by Tina Whittle
“I have to tell you straight, Frankie. Despite your best intentions, you pull a weapon, you might kill somebody. Are you prepared for that?”
She kept her eyes straight ahead, her chin level. “I am.”
I got out the keys for the gun safe. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“Something accurate.”
“Wait a second.”
When I got back, she was wandering the store, examining my goods with a critical eye. I let her poke to her heart’s content. I was patient. I even let her click on the TV in the corner to check the 11Alive noon update.
The dark-haired reporter had a steely gaze and broad shoulders, like Superman touching down to deliver a bit of breaking news. It was a rehash of everything I already knew—Lex was a thief, abruptly ditching his life in South Florida for vagrancy and barely getting by in Atlanta, perhaps pissing off several underworld types in the process.
“This makes no sense,” Frankie complained. “Lex’s death had nothing to do with gangsters! What about the attack on me? I’m not connected to gangsters!”
“Perhaps these gangsters think you know something you shouldn’t? Or have something you shouldn’t? Perhaps Lex the petty thief stole something that wasn’t petty after all, like that necklace that’s still missing.”
She shook her head. “Ridiculous.”
“Did you know Debbie and Lex were selling stolen property?”
Frankie made a noise of disgust. “Right. Like I’d tolerate that in my gallery. Debbie did nothing but cause me trouble. She deserved everything she got.”
The reporter was narrating against taped footage, a montage of familiar faces and familiar places. And then suddenly, something utterly new—a woman crying, her face pale and drawn, her dark hair pulled back from classically regular features. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on where I’d seen her.
Frankie was still griping. “And who hides from the mafia by becoming a public figure? It’s—”
“Shhh!”
I turned up the volume. The woman spoke haltingly, reading from a crumpled piece of paper. The subtitle below her image read Amber Hocking. Friend of Slain Poet Lex Anderson. Only that wasn’t the name that came from her lips.
“The news of Kyle’s death hits hard,” she said, “but at least we know what happened and can begin to mourn. I pray that justice will be swift and soon.”
Someone who knew Kyle instead of Lex. I grabbed a yellow pad and scribbled her name down.
The news anchor moved on to the next story. Frankie frowned at my notes. “You’re not taking this mafia assassination seriously, are you? This is obviously some deranged psychopath—”
“No, it isn’t.”
“You don’t know, you—”
“I know Lex’s death was quick, clean, and professional. A stiletto of some kind in his heart. A fire to clean up any evidence left behind. A timed fire, mind you, one rigged from paper towels, lamp oil and a cigarette used as a fuse.”
“You’re making that up.”
“No, I’m not. See? I’ve been experimenting.”
I picked up my metal wastebasket and popped it on the counter. It still reeked of burning paper and tobacco. While Frankie watched, I pulled a pack of matches from my pocket, along with a cigarette. I slipped the cigarette between my lips and lit it.
“It’s an old technique,” I explained, as I tucked the lit cigarette into the pack of matches, closing it around the filtered end. “Trey discovered that the French resistance used it during World War II to rig bombs on enemy trains. He’s a treasure, my boyfriend.”
I dropped the smoldering contraption in the wastebasket. As we watched, the cigarette burned down to the pack of matches, which ignited in a burst. I dribbled coffee on the tiny blaze to put it out.
“I timed that one to be fast, but you can delay that spark up to seven minutes. And if you have accelerant-soaked paper under it—like maybe kerosene-based lamp oil you got from a convenient supply closet—it makes a serious blaze.” I put the trashcan back on the floor and dusted my hands. “So this is looking exactly like a professional hit.”
Frankie glared. “It can’t be.”
“You’d better hope it is. See these ashes? That’s your alibi for Lex’s murder going poof. Mine too, everybody’s. Seven minutes is long enough for any of us to have done the deed and dashed back up front. Any of us.”
Frankie didn’t drop her eyes. They burned cold yellow, like a tiger’s. She pointed at a Sig Sauer nine-millimeter with laser sights. “I want that one. How much is it?”
I told her. She pulled out her wallet.
“I assume you take credit cards?”
I thought hard for one second, then two. Then I closed my receipt book. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“Sell you a gun. You want a gun because you think Cricket got a gun and because you want to be part of the evening news too, and that’s no reason to start toting around a lethal weapon.”
She looked stunned. “My employee dies, in my gallery, and then a stalker breaks into my home, and you won’t help me?”
“I’ll be glad to sell you some pepper spray. Or recommend someone to install a security system. Or sign you up for Krav Maga lessons. But I’m not selling you a firearm.”
She shoved her wallet back in her purse. “Fine. Don’t believe me. I’ll take my business to someone who does. In the meantime, you’d best get down off your high horse and pray you’re not the next target.”
“I’m not a poet, so I should be safe.” I folded my arms and kept my voice neutral. “But there is one thing wrong with the assassin theory. Lex was a master manipulator—blackmailing Cricket, setting up Rico with stolen money, slipping switchblades in Vigil’s jacket, taunting Jackson. Hell, he seemed to have Debbie the wannabe poet wrapped around his little finger too.”
Frankie waited, not reacting.
I kept my eyes on her. “And so I’m wondering, what did he have on you, Frankie?”
Her eyes got hard, and the hand clutching her purse tightened. But I saw it, the flash, and I knew I’d hit bull’s eye.
“Was it that old rumor, about your first sale being to yourself? Had Lex found proof?”
Frankie sneered. “That’s old gossip, not worth my time and energy. My work speaks for itself. Lex may have threatened the others on the team, but he knew better than to mess with me. He knew I’d take him down in a heartbeat.”
I smiled at her. “Was that a confession?”
Frankie turned on her heel and exited my shop. She closed the door behind her with such force that the cheerful door jingle sounded perturbed in her wake. I listened to the growl of her car peeling out, the kick-up of gravel. If people kept ripping angrily out of my lot, I was going to have to upgrade the paving.
Once my headache went away, I made arrangements to deliver the remainder of my Confederate gear personally, which made my clients happy and—most importantly—got me out of the shop. As I’d made my case to Frankie, I’d remembered the other person I suspected of harboring a murky secret ripe for exploitation.
And it was time to find out exactly what that secret was.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Cool and dark and as exotic as absinthe, the Fox Theatre provided a welcome escape from the pounding heat. Heavy saffron curtains absorbed any harsh noise, while golden wall sconces oozed a thick soothing light. Entering its Egyptian revival atmosphere was like stepping into one of Scheherazade’s stories, and I was grateful for the momentary respite.
Padre was not hard to track down; I merely followed the sound of loud cursing from the Egyptian salon. This area had been designed as a children’s theater, but it currently functioned as a staging area of sorts—tables of paperwork, people scurrying around with clipboards, all of it set against faux-stone pillars and elaborate hieroglyphics. Padre was shaking a bunch of papers at no one in particular, his face red.
I hurried over. “Jeez, what’s wrong?�
��
He slammed the papers on the table. His photographer’s vest bulged with pens and sticky notes, and his hair flowed loose under a black cowboy hat. “It’s that fucking rumor that some maniac’s killing poets. It’s a liability, they say.”
“Who says?”
“Our insurance company. Plus I’m getting pressure from the city to call it off, even though the APD says there’s no evidence whatsoever our poets are being targeted, no matter what Frankie says.”
“Does she realize she’s putting the finals in jeopardy?”
“She doesn’t care. She’s all about the movie now. The way things are going, Rico and I will be having the finals at my apartment, and everybody else will be rolling off to Hollywood.”
I sat on the edge of the table. “So do you think somebody really could be stalking poets?”
“No. Lex brought this on himself, and Debbie followed him down. It doesn’t concern the rest of us. But nobody cares what I believe. This is a story now, and people love a story, the darker around the edges the better.”
His dream was coming true, on the cusp of it anyway, unless it was derailed by Frankie’s mythic maniac, the serial killer with a taste for putting poets into their graves and setting massive reptiles loose in bookstores. I studied his expression. On the wall behind him, Egyptian gods strutted in a proud procession, a stark contrast to his bowed head and trembling hands. He had a lot riding on the finals, more perhaps than anyone else.
“Did you know Lex had been blackmailing team members?”
“Rico told me some of it. Why?”
“Because that’s when things started going downhill—when Vigil got put in jail and Lex joined the team. And then Vigil got out and Lex tried to manipulate everyone he possibly could to stay on the team. He did that by sticking his fingers into everybody’s secrets. Everybody’s.” I lowered my voice. “So what about you, Padre?”
“Me?”
“What did he find out about you?”
Padre shook his head slowly. He looked as if he wanted to talk, but no words came out. Then his pale complexion went gray, and he blinked rapidly.
My stomach dropped. “Are you okay?”
He shook his head and pointed toward the corner where a messenger bag lay. I jumped out of my chair and fetched it for him. He rummaged in it, hands scuttling, his breathing ragged and rapid. First one bottle on the table, then two. His complexion was ashen by the time he found the right bottle, an herbal remedy for dizziness. He dumped two pills in his palm and swallowed them dry. After five minutes, his skin tone returned to normal and the shaking subsided.
He wouldn’t look at me. “You wanted to know my secret? There it is.”
“There what is?”
He closed his eyes. “The vertigo is a side effect of the meds. The real problem…the real problem…”
I picked up the bottles of medicine. They were both multi-syllabic and sounded like poisons. But I recognized the name. I’d seen the commercials.
“How long have you known?” I said.
“Got diagnosed six months ago, but I knew before then. I’ve been able to keep it under wraps, but that won’t last much longer. This competition is my last project. And now it’s in danger, and the documentary people don’t want me unless I can deliver it.”
I stared at the medicine. One was a well-known anti-depressant. The other was a recently approved drug for mild to moderate Alzheimer’s disease.
Padre took the bottle from my hand. “My memory’s shot. I can’t remember poems anymore, can’t even remember appointments.”
“Is this why you were late to the debut party?”
He winced. “Yeah. I’m kicking myself for that one. Can’t help but think that if I’d managed to be there, Lex would still be alive.”
“Did Lex know?”
“Sure. Like you said, he had a way of getting his fingers in everybody’s secrets. But he wasn’t blackmailing me.”
I examined him skeptically. “You can tell me the truth, you know.”
“I am. Lex only blackmailed people with power. I don’t have any.” He stood, shaky but determined, his hands stuffed into one of his many pockets. “Frankie’s got the documentary producers enthralled with the Dead Poet Killer. The only thing I’m good for is making sure the finals go off without a hitch, and if I can’t get this liability shit figured out, then that’s a bust too.”
I handed him his medicine, then hugged him tightly, breathing in his comforting patchouli fragrance. “I can’t straighten out Hollywood. But as for the liability problems, I might have an idea.”
***
Marisa was not amenable at first. “There’s no way a bunch of poets could afford Phoenix.”
“I wasn’t suggesting they try.”
“You’re talking charity.”
“Pro bono. To ease the mind of some loss prevention and asset protection people.”
This was the genius of my proposal. Win-win both sides. The team got Phoenix, and Phoenix got some goodwill markers to call in with the people they most needed to impress—the corporate and governmental decision makers. And Padre got…well, he got his one last event.
I didn’t explain that last part to Marisa; she was a ledger book kind of gal.
“It’s behind the scenes all the way,” I assured her. “No press conferences. No big speeches. Exactly the kind of gold standard, discreet services you want to be known for, provided to people who will be quietly, discreetly grateful. Nobody wants to shut down this event, not the poets, not the city, not the many many vendors.”
She considered. “So what exactly are your poets needing?”
“They need to assure the insurance company that they can provide a protocol to go along with the Fox’s in-place security systems and the Atlanta Police Department’s requirements. That if there is someone stalking and killing the poets of Atlanta—and that’s a big if, mind you—then that someone will find no crack to squeeze through at the Fox.”
“And this would be entirely behind the scenes, working with the poetry foundation?”
“The Performance Poetry International Committee,” I supplied. “Plus there’s a documentary crew at work that will need coordinating with. And the venue personnel. But you already have a relationship with the Fox, right?”
“My premises liability expert does.”
She flashed a look across the room, where Trey stood in the corner, arms folded. He’d kept silent through my speech and Marisa’s questions. A quiet night at home and ten hours of sleep had him snapped back on point.
“Correct,” he said. “I put together the latest crime feasibility study in February, so the data haven’t altered significantly. It would require an update, of course. But the bulk of the work is in place.”
“So this is doable?”
I held my breath. Trey cocked his head, thinking hard. It was an irresistible combination—an interesting challenge with a strictly enforced SOP that he helped create. One job, only one, which sure as hell beat my catch-as-catch-can approach.
Marisa raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
He considered. “We’ll have to discuss the specifics, of course. And this is field work, which will require my being there in person.”
“That’s not a problem for me. Is it for you?”
He thought some more, not looking my way at all.
“If Phoenix can provide the resources,” he concluded, “I can provide my time and expertise. But we have to create some non-negotiable rules first.”
And then he looked right at me.
I smiled. “Whatever it takes, Mr. Seaver. Rule me up.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Despite the available technology, Trey was a hard copy guy, which meant that his field work gear included a walkie-talkie from the Fox, an earpiece from Phoenix, and an enormous accordion-pleated file folder full of charts and schematics. Plus his H&K, of course, tucked in his shoulder holster.
We were on the balcony in the main atrium, closed to the public.
Below us, a stage crew dragged step-ladders and screwed in light bulbs. I sat on the front row and watched Trey work. First he paced off the entire perimeter, making complicated notes. His contemporary efficiency was at odds with the balcony itself, designed to mimic the balustrade of a Bedouin palace, complete with minarets and turrets and canopies. Overhead, faux stars twinkled in an indigo sky, and wispy clouds sailed across the twilight arc. I could almost hear the cymbals, and the bouzouki, and the laughter of veiled concubines behind the flutter of fabric.
But it was all a mirage. The hanging canopies were incapable of flutter—they were painted plaster ribbed with steel. The turrets were really catwalks allowing access to the lights and electrical workings. And what looked like prestigious private boxes contained no seats—instead, they hid the pipes of the massive organ.
Trey stood beside me, hands on hips. “It’s sixty feet from here to the stage, and every seat provides clear targeting.”
I got a chill. An implacable bullet from Point A to Point B. Trey’s frown made sense. The same accessibility that made a venue audience-friendly also made it assassin-friendly.
“So can you do it? Can you make it safe?”
“I can make it safer. But there’s no such thing as one hundred percent safe.”
I’d heard this speech before. It was all about access limits and redundant safeguards. But professionals could beat any system, no matter how tight. And every system left holes wide open for the people we trusted. The heart was always the weakest link in a protocol, because the person most likely to do us harm wasn’t the bad guy sneaking in the fire escape—it was the loved one at our elbow, across the breakfast table, in our bed.
“How’s the team handling this?”
“Poets are complicated clients. Good at drawing attention, not so good at minimizing it. They have no practice in threat assessment, and they resist protocols. In matters of security, they are…” He paused. “I’m looking for a word.”
“Clueless?”
He nodded. “That’s it. Utterly clueless.”
***