Darker Than Any Shadow

by Tina Whittle

  “Then why are you hanging around my doorstep?”

  “Because I want to know what this particular snake was doing wrapped around a dead woman. And why that has anything to do with Lex Anderson and an SUV full of allegedly stolen merchandise. And since you spent a couple of hours yesterday in the Atlanta Police Department’s interrogation room, you seemed the person to ask.”

  I stirred my coffee. “Are we off the record?

  “If you insist.”

  “Here’s the crux of the situation—neither Lex nor Debbie was prepared to take care of a ten-foot apex predator.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning Lex didn’t find the snake, the snake found him.”

  “How?”

  I explained. I saw the point when she started to take me seriously as clear as day. Her expression sharpened, and she leaned forward, elbows on table.

  “Can we go on the record now?”

  “Depends on what you want from me. And what you’re willing to offer in return.”

  “I want the heads-up on any developments in the murder case, including any jailhouse interviews should it come to that.”

  I ignored the dig. “Which murder case do you mean, Lex’s or Debbie’s?”

  She smiled. Suddenly she looked like an apex predator too.

  “Haven’t you heard? They’re one case. There’s a serial killer stalking the poets of Atlanta.”

  I stared at her. “Are you serious?”

  “As serious as Frankie Styles. That’s her theory. Which she is telling every media source who will listen to her. And now that there are two deaths, there are many many sources lining up for a quote from her.”

  I sipped my coffee. This was indeed news, and it was startling, but not surprising. Frankie was adept at fanning tiny flames into a PR firestorm.

  “So that’s her angle, huh?”

  “Why are you complaining? It’s not like you could be some serial killer.” She thought about that. “Actually, I guess you could. You were at both crime scenes.”

  “Yeah. This is only good news for me if the Dead Poet Sociopath actually comes forward, otherwise…”

  She grabbed her notebook and started scribbling. “The Dead Poet Sociopath. I like that.”

  “That was off the record.”

  “Whatever.” She stood and shoved her notebook in her fine leather messenger bag. “So that’s my deal. And in return for making me your exclusive media contact, I’ll give you a heads up on whatever comes my way through official channels—deal?”

  I stood too, offered my hand. She took it. She had a firm grip, like someone I could trust. Too bad I didn’t. Still, at this stage in the game any opportunity was worth exploring.

  “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Yeah.” She glanced at the display behind me. “Do you have any carry cases? I spilled a café au lait in mine. The gun’s okay, but the case smells like a Starbucks trashcan now.”

  “What do you carry?”

  “S&W Bodyguard.”

  “Pistol or revolver?”

  “Pistol.”

  A woman after my own heart. Maybe this partnership was a good idea after all.

  ***

  My previous searches for Lex had turned up only the persona. But within two seconds of looking at images for magicians in South Florida, I found him.

  His name was Kyle Alexander. I had to squint to make him out, but even though the spiky black hair was combed neatly, it was definitely him. He was dressed for the stage in a dark blue silk shirt, with a black vest and black trousers. Not a hint of Goth. But I’d have recognized his expression anywhere, the sharp knowing appraisal that he brought to the stage. No wonder he could rock an audience—he’d had twice the practice, since he was in effect two people.

  “Presto chango,” I said.

  I was right about the top hat, right about the scarves and handcuffs. I was even right about the rabbit, a fluffy white creature straight out of central casting. But I’d been wrong to assume Lex hadn’t had a lovely assistant.

  In the videos, she was petite and cute, with rolling waves of chestnut hair practically shellacked in place. A spangled halter dress emphasized a knock-out body, short and curvy. She smiled, a white and dazzling smile, as pretty a diversionary tactic as ever climbed into the box and got sawed in half.

  I clicked on the included link. It took me straight to Kyle Alexander’s website. I examined his schedule of appearances, which—I realized with a prickle—had dwindled to almost nothing by the middle of August. My prickle turned into a full body ripple when I clicked on his last scheduled performance, a lunchtime gig in Tampa Bay the Wednesday before the debut party. I noted the details. And then I spent twenty minutes on the phone talking with Kyle’s last employer, a human resources manager in the Bay area who’d hired him to entertain at the company picnic.

  When I hung up, I was certain of three things. One, the Tampa Bay show had been Kyle Alexander’s swan song. Two, no way he’d made enough money working the corporate magic circuit to survive, not with the recent meagerness of his bookings. And three, he had survived, which meant he was making money some other way, probably by selling stolen merchandise through Debbie’s online store.

  So I sent Cummings an e-mail explaining everything with a helpful collection of links. I bcc’d Garrity. And Rico. And my new friend Sloane. Because like they always say, turn-about’s fair play.

  I checked my watch. Only two hours before the open mike started. Time to get back to the city, dump off all my research at Trey’s, and get us out the door before the curtain went up and the poetic blood sports began.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  I had to use the shop’s hand truck to do it, but I managed to get all my research—including Lex’s box of poetry scraps—into Trey’s lobby in one trip. The concierge paled when he saw me coming. I raised my Frankie Styles mug at him, and he stared in soft baffled horror until the elevator doors closed.

  It was Wednesday, which meant Trey had been at Krav class since five-thirty. Add thirty minutes for a post-class run, another fifteen for a shower, and he’d been ready to go since seven-fifteen.

  I unlocked the door and pushed it open. “I know I’m late, but you’re not going to believe—”

  Gabriella jumped, startled. Then she smiled really big. “Tai!”

  Trey’s ex. She always acted ridiculously glad to see me. Tonight she was dressed in her spa uniform—white cotton yoga pants and a white baby tee, her red ringlets piled on top of her head. She was barefoot and carried a designer yoga bag on her shoulder. Probably something expensive and French and high maintenance, like her.

  I managed something like a smile in return. “Hi.”

  Trey sat in a kitchen chair in front of her. He wore sweatpants, but his chest and back were as bare as a romance novel cover. I tamped down a surge of primal female possessiveness.

  Gabriella made a stern face at Trey. “You keep using the balm, plus ice, at least fifteen minutes more before you go to bed. It’ll feel better soon.”

  Trey nodded. He stood and pulled a tee-shirt over his head. As he tugged it on, I noticed a scratch on the back of his neck, and the memory of how it had gotten there rocketed blood into my cheeks.

  As Gabriella passed, she leaned her head close to mine, her voice a girl-to-girl whisper. “Take it easy on him for a while, okay? He’s not operating at full capacity right now.”

  She smiled. Then she left, humming some French ditty under her breath, trailing the smell of herbs behind her. I was very happy when the door clicked shut with her on the other side.

  I went to Trey. “What happened?”

  “I pulled my trapezius.”

  “How?”

  “A student lost her balance. I tried to catch her.”

  The feminine pronoun didn’t surprise me. I’d seen these women at the gym. They were his students and classmates, random females with questions about bicep curls. They dressed in spandex tights and crop tops, smiling at him,
playing with their hair.

  “Women trip a lot around you. They also drop things and bend over to pick them up. A lot.”

  He cocked his head, noting my sarcastic tone and stern expression. He seemed to be trying to sort out a response, but not finding his way to it. I helped him.

  “So your ex-girlfriend dropped by for a little Florence Nightingale action?”

  “She brought this. Arnica and capsaicin.” He held up a tiny white jar. “And she’s not my ex-girlfriend.”

  “Ex-person you were sleeping with.”

  He didn’t correct me. “I called her for advice. She brought balm.”

  And she’d kindly applied it to, I thought, then felt another wave of possessiveness. I knew he still consulted her for the occasional sprained this or disjointed that. As a trained massage therapist and herbalist, she was the one who’d helped him drag his broken body out of the hospital and into full function again. She knew how to unknit knotted muscle, break loose scar tissue, stretch out kinks. Trey had enough metal in his body to be almost bionic, and yet in the end, he was flesh and blood, sinew and bone. He needed maintenance that I couldn’t provide.

  I suppressed the urge to pick a fight. Instead I threw my bag in the corner and examined him. Up close, I could see the glaze of pain in his eyes.

  “How’s the scraped hand?”

  “Better.” He held it up so that I could see. “What were you saying when you came in the door?”

  “Oh.” I wheeled the hand truck over and unloaded the first layer of materials onto the coffee table. “I think I found Lex. And by that I mean Kyle. And by that I mean…take a look.”

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, he’d established that my conclusion was sound, logical, and evidence-based, which surprised both of us. Too bad none of that brought us one step closer to finding out who killed Lex. Or Debbie.

  Trey cocked his head. “What did you call it again?”

  “Corporate magic. You know, magic shows for business retreats. Guy pulls a bouquet of flowers out of the CEO’s pants, everybody laughs, and then suddenly the whole staff starts cooperating and company profits go up. That’s the theory anyway.”

  “Have you told Cummings?”

  “He knows everything, don’t worry. I’m entirely on the up and up. Now that they’ve got the van, though, they’ve already started putting together the same picture, I’m sure.” I stood up. “Come on. We’ve got ten minutes to get to Java Java before the open mike starts. Rico’s hosting.”

  “About that,” Trey said.

  I sighed. I should have known. We were about to be late, and he wasn’t even dressed in leaving-the-apartment clothes.

  “You’re not going, are you?”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Are you hurt that bad?”

  “No.”

  I put my hand to his forehead. “Are you sick?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He sat on the sofa. His eyes were tight, and not only from exhaustion and pain. There was something else in there, something on the verge.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He kept his face averted, arms folded. “My reaction time is off. I should have been able to catch a student without hurting myself.”

  I sat beside him on the sofa, and he stiffened. I felt the wall coming up between us, brick by brick. “Is this about last night?”

  “Last night?”

  “You know. How you were angry and then suddenly you…weren’t.”

  “You weren’t angry either. Suddenly.”

  I took his point. “I want to make sure you’re not avoiding me because of that.”

  “Because of what?”

  “Because you’re still angry.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not angry, I’m tired. I need sleep. I need…I can’t think of the word.”

  “It’s okay. I know what you mean.”

  And I did. He needed four walls, a door that double-locked, window shades that pulled. And quiet. He needed that most of all.

  He kept his eyes on the floor. “Garrity will be there tonight. He says you won’t be allowed to take your gun. Pepper spray will be okay, however. You have that, right?” He checked his watch without waiting for an answer. “You’re going to be late.”

  “So will every poet. Don’t worry.”

  I reached over and rubbed my thumb between his eyebrows, softening the tightness there. He closed his eyes and let me do it, and I sensed the first hint of give in him.

  “Trey?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re sure this isn’t about last night?”

  He opened his eyes. “I’m sure. Except that…”

  “Except what?”

  He hesitated. “It’s not just snakes.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No. There’s something else.”

  Uh oh. “Something else like what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What letter does it begin with?”

  He shook his head. “That’s not the problem. It’s bigger than a word.” He stretched his arm and rubbed at his shoulder. “Go on. You’ll miss Rico’s performance.”

  “I can’t leave you like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “All…” I waved my hands around. “Damn, now I can’t think of the word.”

  “I’m fine. That’s all there is to tell.”

  I waited, but he didn’t continue. I stood. He remained on the sofa, still tired and hurt, but looser, not so rigid. My jumbled research spread on his coffee table like a multi-colored stain. Photographs, files, printouts, scribblings, bubble maps, Lex’s black-lacquered trick box.

  He peered at the mess. “About this…”

  “Sorry. I’ll put it back.”

  “No, no. I mean, do you need some help with it?”

  I stirred the chaos with one finger. His eyes roamed the tabletop, already cataloging and sorting. Sharpening. Nothing like a little not-unsexy drudge work to get him back on track.

  I smiled and kissed him. “Knock yourself out, boyfriend. And don’t wait up.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Java Java was my kind of coffee bar. It served fresh brewed coffee really strong, with real cream and turbinado sugar. It also had a large patio currently teeming with warm bodies. I didn’t need a field guide to spot the poets. They were the ones practically vibrating.

  The cops were an easy spot too, especially the uniformed officers at the door, but I was betting a plainclothes or two lurked in the crowd. I didn’t have Trey’s eye for picking them out, but my gut told me they were there.

  Especially one of them.

  I came up behind Garrity. “Don’t look now, but I’m about to blow your cover.”

  He turned. He had a beer bottle in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and he wore blue jeans and boots.

  I eyed the beer. “Wait a minute, you can’t drink on duty.”

  “Good thing I’m not on duty.”

  “What are you doing here then?”

  “Watching poetry.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I am.” He took a swig of beer. “Also watching you in a proxy sort of way.”

  The meaning of his words crystallized. “You’re not working, you’re here to spy on me.”

  “Not spy. Watch.”

  “Not much difference.”

  “Sure there is, in Trey’s mind.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Look, he’s got it in his head to look out for you, so let the man do it, okay?”

  Trey looking after me. An intriguing if patronizing concept. I put my hands on my hips, but couldn’t fight the smile.

  “And this is the best he could do, a smoking, drinking, off-duty cop with a chip on his shoulder?”

  “That’s what happens when I’m stuck with you—all my bad habits come out at once.” He sucked on the cigarette, let the smoke curl out the corner of his mouth. “You watched the DVD
yet?”

  “Didn’t get around to it. Was it supposed to smarten me up or something?”

  He didn’t reply. I held out my hand, and he passed me the beer, keeping the cigarette to himself. Rico appeared from the crowd and joined us at the bar, vodka and cranberry juice in hand.

  He looked Garrity up and down. “You being all detective-like?”

  “Nah, I’m strictly a civilian tonight. Not that the APD didn’t take Ms. Frankie Styles and her serial killer theory seriously. Hence the uniforms out front.”

  “You ain’t lying. There was talk of canceling the open mikes, all of them, but they haven’t yet. I guess it’s wait and see.”

  All around the city, five venues—including Java Java—were hosting Performance Poetry International open mike events. I did the math. With two cops at each event, there were at least ten visible patrol on the job, plus the undercover units.

  “Wait and see,” I repeated. “Not my strong point.”

  Garrity stubbed out his cigarette. “So what’s an open mike anyway?”

  “Short for open microphone,” Rico explained. “You got poems you wanna share, there’s a place for you at an open mike, no experience required. This one tonight is also a slam, which means there’s judging and a little prize money.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  Rico grinned. “Didn’t you read the poster? I’m the feature poet. I emcee, do a few poems, keep things moving.”

  “And the rest of the team?”

  “They’re handling the other events. Part of our duties as the host city team.”

  I elbowed Garrity in the side. “Why so curious? You interested in sharing some verse?”

  He gave me the look, the one like a garrote. “No, but Debbie Delray was. She’d been tweeting about it all week.”

  Debbie the poet wannabe. Of course she’d been planning on being here. I scanned the crowd. Cops and poets and perhaps a serial murderer sipping some espresso? I suddenly missed my gun, even if I wasn’t a poet.

  Garrity checked his watch. “This was supposed to start thirty minutes ago.”

  “Poets are always late. But look, the judges are in place. That’s a good sign.”

  Three rather disoriented-looking citizens were taking their chairs at the judges’ table. I could tell that not one of them had judged a poetry event before. This was typical—as poetry of the people, spoken word was judged by the people, literally right off the street. The results rested in the hands of Lady Luck, an even more fickle mistress than the Muse.