Tina Whittle_Tai Randall Mystery 01

by The Dangerous Edge of Things

  I was feeling conflicted. Not out of any Confederate loyalty—I didn’t much like the thing myself. But taking it down felt like an insult to Dexter, not unlike the way Atlanta had razed what antebellum architecture the Yankees hadn’t burned to a cinder, erecting in its place a post-modern skyline, gleaming and reflecting, a city of mirrors. Atlanta called itself the city too busy to hate. It was a heady fiction.

  “Sorry, Dexter—it has to go,” I told him, and rubbed the ache out of my neck.

  But it would wait. I had other things to attend to first, namely cleaning myself up and hauling it to Phoenix. So I dressed rapidly and closed the shop, setting every alarm Trey had showed me. The late morning sky loomed low and gray, like a ceiling of dirty ice, and I shivered as I walked to my car. Please, I thought, let this day be easy.

  It was not to be. Standing square in my path was Dylan Flint, spiked hair and all. He yanked off his sunglasses. “You’re gonna pay for this!”

  “For what?”

  “You know what! You think you trash my place, I’m gonna get scared and back down? I’m not afraid of you or your boyfriend.”

  He’d moved in close, and I realized for the first time how very young he was, barely twenty. His pale face popped with cold sweat, and he looked like he hadn’t slept, hadn’t bathed, hadn’t even changed clothes in a while.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Passersby stared and kept walking. I tried to sound patient and logical, but fear cracked my voice. This guy was a wing nut of the first order, and I was mostly alone with him, with all my guns locked up in the shop. And he was infuriated.

  “That’s bullshit! I heard the message you left. You were checking to see if I was there so you could break in!”

  “If I had been going to break in, do you think I would have left a message?”

  “I know what I know! And I don’t need pictures to prove it!”

  “Prove what?”

  He sneered. “Maybe you should talk to your boyfriend, ask him what he’s been doing hanging around with Charley Beaumont when her husband’s out of town.”

  “You mean Trey?” I took a deep breath. “He’s not my boyfriend—and she’s his client.” Then it hit me. “Is that why you were following us around Saturday? You thought I was the other woman?”

  The sneer twisted, and he laughed. “Stupid lying bitch.”

  And that did it. I gripped my tote bag tighter and widened my stance. What was it Trey had said to his class? Balance was my greatest strength. I felt it suddenly, the sturdiness that comes from standing on two feet, owning your space.

  “Look, you moron, I don’t know why you’re here, but I know one thing—you’re in big trouble.”

  “You don’t know shit!”

  “I know you kept Eliza around so she’d score drugs for you. You got the shakes, dude.”

  He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. There was a folder in my tote bag that described the signs of meth addiction—agitation, paranoia, rage. He was a veritable poster boy.

  “Is that how she paid you off for showing up and taking pictures at the Mardi Gras party? A few hits of this or that?”

  “The cops want to talk to me,” he said. “And I’m thinking of doing it.”

  “Why? What was so hot about those photographs you took?”

  He clammed up again and stared at me with this smug look, but fear twitched behind the bravado. Dumb, simple fear.

  I shook my head. “You have no clue, do you? All you knew was she could get you some attention from the Beaumonts, maybe throw some dope in the mix. Good times. You make up all kinds of rumors—Charley and Trey, Mark and Eliza, me and God knows who—and hope something will stick so somebody will pay.”

  “You just keep thinking that.”

  “Why’d you bust out the parking garage cameras at Phoenix on Thursday?”

  “What?” His mouth twisted. “I didn’t do that!”

  “Trey saw you there that morning, don’t deny it.”

  “I was just taking pictures!”

  “That’s all you’ve been up to, huh? You haven’t been hanging around here, have you? Tossing a few bricks? Slipping a few threats under the door?”

  He started to say something, then clammed up. “I ain’t gotta tell you a goddamned thing, bitch!”

  That did it. “Listen to me, you moron, and listen good. You may not realize how deeply over your head you are, but I do, and I am telling you, getting your photographs nicked is the least of your worries. Whatever it was Eliza was involved in, somebody killed her to shut her up.”

  “If anybody needs to shut up, it’s you.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Just layin’ it on the line.”

  He stepped forward as he said this. I held my ground. His hand went into my face, and I smacked it away, hard. His sunglasses went flying, and he curled his fingers into a fist…

  And then he froze.

  “Is there a problem?” Trey said.

  I jumped as Trey moved to stand beside me. He was in full corporate agent mode and looked calm, but he exuded hazard the way that knives did, on a purely visceral level.

  Dylan didn’t back away. “What’s the matter, girlie, can’t fight your own battles?”

  I suddenly want to yank off his arm and beat him to death with it. “Back up, Trey. You don’t want to get blood on that Armani.”

  Trey didn’t budge, of course, but then, he didn’t need to. Dylan was already backing down. “I’m talking to the cops. And then you’ll be sorry, all of you!”

  He jabbed a finger at us, one last pathetic attempt at menace, then disappeared around the corner. I picked up his sunglasses and examined them. Tommy Hilfiger. Nice. I pocketed them and turned to Trey.

  “Where did you come from? I don’t see the Ferrari.”

  He nodded toward a gray sedan parked across the street. “Company car. I’ll be working at Lake Oconee most of the day, and Marisa insisted I take it.”

  “Was she being generous or does this have something to do with the car chase yesterday?”

  “The latter, I suspect.”

  Now that the confrontation was over, I was shaking from the adrenalin spike and plummet. I steadied myself, but Trey noticed. He extended a hand, then just as quickly retracted it.

  “Are you okay? Perhaps you should—”

  “I’m fine.”

  And I was. Mostly. There had been a shift during the confrontation, a moment when I’d felt aggressively powerful, but calm. Now I was cold—the wind had kicked up and the clouds had clotted and lowered. But I remembered that feeling.

  “Dylan was seriously pissed about a break-in. You know what he’s talking about?”

  “There was a burglary at his studio—his photographic and video equipment were taken, photographs and videos too. His computer was destroyed, but not before someone hacked his website and deleted it.”

  “He mentioned having photos of Charley Beaumont.” I took a beat. “And you.”

  Trey looked puzzled. “She’s a client. Of course there are photographs of us together. Why would he mention that?”

  “Because he thought he had photos of Charley Beaumont and her illicit lover.”

  It took Trey a moment to make the connection. “But we’re not lovers.”

  He said it so easily, with such disarming confusion, that I wanted to believe him. Could a human lie detector spin a falsehood as easily as he could spot one?

  My next question was even more delicate. “Phoenix did this, didn’t they?”

  Trey didn’t reply. But his index finger started a restless tap-tap-tap on his thigh.

  “Come on, Trey. Did Phoenix trash that boy’s place and steal his stuff so that he’d stop making trouble for the Beaumonts?”

  “The Beaumonts are our clients.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question. Is Phoenix responsible for this?”

  “You c
ould ask Landon. He’ll give you the same answer he gave me.”

  “Which was?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Was he lying?”

  Trey looked directly at me. “Landon is usually lying about something. It’s part of his job.”

  He turned abruptly and started across the street. I followed after him. “Dylan also admitted he was at Phoenix on Thursday, when the cameras were busted out, but denies doing it. Likewise on busting out my camera and planting the threats.”

  Trey opened the door to the sedan. He was avoiding my eyes. “I’ll be in-field for the rest of the day. Call me if you need me.”

  I put a hand out as he went to get in, and he froze, my hand on his midsection.

  “What were you doing here?” I said.

  “Dylan came looking for you at Phoenix. It made sense that this would be his next stop.” He finally looked directly at me. “Please be careful. Even though Perkins has been caught, it’s still dangerous.”

  I removed my hand. “You worried old Dylan will get me in some dark alley?”

  “No, I’m almost certain this will be the last we hear of Dylan Flint. But I’m afraid he’s not our only concern.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I’m apprehensive, and I don’t know why. And I usually do.” He got into the car. “Marisa told me that Janie has asked to see you. Please call me later and tell me what she said. And Tai…”

  It was the first time he’d ever called me by name. “Yes?”

  “I meant it. Be careful.”

  ***

  I finished my emergency cigarette in the Phoenix parking garage, brushed my hair, and got ready to face Yvonne. To my surprise, she smiled as I walked to the front desk.

  “You have to wait here,” she said.

  “But Janie asked me to come, I’m supposed to—”

  And then Landon walked out of the conference room. He was smiling too. My stomach sank.

  “You just missed Janie,” he said. “She went to the hotel to pack. Now that her sister’s killer is behind bars, she going back to South Carolina.”

  I shouldered my bag and turned to leave. Landon glided into my path.

  “Not so fast. I heard you had a run-in with Dylan Flint.”

  “I heard you did too, or so Dylan seems to think.”

  A flicker of surprise rode across his eyes, but he covered it, quick. “I don’t care what he thinks, and neither does anybody else.”

  “Somebody cared enough to trash his place.”

  Landon tsk-tsked. “It’s a crime-ridden world out there.”

  “Which makes it so great that Phoenix is there to protect and serve.” I delivered this morsel with a thick coating of sarcasm, but Landon didn’t bite. His smile deepened, which further unnerved me.

  “Now that justice has been served and Janie is returning home, your services are no longer required. We’ll have the paperwork ready for you tomorrow, along with a check from the Beaumonts, a final thank-you.”

  I didn’t move. He swept a hand toward the doors. “Go home. And don’t even think about running to Marisa. After I told her you dragged Trey to Boomers last night, she finally decided you’re more trouble than you’re worth, no matter what Eric says.”

  I stared at him. He tsk-tsked.

  “Of course I know about your little adventure—Trey submitted a 302 on it this morning. Filed it under personal protection.”

  Of course he did. I fumed, but said nothing.

  Landon continued. “So Marisa terminated your personal protection order as well. Case closed.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  “Maybe. But this isn’t. You have to leave now. Come back tomorrow morning for your termination package.”

  “Keep it,” I said, and turned to go.

  “Not so fast.” Landon held out his hand. “Your ID.”

  “I lost the cheap piece of crap. Stick that in your termination package.”

  Chapter 36

  I found Janie in her room at the Ritz, a twin of the one I’d abandoned for Dexter’s pull-out. She invited me in absent-mindedly, and went back to the half-filled suitcase flopped open on the bed. Outside I heard sirens, an ambulance, a police car. The sounds of someone else’s day gone suddenly bad.

  “I just got back from Phoenix,” I said. “Landon told me you’re leaving.”

  Janie laid a white blouse in the suitcase. “They’ve released the body, so we can take her home now.”

  “That must be a relief.”

  “Yeah. We’ve just got to finish up here, and then we can get started with the arrangements.” She looked at the clothes-strewn bed, then back at me. “I appreciate all you’ve done, though, over the past few days.”

  “I didn’t do much.”

  “You listened, that was a lot. But it’s over now, and the best we can do is get back to normal.”

  She was right, of course. But there was so much still unanswered, unhonored, unspoken. I sat on the edge of the bed. The room smelled of old coffee and fresh laundry, but a hint of smoke was in there too—I saw an ashtray by the bed, overflowing with butts. My fingers twitched.

  “Janie, this may seem like it’s coming out of nowhere, and I hate to pry into something so personal, but…” I steadied my voice. “Did you know your sister was a lesbian?”

  Her eyes darkened and got hard in the center. “That’s not something we’re gonna talk about.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.” Her voice hardened to match her eyes. “My sister was murdered, and the man who did it is in jail. That’s justice, and I’m grateful for it. The rest is between her and God.”

  “Is that what you two fought about?”

  She shook her head. “Eliza’s dead, and all that died with her. I don’t care what questions you want to ask, I’m taking her home now, and we’re going to do the best we can with the life she lived. It wasn’t much, but she was family, flesh and blood, and that’s what family does for family.”

  “But I’m not convinced Bulldog did it.”

  “I am. Eliza spent her whole life chasing some fantasy that she was better than who she was. You chase something long enough, you forget something might be chasing you. Eliza paid for that mistake with her life.”

  Her face was taut with emotion, her fists clenched so hard her knuckles whitened. Whatever parts of her had loosened over the last few days had tightened up again, and she wasn’t about to drop her guard, not for me, not for anybody.

  I stood. “I’m sorry, Janie. I appreciate everything you shared with me. I wish I could have done more with it.”

  Her mouth stayed hard, but her eyes relaxed, just at the corners. She reached up and fingered the ever-present crucifix.

  “You did the best you could. That’s worth something.”

  I left quickly, too heartsick to argue with her. RIP Eliza Compton. Daughter, sister, friend, co-worker. Murder victim, former thief, closet lesbian, possible blackmailer.

  God, why do we even bother with tombstones? It’s not like we don’t lie enough without them.

  ***

  My second stop was back at Beau Elan to find Jake Whitaker—I had a couple of questions for the antsy bastard before he got word that I was no longer legit. Despite what I’d told Landon, I still had my Phoenix ID. One flash of the plastic at the front gate, and the security guard let me in without a quibble.

  Inside Jake’s office, the first thing I noticed was that Jake himself was gone. In his place, a young woman with a planed, no-nonsense expression and black bunned hair stood behind his desk. I recognized her as one of Mark Beaumont’s staff.

  She frowned at my ID badge. “I thought they were sending Mr. Seaver?”

  That’s when I noticed that everything on Jake’s desk had been piled into two boxes. The woman stared at me, slightly puzzled but not alarmed.

  I smiled. “He got tied up in a meeting, last minute stuff. He sent me
instead.”

  “Fine, then. Here.” She handed over a small box. “This is the back-up footage I found. I don’t know why Mr. Whitaker had it in his desk. The originals are with the police, and you already have the archives at Phoenix.”

  I accepted it with a smile. “It’s a mystery.”

  And then she handed me another box, this one sealed with duct tape. Her lips curled with distaste. “I wanted to throw this away, but Mr. Beaumont said to turn it over to you people. So here. Get rid of it.”

  I smiled again, broad and reassuring. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”

  ***

  I tried to call Trey, but got his voice mail, which meant that he was still in his meeting. I left him a rambling message. “Listen, Trey? Call me back as soon as you get this. Nothing’s wrong, but I have to talk to you ASAP. I’ve kinda…crap, just call me, okay?”

  I decided voicemail was not the way to mention my recent termination. Ditto on the contraband materials from Jake’s desk. Driving out of Beau Elan with the illicit boxes sitting next to me was an exercise in patience. Had Jake been fired? Reassigned? And what kind of surveillance footage did he have hidden in his desk? I knew that the main records had been turned over to the police, the back-ups to Phoenix. What in the world would Jake be keeping just for himself?

  My fingers itched to pry it open, even if I knew Trey would kill me in some hideous SWAT-intensive manner if I did.

  So I called Rico. “Do you know where can I find someone—someone discreet—who can unplex some security footage?”

  ***

  Rico sent me to his friend Doug at the Buckhead branch of the Fulton County Library. As its media specialist, Doug had studied at Dartmouth on their digital antiforgery project, and he had a treasure trove of sneaky smart software at his fingertips. According to Rico, he also possessed a strong subversive streak, and would be glad to help me sock it to The Man.

  Doug sported mouse-brown bangs and sharp blue eyes intensified by black-rimmed hipster glasses. His voice was soft, and his eyes darted around a lot.

  “Wait here,” he said.