Tina Whittle_Tai Randall Mystery 01

by The Dangerous Edge of Things

  “Tell them you’re bringing in the identifying witness,” he’d said, “and they’ll let you in. Do exactly as you’re told, and I mean exactly. A meth lab burnout is not the place to go snooping.”

  I didn’t need to be told twice. The air at the site reeked of ash and chemicals, even from our parking spot. Janie looked grim and determined. She wore her crucifix, but her fingers went nowhere near it, as if she didn’t want to be reminded of all that “turn the other cheek” stuff. When the patrol made her put out her cigarette, I thought for a second she might refuse. But she dropped it into the dregs of her coffee and got out of the car. I was not invited to go with her.

  It was a slice of hell, that place, heavy with the stink of ammonia, like a radioactive litter box, and thick with clotted oily smoke. A hazmat-suited agent crouched next to an overturned oil drum, waving a Geiger counter at it.

  But I did see one thing I recognized. A beat-up blue pick-up, swarming with uniforms. Janie was led to it. She stared at it, nodded, then spat on the ground.

  Back in my car, she reached for her cigarettes. “They wouldn’t let me look at the body, said it was too dangerous right now. They said it didn’t matter anyway, that I couldn’t ID him if I tried. I asked if it was bad, and they said yes. Three people, all of them burnt to death. Crispy critters, one of them said. Didn’t think I could hear him. Somebody told him to hush.” She blew out smoke in a burst. “But I wanted to see.”

  “They didn’t find any ID on the body?”

  “All burnt up. The truck, though, that’s his. No doubt.”

  We were back in the city by the time the morning commute had started its sluggish crawl. The radio reported the usual litany of accidents and road work and stalled vehicles. I was regretting my fashion choices. In an effort to look like a liaison, I’d put my hair up and worn this purple pantsuit I’d gotten at J.C. Penney. Now I was regretting it—the armholes were too high, and it itched. But I looked official. Somewhat.

  “The fire took out the whole block of units, twenty at least. Went up like that.” Janie snapped her fingers. “You get a bunch of tweakers playing with fire, next thing you know, the whole neighborhood’s burning like hell itself.”

  I thought of the smell, the ash, the odor that surely signaled death. The landscape, toxic and wasted. And somewhere in there, under a sheet, the charred corpse of a murderer.

  “I wanted justice,” Janie said, and ground out her cigarette. “But this will do.”

  ***

  Phoenix was jumping when we got there. Yvonne steered Janie toward Landon’s office, casting suspicious looks over her shoulder as she did. I shoved my ID into my tote bag the minute she got out of sight and headed straight for Trey’s office.

  Marisa was already in there, clad in a charcoal skirt and jacket, accented with pearls a shade darker than her blouse. One eyebrow arched as she gave my pantsuit the up and down.

  “Interesting color choice,” she said.

  I smoothed the fabric. “It’s aubergine.”

  And then she pummeled me with questions. I answered as best I could. Trey took notes. He watched me as I gave my recitation, jotting down information in his neat precise hand. Not reading me, just paying attention.

  Marisa stood by his desk. “If this means what I think it means, then our part in the investigation is over. This changes everything.”

  I understood. After all, every piece of evidence I’d seen was pointing to Bulldog as Eliza’s killer, so now that he was a pile of disreputable ash, further speculations seemed a moot point, as did the reward the Beaumonts had offered.

  She directed a look at Trey. “Which means I need you this Friday at the Adams reception.”

  He stared at her. “But I completed the security plan two weeks ago.”

  “Things have changed. I need you in person.”

  “Landon—”

  “—is a personal guest of the Beaumonts, you know that. You were the only person who wasn’t going to be there this weekend, and now you are.”

  Trey shook his head. “I don’t do that kind of work anymore. There are too many variables.”

  “That’s why I need you. We’re dealing with rent-a-cops, local cops, other people’s bodyguards. I need somebody I can trust in the middle of all this.”

  “We planned—”

  “Not for this, we didn’t. You did the zone breakdown, the contingency protocol. All I’m asking you to do is be there and be available.”

  He didn’t reply. But he didn’t drop his eyes or look away either.

  “This is a major event for major players,” she said. “None of us wants it ruined by some stupid rumor.”

  I was confused. “What rumor?”

  She waved a hand dismissively. “It’s going around that there was something between Mark and Eliza Compton. The blogs are all over it, talk radio too. Probably that little photographer creep we ran off.”

  Dylan. Of course.

  Trey kept his eyes on his yellow pad. “Is there evidence?”

  “Of course not. What evidence could they have for something that doesn’t exist?”

  “Evidence can be misinterpreted.”

  “Then it’s not evidence,” Marisa continued, “it’s nonsense, and if Mark takes the energy to deny it, he’ll just look defensive.”

  “I still don’t understand why I have to be there this weekend.”

  “I want you there because Mark wants you there, so you will be there. Period. Cocktails start at six, dinner at seven-thirty.”

  Trey exhaled loudly. Marisa ignored the huff, dropped a file folder on his desk. “Black-tie. I know you’ve got a tux.”

  “I do not.”

  “So get one, now. Put it on your expense account.” Marisa indicated me with a nod. “Take her with you.”

  This caught me off guard. “But Janie—”

  “We’ll see that she gets back to her hotel, don’t worry. You stay with Trey.”

  She glared at me as she said this. I remembered Simpson’s words: they want to control you. Setting me up with the resident Boy Scout probably seemed a great way to do it. I didn’t argue. Trey was a maze of rules, but I was beginning to get the hang of how they bent. And bend they did.

  Trey stared after her, tap-tapping his pen on the edge of the desk as her heels click-clacked down the hall. His expression was blank, but the little wrinkle between his eyes was fast becoming a furrow.

  I perched myself on the edge of his desk. “So tell me, where does one go to get a tux in this town?”

  He slid the folder into a drawer. “Gabriella’s.”

  I stifled a grin. The woman in the photograph Charley had confiscated from Trey’s office, the stunning redhead at his side during the Mardi Gras ball. In Marisa’s efforts to keep me out of the thick of things, she’d thrown me right into the briar patch.

  I leaned over and rubbed the spot on Trey’s forehead. He looked puzzled, but he let me do it.

  “Stop worrying, Mr. Seaver. Otherwise we’re gonna have to Botox you.”

  Chapter 30

  Gabriella’s Day Spa and Boutique lay behind Lenox Square Mall, not three blocks from Trey’s condo and within walking distance of the Ritz. It was hardly impressive from the parking lot, especially in the monochromatic gray drizzle, and there was a closed sign on the door. Trey ignored it. I followed suit.

  Inside was a surprise. Small but lavish, it smelled of sandalwood incense and beeswax candles. We stood in the boutique area, surrounded by tiny cocktail dresses and pointy-toed heels on marble columns. The spa area lay to the right, through an arched doorway. I heard female voices beyond it, saw some votives shimmering around a soft gold loveseat.

  A woman stuck her head around the corner. Her red hair was piled on her head in careless ringlets, and she had enormous green eyes, round like a cat’s.

  “Trey!” she exclaimed.

  She hurried over, and I noticed that even though she wore white pants and a matc
hing baby tee, her feet were bare. She took his hands in hers, and he let her do it, even let her press a kiss to his cheek, but his face registered no emotion at the contact. She, however, looked positively enraptured.

  “You must be Gabriella,” I said.

  “And you must be Tai. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Her voice carried the vowels of someplace European. France, I decided. I slid a look at Trey, but he was examining this red dress, running one finger along the beaded neckline.

  “I need a tuxedo for Friday night,” he said.

  “So I’ll see you at the reception after all.” She took his arm. “Don’t pout. Come on back and we’ll double-check your measurements. It looks like you’ve been overworking your deltoids again.”

  “It’s the Krav.”

  Then they disappeared behind this burgundy curtain, leaving me alone. I examined the red dress that had caught Trey’s eye. It was gorgeous, all right, a glittering length of red beading and tiny sequins with a thigh-high slit like a bolt of lightning. I fingered the price tag, whistled under my breath.

  I could hear the two of them talking behind the curtain, but I couldn’t catch what they were saying, so I moved closer. It wasn’t eavesdropping, per se, just paying attention to a conversation of which I wasn’t a part. I heard her laugh, softly, heard his monosyllabic reply. I took another step toward the curtain.

  That’s when I saw the photograph.

  It was just lying there behind the counter, half covered with other mail. I reached over—casually, like I was looking for a pen or something—and brushed the envelope aside so I could get a better look.

  It was the exact same shot that Mark had brought to Trey, the one Charley had confiscated. Lying next to it was the envelope from Snoopshots. Apparently Mark Beaumont wasn’t the only one who’d gotten Dylan’s sales pitch—he’d obviously sent the same shots to Gabriella, hoping to impress her with his photographic genius.

  And then I noticed something else, something I’d missed the first time.

  I snatched up the photos and marched the whole lot right into the dressing room. Trey was standing very still while Gabriella ran a tape measure across the back of his shoulders.

  I shoved the photo at him. “That’s her, standing outside of the frame.”

  “Who?”

  “Eliza.” I tapped the image. “See? That hand there, on Charley’s waist?”

  Trey looked where I was pointing. “How do you know that’s Eliza?”

  “The silver cuff bracelet. She was wearing it when she died. I remember it vividly.”

  “Let me see.” Gabriella stood, peered over his shoulder. “That’s a bracelet from my silverwork collection.”

  “So you knew her?”

  “The girl who was killed? Eliza? Not very well. She came in here sometimes, but she rarely bought anything.”

  “Except this bracelet.”

  Gabriella looked at me pointedly. “It’s from my more accessible line.”

  “You mean it’s the only thing somebody like Eliza could afford?”

  “Yes. She seemed to enjoy looking, though, and she asked a lot of questions about my clients, especially Charley.”

  “That didn’t seem odd to you?”

  She shrugged. “People ask about Charley all the time.”

  “But you remember this girl in particular. Why?”

  “Because this girl asked very personal questions. Other people bring in magazines and say, I want this, or, do you have shoes like that? But this girl wanted to know about Charley, not the clothes. And for a while she showed up right after Charley did, within minutes.”

  “Did you tell Charley any of this?”

  “Of course. She didn’t seem concerned. In the end, the girl stopped coming here, and I stopped worrying.”

  While she spoke, she continued to take Trey’s measurements, running her pink tape measure around his waist, across his chest. There was familiarity in her touch.

  “And now the girl’s dead,” I said.

  Gabriella tucked the tape in her pocket. “Yes. But what does that have to do with Charley?”

  “It has everything to do with Charley! Eliza was obsessed with her in way that goes far beyond some celebrity crush! She’s got her hand on Charley’s waist, for crying out loud!” I turned to Trey. “Now will you believe me when I say there’s something fishy going on with the Beaumonts?”

  He handed the photo back to me. “There’s a logical reason—”

  “Of course there is! Charley took this picture from your office because she’s trying to cover up a link between her and Mark and this girl. I can’t believe you don’t see it!”

  “Hundreds of people are linked to the Beaumonts.”

  “But why her, why here, why at this party? She was a receptionist, how could she afford a Mardi Gras party that cost two hundred bucks a ticket?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did she bring a date?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You were there! Didn’t you see her?”

  “There were 587 people at that event.”

  I started to argue, but then I remembered the other photographs in my hand. I took them over to a cushioned bench and dumped them out. If Gabriella was annoyed that I’d been going through her stuff, she didn’t say anything—she just joined me as I sifted through them.

  “You got these from Dylan Flint,” I said.

  “Yes. I wasn’t the only one. Several of my friends who were at the Mardi Gras ball got the same package.”

  “Didn’t you think that was strange?”

  “I’ve seen much stranger promotions than dropping off samples of one’s work.”

  The photos looked identical to the ones Dylan had sent Mark Beaumont. They contained Mark and Charley and Senator Adams, my brother and the mayor. And then, in the background, another familiar face, only this time he wasn’t holding a toilet brush.

  “Jake Whitaker,” I said.

  Gabriella twisted her mouth in a tight knot. “Him.”

  “You know him?”

  She examined her fingernails like Rico did, fingers curled in a loose fist. “That night at the ball, he wouldn’t leave me alone. And then he showed up here the next morning.”

  Trey’s head snapped back. “You didn’t tell me this.”

  She waved him quiet. “It was only once, and I made it clear this was a place of business, and that if he had none, he needed to leave. He hasn’t returned.” She switched her cat-eyes back to me again. “Why all the questions?”

  “Yes,” Trey echoed, “why all the questions?”

  I tapped the next photograph. “This is why.”

  It showed Eliza, her face half-turned away from the camera, her eyes bright and cunning. She had on a shiny purple dress, and standing right at her elbow…

  Nikki. She wore a black cocktail dress and looked directly at the camera, but Eliza’s gaze was fastened elsewhere, on someone not in frame. I would have bet my emergency cigarette that it was one of the damn Beaumonts, uncaptured by the lens, visible only in Eliza’s hungry, fascinated eyes.

  Trey tilted his head to examine it. “Who is that?”

  “It’s Nikki, this stripper friend Janie keeps talking about, from Beau Elan.”

  “Why is she important?”

  “Do you remember those rumors Marisa mentioned, about Mark and Eliza? I was blaming Dylan and his stupid blog, but what if Nikki started them? Or Jake Whitaker. He was there, she was there, they were there. Maybe this didn’t start at Mardi Gras—maybe it started at Beau Elan.”

  Trey’s expression switched to mildly interested. “Go on.”

  “So maybe Mark and Eliza really were having an affair. Maybe Jake really does know something. After all, you said he was lying about her being nice.”

  “But Marisa says—”

  “Like Marisa knows everything. The point is, this is something we need to pursue. And I know e
xactly where to start.”

  “I don’t think—”

  I held out my hand. “Rock, scissors, paper.”

  He frowned. “Again?”

  I stuck my hand out. He did the same. And on three, I laid my flat palm over his closed fist.

  “Paper covers rock,” I said. “Again.”

  He didn’t argue, just looked at the photographs in my hand, then addressed Gabriella. “Do you mind if we keep those?”

  She shook her pretty head. “Of course not. If it will help.”

  “It will.” He checked his watch, then looked at me. “We leave in eight minutes. Get your questions ready.”

  Chapter 31

  Jake Whitaker spread his hands. “I really don’t see how I can be of any more help to you.”

  By “you” he meant me, the person sitting in the client chair in front of his desk. Trey was standing off to the side. He and Whitaker had circled in that alpha male way, then ignored each other. Which had been fine with me. It meant that I had Whitaker’s full attention.

  “You neglected to mention you were at the Mardi Gras ball Tuesday night. Or that you visited Gabriella’s the next day.”

  “I met her at the party and she was hot—what can I say? I still don’t see what this has to do with Eliza.”

  Trey glanced our way. Sharply. I took note, but kept talking to Whitaker. “Did Eliza ever tell you why she liked hanging around at Beaumont parties?”

  “Are you asking me about those rumors?”

  I played dumb. “What rumors?”

  He ignored the dumb. “Because if you are, I’ll just put your mind at ease. I didn’t start the rumors, I don’t believe the rumors. I never saw them together that way.”

  “You’re talking about her and Mark Beaumont?”

  “Of course. What are you talking about?”

  “There were rumors of a more illegal activity than fooling around with your married boss.”

  He leaned back. He was looking professional today—dark gray slacks, winter-white oxford shirt, muted red tie. He’d shaved, which made him look smarter and more wholesome, emphasizing that former quarterback thing he had going on.

  “You mean drugs,” he said.