I fixed him with a look. “Did you know she was using?”
“Sure.”
“What about dealing?”
“I suspected so.”
“So why didn’t you tell us?”
“It wasn’t any of your business. Had I had problems with her? Yes, especially recently. She was late a lot, she seemed unfocused and weird sometimes, and she and that redneck ex-boyfriend liked to argue in public. Did I see any reason to share this information with you? No.”
“Did she seem to be getting any special attention from the Mark? Or Charley?”
“No.”
Trey moved to stand in front of the photograph of the Beaumonts over the information table. Jake’s eyes flicked in his direction and then back to me.
“Did you notice her paying them any special attention?” I said.
He swiveled in his chair. “She had stars in her eyes, maybe. I told her she was out of her league, but she didn’t listen.”
“So you have no idea why anybody would want her dead?”
“Are you asking in some cute way if I killed her?”
“Not a bad question. Did you?”
Now he was mad. “No, I didn’t. I was meeting with the landscaping guy all day Friday. He verified it, ask the cops. Does that satisfy you?”
He wasn’t looking at me when he said this—his eyes were focused just above my shoulder. Trey moved into my peripheral vision.
“I’m satisfied,” he said. “You’re not lying.”
Whitaker took the comment in stride. “Nice to know I’m not a liar.”
Trey shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”
***
By now, the rain had intensified, and the breeze cut with a cold edge. We walked back to Trey’s car, sharing his umbrella.
“Well,” I said, “that wasn’t helpful at all. I guess I thought he would let something slip, so we could call him on it and then he’d confess everything.”
“Everything?”
“Hypothetical everything. Like in the movies.” I sighed. “But if you say he wasn’t lying…”
“He wasn’t. But he was being evasive.”
I stopped walking. “About what, which part?”
Trey shook his head. “Just generally evasive. Technically true—”
“—but deliberately evasive, yeah yeah, I know the drill. Do you think—”
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop talking.”
He moved in face-to-face, inches between us. And the rain was pattering on the umbrella above us, and we were all alone beside the car, and I thought, omigod, he’s gonna kiss me, right here, right now, and I couldn’t decide whether or not to close my eyes.
“We’re being watched,” he said. “Don’t look.”
“Don’t look where?”
“At the stand of trees by the mailboxes, a hundred feet behind you. There’s a maroon Buick LeSabre with the engine running and a man in a gray sweatshirt standing beside it. It’s William Perkins.”
“Bulldog! But he’s dead!”
“No, he’s not.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
The urge to look was almost irresistible. “What do we do?”
“You get in the car and lock it.” He pressed the Ferrari keys into my hand. “Do you have your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Call 911—tell them what’s happening.” He handed me the umbrella. “Stay on the line. I’m going to keep an eye on him.”
I started toward the Ferrari. But I couldn’t help it—I looked—and when I did, the guy was staring right at me. He had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled down around his face, but he was Bulldog, without a doubt. Same small eyes, same round mouth, same little goatee. I froze, he froze, and then in a burst of motion, he made a mad dash for the maroon car.
Trey sprinted around to the driver’s side of the Ferrari. He already had the engine running by the time I scrambled in.
“Give me the phone,” he said.
I yanked at my seatbelt. “Screw the phone, just go!”
“I don’t think—”
“That’s Bulldog, Trey!”
“But—”
“Presumed dead, wanted killer—”
“I just—”
“Wanted killer, Trey!”
He slammed the car into first and accelerated with stunning velocity. Up ahead, Bulldog reached the Beau Elan exit. He plowed over the speedbumps and burst through the lowered arm of the security gate without hesitation. The Ferrari took the speedbumps painfully, then screamed onto the street, cutting off a pick-up and swinging into the far left lane.
I clutched the seat. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“I assure you, I’m well-qualified—”
“Shit! Red light!” I closed my eyes and we slid through it. Horns honked behind us, brakes squealed. I opened my eyes. “That was not cool!”
Trey didn’t reply, just kept his eyes straight ahead, his jaw set. He pressed a button on the console.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Garrity.”
Up ahead, the Buick did a shimmy at the next intersection and made a sudden left across traffic. Trey followed. In abrupt horror, I saw movement at the corner and realized that someone was about to step into the crosswalk.
I waved frantically. “Watch out! Old lady!”
We rocketed through the light, and I whirled to look behind us. “Shit! You hit an old lady!”
He glanced in the rearview mirror. “I did not. She just fainted.”
The Buick tore up the street, the Ferrari right on its tail. Bulldog had no chance of outrunning us. His only hope was to lose us, and he seemed to think that lots of impulsive, dangerous turns across several lanes might be the key.
I caught the reading on the speedometer. “Omigod, slow down!”
“I could concentrate a lot better if you’d—”
“He’s headed for the interstate!”
Trey yanked the wheel. I screamed again. I wanted to watch the road, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from him. He kept his shoulders down, his hands easy at the wheel, but his eyes were narrowed and focused, like a wolf. I recognized the look.
“You’re getting off on this!”
He exhaled sharply. “Perhaps.”
“That is not the correct answer!”
“It’s the adrenalin.”
“I don’t care what—”
I heard sirens behind us just as Garrity’s voice came in over the speakers. “Hey, what’s up?”
“I’m in vehicular pursuit,” Trey said, eyes scanning the rearview mirror. “William Perkins.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Not impossible. Tai is supposed to be calling 911.”
“School bus!” I screamed.
Trey snatched the wheel right and then left.
Garrity’s voice ratcheted into panic. “Oh, sweet Jesus. Where are you?”
“Ashford Dunwoody Road, headed south toward 285. And I’ve got a tail.” Trey’s voice had an edge. “Can you help me, please?”
“Hold on.”
We hit a bump. The glove compartment flew open, and a flurry of papers tumbled into my lap along with a set of rosary beads. Suddenly, a massive red bloom of brake lights materialized in front of us.
I grabbed his arm. “Road work!”
But Trey had already switched lanes and was downshifting so fast his hand seemed a blur. We slammed to a stop like we’d hit a wall.
Ahead of us, the Buick fishtailed, then slid sideways into the blocked lane, sending orange cones popping into the air. One police car swept past us, but another pulled in right behind. Bulldog scrambled from the car and took off into the chaos of the construction, two officers in pursuit.
Garrity’s voice returned through the speakers. “Huge ticket, my friend. Quadruple digits. You might
even be arrested.”
But Trey wasn’t really listening. He leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes. Then he exhaled slow and deep.
“Want a cigarette?” I said.
The officer behind us got out of his car and came to the window. Trey lowered it.
It was a young guy, one of those corn-fed, earnest rookies. Surprisingly, he didn’t have his gun drawn, but his hand did hover nervously at his side. He bent and looked inside.
He smiled real politely. “Hey there, Mr. Seaver.”
Trey cocked his head. “Did I know you?”
“No. Dispatch gave us the ID.”
Garrity, I thought.
Trey motioned toward the glove compartment. “License and registration?”
The cop seemed apologetic. “Yes, sir. I guess so, sir.”
Chapter 32
So he did get a ticket, a massive one, and we did have to go to the station. Garrity’s station. He met us at the door. He did not look happy.
“I’m going to do what I can about this,” he said. “In the meantime, in my office, both of you.”
Trey immediately complied. I hung back a little. “Go easy on him.”
Garrity stared at me. “Don’t worry about him, my friend. It’s you that needs to worry.”
“Me? What did I do?”
Garrity just pointed. “Now.”
***
His office was tiny and cramped, his desk a landscape of papers and envelopes. Trey stood by the window, watching the parking lot. I moved to the desk. There were only two pictures on it. One was a studio portrait of a smiling toddler wearing a Braves hat. The other was a candid shot. I picked it up.
In it, Trey was smiling for the camera, his mouth open like he was either laughing or about to say something. He was wearing a distressed leather jacket and a dark green Izod shirt, and his hair fell over his forehead, messy and long on top. Garrity stood to his right—they had their arms around each other’s shoulders. I imagined beer and peanuts, a house band playing eighties cover.
Trey saw what I was holding. “You remember this?” I said.
He shook his head. “No.”
I put the photo back on Garrity’s desk. “I think I would have liked you.”
“I think I would have liked me too.”
Just then Garrity came in. His voice was clipped. “Trey, you wait out front.” Then he looked straight at me, and I didn’t like the look one bit.
“This won’t take long,” he said.
***
I sat opposite the desk. Garrity, however, remained standing, propped against a file cabinet. I couldn’t stand the suspense.
“Did they catch him?”
“They caught him.”
“Good, I can’t wait to hear—”
“You just had to say ‘wanted killer,’ didn’t you?”
I spread my hands. “It was Bulldog! You know, Bulldog, presumed dead, murder suspect?”
“Which was all the more reason to let the cops handle it.”
“What cops? We were all alone!”
He wasn’t listening. “It wasn’t worth the risk.”
“Oh, please, Trey’s a crackerjack behind the wheel.”
“Yeah, well, it didn’t help him last time, did it?”
“That’s bullshit!” I shook my head. “Trey is not some invalid—”
“Who are you to be telling me what he’s like? I’ve known him for ten years, you’ve known him, what? A week?”
For some reason, this infuriated me. “You’re just mad because you don’t know him anymore, and you’re wondering if maybe you never did.”
Garrity stared at me. His voice was calm. “Trey was in a coma for five days, on a respirator for most of them. Catheter, feeding tube, the whole nine yards. People came, and then they left. Real quick.”
I saw tears, hard ones, like diamonds. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“But I was there every single day. And I made deals with God—bring him back and I’ll stop smoking. Don’t let him die and I’ll give ten percent to the church. You find God real quick in ICU, let me tell you.”
He blinked, and the tears disappeared. “The only thing is, I don’t know if my prayers were answered or not, because he didn’t die, but he sure as hell didn’t come back.”
He was waiting for me to argue, and I started to say something, then decided I had no right. So I got up and walked out. I paused at the threshold. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”
He didn’t reply, so I headed for the lobby to find Trey, closing the door softly behind me.
***
Marisa was waiting for us back at Phoenix. She wasted no time on small talk. “Agent Davidson with the GBI needs copies of the revised TSCM plan ASAP. He’s in your office. I didn’t tell him that you were busy being booked and printed.”
Trey didn’t flinch. “I was not.”
She held up her hand. “Whatever. Revamp them based on the new data sheets and get them to him, and me. You’ve got a meeting with Landon at four today. And I need a 302 on this morning’s little adventure before you leave.”
“Of course.”
Then she turned to me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
“The same goes for you. Get a report to Trey by three-thirty, follow the 302 format.”
“The what?”
“Three-oh-two. You’re supposedly good at research—look it up. I’ve cleared space in the secondary area for you. And you need to return calls from Jake Whitaker—he’s still can’t find your number and left two voice mails for you here.”
I knew Nikki was to blame for the missing phone number, but I didn’t say anything about that. “I’m on it.”
She waved Trey toward the elevators. “Get to work. If you’re done playing Thelma to her Louise, that is.”
Trey obliged. Marisa watched him go—for a moment I caught the slippage of the mask, the taut white fear at the corner of her eyes, underneath more layers of foundation that I cared to count. Then she turned smoothly and headed for her office. Even in heels, she moved with an invisible book on her head.
***
Secondary area, as it turned out, meant surplus room. I flopped in the chair, this faux leather number, and inspected my temporary headquarters—eight by eight, no window, one bleak spare desk. On the plus side, it did have a working computer with external Internet access—Phoenix’s intraoffice system was off limits, however. I started to pull up my e-mail, then hesitated. I picked up the phone instead.
Rico wasn’t answering—again—so I left a message. “Bring lunch, whatever you want, my treat. Just one little favor in return.”
I told him what I wanted and then tried Eric. More voice mail. So I called Jake Whitaker, who was practically apoplectic with anxiety.
“I heard what happened this morning—that Bulldog person was here.”
“Apparently so.”
“I thought he was dead.”
“Apparently not.”
“The cops said he was trying to get into Eliza’s apartment.” A nervous silence. “You don’t think he was after me, do you?”
Not the question I expected. “Why would he be after you?”
“Because he thinks I know something.”
“Do you?”
“No! But who knows what that lunatic’s thinking.”
I tried to sound soothing, but Whitaker was having none of it. I promised I’d let him know something as soon as there was anything to know, but that didn’t mollify him and he hung up abruptly.
Okay, I thought, that was interesting. Why in the world would Whitaker think Bulldog might be after him? Before I could figure out that puzzle, however, my phone rang.
It was Garrity. “Look, what I meant to say was, be careful. Please. And then I meant to say that I was glad you were working with him, at some point that should have been in the conversation.”
“Before or after you lectured me?”
“Probably before. Listen, you have to be careful. You say stuff like ‘wanted killer’ and every damn rule goes bam, right out the window.”
“But it was an emergency!”
“No, arterial bleeding is an emergency, not chasing down suspects. And you don’t want Trey breaking his rules for anything less, trust me.” A pause. “So do you want to hear what they got from Bulldog or not?”
“Let me grab a pen.”
His story was short, but oh, was it interesting. Eliza had called him a month or so ago, wanting some pot, a little meth. He’d ponied the stuff right up, and—he’d admitted—moved to Atlanta where he tried to renew the romantic relationship. She kept putting him off, which just made him more persistent. This was why he’d been following her the Wednesday she went to Eric’s house, why he’d followed her back to her place. Only she’d refused to talk to him.
“Big surprise there,” I said.
“Yeah, well, Bulldog saw her talking to your brother and freaked. He admitted that he got loud, maybe a little rough with the hands.”
“The fight that Jake Whitaker heard.”
“Right. He denies being the one to play rough with her the night of Mardi Gras, though. He said she had the bruises when he saw her.”
“You believe him?”
“No. Anyway, Eliza threatened to call the cops, so he left the premises. Sort of. His idea of leaving the premises was to hang around the gate waiting for her to appear again.”
“No wonder she didn’t go meet Eric for dinner. There was a nutcase outside.”
“Yeah, that’ll put a damper on your social life.”
“But psychotic or not, his version of events makes sense.”
“Oh, yes,” Garrity agreed. “Lots of sense. Only one problem—they found her purse in the floorboard of his truck, everything in it but the cash, along with what’s looking like the murder weapon.”
I almost dropped the phone. “Get out!”
“Nope. Thirty-eight revolver. Some blood on it—still waiting for the DNA on that, but it’s her type, and it’s consistent with the bullet they pulled from her skull, according to the ME anyway. No fingerprints though. Looks like someone wiped it.”
“Who’s it registered to?”
“Nobody. It’s a throwaway.”
“So is he admitting anything?”
“No, but he’ll crack soon enough. He’s too stupid to maintain a story for long.”
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