by Tina Whittle
Trey kept his eyes on the road. “I know.”
“He’s protecting somebody, probably Cricket.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because Rico can’t resist a damsel in distress. I should know. But he’s bitten off more than he can chew with Cricket. And Jackson doesn’t appreciate it one bit.”
“Maybe not. But he doesn’t think Rico killed Lex. He wasn’t telling the truth when he said that.”
“He wasn’t?”
Trey shook his head.
“So why accuse him?”
“Perhaps the accusation came from anger and not any actual belief in his guilt. I don’t know. But I do know Jackson didn’t mean it.”
“What about Frankie? Was she telling the truth when she said she didn’t kill him?”
He nodded. “So was Padre.”
“And Cricket?”
“Yes. And Jackson said the same thing this afternoon. He didn’t do it either.” He looked my way. “And neither did Rico.”
I leaned against the window and closed my eyes. From an overcrowded field of suspects to not a single suspect in the room. There was still one wild card in the deck, however—the mysterious CD bringer who may or may not have been Debbie the assistant. Which meant I had some work to do, and fast.
Before Detective Cummings showed up bearing warrants with my name on them.
***
Once we got to Trey’s, I shed my clothes in a pile and lay in the bathtub. I ran the water as hot as I could stand it all the way to the brim, then draped a cold washcloth over my eyes and sank beneath evergreen-scented bubbles.
And still the images flickered—Rico in handcuffs, blood on the pavement, Vigil somersaulting to the ground with a meaty thud. Missing money, missing weapon, missing cell phone. No evidence. No clues. Nothing but a big chaotic muddle of half-truths and not-quites and a bunch of people Trey swore didn’t do the bloody deed.
But somebody had. That much I knew.
Trey knocked twenty minutes later, my phone in hand. “It’s Garrity.”
I shook suds off my fingers and reached for the phone. As usual, Garrity got right to the point.
“I heard. What do you need from me?”
“I don’t know. Rico told us not to come down there. He made me promise, which is the only reason I’m sitting in the damn bathtub and not raising holy hell down at Atlanta Police Department headquarters.”
“Take it easy. I assume Trey’s been on the phone with the APD?”
“Yes.”
“Good. He’s excellent with bureaucratic channels. Between the two of us, we’ll figure out what happened.”
“I know what happened.” And then I filled Garrity in on the situation, starting with Adam’s report about the blood on Rico’s shoes and ending with the cops hauling Rico away.
Garrity was silent for a long time. When he spoke, he used his official voice. “I know he’s your friend, but—”
“He’s innocent. I wouldn’t be doing this if I weren’t sure.”
“Okay. The bloody shoes aren’t good, but okay. And no matter what, you know I’ve got your back, right? Yours and Rico’s both, right?”
“I know. But I’m…and Trey isn’t…”
Garrity exhaled. “Look, this isn’t Trey’s strong point, being a shoulder to cry on. But that man is relentless, which is what you and Rico need right now.”
“I’m not good at this sitting around and waiting.”
“I know. But I promise you, sticking your fingers into this situation will not improve it.”
I kicked the faucet. Then I kicked it again. Then I let loose a string of very bad words.
“Cut it out, Tai. This ain’t a goddamn tragedy. Rico will be okay, I promise.”
“You’d better be right.”
“Scout’s honor, my friend. Now buck up.”
I took a deep breath and let it out. “Bucking up.”
Trey watched from the doorway—jacket-less, sleeves rolled up. Relentless, Garrity said. Perseveration, my brother called it, a psychological artifact of his rearranged brain. Whatever it was, however it existed, Garrity was right. It was exactly what Rico needed.
It wasn’t what I needed, though.
I put the phone down. “This is where you tell me it’s gonna be okay.”
Trey cocked his head, his expression placid. “It’s going to be okay.”
He hadn’t budged from the doorway. He stood there, arms folded, watching me across a twelve-foot span of black and white Italian tile.
I held my breath and slipped beneath the bubbles.
Chapter Twenty
The next morning, I awakened to music.
I thought I was dreaming at first. Trey was long gone, his side of the bed cool and empty. I was alone in the apartment, and yet there it was. Music. Not swelling triumphal chords like an angel choir. Tinny muffled club tunes.
I rolled over. The music vanished as I dipped once again into slumber, and I managed to snatch another ten minutes or so of sleep before I heard it again. Only this time, my subconscious processed what it was.
A ring tone.
I bolted upright. Not my phone, and certainly not Trey’s. I clamored out of bed and tracked the sound like a bloodhound—stumbling first to the bathroom, then to the dry cleaning hamper, finally to Trey’s jacket from the night before. I dipped my hand into his pocket as the music stopped.
I pulled out a black cellphone dazzled with rhinestones.
Lex’s phone.
I carried it like a live grenade into the living room and placed it on the coffee table, thinking crap-crap-crap the whole time. It lay there, silent. And I remembered what Garrity had said: Mark my words, you find that phone, you find your killer. Four months ago, my first thought would have been horrorstruck suspicion. But I knew better now. Trey could kill, oh yes, absolutely. But cart around an implicating piece of evidence? Please.
My fingers shook as I called him. “I just pulled Lex’s cell phone out of your jacket pocket.”
A pause. “Are you sure?”
“Black with rhinestones. Yeah, pretty sure.”
“You have to call Cummings.”
“I know.”
“He’ll send a crime scene team to pick it up.”
“I know.”
Suddenly, the phone’s screen lit up, and it trilled again, the same disco ringtone.
“Oh shit, it’s ringing.”
“Tai, do not touch the phone!”
“But it’s ringing!” I checked the readout. Private call. “Damn it, I can’t see the number!”
“Do not get your fingerprints on that phone!”
“They’re already on it!”
“Tai—”
I hung up on Trey and snatched up Lex’s phone. “Hello?”
“Um, who is this?”
“Who were you calling?”
My own phone started ringing again. I ignored it.
The caller sounded annoyed. “The guy was supposed to call me back with instructions for picking up the snake.”
“The what?”
“The snake.” He enunciated the word very slowly and carefully, as if he thought I didn’t speak English.
I hurried to Trey’s desk and snatched up a pen and paper. “Of course. The snake. Are you calling from Brunswick?”
“No.” Now the voice was angry. “Look, he said it was mine.”
“Oh! That snake. Sure. He must have lost your number. Can you give it to me again?”
“Whatever. It’s 404—”
The line went dead. I shook the phone, but the screen remained dark. “Damn it!”
I put it back down and reluctantly picked up my own phone, which was ringing in a shrill and authoritative manner. “Hey, Trey, sorry about that.”
“I told you not to touch it.”
“And I told you it was too late.”
“Tai—”
“So I guess you don’t want to hear about the snake.”
A pause. “What snak
e?”
“That’s a very good question.” I poked the phone with my pencil. “So what’s the APD protocol for turning over a piece of evidence?”
“First, you don’t touch it.”
I ignored him. “Should I put it in a baggie? I could take it down there myself—”
“No, call Cummings. That cell phone is key evidence in a murder investigation, and if it’s discovered in your possession—”
“Okay okay! I’m calling now.”
“I’ll meet you at my place. Stay there.”
He hung up. I poked the phone again, then pressed the power button with the pencil, just to see what happened. To my astonishment, the phone flared to life. I examined the readout, then punched my way into the menu for incoming calls.
Private call, the two most recent entries read. Which meant that I was not only blocked from seeing the number, I was blocked from calling it back. But the third most recent entry gave me goosebumps.
The time code read Friday night at 9:43 p.m. I grabbed my pen and wrote the numbers down. Another 404 number. Atlanta. I stared at the digits. They were ringing a bell.
Then the screen died again. I pushed the power button one more time, but the battery was well and truly post-mortem. Exactly like I was going to be if Trey found out.
I knew I had to call Cummings. But before I did, I went to my tote bag and pulled out the piece of paper Padre had given me with Debbie’s number on it.
And suddenly I knew what I’d be doing with the rest of my Monday off.
Once I got finished dealing with the APD. Again.
***
Cummings looked incredulous. “A snake?”
“That’s what he said.”
Cummings tapped the table with his pen. He’d dismissed the crime scene techs and shuffled Trey and me into an interview room. Of course we’d had to come to the station, both of us. I decided that would be the procedure from now on, no matter what happened.
“Snake,” he repeated. “Does that word mean anything to you?”
“No, and believe me, I researched every kind of slang. Tattoo slang, poetry slang, drug slang. I found snake and bake, snake blood, snake on a stick—”
“That’s enough.”
“But nothing to explain what this guy was asking for. Unless he was asking about a snake-snake. You know, like Adam and Eve.”
Cummings stared at me for three seconds before returning to his notes. I glanced at Trey, who sat beside me. He was taut and grumpy, and I was two cups of coffee short of coherence. We made a charming pair.
Cummings formed a little teepee with his fingers. “Okay, Seaver, let me get this straight. Your girlfriend here finds that phone in your pocket, but you have no idea how it got there?”
“Correct.”
“So here you are, a SWAT-trained former police officer, practically a ninja from what I hear, telling me that somebody slipped this into your pocket and then sneaked away without you noticing, is that your story?”
Trey didn’t catch the innuendo, but I sure as hell did.
“Yes,” I said, “that’s exactly what happened. Trey had his hands full taking down a vandal. Maybe your men saw something? They sure as hell weren’t helping him.”
Cummings exhaled loudly. “You’re beginning to try my patience, Ms. Randolph.”
And that was when things went wrong, when they trotted out the Ms. Randolph routine. I leaned forward across the table.
“Look, we didn’t have to call. We could have anonymously dumped this off somewhere. But no, we behave like good citizens, and this is what we get? Suspicion, veiled accusations, and bad coffee.”
I shoved the paper cup at him. Last time the APD had gotten nasty on me, they’d at least compensated with good coffee. The stuff Cummings served tasted like dishwater somebody had soaked farm boots in.
Trey interrupted my complaint. “Detective Cummings, my peripheral awareness has weakened considerably since the accident. I wish I could tell you how that phone got in my pocket. But I can’t.”
A perturbed blush pinkened the detective’s cheeks. “No, I apologize. It’s hard to remember sometimes, especially since…”
He waved a hand at Trey, sleek and professional in his Armani. Or Brioni. Or whatever black couture suit waited next in the closet.
Trey inclined his head. “I understand. But there are some things I can tell you.”
We both looked at him, Cummings with renewed attention, me with a sinking stomach. Oh crap, what now?
Trey folded his hands on the table. “I’m reasonably certain the phone didn’t appear until after the memorial. If it had been in my pocket beforehand, it almost certainly would have fallen out during the takedown.”
Which meant that someone at Lupa had done it. Cricket, Jackson, Frankie, or Padre. Or Rico, I reluctantly added. The whole mess was starting to resemble a bad game of Clue.
“That’s good to know. Thank you.” Cummings stood. “By the way, your friend Rico was released late last night, no charges, but we’ll want to get his thoughts on this newest development, of course.”
I felt a surge of relief. “What about Vigil?”
“Maurice Cunningham? He was released last night too, one count disorderly conduct.”
“But isn’t he a suspect in the murder?”
“Read the paper tomorrow. It will explain what an alibi is, and why it’s a good idea to have a barroom full of people willing to provide one for you.” Cummings headed for the door. “You’re both free to go. Only one more thing—”
“I know, I know, don’t leave town.”
Cummings stared at me. “No. I need you both to sign that form and leave it on the table.” He frowned. “Are you planning on leaving town?”
I looked at Trey. He looked at me. We both shook our heads.
Cummings closed his notebook. “Good. Don’t.”
***
Trey walked me to my car. Silently. He had to get back to work. I didn’t. I had a full slate nevertheless, one I hoped would include him later on.
“Don’t be mad,” I said.
“I’m not mad.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying. I’m not mad. But I am…” He thought hard, then shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell.”
I reached up and put my arms around his neck. He was stiff and inflexible at first, but I held on, and soon I felt the give, the softening and bending.
“Have you told your brother yet?” he said.
“Not yet.”
“Don’t you think—”
“I’ll get to it. Eventually.” I pulled back and looked him in the eye. “We do things very differently, you and me. Different standards, different procedures. But I think we’re both trying to do the right thing.”
“I think you’re right. Still—”
“Hush.” I put two fingers on his mouth. “You’ve got to get back to Phoenix. And I’ve got some research to do.”
He narrowed his eyes. “On what?”
“Nothing dangerous or illegal, I promise.”
He ran his gaze across my mouth. I figured I owed him one and let him do it. When he seemed satisfied I was telling the truth, I smiled up at him.
“I’ll tell you about it at lunch, okay? Pick you up at one?”
He nodded. And then I kissed him, before he could ask what we were actually doing during lunch. Or quiz me further about my research project. Because while it was neither dangerous nor illegal, it was definitely something he would not have approved of.
Chapter Twenty-one
Carmichael Celebrity Services LLC listed among its regular clients several basketball players, a couple of carpet-bagging Broadway actors, and a few L.A. musicians. They catered to a specific niche—out-of-town celebrities in need of an Atlanta-specific temporary entourage. I wasn’t a celebrity, so it was a bit of luck that the guy I wanted happened to be in the lobby. I recognized the ebony skin and coyote eyes immediately.
He smiled my way. “May I
help you?”
I smiled back. “Maurice Cunningham?”
“Speaking.”
“Wow. You were ridiculously easy to find.”
No hoodie this afternoon. Instead he was impeccably tricked out in a slate gray suit with faint pin-striping and a dashing close-to-the-body cut. A suit for showing off, with a crimson tie like a mortal wound completing the package
I fingered the tip of it. “Silk, very nice. What do you call that color? Oxblood?”
The smile dampened. “Excuse me?”
“My boyfriend only wears black and white. You remember my boyfriend, right? Y’all got briefly and violently acquainted at Lex Anderson’s memorial.”
Maurice froze. “What do you want?”
“I want to sit and talk like civilized folks.”
He herded me into a corner behind a potted palm. “Frankie told you, didn’t she?”
“Told me what?”
He started to reply, but then turned to go. I blocked his escape. “Do your fancy bosses know about your arrest last night? Or the weapons charge that didn’t take?”
He stared, his narrow eyes calculating. “What will it take to make you go away?”
“Some explanations.”
“Not here.”
“Then where? And don’t even suggest some dark out-of-the-way alley at midnight, because—”
“The Sun Dial at six. You’re buying.” Maurice looked me up and down. “Ask your black-and-white boyfriend for some fashion tips before then.”
***
I was ten minutes late getting to Phoenix Corporate Security Services. Since the downsizing, it looked even more like a law firm than a corporate security agency, which was exactly what Marisa wanted, I suspected. The landscaping was still precisely groomed, and a fountain still burbled discreetly out front. Only half of the parking spaces were filled, however, and the overall effect lacked its previous monied sheen.
Trey’s new office was smaller and no longer had a slice of Midtown for a view. The décor remained the same, however—black and white contemporary, meticulously spare, impeccably organized.
Marisa had him desk-bound, but Trey didn’t mind. Previously he’d been her pretty boy cover model, a highly coveted accessory that Marisa pimped out to the highest bidder. But Trey’s talents did not lie in his looks, no matter how the clientele swooned, and it was part of Marisa’s bribe to keep him at Phoenix that he got to be a desk jockey. But even though his job description had changed, Marisa had not. Hard-nosed as ever, she made him toe the line when it suited her whims. Today was one of those whims,