by Tina Whittle
“I didn’t want to do it this way, but I had no choice.” She came across the room, the gun leveled in my direction. “You told Amber you brought that box here. I looked everywhere and couldn’t find it. But I know you know where it is. And I want it. Now.”
It dawned on me then why she hadn’t shot me on the spot. She still needed me to find that damn box. I knew it was somewhere in the apartment along with the rest of my research, filed according to the Trey Seaver Rules of Order, and if she managed to find it…I suppressed the cold wash of that reality and looked her dead in the eye.
“I left it at the shop. I didn’t want Trey to know I had it.”
I gave her the lie with every ounce of wide-eyed innocence I could muster. Frankie’s eyes blazed. She looked two seconds from snapping.
“So you’d best forget shooting me,” I continued. “You’ll never get in the shop without me. Trey’s absconded with my keys, which means you’ll have to break in, and he’s got that place tricked out with every security device imaginable, including cameras.”
She held the gun steady, not dropping it an inch.
“Plus, you’re gonna have a helluva time getting out of here. The concierge will be all over your ass the second you hit the lobby.”
She laughed suddenly. “That’s not a problem. The concierge will find himself really busy in a minute.”
“What did you do, rig another bomb? Like the one in Rico’s car?”
She snorted. “That wasn’t a bomb. It was smoke and noise, just like the one downstairs.” She pulled a tiny plastic remote from her pocket and waggled it. “Special Effects 101. Enough to keep that prissy twit busy for a while.”
Of course. Using the wrong fertilizer hadn’t been a mistake. She’d engineered it that way on purpose. Another chapter in the Dead Poet Killer saga. I remembered her resume. A double drama major, Vigil had explained, acting and theatre tech. I remembered something else too, from the afternoon she’d come to the gun shop.
“Is that where you learned the cigarette trick, in college?”
She smiled. “I did my history term paper on the French Resistance. Lucky for me, Lex had a fresh pack of cigarettes in his pocket. The kerosene was a bonus. Simple.”
I stared. It all unfolded so neatly now that I had her as the missing piece. Too bad I hadn’t come up with it an hour or so ago.
I tried to look desperate, which wasn’t hard. “What if we cut a deal? We go to the shop, I give you Lex’s stuff, and we call it even. I have no dog in this fight.”
She narrowed her eyes at me, considering. It was a risky plan. I didn’t know all of Trey’s rules, but I knew one of the big ones—never go to a secondary crime scene. It was one of the top ten idiotic things victims did. But the gun shop was my turf, and it was fully stocked with enough firearms to take down a herd of Frankies.
Of course I had a fine handgun in the bedside table. Fat lot of good it was doing me now. Plus I had no idea what I’d give Frankie when we actually got to the shop since the box was somewhere in the apartment. But that was a problem for down the road, assuming I could finagle a little more road to go down.
Frankie came to a decision and kicked my shoes at me. “Get out of the robe and put these on. We’re going to the shop.”
I bent to pick up the flip-flops. “One thing I don’t get, Frankie. You looked Trey in the eye and told him you didn’t kill Lex.”
She frowned. “I didn’t.”
“What? Then how…who?”
“It was Debbie.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Debbie with the crazy knitwear, that Debbie?”
“I found Lex in the bathroom and told him he was off the team. He started waving that stupid knife around, and then Debbie came slamming in there. She didn’t even look where she was going, just shoved the door open, right into him. He slipped in the water and fell on the knife. It was all her fault.”
I stared. She was serious. Trey’s cranial lie detector might not be infallible, but he’d pegged Frankie’s story right. She’d been telling the truth. Sort of. There was only one problem…
“Why’d he pull the knife?”
“Because he was a blackmailing, lying, thieving ingrate!” Fury bleached her skin as white and stark as the walls. “He deserved worse than stabbing!”
I tried to keep my expression blank, but I remembered the ME’s report. Lex had had the knife in his heart when he fell. He may have been the one to pull it, but Frankie must have had it pointed right at his chest when the door slammed him into it.
I saw her hands clearly for the first time. Strong hands, big as a man’s, with long adept fingers. Hands good for stabbing. Or strangling.
“Is that why you killed Debbie? Because she was going to turn you in for Lex’s murder?”
“I told you, I didn’t kill him!” Frankie sized me up over her semi-automatic. “I came back Tuesday night and heard that lying bitch talking to the cops, all panicked because you’d showed up. All she had to do was keep quiet, unload the damn snake, but no.”
Frankie shook her head. It looked like regret, but I knew it wasn’t. “All Debbie did was complicate things. First she got mixed up in Lex’s criminal mess. Then she killed Lex before…”
I stood there, flip-flop dangling. “Before what?”
She ignored the question. “And then she threatened to call the cops—on me! I didn’t want to kill her. She gave me no choice, though. And it turned out to be one of the easiest things I’ve ever done.”
I stared, shaking. My whole body went loose with the shaking.
Frankie put her finger on the trigger and aimed it at my chest. “I’m telling you this so you’ll know that I won’t hesitate to kill you either. I won’t want to. But I will. Now finish getting dressed.”
She remained passive through this recitation, like an Easter Island monolith. But my mind was racing. Debbie killed Lex before he could…what? He’d felt threatened enough to pull the knife. She’d been desperate enough to turn it on him. Lex was a champion blackmailer and extortionist—whatever evidence he’d had against her, Frankie had tried to pry it out of him with a blade to his heart.
And whatever it was, Frankie had decided it was in his box. Which meant that the second she found it…I shuddered. I wondered what she planned to do with my body. Would she leave me dead at the gun shop? Dump me off a bridge? Stuff me in the trunk of a car?
My hands shook at the thought. I took some deep breaths, kept my eyes on my hands.
Then I heard the knock at the door.
Frankie put the gun to my temple with stunning swiftness. “You make one sound, and I drop you. Do you hear me?”
I said nothing. I heard my breath shuddering in the vacuum of the apartment.
The knock came again. “Tai! It’s Gabriella! If you can’t get up, that’s okay, I’ve got a key!”
Frankie waved me forward. “Convince her to go away, or I’ll kill both of you, understand?”
I nodded. Frankie moved to the side, where Gabriella couldn’t see her, but kept the gun aimed right at me. I heard the click and tumble of the locks disengaging, and the door opened.
Gabriella stood at the threshold, a white cloth bag in one hand and a little black pot wrapped in a dishtowel in the other. Healing crystals and miso soup. Her usual offerings in times of trouble.
“Trey said I was to keep you company.”
I tried to sound calm. “No need. I’m fine.”
“He said you might argue, but that I was to ignore you. He made me promise.”
Seconds ticked. Gabriella saw the uncertainty in my face.
“Are you okay?”
No, there’s a madwoman with a gun on me, I thought. I chanced a glance left. Gabriella’s eyes followed, then returned to mine. Her pretty mouth twisted, but she indicated no comprehension. Damn it, of all the people to show up at my door, it had to be the useless French massage-chick ex-girlfriend.
“Sure,” I said. “I’m fine. Just not in the mood for company.
”
“Trey insisted I come over.”
“And you have.”
She was still frowning. Maybe she would realize something was off and call Trey, which would trigger that search-and-destroy brain of his. Gabriella moved forward, and I blocked the door. I couldn’t think straight, but I knew one thing—the second she crossed that threshold, we were both dead.
“You can’t come in.”
Gabriella looked confused. “If you insist. But at least take this.” She handed me the cast iron pot.
I took it with both hands and caught the smell of miso. I wondered if she’d bring more to my funeral, if Trey would find comfort in it. She’d no doubt offer whatever he needed.
I stood there, that image galloping through my head—me in the casket, Gabriella’s delicate French hand on Trey’s shoulder. It was one of those life-passing-before-my-eyes moments. Gabriella in front of me, beautiful and confused. Frankie two feet away, relentless and cool.
Hands down until you need them, hands up until it’s over.
So I took a deep breath. Pivoted. And then, in one swift upwards toss, I chucked the whole pot of semi-boiling mess right in Frankie’s face.
She screamed, her hands flying up reflexively to protect her eyes. She squeezed off a shot, but the bullet went wild. I ducked, snatched the crutch, and swung it like a baseball bat, smashing it into Frankie’s gun hand, sending the pistol skittering across the floor. I saw it skid under the sofa, heard Gabriella screaming.
“Get the gun!” I yelled as Frankie bulldozed me into the wall. I grabbed hair and yanked, mashed my thumbs into her eyes, and we crashed to the floor, spitting, cursing, dripping with soup, me kicking, Frankie choking me, my body rebelling, no breath, sinking, darkening…
And then my fingers closed around the pot. And I slammed it with all my might against her skull. And I kept slamming it until Frankie collapsed on top of me.
She was deadweight. I sucked in air, one lungful, then two. Finally I got the strength to roll to my side and shove her body off me. My horizon tilted and my stomach heaved, but I stayed conscious.
Gabriella stood with the gun pointed at Frankie, her finger on the trigger, red hair flying wildly from its disheveled topknot. She looked aflame in my flickering vision, and the whole room smelled like onion broth and soy sauce.
I pulled myself upright. “Gabriella?”
“Yes?”
“Take your finger off the trigger.”
She obliged.
I made a little gimme motion. “Now hand it to me.”
She did. I ejected the magazine. Almost full. I slammed it back inside and closed my eyes until the room stopped spinning. I could barely hear, as if my head were stuffed with oatmeal.
Frankie wasn’t moving, but I kept the gun pointed at her nonetheless. I deliberately positioned my index finger along the barrel, keeping the trigger clear. The thought of a little “accident” was too damn tempting.
“Now get something to tie her up and call 911. She’s got my phone in her pocket. Get it.”
Gabriella did as I asked without saying one word. I was still shaking, but not throwing up. I swore I was not going to throw up. Not this time.
And I didn’t.
Chapter Forty-seven
By the time the first responding officer arrived, Gabriella had bound Frankie with a dozen of Trey’s ties, including one that acted as a gag. She had been surprisingly efficient at this, executing several knots that even a former Girl Scout like myself didn’t recognize. She’d muttered extravagant Gallic curses while she did so, stringing the sibilant vulgarities together like rough pearls on wire.
I held a package of frozen peas to my head and tried to speak coherently to the uniformed cops standing in front of me. I explained what had happened, over and over again, all the while checking my phone out of the corner of my eye.
Trey hadn’t called back. When I’d finally gotten through to him, he’d asked if I were okay, if I’d called 911, if I were being taken to the hospital. All the pertinent questions. And then he’d told me he was on his way and hung up.
Business as usual. It was reassuring in some ways, but heart-emptying in others.
The cop reread my statement. “And then you hit her one final time with the soup pot?”
“No. That was Gabriella.”
“The suspect was tied up at this time, correct?”
“Correct. But she was trying to escape, so it seemed prudent.”
This was a big fat lie. Gabriella had delivered one final blow merely for the satisfaction of it. I”d made her promise we’d keep that one to ourselves.
I looked around the apartment. “Where is she anyway?”
“She went to the station to make an official statement.” The officer checked his notes. “She said to tell you she’d bring an herbal poultice by later.”
Great. Just what I needed.
“Did y’all find Lex’s box?”
“In the supply closet. It’s been processed and taken downtown.”
“Did you find out why she wanted it so desperately?”
“No, ma’am. That’s for the detectives to figure out.”
Suddenly, the door slammed open, and Trey blew in like the proverbial whirlwind. His head whipped side to side, scanning the room until he spotted me on the sofa. He slipped past the two officers at the door and the indignant detective trying to catch his attention, evading them as expertly as a matador. He covered the space between us in two seconds and dropped onto one knee right in front of me.
I adjusted the bag of peas so I could see him. “So much for doing things your way.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Dizzy? Nauseated? Any trouble seeing?”
He pressed two fingers against the side of my neck. I reached up and pulled his hand down.
“An EMT looked me over. He says I should have the injuries documented, but I’m fine for now.”
Trey didn’t seem to be listening. He was examining my face, my neck, my hands. At the rate he was going, we wouldn’t need to document anything—he would have every scratch and scrape memorized.
I saw Garrity out of the corner of my eye. He had his badge out and was working his disarming patient authority on the officer at the door. Suddenly there was another figure right behind him—the concierge, highly distressed.
“Mr. Seaver,” he said, “you cannot leave your car like that! It’s an extreme hazard!”
Trey shot a look at Garrity. Garrity flashed his badge at the concierge. “I’ll take care of it in a second, all right? Let the man see his girlfriend.”
The concierge grimaced and folded his arms. But he didn’t argue with the badge.
I was flabbergasted. Trey never abandoned the Ferrari, especially not where god-knows-what could happen to it. I looked him right in the eye, and for the first time since he’d burst in the door, he met my gaze directly.
And what I saw there took my breath away. His eyes burned like I’d only seen during high arousal, clean blue flame. I recognized it, yes, from the heat of passion, but not like this. And I knew what I was seeing was Trey, all of him, no persona, no safe wall, the real beating-heart whole of him.
I hitched in a breath, but still the tears came. He held my face, thumbs light on my temples. He was a little shaky from the adrenalin afterburn, but rock solid underneath. I snuffled my wet face into his neck, and with no prompting, his arms went around me.
“It’s not just sex,” I mumbled against his skin.
He froze. “This is about sex?”
“No, it’s not. That’s the point.”
“But—”
And then I kissed him full on the mouth, which hurt a little, but then he kissed me back, real gentle, and then it was a little about sex. But mostly it was the other thing, the big good thing. And when the kiss was done, he sat beside me on the sofa, one arm around my shoulders. I leaned into him, my warm good-smelling rock.
Out of the corner of my eye,
I saw Garrity saunter over. He perched on the arm of the sofa.
“We took GA 400 at one hundred and twenty miles per hour. I thought I was going to die in a pile of twisted flaming metal, I kid you not. And then he drove the thing right up on the welcome mat and took off at a run into the building with the concierge yelling bloody murder at him. Didn’t even lock the doors. I’m surprised he didn’t leave the keys in it, like, hey Atlanta, anybody want a free Ferrari?”
I looked at Trey. He shook his head, frowning. “We never got above one-seventeen.”
I felt the laugh coming, marbled with hiccups, irresistible. It worked its way into my throat, and I laughed even as I cried, but I didn’t let go of Trey, not for one second.
But then I heard a familiar voice in the doorway. It was Rico.
“Goddammit all to hell,” he said, his voice a guttural growl of anger, fear, relief. He came over and hugged me, tears sparking in his eyes. “Your boyfriend left me. I had to hitch a ride with some cop.”
Trey didn’t deny it, or apologize. He didn’t take his hands off me either, even as I clung to Rico, patting his back. Garrity shook his head, but damn if he didn’t look all choked up too. It was right pathetic, the four of us, like some weird testosterone-curdled Hallmark commercial.
And then my phone rang. Garrity leaned over and took a peek. He held it out to me. “It’s your brother.”
I accepted it with a sigh. “May as well get this over with.”
***
Eventually the APD cleared out, taking Garrity with them. Rico stayed behind and helped Trey clean up soup, then collapsed in the armchair, checking his cell phone every thirty seconds, waiting for Padre to call with the competition results.
He used his phone to play snippets of his performance. I knew he was critiquing himself, trying to find the edge where he could have delivered a little sharper. The words flowed as he backed the video up, repeating certain phrases over and over again. The minutes ticked by, the finals long over, the tabulation begun, the results still unknown.
Trey brought pills and sat next to me on the sofa. I put my head in his lap and curled into a ball. The small particular sounds of Rico’s performance and the apartment itself echoed in my ears, and I slipped into that hazy zone between consciousness and sleep, but my brain still scrambled hamster-like on its wheel.