Reckoning and Ruin

by Tina Whittle

  The night grew quiet again, but in my imagination, I could hear the ticking of cooling engines, smell the bike leathers. I’d seen this particular group of bikers on the news—gray-haired and hard-eyed, lining the roadways during cop funerals. They reminded me of a wolf pack, rangy and silent.

  I folded my arms. “And what is your assessment?”

  Trey held my gaze. “If John really is missing, then this car is quite likely evidence of a crime. What kind of crime, I’m not certain, but that’s not for me to determine. The Line is here to maintain the perimeter until the car can be examined by the proper officials. That might give you the time you need.”

  “To do what?”

  “Convince Hope to go quietly into custody. Because this car has what appears to be bullet holes. Because a man is allegedly missing. Because I have no choice at this point, Tai, I simply don’t. And neither do you.”

  The back door alarms went off inside, but neither of us moved. Hope, making a run for it. Trey was already tapping his phone, one quick text. I heard the roar of more engines behind the shop, saw the white flash of headlights. I heard Hope hit the wall of them. She was screaming at them, cursing. And for the first time since she’d darkened my door, I felt a pang of sympathy.

  ***

  It was over pretty quickly after that. Hope got dragged to the station to give a statement, while her car went to the vehicle processing shed and her Saturday night special went into evidence. Cobb County would shove the case down Savannah Metro’s way as soon as possible, and then both agencies would play hot potato with it. Nobody wanted to deal with somebody like John vanishing, a man who wouldn’t be missed but whose absence would be tough investigating.

  In the aftermath, I sat outside on the curb in front of my shop in the glow of the single streetlight. Four had been installed during the fervor of the Kennesaw Revitalization Committee’s attempt to class up this particular acre of real estate, but only one of them still worked. Now the dark nestled close, velvety with humidity.

  Trey conferred with his Blue Line friends gathered in the square. The leader of the group was a retired APD sergeant named Davis. He was short, barely five-eight, but his body was a rectangle of muscle. He was older than Trey, with gray eyes and a trimmed gray beard. He had a single gold stud in one ear and a tattoo on his forearm, faded now, an eagle clutching a rifle in each talon.

  He clapped Trey on the shoulder, and I winced. But Trey didn’t throw a Krav Maga block or reach for his firearm. I realized with a start that I was watching my alpha dog boyfriend go beta. Only there was not an ounce of give in it, not a hint of submission. With this man, Trey was one of the pack again, and he fell into his assigned role as easily as breathing.

  Eventually he joined me on the curb. The oxycodone had worn off hours ago, so there was a stiffness in his movements as he lowered himself to sit beside me.

  “Did they arrest her?” I said.

  “No. She’s making a voluntary statement.”

  “Because they would have arrested her otherwise. Or called her PO and got her thrown back in jail.”

  Trey didn’t answer. He was watching the cops in the square, some retired, some active duty, all of them bound by the brotherhood of blue. Davis was tidying things up, getting ready to ride.

  “How do you know this Davis guy anyway?

  “He was my Field Training Officer. I rode with him my first four months out of the academy, during my probationary period.”

  So that explained the Trey I was seeing now. He was back in patrol mode, responding to cues like the well-trained sheepdog he was. This wasn’t an insult, I’d discovered, among cops. They liked to think of themselves as sheepdogs, protecting the sheep of the world—people like me—from the wolves. As if we weren’t all wolves when we got hungry enough.

  “Will they put her in Witness Protection?”

  He shook his head. “Wit-Sec is only for federally-prosecuted cases. Georgia has no state-run witness protection.”

  “So what will happen to her?”

  “That depends. If Hope has evidence that she’s at risk because of her upcoming testimony, she can get protection through the prosecuting attorney. Or from the federal marshals. Depending.”

  “On what?”

  “If something really has happened to John.”

  Her story was a wild and shaggy one: John’s disappearance, his efforts to “make things right” and his phone call that morning warning me of trouble to come, plus the white pick-up stalking her and her own mysterious phone call. A lot of conjecture, very little solid evidence. Except the bullet holes in the trunk. That was pretty solid.

  “And how is that story looking officially?”

  “We did find one key piece of evidence supporting it.” Trey kept his eyes on his friends across the square. “An open box of ammunition under the front seat—.22s—and a receipt dated earlier this morning from a Savannah gun shop.”

  “Did the bullets in the box match the ones in her gun?”

  “We won’t know that for a while. The gun had been fired, although I couldn’t tell how recently.”

  Hope hadn’t mentioned buying ammo. And since she had no reason to edit that detail from her story, I knew that the purchaser had to have been John. As for the gun itself, Hope had gotten her fingerprints all over it. And then in my haste to secure it, I’d gotten mine on top of that. I’d explained this to the responding Cobb County officer, but not to Trey. I already had a headache. A lecture would have flipped me into the red zone.

  “What happens next?” I said.

  “Assuming she’s not eventually arrested, Davis offered to put her up for the night in a safe house.”

  “Pffft. Like she’ll go for that.”

  “It would be the smart thing to do.”

  “Yeah well, we blew our chance at getting her to do the smart thing the second your friends closed in.”

  We sat there in the dark for fifteen seconds, thirty. I felt a whole tidal wave of things I needed to ask him about, but there was one particularly itchy topic at the top of the list.

  “You lied to Hope,” I said.

  He looked confused. “When?”

  “When you trotted out that whole bit about lying to federal officers and section whatever-the-hell.”

  Now he looked insulted. “I did not. I simply…what’s the word, multi-syllabic, starts with C?”

  “Lied.”

  “Everything I told her was the truth. She created the interpretation. That’s not lying, it’s—”

  “Technically true but deliberately insinuating, that’s what it is. And that counts as a lie.”

  He pulled out his phone, didn’t reply. He thumbed a quick text, barely paying attention to me. Ever since he’d shown up, he’d been in the cop flow chart—take orders from above, give orders to below. I knew where I ranked in that particular hierarchy.

  “I didn’t know you could lie. I didn’t think your brain would let you.”

  “Why did you think that?”

  “Because the truth tends to fall out of your mouth even when you don’t want it to.”

  He shook his head, eyes still on his phone. “That’s not the same thing.”

  A whistle from across the square interrupted him, and he looked up. Davis was waving him over. Without another word, Trey stood up and trotted back. Acting once again like the cop he absolutely wasn’t anymore.

  I stood up too, but not to follow him. If Trey wouldn’t answer these particular questions, I knew somebody who would. Somebody who’d be downright delighted to pontificate on all matters cognitive-psychological.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was a little after midnight in Georgia, which made it barely past ten in Colorado, but when Eric answered he was gruff and annoyed nonetheless. I decided to skip the part where he was being sued for a couple of million by our racist criminal cousi
n and focused on the matter at hand.

  He promptly scoffed at my belief that Trey was somehow incapable of lying. “Where did you get that idea?”

  “From his prefrontal cortex.” I paged through the jargon-dense summary of Eric’s long-ago evaluation. “Damage to this area results in reduced ability to suppress verbal expression in response to active questioning, which combined with the damage to the subject’s executive function—”

  “I know all this, Tai. I wrote the report.”

  “—means that if you ask him a question, he will answer it. He can’t help it. Automatic response.” I threw the paper on the counter. “How can somebody like that lie?”

  “Because it’s only an automatic response if you catch him off guard. His intentional responses remain strong.”

  I pulled out a fresh piece of nicotine gum. Through the front window, Davis and his motorcycle crew remained gathered in the half-lit street. Even with Trey in their midst, they were hard to distinguish from outlaws.

  Eric continued. “Look, it’s not as if I can point to a part of the brain and say, this is where lying happens. It’s a complicated process involving functions spread out over both cranial hemispheres, and while Trey took a hit to some, others remain as healthy as ever. Plus he built his recovery complex around strong countermeasures, which he has sometimes applied to the point of overcorrection.”

  That part I understood—Trey was textbook overcorrection. Got a brain that makes inconvenient stuff fall out of your mouth? Train yourself to respond to questions with a wall of silence. Judgment a tad unreliable? Get smart people to tell you what to do. Verbal functions wonky? Become an expert in visual data representation. His entire recovery complex was built on maximizing his strengths to cover for his weaknesses.

  “But if lying is so complicated, why is he so good at it?”

  “He’s only good at some lies, like logical strategic ones. Off-the-cuff lies? He should suck at those. Lies about deeply emotional matters? Equally sucky. But cool rational lies, especially those that are simply manipulations of the truth? He’s probably very very good at those.”

  Which described the play he’d put on Hope perfectly. A carefully honed truth wielded as skillfully as a rapier.

  My brother continued. “Lies are really two-part processes, suppressing the truth, then creating and sustaining the falsehood. He’s hit or miss at the former, but the latter? Tai, his whole Italian couture lifestyle is a cleverly constructed, expertly maintained illusion. And don’t think for a second he doesn’t know it.”

  Of course Trey was good at lying—his entire life was a lie. A piece of psychological sleight of hand.

  “Well, he’s out of Armani mode now. As we speak, he’s in the square with a bunch of his cop buddies, trading war stories.”

  “Wait, why are cops there?” Eric’s voice held an edge of panic. “What’s happened? Are you—”

  “I’m fine. But Hope showed up at the shop a couple of hours ago with the news that John Wilde is missing.”

  “So? He runs off all the time.”

  “This time it’s more complicated. Like bullet holes complicated.”

  I filled him in on the details. Outside, the cops shook hands and clapped each other on the back. I heard the kick-up of the engines. The crew was calling it a night, which meant that Trey would be back inside soon.

  Eric was confused. “What’s Trey’s part in this again?”

  “Nothing official, just his usual routine dialed to eleven. He showed up here with his old S&W on his hip like some Wild West gunslinger, barking orders at me.”

  “Ah. Enclothed cognition.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Short answer? It’s the connection between what we wear and how we behave.”

  I rubbed the headache beginning to throb at my temple. “Are you telling me he straps on the department-issue gun and suddenly he’s a cop again?”

  “The simple answer is yes. And from what Garrity’s told me, he wasn’t exactly Officer Friendly, if you catch my drift.”

  I cursed under my breath. “Crap. So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Hard to say. His brain is unique, as are his coping strategies. You should probably…hang on again.”

  I heard another voice in the background at my brother’s end. Muffled, like he’d put his finger over the phone, but definitely female. And then his voice in reply, low and reassuring.

  “Eric? Do you have a woman in your hotel room?”

  A pause. “We were discussing Trey.”

  “Now we’re discussing the woman I hear in the background.”

  “No, we are not.”

  “But—”

  “Tai. Is this an emergency or can it wait?”

  I sighed. “It can wait. But—”

  “Then call me when I get back to Atlanta, okay?”

  He hung up. Great, now my brother was avoiding telling me the truth too. Everybody was spinning deceptions, draping them like spider webs.

  I stood up as Trey came in, locking the front door behind himself. He flicked his eyes at the roses next to the register, then back at me. I opened the gun safe under the counter and held out my hand. Trey unsnapped the holster and handed it over.

  I shoved his weapon inside and held out my hand again. “Now give me your car keys.”

  “What?”

  “Your keys, Trey, so you can’t stomp out of here mid-argument when things get uncomfortable.”

  He folded his arms. “I don’t have car keys because I don’t have a car.”

  “Oh right. Because Gabriella brought you.”

  I trilled her name like it was a fancy curse word. And while Trey had frontal lobe damage, he was no fool. He saw exactly where I was headed.

  “Now is not the time—”

  “It’s exactly the time. And when we’re done talking about her, we’re gonna discuss your attitude tonight, which sucks. And the lying, which also sucks. And then we’re gonna talk about how you came barreling down here and sicced your friends on the situation after I asked you not to call the police—”

  “Told me.”

  “What?”

  “You told me. Not asked. Told.” He took a step closer. “You also told me two months ago that I needed to find a way to be in the action again. Your exact words. You said I needed to channel…whatever.”

  “Well, you know what? I can’t work with this particular whatever. Because it’s turning you into a complete and utter ass!”

  He started to say something, then snapped his mouth shut. We were standing with the counter between us, but he was too close nonetheless, breathing hard and shallow, cheeks flushed, his cool utterly evaporating. He was on the verge of flashpoint, and I felt myself quicken with the knowledge.

  Trey rarely got angry, but when he did, it was pyrotechnic. And heaven help me, I liked watching him crumble, liked the power trip that came with unspooling every ounce of willpower he had. We were at that juncture, the point where I could be the agent of his undoing. All I had to do was keep talking. And then, at exactly the right moment, I could reach across the counter and we’d both tumble down to that dark place of instinct and demand and rough pleasure and forget the very real obstacle between us.

  I placed both hands deliberately on the counter, palms down. “We have to be very careful right now.

  His eyes were burning. “I know.”

  “We’ve done this before, tumbled into bed mid-argument. And it’s hot, I mean volcano-hot—”

  “I know.”

  “Sweaty, animal, on the floor—”

  “Tai!” His voice was sharp. “You’re not helping.”

  “Right. Sorry.” I kept the counter between us, like it was some magical force field. “What I’m trying to say is, it’s a great distraction. But it doesn’t solve anything.”

 
He exhaled in a burst. “No. You’re right. It doesn’t.” He pulled out his phone. “I’ll call a cab. You just…stay over there.”

  And everything broke, like a fever. Without the firearm on his hip, Trey was decidedly less bossy and swagger-y. Suddenly, all I saw was a man trying hard to do the right thing despite the hot-blooded tug-of-war going on between his body and brain.

  “Don’t,” I said.

  He looked puzzled. “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t go.”

  He lowered the phone. “But—”

  “Look, I’m exhausted, you’re exhausted, and this is one time we definitely need to go to bed mad. So take your meds and go to sleep. I’ll be up in an hour or so when you’re totally zonked out beyond all responsiveness. We’ll discuss this tomorrow. When things aren’t so…volatile.”

  He still wasn’t convinced. I used the last weapon in my arsenal.

  “Please,” I said.

  He hesitated, but he went. I watched him go upstairs, the rickety steps creaking. During the argument, I’d glimpsed Fire Trey, moth-to-flame magnetic. But I knew there was another Trey inside—Ice Trey, the professional. Those blue eyes would sheen over and grow opaque, becoming expressionless, unmoved by fear and fury. That Trey was absolute zero all the way to the bone, and I shuddered at the thought of his touch. Not in the good way either.

  His voice carried from upstairs. “Tai?”

  “Yes?”

  “I forgot my bag. Can I come back downstairs and get it? Or should I…what should I do?”

  I felt a wash of relief. We were back to Trey-Trey. “It’s okay,” I called back. “I’ll bring it up.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sometime during the night, the rain had finally rolled in, leaving the city blowsy with dogwood petals and bright with morning sun. Trey insisted that we go by his apartment on the way to Phoenix. He needed a suit, he said, and I obliged him.

  I changed into the closest thing I had to corporate wear—clean khakis and a white button-down—and pulled my hair back into a knot. Marisa definitely wanted something from me, but I wanted something from her too, and if I had to toe the line wardrobe-wise to make that happen, then so be it.