Darker Than Any Shadow

by Tina Whittle

  Onstage, a technician checked the microphone and pronounced it good. She shot Rico a thumbs up, and he pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen, and a three-by-three grid popped up. As he tapped, each grid filled with a digital video feed.

  “Tonight’s the trial run of the public access video.” He pointed at the middle square and the square to its left. “There’s the main stage at the Fox, one angle from the orchestra, one from the balcony.”

  “It’s deserted.”

  “Nothing’s happening there until Friday night. But look, here’s Java Java.”

  He pointed at the grid in the upper right hand corner. I squinted at the screen. Sure enough, there was the technician performing a mike check on stage. Rico tapped that part of the grid, and the image filled the entire screen.

  Garrity whistled. “I’ve been hearing about this downtown. Like having two dozen eyes in the back of your head.”

  “And a thousand eyes on you. Ninety percent of the cameras will be accessible online, which means all the world can get a backstage pass. Assuming everything works like it’s supposed to.”

  On the actual Java Java stage, a woman in an orange and yellow dashiki walked up to the technician and handed her a clipboard. The tech nodded and caught Rico’s eye, then held up two fingers.

  Rico grabbed my hand. “It’s showtime.”

  Garrity followed us behind the stage. At this angle I saw the tables crowded elbow to elbow, the bleacher seats along the sides filled as well. The patio was sweaty and sultry and smelled of coffee and liquor and human bodies, like an ancient spice market. The noise gelled into a solid thing, as dense as the humidity, mixed of crowd murmurings and the passing cars and the electronic hum of speakers.

  I felt the pull then, the stage lights bright and hot, a different hot than summer. And I understood how it burned away all the unnecessary dross, clean as bone. I squeezed Rico’s hand. He squeezed it back. And then he stepped up to the microphone.

  “Hey there, Atlanta!” he said, and the cheers and applause rolled over him like a wave.

  ***

  Afterward, he walked me back to my car. In less than forty-eight hours, he’d be on stage at the Fox Theatre with Frankie and Cricket and Vigil in the team competition. Twenty teams from around the country, eighty poets, an insane six-hour marathon of poetry. I linked my elbow with his, and he pulled me close.

  “Come celebrate.”

  “Have you forgotten that we’re operating against a forensics deadline?”

  He shook his head. “I wish I’d never told you about the shoes.”

  “Well, you did. So now I’ve got a ream of research at home to go through, assuming Trey hasn’t filed everything somewhere only he can find it.”

  Rico looked at me seriously. “How long has it been since you and me closed down this town?”

  “Not since we hooked up with our homebody boyfriends.”

  He flashed the smile, the one like bourbon and molasses. “I don’t know about you, baby girl, but there’s no boyfriend waiting up for me tonight.”

  “Me either. He’s been asleep for hours.”

  Rico slinked his arm around my waist. Across the street, somebody called his name, and he threw up a hand. In the summertime haze, the whole street was a dazzle of sensation. He leaned in close.

  “Let the girl detective have the night off. It’s the last of the dog days, and we’re young and good-looking. We own this night. What do you say?”

  I knew that way up on Trey’s thirty-fifth floor, the lights of Buckhead resembled a liquid flowing blur. But on the street, down in the dirty, it was loud and sweaty and irresistible, magnetic and pulsing. I could taste it, and it tasted like the first warm inhale, like a stolen kiss in a dark corner, like a hand on my thigh under the table.

  I linked my arm with Rico’s. “First round’s on you.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “It’s called a Dirrrty South,” I said. “Here, try it.”

  Rico moved the straw to his side of the glass and took a sip. Behind him the dance floor was a slow grind. I tried to shake another cigarette out of an empty pack.

  Rico pushed the straw my way. “You were saying?”

  “Nothing really, just that sometimes we’re only sex, you know? Hormones and chemistry, nothing real. I mean, Trey’s real. Mostly real. But sometimes—”

  “No, not Trey. We’d moved on to the murder.”

  “We had? Which one?”

  “Both.” He looked puzzled. “I think.”

  I stared into the drink. “I can’t keep track. It was a robbery, it was a serial killing. People getting shot, people getting strangled, snakes appearing out of nowhere.”

  Rico shook his head. “I still don’t get the snake.”

  “The snake’s innocent. That’s all I know.”

  I looked Rico in the eye. He’d put the silver studs back in his eyebrow, and they pulsed with the strobes of the dance floor.

  I leaned closer. “I know you did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “Stuck Lex’s phone in Trey’s pocket.”

  Rico narrowed his eyes. “Really? And how do you know this?”

  “Because of the diagram thingie. See?” I drew little circles on the table. “There’s you, and there’s Lex, and there’s no way you and Lex had a fight in the parking lot that did not end with you taking his phone away and erasing every blackmailish thing on it. Plus, the night of the memorial, you were sitting at the table where I put Trey’s jacket while I doctored his scraped-up hand. So you had easy access.”

  “You figured all that out with a diagram?”

  “I did. And also because Cricket brought over a bunch of Lex’s stuff yesterday afternoon, and I am certain—absolutely certain—that you told her to do it. Which means you people are working me outside the lines.”

  Rico regarded me over the edge of the drink. “Really?”

  “Really. And I understand. The situation required a certain…flexibility.”

  The music pounded behind him, the bass thumping so strongly I could feel it in my chest. He beckoned me closer. I moved my face right next to his, so close I could feel the rasp of his whiskers.

  “You are known for your flexibility,” he said.

  “Exactly.” I patted his face. “And while I appreciate the compliment, let’s deal straight up from now on, okay?”

  He nodded seriously. “Okay.”

  “Good. Now about that phone.”

  He leaned even closer, his breath sweet with Courvoisier. “You’re right. I put that phone in Trey’s pocket.”

  “I knew it!”

  “But I’m not the one who took it.”

  And then he explained. And then the rest of it made sense too.

  ***

  Back at Trey’s, the apartment was dark. I moved as quietly as I could, even though there was no need. Trey didn’t just sleep like a baby; he slept like a drugged narcoleptic baby. I could crash through the plate glass window, and he wouldn’t notice. I changed in the dark, kicking my smoky, sweaty clothes into the corner. In the half-light, I saw Trey’s profile against the pillow, his breathing as regular as a metronome.

  I closed the bedroom door and switched on the floor lamp in the living room. All of my papers and files were now sorted on the coffee table, with color-coded stickers on the tabs. I saw nine folders, one for each team member, plus one for Padre and one for Jackson and one for Debbie and one for each murder. A separate pile included all my other research—pythons, stage magic, timed incendiary devices—with everything organized alphabetically and cross-indexed. He’d placed Lex’s box next to that stack. I opened it and smiled. He’d paper-clipped all the scraps together chronologically.

  The one thing he hadn’t filed was the DVD from Garrity. He had, however, marked it with a yellow sticky note emblazoned with a question mark.

  I opened the case and stuck it into the DVD player. Then I dragged myself to the sofa, grabbed the remote, and hit play.

  “Th
is better not be some lame public service announcement,” I muttered.

  It wasn’t. The first thing I saw was a wedding cake, triple-tiered, as tall and blinding white as Mt. Everest. A harp played in the background, violins too. The camera work was a little unsteady, an amateur at work no doubt, panning a buffet table spread with hors d’oeuvres, sherbet-colored gifts, a sign-in book.

  And then.

  Trey.

  He wore a black tuxedo with a gray morning tie, inexpertly knotted. This Trey had no silvery scars at his temple, none on his chin either. His face was still a sketch artist’s dream—angles and planes, cheekbones and jaw line—but softer. This was a Trey I’d never met, and as I watched, he addressed the camera’s operator, his voice serious.

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot reveal any details from last night. It would be a violation of my sworn oath.”

  The tux was a standard rental, not Armani. And his hair, which I’d only seen short and precisely combed, tumbled across his forehead.

  “Just one little thing?” the flirty female voice behind the camera pleaded, deep South, teasing. “C’mon, Trey.”

  He shook his head and put a finger to his lips. “It’s my formal duty as your brother’s best man to deny your request.”

  And then he grinned.

  My heart clutched. I leaned forward and touched the image of his face, right at the corner of his mouth. He had a dimple when he smiled. Suddenly, Garrity was on-screen, his arm around Trey’s shoulders. He too was tuxedo-clad and twice as untidy, but hearty and happy and so bursting with good cheer he was practically shiny. His marriage may have ended in ashes, but it had begun in joy.

  “You tell her,” he said. “Last night is strictly on a need-to-know basis.”

  The woman laughed, and the camera shook. “Trey Seaver, you look like the itty-bitty groom on top of that cake. Maybe you should be getting married too.”

  Trey shot his gaze sideways, still grinning though. “Cut it out, Annabelle.”

  Until that moment, the Trey on the screen was a stranger, but suddenly I knew him. I recognized the slanting throwaway glance, the embarrassed disconnect. It was still paired with that dazzling smile, so it was as foreign as Rome, but I knew its underneath—shyness, bafflement, a tender confusion.

  As I watched, Trey disengaged smoothly from Garrity’s embrace and ducked to his left, right into the path of an older woman in a dark green dress. She tsk-tsked, hands on hips. She was short, with salt-and pepper hair and a plain face, but her eyes made her beautiful—large and heavily lashed, as blue as liquid sapphire.

  Trey’s eyes.

  “Already with your hair,” she said, a hint of Irish lilt in her voice. “What have you been doing, son, climbing the trellis?”

  The tears came hot and fast then. Siobhian. Trey’s mother. She’d died at the scene of the accident, and except for the rosary beads in his glove compartment that he didn’t talk about, there wasn’t a single piece of her in his life anymore.

  Onscreen, he made an exasperated noise, but still smiled as the camera moved on to include other guests, waving and laughing. I shut off the DVD and sat there in the silent darkness for a while.

  Then I wiped my eyes, blew my nose, and snatched up my phone. When Garrity answered, his voice thick with sleep, I said, “You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?”

  “What?”

  “The video.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He exhaled slowly. “It wasn’t supposed to upset you.”

  “Just scare me.”

  He sighed. “Only a little.”

  I hiccupped back a sob.

  “Ah hell, I’m sorry. I should have warned you. But I wanted you to understand I was serious when I said there’s something at stake here.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he’s got it in his head that he’s supposed to protect you and your friends, and he’s going to do it come hell or high water. That’s why he asked me to go tonight. He couldn’t, but he had to do something, and I was the best solution he could come up with.”

  Perseveration. Once Trey initiated a behavioral sequence, there was no stopping, no veering, and no reverse.

  “So what’s that got to do with me?”

  “It means you’ve got to stop keeping him up all hours and dragging him from suspect to suspect.”

  “I don’t always drag him, you know. Trey likes unpuzzling things.”

  “I don’t care what he likes, I care about what he needs. He’s found something that works, as screwed up as it is. But if you push him too far, he’s gonna break. And if he breaks, that guy on the video will be gone forever. And I miss that guy like crazy.”

  I’d known this about Garrity, but I hadn’t understood the sum of his loss until that second. The Trey on the screen hadn’t come back. A version of him still existed, one tempered by the flame, honed like steel. But not Garrity’s Trey. Not anymore.

  “I’m going to bed now,” I said.

  And I did. But I didn’t sleep. Instead, I lay there for a long time, in the layered dark, listening to the steady respiration of the only Trey Seaver I knew.

  Fiercely missing the Trey Seaver I didn’t.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  My phone rang at six a.m, the noise splintering my sleep like a hammer on plate glass. I pulled the pillow over my head, but the ringing continued. Cursing, I threw myself out of bed and lumbered into the living room, snatching up my phone without even checking to see who it was.

  “This’d better be good.”

  “It is,” Garrity replied. “I’m hearing some interesting rumblings this morning, stuff I’m guessing you did not see coming.”

  I pushed back a wave of nausea. Oh jeez, I was too old to survive such a hangover. I swallowed and closed my eyes.

  “Interesting how?”

  “Looks like your dead guy Lex was in a mess down there in Florida.”

  “How big a mess?”

  “Let’s just say that perhaps we dismissed the idea of an assassin a little too prematurely.”

  “Garrity—”

  “Read the paper. And go gargle or something, you sound terrible.”

  ***

  I dragged on some clothes. Even the weak light of the rising sun felt like a steak knife stabbing my retinas. The heat didn’t help. I shoved my change in the newspaper stand and dragged the paper back to Trey’s. As the coffeemaker burbled and hiccupped, and the soul-salving smell of caffeine filled the kitchen, I spread the front page on the table.

  The headline was succinct: “Tampa Connection Found in Dead Poet’s Hidden Identity.” Sloane Sikes’ byline appeared right underneath.

  I skimmed it quickly. Apparently the FBI had jurisdiction in what was now a multi-state investigation into the deaths of stage performer Kyle Alexander, also known as Lex Anderson, and Atlanta woman Deborah Delray. The article went on to explain Lex’s professional association with several Florida businesses currently under investigation for their connection to organized crime syndicates.

  Gangsters. The kind of people that didn’t play. Garrity was right, I hadn’t seen that coming.

  I threw the rest of the paper on the table. “Bada bing.”

  ***

  The remainder of the morning went swiftly if painfully. I went to work, where I nibbled saltines until the nausea cranked down. And then right before lunch, I heard the tinkle of the bell on the front door. I looked up to find Frankie standing there.

  She had her hands on her hips. “Cricket came here on Tuesday. You sold her a gun.”

  Great. Exactly what I didn’t need.

  “Sorry, Frankie, I don’t discuss my client list.”

  “Like a doctor, I suppose, another profession that traffics in life and death.” She surveyed the store. “I guess you’re not worried about getting involved. I mean, you’re not a part of the poetry community. You’re just the friendly neighborhood arms dealer.”

  My hackles were rising. “I’m not in the mood to argue Second Amendment rights this morni
ng.”

  “I hope not. That would be really ironic.”

  “Why is that?”

  She glared at me. “Because I came here to buy a gun.”

  ***

  I poured coffee. She cast a withering glance at my Sisters in Arms poster. “I’m not a vigilante.”

  “Never said you were.”

  “And I have large philosophical problems with what you do. But someone is trying to destroy our team, and I refuse to sit by and let them do it.”

  “The police seem to think Lex’s killing has nothing to do with the team, that he and Debbie were assassinated because they were pilfering from some very bad men down in Florida.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second.”

  “Why not? Didn’t you read the paper? They have the online shop Lex and Debbie were using to move all the merchandise. They have Debbie’s bank records, and will have Kyle’s soon enough. They even found the pet shop that was going to buy the python, Pierre’s Reptile Emporium, and got that part of the story verified by Pierre himself.”

  “So?”

  “So the case is becoming airtight. What could possibly—”

  “Because somebody broke into my house last night! That’s why I don’t believe this mafia nonsense!”

  She threw the statement out like a gambler tossing down an ace-high straight. I tried to be sympathetic.

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “They said I surprised a burglar. I told them that this ‘burglar’ broke into my home and went through my things, but that this ‘burglar’ didn’t take my jewelry or my electronics. Which means—”

  “How do you know the intruder went through your things?”

  She looked at me like I was an idiot. “A woman knows. I’m being stalked, probably by the same maniac that killed Lex and Debbie. And I will protect myself, whatever it takes.”

  To me, it sounded like someone looking for information, not violence. But I didn’t want to second guess female intuition. If it felt like a stalker to her, then stalker it was.