Darker Than Any Shadow
Page 1
Darker Than Any Shadow
A Tai Randolph Mystery
Tina Whittle
www.tinawhittle.com
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2012 by Tina Whittle
First Edition 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2012933442
ISBN: 9781590585467 Hardcover
ISBN: 9781590585481 Trade Paperback
ISBN: 9781615953400 epub
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
Poisoned Pen Press
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Contents
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
More from this Author
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Dedication
To Kaley, my rainy day girl.
May your life be filled with songs and sweetness,
and may you always know your own true heart.
Acknowledgments
This was my first time writing a second novel, and I couldn’t have done it without the support, advice, and forbearance of a whole bunch of people. Thanks especially to my fellow writers Jon Bryant, Annie Hodgsett, Susan Newman and Laura Valeri, all of whom deserve blue ribbons for the creative brilliance they so generously shared. Debbie Campbell, Fran Johnson, and Tina Rose allowed me liberal creative license with their literary evil twins. And, as always, I offer my profoundest gratitude to BFF Toni Deal for being such prime BFF material.
Special thanks go to Lawrence Green Jr.—known in the spoken word community as Basiknowledge—who introduced me to the world of performance poetry; Lisa Abbot, Sean Devine, and Kian Devine, who lent their enormous creative and technical gifts to the “blowing up stuff” portion of my research; and Amy Cooper and Caitlin Cooper, who pulled a crucial plot device out of thin air one afternoon at archery practice.
The book also goes out to the next generation of potential writers in the family, some of whom are already sharing their words with me—my nephews Connor Floyd, Drew Floyd and Hayden Ward, and my niece Sydney Ward. My loved ones deserve special kudos, especially my parents, Dinah and Archie Floyd, my other parents, Yvonne and Gene Whittle, and my sibling and sibling-in-laws: Lisa and Tim Floyd, and Patty and Rich Ward. They make a great promotional team, but most importantly, they’re the best family an eccentric writer could ask for.
As always, much gratitude to the fine folks at Poisoned Pen Press, especially Barbara Peters, Annette Rogers, Jessica Tribble, and Robert Rosenwald, all of whom deserve giant trophies made of very expensive metals.
And last, but never ever least, buckets of love to James and Kaley—you two make every day an adventure.
Epigraph
When you’re alone in the dark…
your reflection is darker
than any shadow.
—Lawrence Green Jr. AKA Basiknowledge
Chapter One
“Be still,” he said, his mouth at my ear.
His hands moved around my neck and lay lightly against my shoulder blades, powerful and deceptively elegant. They had killed, those hands. I remembered this at unfortunate moments, like when his fingers brushed the nape of my neck—suddenly, from behind—when I’d barely had time to register his presence let alone prepare for his touch.
I stood very still. The effort unstrung me. I closed my eyes, but even then my thoughts galloped irresistibly into dangerous territory, taking my body with them.
Trey exhaled in exasperation. “You’re still fidgeting.”
I opened my eyes. There we were in the mirror, I in my scarlet cocktail dress, he in his immaculate Armani suit, black with a white shirt. My grandmother’s pearls nestled in the hollow of my throat, tracing the path his hands had followed as he’d slipped them around my neck. The string of tiny orbs glowed against my freckled skin, cool as moonlight, but warming with each heartbeat.
I thought red made me look like I had a fever, but since Trey was the one with the AmEx Titanium and the thing for Italian couture in various vermillions and crimsons, I wiggled into it occasionally. He had an eye for cut, and I had to admit that this particular dress—a halter top with a plunging back and draped skirt—balanced my broad shoulders and sleeked up my hips quite nicely.
I tried to meet his eyes in the mirror, but he was focused on the clasp tangled in my hairline.
I yanked away. “Ouch!”
“Tai. Be still.”
He was so close I could smell his evergreen aftershave, plus the mint of toothpaste, the talcum scent of soap. He had his French cuffs fastened, Bulgari Diagano watch in place, black hair brushed back. My Manolos weren’t even out of the box yet, and the back of my dress was still unzipped.
Frustration tinged his voice. “How did this happen?”
“I don’t know. Somehow it caught on the…what are these things keeping my hair up?”
“Hairpins.”
“The stylist called them something French.”
“Épingles à cheveux?”
“Yeah that.”
Trey finished unknotting the stubborn tangle and zipped me up. Then he hooked the dress at the top and eyed me in the mirror, adjusting the left strap a millimeter to the left. His fingers brushed the skin there, and the resulting tingle rippled across my shoulder blades.
He checked his watch, which was a formality. Even if he had to haul me out the door unzipped, pearls dropping behind me like bread crumbs, hair tumbling from my épingles à cheveux, we would be on time.
I scurried to collect my fancy purse and fancy shoes. He held the door for me, a dichromatic vision perfectly complemented by the blank white walls and black hardwood
floor of his almost-penthouse. His clear blue eyes were impatient now, the little wrinkle between them digging in deep. I smoothed it out with my thumb.
“Chill out, boyfriend. We’ve got plenty of time.”
He cocked his head. “Boyfriend. Interesting.”
I laughed, stepped into the Manolos, and kissed him, not even having to stand on tiptoe to do it. It was one of those kisses, the kind that sneaks up like a rogue wave. I closed my eyes, inching my hands along his rib cage, skimming his torso…
Until I hit warm leather and cold metal.
I tilted my head back and looked him right in the eye. Armani suits were usually good for concealed carry—something about the cut and break of the jackets—but Trey’s H&K was not exactly an easy hide, especially not from a handsy girlfriend.
“Did you forget to tell me something?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“So you’re packing your nine-millimeter because…”
“Because Rico asked me to.”
Rico. My best friend.
I put my hands on my hips. “And you didn’t tell me because…”
“Because Rico asked me not to.”
“We’re going to a debut party for a bunch of poets! Why does that require firepower?”
Trey checked his watch again. “Can I explain in the car?”
“Oh yes.” I pushed past him toward the elevator, trying not to teeter in the ridiculous heels. “You can absolutely do that.”
***
He left me waiting out front while he retrieved the Ferrari. I took advantage of the delay and stepped out of the tortuous shoes, stretching my toes. Even in the shade, the pavement baked the soles of my feet, and the air smelled of scorched pollen and cement.
It was hot, blazing hot. The meteorologists displayed thermometers exploding red at the top, temps in the triple digits. Keepers at the Atlanta Zoo fed the otters ice cubes. The unfortunate cops stuck on speeder patrol stuffed ice packs down their polyester pants. Desperate people threw themselves into the tepid waters of the Chattahoochee River or Lake Lanier, which meant drownings were on the rise. Lightning strikes too, including three fatal ones, as rainless thunderheads flared and erupted on a daily basis. It was as if Mother Nature had a bad case of PMS, and she was taking it out on the city.
I understood how she felt. I was a little put out myself. Tonight was Rico’s debut as a member of Atlanta’s Spoken Word Poetry team. The event was one of many in preparation for the Performance Poetry Internationals, two days of wordsmiths and spitfires from around the world competing onstage for cash and glory.
It was a big deal, and this was Atlanta’s first time as host city. Hence the impossible shoes, form-fitting dress, and precarious up-do. And yet my best friend Rico was keeping a secret, one that required my elegant badass boyfriend to strap on his semi-automatic.
The concierge smiled weakly in my direction. I smiled in return. “Hey, Mr. Jameson.”
“Ms. Randolph.”
Jameson was a slip of a man, fair-skinned and beige, his soft features forever knotted into perpetual anxiety. He winced as Trey’s F430 coupe roared into earshot, its guttural growl like a chainsaw mated with a sonic boom. Trey slung it around the corner and slammed it to a precise stop two feet from where I stood. Jameson took a deep breath and opened the door for me.
I put my shoes back on and eased inside. “Thank you.”
He shut the door and hot-footed it back to the safety of the portico. Trey checked his mirrors, then hit the street in a burst of acceleration—zero to speed limit in three seconds flat—and then he nailed it there, not one tick of the speedometer over.
I shook my head. “I can’t believe Rico put you in vigilante mode and didn’t tell me!”
“He said he wanted to explain the situation himself. And I’m not in vigilante mode.”
“So that gun is just an accessory, like an ascot?”
Trey used his patient voice. “Rico asked me if I’d be willing to keep an eye out tonight. His words. I asked him what that meant. He said he was concerned about a former team member, an armed and dangerous one.”
“Rico said ‘armed and dangerous’?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly those words?”
“Exactly.”
That was a bit unnerving. Rico was as precise as Trey was with the vocabulary. If he said armed and dangerous, I understood why Trey was holstered up.
“Does this poet have a name?”
“Maurice Cunningham. But he performs as Vigil.”
“Vigil. The guy with the big V’s all over his website?”
“I don’t know. But I do know he was recently released from jail after a weapons-related parole violation.”
Vigil. If I remembered correctly, he yelled a lot on stage, fast and loud in a machine-gun patter of alliteration and curse words. He won poetry slams, though. Again and again, the crowd awarded him the money pot. Until he’d gone to jail anyway.
“Rico said they found a replacement, one of the alternates, some new guy. Is that the problem, Vigil wanting back in?” Then I did the math. “Wait a minute, Vigil was only in jail four days. What’s he doing out already?”
“The charges were dropped.”
“Why?”
“On a technicality.”
“So this is why Rico put you on lookout? A frustrated poet with a grudge and a tendency to carry inappropriate firearms?”
“Not a firearm. A switchblade. At a middle school arts function.”
Ah. I was beginning to understand. But I still didn’t get why Rico hadn’t told me, had decided instead to sic Trey on the problem. Granted, Trey was a former SWAT officer with martial arts training. But I was Rico’s best friend.
Once we cleared the high rises, we hit the frustrating tangle of stop-and-go traffic, worsened by too many testy drivers making too many tight lane changes. I blamed the city-wide vehicular crankiness on the weather, the low gray-yellow sky and stagnant heavy air. I felt prickly too, unsettled and agitated.
I leaned my head back and stared at the black expanse of Ferrari upholstering. I hated being left out of the loop, hated not knowing what was going on. But I did know one thing—Rico Worthington had some explaining to do, and as soon as I got my hands on him, that’s exactly what he was going to do.
Chapter Two
“Of course I didn’t tell you,” Rico said. “You’d do exactly what you’re doing right now—give me the third degree.”
Gone for this one night were Rico’s baggy warm-up pants and oversized football shirt. No baseball hat, no unlaced Converse. Instead he sported an ice-blue linen shirt, complemented with graphite gray trousers and spit-shined grown-man shoes. Every piercing he had remained, even the one in his eyebrow, but he’d gone with tasteful diamond studs and sophisticated silver hoops for the occasion. They gleamed against his chocolate skin like pirate booty.
“This isn’t the third degree,” I countered. “Third degree involves yelling and thumbscrews.”
I was almost yelling anyway, over the increasing din of the restaurant. Lupa was packed wall-to-exposed-brick-wall with poets and friends of poets and wanna-be poets—it smelled of perfumed sweat and air conditioning mingled with a barely detectable hit of polyurethene.
“It’s not like I wasn’t going to tell you,” Rico said. “I figured you’d notice when Trey strapped on the gun.”
“You could have told me before then.”
“I never had a chance.”
“You had lots of chances!”
He slid an impatient glare toward the front door of the restaurant, where Trey stood at the entrance, backbone like a ruler. I knew Trey required a wall against his spine. He needed a clear line of sight to at least two exits, plus a primary cover and a secondary one. No distractions, which meant no conversation, no food, and no drink—except for Pellegrino. Trey always had a Pellegrino close at hand, this time with a twist of lime. He was a man of habits. I’d been able to break only one—he now occasionally k
issed me without being told to do so first.
We did other things too. He still waited for me to suggest those.
Rico looked frustrated. “Doesn’t he ever sit down?”
“No.”
“Can’t he at least be—oh, I don’t know—covert?”
“Former SWAT ops don’t do covert. In Trey’s experience, ‘look out for things’ means prepare for the threat of imminent lethal aggression.” I pointed. “See how he keeps his right hand free? That’s his gun hand. Even from a shoulder holster under a jacket, he has a draw time of one-point-four seconds. That’s how close he is at any moment from ventilating someone’s chest cavity.”
Two twenty-somethings at a nearby table simpered at him, crossing and re-crossing their legs. One wrapped her lips around a pink straw in a pinker drink. Trey took a sip of his Pellegrino and put the glass back down. He used his left hand to do this.
I leaned closer to Rico. “So maybe you don’t want me poking at your problem. Maybe you prefer Trey, who will keep a nice respectful distance and not ask any inconvenient questions. But remember this—you cannot undo him. He’s the nuclear option. Once you’ve engaged him, you’d better be prepared for whatever follows.”
Rico examined Trey again. I knew he was seeing the surface—polite, controlled, efficient. He couldn’t see the underneath. I’d tried explaining and gotten nowhere. But how could I explain? I myself had only glimpsed it from an angle, like seeing a ripple of patterned hide in the jungle and knowing it for a tiger. I had only seen its shadow. Yet the memory held me transfixed sometimes, like when his strong gentle hands went around my neck…
I swallowed the last of my champagne. Rico kept his eyes on Trey.
“Tell him to stand down, and we’ll talk.”
“Not until you spill it.”
“Not now.”
“Yes now.”
Rico eyed me warily. “Fine. But you gotta promise not to tell Adam. He’s freaked out enough already.”
He jabbed his chin toward the merchandise table, where his boyfriend Adam stacked tee-shirts and CDs. The two of them had been dating for five months, living together for four of them, and already I could tell that it was serious. They made a good couple—Rico dark and suave, Adam fair and boyish. Tonight he looked like a cross between a choir boy and a farmhand, with blue jeans and a windowpane plaid shirt, his corn-colored hair in a halo of tousles and cowlicks. He waved and grinned when he saw us looking, as innocent as cherry pie.