand, turned my face left, turned it right. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, stop yanking me around.”

“I just found out, but I’m here. And I’m sorry I haven’t been, I really am, but—”

“Eric?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

I hugged him then, pressed my face into his warm crisp shirt. He felt like home, like all things familiar and easy, and he hugged me back, abrupt and fierce. I felt tears prickling, so I let him go. “Will somebody please let me see Trey?”

Eric looked at Garrity, who nodded. Then he put both hands on my shoulders. “We’ll get you there in a second. But first I want you to listen to me and listen good. You’re still in shock—”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You won’t feel it for a while, not while everything’s crazy, but once your life calms down again—”

I squeezed his hand. “I’ll deal with it. I promise.”

He seemed mollified. And I knew he was right. I knew enough about post-traumatic stress to know that it crept up in nightmares and flashbacks. And I hoped that it would, I really did, that the enormity of what had happened would crash down on me at some point.

Because at that moment, I felt nothing.

***

I endured yet another check-up at the ER while two deputies waited in the lobby. I could see the backs of their heads through the window.

“Like I’m gonna make a run for it,” I complained.

Marisa wasn’t happy. In the florescent lighting, her hair looked dishwater blonde instead of platinum, and she was pissed as hell. I didn’t want to be alone with her, but Eric was filling out paperwork, and Garrity was running interference with the cops, and Trey was in a different room.

She spoke without preamble. “What happened?”

I told her the whole story, and her pissed-off intensified into something volcanic. She tamped it down, though, pushed her hair behind her ears.

“Why?”

“Because if Eliza had revealed Charley’s secret, that would have been the end of the Beaumonts’ partnership with Senator Adams. That camp would have never tolerated an illegitimate lesbian drug-dealing—”

“Point taken.”

“And they would never have tolerated Phoenix either, not after that.”

“But how did Landon know she was going to tell?”

“He had her phones tapped, her computer too. He beat her good after she showed up at the Mardi Gras ball with Dylan, but that just made her decide to spill it once and for all. So she told Dylan their arrangement was over and called my brother. That’s when Bulldog got in the way. She tried to meet Eric one more time, and Landon found out. That’s when he killed her. Then he erased all evidence that Phoenix had her under surveillance. Then he planted that gun on Bulldog and tried to kill him. And then when Dylan decided to talk to the police—”

“I can fill in the blanks. But why did Charley still keep Landon around if she knew he’d killed her daughter?”

“She didn’t—he told her Trey had done it, that he was the one who roughed her up at Mardi Gras. She believed him. He also convinced her to be an alibi for everybody who was at Beau Elan on Friday. He told her it was the only way.”

Marisa had other concerns. “Phoenix is fucked. We’ll never get out from under this.”

I didn’t argue with her.

“Trey won’t even see me,” she said. “He’s up to his elbows in this mess, and he won’t explain, not even to save himself.”

“Can you blame him? You got Landon to get Simpson to spy on him.”

“Trey’s a pragmatist. That kind of thing doesn’t bother him.”

Right, I thought. Trey seemed invulnerable, the Ice Man with the bulletproof heart. But I knew what a façade that was.

“Landon screwed the pooch,” I said. “I can’t argue that. But depending on how you slant things, you could have a genuine hero in the next room. If he can be convinced to help your ass out of this, that is.”

Marisa considered. “What do you think it will take?”

“Let me see him.”

She pushed the call button without a second’s hesitation.

***

I found him sitting on an examining table, holding a cold compress to his head. He still wore his tuxedo shirt and pants, but the tie was gone and his shirt was wrinkled and untucked.

“Your hair is a mess,” I said.

He put a hand to it. “I know.”

I moved to stand in front of him. “How are you?”

“Concussed.”

“Which means?”

“Dizzy. Weak. A bigger headache than before.”

I put my hand to his forehead. “Is that from the conk or the tranquilizers?”

“Both. The EMTs also think I was overdosed with Topamax the night before.”

“What? That stuff you take for migraines? That’s what had you so sick?”

“I had all the symptoms—disorientation, agitation, nausea and vomiting but no fever.”

“So that wasn’t food poisoning, it was deliberate poisoning?”

He nodded. And he and I both knew who’d done it—Landon. Trey kept a bottle of the stuff in his desk drawer at Phoenix, unlocked, where anyone with access to his office had access to his prescriptions. And as we’d discovered, Pellegrino was the perfect disguise for all manner of drugs.

“He did it the night Dylan died, at the meeting I wasn’t allowed to come to.”

Trey nodded.

“Why would Landon mess you up like that?”

“One of the detectives said it would give him an excuse to come to my apartment. He needed to retrieve the files Marisa had sent home with me and see what other information I had.”

“Or perhaps set you up in some way.” And then I remembered. “You were supposed to be alone that night.”

“I was, yes.”

“But you weren’t alone.”

“No. You were there.”

I smiled at him, suddenly relieved. His expression was open, almost vulnerable, despite the wrinkle furrowed deep between his eyes.

“Are the police finished with you?” he said.

“For the time being. But you know what? I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

He nodded, wincing. “Okay.”

I moved my hand to his face. He closed his eyes.

“You still trust me?” I said.

He nodded.

“In that case, I have a proposition for you.” And then I put my mouth next to his ear and told him about it.

His eyes widened. “Now?”

“No, Trey, not now. Later.”

“Tonight?”

“No, not tonight.”

“Why not tonight?”

“Because you’re concussed. And poisoned.”

“Overdosed.”

“Twice. Two times.”

“But that doesn’t impair my sexual ability,” he protested. “Does it?”

This last question was directed to the doctor who’d moved to stand beside me. He was young and scrappy-looking, like a rock musician or a street fighter. But he had a white coat and stethoscope, so I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He got out a penlight. “That’s an odd question. Look straight ahead.”

Trey complied. “I ask odd questions.”

“Is it a trick question, like that old joke?”

“What old joke?”

“Look left.” He shined the light in his eyes. “You know, the one where the man asks the doctor if he’ll be able to play the piano after surgery, and the doctor says sure, and the man says, good, I always wanted to play the piano. Now look right.”

Trey obeyed. “I don’t know that one.”

“It’s an old standard.” He looked intently into Trey’s eyes. “Any double vision, blurring?”

“No.”

“Nausea? Vomiting?”

“No.”

“Dizziness?”

“Some.”

The doctor stepped back, folded his arms. “You’re going to have a major headache for a while, and all I can give you is acetaminophen. And we want to admit you overnight so we can watch your vitals. But after that, I’ll tell you what I tell everybody else with a mild concussion—no caffeine, no painkillers, lots of rest. No strenuous activity for a while.”

Trey cocked his head. “Strenuous?”

“Your call.” He looked my way. “This the lucky woman?” Trey just nodded.

“Is she gentle?”

Trey considered. “She can be.”

I covered my face with my hand. “Oh, good Lord.”

The doctor clapped him on the shoulder and turned to leave. “Lie down for now, and then we’ll get you in a room.”

And then we were alone, face to face. He lowered the compress onto the table. There was so much to talk about. But it would wait.

I moved closer, right up against him, and took his hand. He didn’t flinch or stiffen like I was expecting, just kind of froze. Then he put his other hand on my back, resting it between my shoulder blades. He patted softly, tentatively, like he wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do.

But it was.

***

That night I slept in a very uncomfortable chair in the lobby, right between Garrity and Eric. The next morning, Rico showed up with a box of hot Krispy Kremes for everyone and an espresso shot cappuccino for me. He had one for Eric too, who shook his hand gravely.

They released Trey right before noon. He immediately wanted to retrieve his Ferrari, but Garrity insisted he and Eric would take care of that. I volunteered to drive Trey home in Eric’s Jaguar, and to my surprise, both Trey and Eric agreed to let me do it.

As Eric went to bring the car around, I saw the story on the TV in the lobby. All the reporters wore black or gray and mused intensely about the notoriety of celebrity. Trey didn’t stay to watch—he went on to the pick-up area. Garrity touched my elbow.

“I meant to tell you,” he said. “They found Nikki.”

“Oh no! Was she—”

“Dead? Not on your life. She was hiding out with relatives in California. Once she talked to the cops, she bolted.”

“Smart girl.”

“Too bad she was the only one.”

I couldn’t argue. But I hadn’t been thinking as much about Eliza as I’d expected, probably because it was too painful. I’d wanted an innocent victim that I could somehow avenge, but she wasn’t that. No glory for the victors, no garlands, no laurel crowns. But it was over. I was grateful for that at least.

“One more thing,” Garrity said. “You might be getting a call from a friend of mine, a cop.”

“Crap. What have I done this time?”

“It’s nothing official. It’s just that he got engaged recently and his fiancée is skittish about the weapon thing. I told him you might could help, but then, that was before all this went down.”

I noticed then that Eric had the car waiting, that he and Trey were standing beside it, deep in conversation. Trey had his arms folded, but then Eric clapped him on the shoulder, and they shook hands like men sealing a land deal.

Garrity was still talking. “It’s not like he wants her to be Annie Oakley or anything, but—”

“What does the fiancée want?”

Garrity smiled. “That’s a good question. Tell you what, I’ll have
her
give you a call on Monday. If you’re feeling up to it.”

Would I be? I tried to access the memories—the dead girl across the street, Charley being shot right in front of my eyes, the feel of the hot metal against my temple and the cold metal in my hands—and all I got was blank numbness. I knew that would change. But at the moment I was grateful for it.

“I don’t know what I’ll be up for,” I admitted. “But tell her to call me at the shop. I’ll be putting some flower boxes out front, marigolds maybe. My mother loved marigolds.”

***

I drove Trey home. He stared out the window the whole way. Once I saw him put his hand to the glass, count to five.

“We’re going to have to talk about Gabriella,” I said.

He nodded. “And the cigarettes.”

This caught me off guard, but I rolled with it, a skill I was going to have to practice. I pulled up in front of his building. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come up?”

“I’m sure. I have a lot to think about.”

He didn’t move to get out, however. He just sat there, looking out the window. On the sidewalk, a construction crew passed. They were talking loudly, laughing, still wearing their orange hardhats. In the distance I saw the gleam of an I-beam, swinging in the clear sharp sunlight. Always going up, Atlanta was. Always something higher and better.

“I didn’t see any of it,” he said. “I can tell when people are lying, but I can’t see real deception. I would have been able to figure it out before the accident. But I can’t see anything except what’s right in front of me now.”