by Tina Whittle
“I’ll tell you what I know,” she said. “But first you have to turn off the interior cameras. There, and there. Audio and video both.”
I switched off the two corner cameras while she watched. I didn’t look at the deer head mounted behind me. It was fake, but inside its hollow skull was a state-of-the-art covert surveillance system hooked up not only to the screen on the counter, but to a wireless feed. All Trey had to do was tap in the access code at his end, and he could see and hear everything happening in the front room.
We’d had long talks, he and I, about my need for space and privacy. This had been our compromise, that he could access the shop feed whenever he wanted, as long as I knew he was watching. I accomplished this by installing red lights behind the deer’s glass eyes that came on whenever he logged in.
I caught a glimpse of the deer head in my peripheral vision. Its eyes glowed demonically.
“There,” I said. “Happy now?”
She took a seat at my counter, eyeing the glass cabinets filled with matte black handguns and CSA replica daggers. I sat opposite her, trying to keep every wit I had about me. I’d thought she was out of my life, but now here she was at my gun shop, just like John had been six months ago, and just as desperate.
“You gonna play his message or not?” she said.
I pressed the button on my uncle’s ancient answering machine. The first two calls were Kenny, but then John’s smoke-cured Alabama drawl drizzled through the line.
“Hey Tai, don’t hang up. Long time no see, I know, but something’s going on down here and I need to talk to you, soon as possible. Call me back.”
He recited his number. The next call was an hour later, and this time he was more agitated, nervous, tension flaying his voice. “I’m serious, Tai, I need to talk to you. I think there’s trouble, big trouble, and it’s probably headed your way too, so call me.”
I turned back to face Hope. “What trouble is he talking about?”
Her eyes skittered to the side. “Somebody’s been following me. White pick-up with a camper top. No plates. It started a week ago, right after I got out—showing up at my PO’s office, at the trailer, taking off the second I caught them looking. It happened again on Wednesday, and John lost his temper. Said he was gonna take care of it.”
“Which meant?”
“He wouldn’t say. Said the less I knew, the better, me being on parole and all.”
Outside the shop, a car prowled down the street, and her head jerked in that direction. She was nervous to the point of paranoia, her eyes darting and quick, her skin practically crawling.
“Start at the beginning,” I said. “When’s the last time you saw John?”
“This morning. He was on the way to work, and I had to report to my PO, so he dropped me off. He didn’t come get me like he was supposed to, so I called him. No answer. I called Train’s shop, but—”
“Wait, wait, wait. Train’s shop in Savannah? I thought y’all were in Jacksonville?”
Her eyes hardened. “We lost everything. The house, the pawn shop. John got a mobile home in Savannah so he could be close to me, and Train hired him back at the shop.”
Train’s tattoo shop was on the west end of River Street, steps from the Savannah River. It was where I’d met John, where I’d gotten my first tattoos—a flaming arrow on my bicep from Train and a sloe-eyed vixen fox in a more private and personal location, this one from John’s talented hands. I knew something else too. John had debts in Savannah. Big ones.
Hope raked a hand through her hair. “I know what you’re thinking, but he said he and Boone had come to an agreement about the money he owed.”
“What kind of agreement?”
“He said the slate was clean, that’s all I know.”
I found that hard to believe. But we’d all changed over the past five months, for better or worse, and I supposed my uncle had too. Once upon a time Boone would never have forgiven a five-figure debt. But that was before his own son had tried to kill him. Maybe he had different priorities now.
“Okay, so what happened next?”
“I talked to Train, and he told me John had called in and said he couldn’t make it, that he had personal business to take care of suddenly. I called everybody I could think of, even back in Jacksonville. Nothing. My PO felt sorry for me and gave me a ride home. I saw the car there, parked in the front yard crazy-like, all catty-cornered. No John. I called again and heard his phone ringing, found it in the car hooked up to the charger. Yours was the last number he dialed.”
“That the same car that’s out front now?”
“Yeah.”
“Was his Harley gone?”
“It’s in the shop.”
I didn’t state the obvious—that if the Harley were missing, it was because John had ridden it out of town. I wanted to tell her John did stuff like this all the time. He’d done it to me, after all. I wanted to tell her this was nothing but payback for something she’d done to him, but I couldn’t make my mouth form the words. They felt clichéd, slight, patchwork. Despite their fights and arguments and carrying on, Hope and John found their way back to each other. If John had suddenly vanished without telling her, something had happened. And whatever it was, it was bad.
“Tell me the truth, Hope. Can you think of any reason someone would be following you?”
“You mean besides the obvious one, that some of Jasper’s crew are still out there, getting ready to put a bullet in me so I won’t testify against him?”
“A fine theory. But it doesn’t explain where John is. He’s not testifying against anybody.”
“Maybe they were coming for me and John got in the way. Maybe I’ll be getting a ransom call any second now.”
“But why?”
Her voice rose. “I don’t know why! I just know he’s gone!”
“That doesn’t—”
The soft click of the back door shutting interrupted me. Trey. He’d slipped inside without a sound, deactivating the alarm. In the low light, his black workout clothes looked like urban tactical wear. Only the gym bag on his shoulder and the running shoes on his feet revealed him for the civilian he was.
Hope noticed me looking and whipped her head in his direction. Her eyes narrowed. “Well, hoo-fucking-ray. The cavalry has finally arrived.”
Chapter Ten
Trey dropped the duffel bag inside the door. Behind him, I saw the swing of headlights—a silver convertible backing out of the lot. Gabriella, choosing for once to stay out of his life.
I took him by the elbow and dragged him into the corner. “Well?”
He didn’t take his eyes off Hope. “I heard her story.”
“And?”
“It’s problematic.”
“No kidding.” I motioned toward his forehead. “How well does your cranial lie detector function on oxy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we should probably find out.”
Trey refocused his attention on me. I was a clever and practiced liar, but I had yet to succeed against his super-sensitive frontal lobes. My brother had explained it using neurology lingo—what Trey had lost in the accident was the white-lie shield that the rest of us used to negotiate social environments. Normal brains could ignore a tiny untruth. Trey’s brain couldn’t.
I tried to keep my expression blank. “All I had to eat for lunch was a family-size bag of kettle corn and a beer.”
He tracked his gaze over my mouth. “True. And foolish. You need protein to—”
“Great. You passed.” I spun him around and propelled him toward the front. “Now get in there and…wait a second.”
I moved my hand across the small of his back, then pulled his windbreaker open, revealing his old department-issue S&W in a hip carry holster. He’d had to give up side carry after the accident, so when he’d started at Phoenix, he’d t
raded up to a custom-made shoulder holster, doctor’s orders. And yet there he was, side-armed and dangerous again.
I put my hands on my hips. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be wearing a holster.”
“Gabriella meant the shoulder rig.”
“No, she meant—”
He pushed past me into the room. “I know what she meant.”
I stifled the urge to snatch him back as he positioned himself right in front of Hope. She regarded him with the feral look of a prey animal about to bolt, and for a second, I wished she would. That would solve most of my problems at the moment. But it would leave the larger problems still lurking.
Her testimony was crucial in the upcoming trial. We had security camera footage from that night, but as Garrity had pointed out, all it had shown was Trey shooting Jasper three times. The necessary background of that encounter—why Hope was in danger, why Jasper was that danger, and why Trey had had to use almost-deadly force to protect her—rested with our various testimonies. But our statements needed context, and Hope—reluctant, wary, and now terrified—was that context.
She held out her wrists toward Trey. “Did you bring the handcuffs? Or maybe you want to frisk me first?”
He ignored her. “Is that your car out front?”
“You know it is.”
“Did you come alone?”
“You know I did.”
Trey moved closer, about six inches too close for comfort. Hope flinched, then tried to cover it. I sympathized. When Trey put you in his sights, it took a mighty amount of discipline to stay still.
“Tell me what happened,” he said. “From the beginning.”
Hope retold the tale again, with no variation. Trey asked specific questions—times and places and dates. I could see the cop coming out in him, wanting to get the details down. Despite his time in corporate America, he remained a patrol officer in his heart, with an invisible badge on his chest.
“And you had no contact with John after he dropped you off?” he said.
“No.”
“No texts? No phone calls?”
“Do you think I’d be here, in her shop, talking to you, if I had?”
Trey didn’t take his eyes off her face. “Was your husband involved in any illegal activities?”
“No.”
“What about you?”
“Five months behind bars was enough. I learned my lesson.”
“So no outside contact with known criminals?”
“None.”
“No illegal activities or intent to commit illegal activities?”
“None.”
He hesitated. Something she’d said was tripping his switch. I knew that look. Technically true but deliberately evasive. She really was hiding something.
Her face was a defiant mask. “You think I’m lying, don’t you?”
“I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”
She shook her head. “Nope.”
He narrowed his eyes. I knew that look too. The rest of what she said might have been wishy-washy half-truth, but that “nope” was a big fat lie.
He kept his voice non-threatening. “It would be in your best interest—”
“Fuck you.” She folded her arms. “You’re not a cop. I don’t have to tell you anything.”
He didn’t reply for a good thirty seconds. When he spoke, his voice was composed. “You are correct that I’m not a sworn officer anymore. I am, however, a consultant with the Atlanta Metro Major Offenders Task Force, which is a joint effort between the APD and the FBI. And while you have the right to remain silent, lying to a federal agent in a material investigation is a felony. Section 1001, Title 18 of the federal code. So let me ask you again, as clearly and concisely as I can—what is it that you aren’t telling me?”
I tried not to let my astonishment show on my face. He was lying. Well, not lying as much as sticking two pieces of truth together and letting them imply something that wasn’t true. It was the oldest trick in my book, one he’d obviously picked up on since even though he was a consultant with AMMO, that did not qualify him as a federal agent, not even close. And quizzing Hope in a gun shop did not count as a material investigation. Even I knew that.
But Hope looked conflicted. She was weighing her options, considering the pros and cons. She didn’t trust us, but she damn sure needed us, both of us, and information was a commodity at such times.
She looked up at Trey. “Are you saying I’m a liar?”
“I’m saying that you’re lying.”
She reached in her pocket and threw him her keys. “There. You don’t believe me, search the damn car. Tear it apart. I got nothing to hide. You think I’d still be sitting here, knowing you were on the way, if I did?”
Trey didn’t reply, but he pocketed the keys. I could sense the various impulses warring in his brain—kick Hope out and fortify the shop against whatever trouble she’d brought to town, call the authorities to haul her away, interrogate her until she coughed up the details herself—and I knew he couldn’t sift through them easily.
He turned and headed for the door. I watched him go, then grabbed a chair, dropped it in front of Hope, and straddled it backwards. “Nice try. Now spill it.”
“Spill what?”
“Whatever it is you’re keeping from him.”
She let a smile flicker at the corner of her mouth. “He’ll run after any bone you toss, won’t he? So damn predictable. How do you stand it?”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Trey approach the car, a dark blue two-door, dull in the amber streetlight. Even though he had the keys, he didn’t touch it. Instead, he pulled a slim penlight from his pocket and ran it along every inch of the vehicle, starting with the driver’s side door.
I shook my head at Hope. “He risked his life to save you once. He did it because he is incapable of anything else. You came in here because you had no place else to go and that hasn’t changed, so unless you want me dialing up 911 my own sweet self, you will spit out whatever it is you’re still hiding.”
She looked like she wanted to argue. I saw defiance in her, but I also saw weariness and a landsliding grief. She was at the end of her rope physically and emotionally, but she had a wild card she wasn’t showing.
“You’re scared,” I said, “and not only because you think something has happened to John. You think you’re in danger too. That’s why you’re putting up with Trey. Because you think you might need him. Again.”
Her phone rang. She snatched it up and stood at the same time. Without saying a word, she walked toward the hallway and turned her back on me. Her voice was a low murmur as she answered.
In the parking area, Trey reached the car’s trunk. He stopped walking, dropping into a crouch, head cocked. He played the light back and forth across the bumper. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket along with his phone. My guts went cold. Handkerchief plus phone could only mean one thing.
He’d found something.
Chapter Eleven
I shoved open the door and joined Trey at the back of the car. He had switched the light to UV and was examining the undercarriage now. He looked up when he saw me.
“Go back inside,” he said.
I caught a glimpse of what he’d discovered. I was no CSI, but I knew bullet holes when I saw them. Two of them punctured the trunk, joined by what appeared to be a graze running like a claw mark up the side.
“Back inside, Tai. Now.”
He was ice-cold polite, every sentence a command. Voice control, the second step on the use of force continuum. He also had his phone in hand, and I knew what he would be doing the second I went into the shop.
I pointed. “I know what you think is in that trunk.”
“Tai—”
“And if you’re right, then yes, I’ll be calling 911. But open it first.”
>
He shook his head, a warning shot. “You shouldn’t—”
“Just open the damn trunk.”
He hesitated only a second, then inserted the key. One twist, and the trunk popped open. He lifted it the rest of the way with a handkerchief-covered hand.
It was empty.
I felt a knee-weakening wash of relief. Trey ran his flashlight into every corner of the space, but there was no sign of blood or body or foul play.
I glanced back into the shop. Hope was still on the phone, her eyes on us. Trey had his phone out too. I couldn’t watch both of them at the same time. If Hope ran, the alarms would let us know, but she’d make like a rabbit and we’d never catch her. If Trey finished his call, we’d be swarmed with uniforms within minutes.
I put a hand on his elbow. “Listen. I know that every neuron in your cranium is screaming that you need to call this in, but you need to hold off until we’ve talked to her some more.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s hiding something, and whatever it is, I am on the verge of getting it out of her. But if the cops come, she’ll bolt. Or clam up.” I looked him in the eye. “And because you promised me you wouldn’t.”
His expression changed, a mixture of contrition and determination. “Circumstances often require a change of strategy.”
And then I heard it, from several blocks away, the unmistakable growl of a motorcycle. For a wild second I thought it was John’s Harley, but then, from the other side of the square, I heard an almost identical rumble. And then several more, from behind the shop.
I glared at Trey. “You son of a bitch. You already called 911, didn’t you?”
Something flickered in his expression. “No.”
“Then who is that surrounding the place as we speak?”
“The Blue Line.”
“The what?”
“It’s a law enforcement motorcycle club.”
I stared at him. “You called a motorcycle gang to surround my shop?”
“Motorcycle club, mostly retired APD. They agreed to provide…non-official protection and support. At least until I could assess the situation.”