Tina Whittle_Tai Randall Mystery 01

by The Dangerous Edge of Things

  “Marisa will ream you out if you bring me.”

  “It doesn’t matter. She’s going to fire me for losing my weapon and allowing a third party to access Phoenix property.”

  I linked my arm with his and patted his bicep. “I can’t help you with your computer problem.”

  “I know.”

  “But as for the missing weapon…well, being partners with a gun shop owner has its benefits.”

  Chapter 43

  Dexter didn’t have a P7M8 in stock, but his reference list proved invaluable, especially when I mentioned that money was no object to this particular client. The piece was delivered in less than an hour, and Trey’s Amex Platinum was down $1500. He insisted on breaking down and inspecting it—a decision I totally agreed with—so while he cleaned it, I fetched some ammo.

  “On the house,” I said.

  He fed the eight rounds into the magazine and inserted it. “I have to try this before we go.”

  “Of course. I’d like to try mine out too.”

  He noticed the purse then, this snappy black leather bag.

  “I’m testing it for the shop,” I said, showing it to him. “Zipper opening, holster insert. Lockable. Plus a separate place for lipstick should I ever decide to start wearing it.”

  “You have your carry permit?”

  I held up the piece of paper. “Came in the mail this morning.”

  I could see the gears whirring in his head. But he knew the law as well as I did, and he knew I was within my rights to bring a weapon. The Beaumont reception was a private gathering on private property, teeming with conservative Second Amendment zealots. Unless someone asked me to leave, I had every legal right to be there.

  “What do you have in there?”

  “A revolver, Smith and Wesson Model 40. Compact, light, hammer cover to prevent it from snagging on a fancy dress.”

  I saw that twitch at the corner of his mouth. I smiled. “You didn’t think I’d arm you to the teeth and then carry around just a nail file for myself, did you?”

  We went by the range on the way out. Trey as usual exterminated the target. I did pretty well myself. Georgia’s castle doctrine required no retreat before reasonably resorting to deadly force. And considering all that had gone on, a purse full of deadly force swinging on my hip felt really good.

  Traffic out to Lake Oconee was unusually heavy, and I guessed from the way the helicopters hovered in a knot above the interstate that there was an accident up ahead, or some other perversity that I couldn’t possibly predict. I played with the air vents and watched the city inch by, surrounded by the sounds of a thousand other motors of a thousand other people.

  “Can I ask you something? Not about the case or Gabriella, about you.”

  He nodded. Two small travel cases rested behind us, toiletries for me, a satchel of paperwork for him.

  “When I was at your desk, I found this magazine, and I couldn’t help wondering…it’s hard to figure out the question I want to ask.”

  Trey offered no help whatsoever. I stumbled on.

  “Garrity said that after the accident, you bought this car, the apartment, the suits, all of it very different from how you were before. And then I noticed that the GQ magazine dated from when you got out of the hospital, and it had everything in it, just like Garrity described. And I thought, this can’t be a coincidence.”

  “It’s not.” He kept his eyes on the road. “But I had to do something. And having a template worked. It still works. The decisions are too hard otherwise.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s hard to explain. Knowing what you like comes from knowing who you are. And I don’t know anymore.”

  I’d never considered such a thing. I liked low-slung jeans and chunky boots. Shrimp, but not scallops. The color yellow. How did I know these things?

  “Are you mad?”

  He frowned. “Why would I be mad?”

  “Well, if I had a secret, I’d be mad if someone stumbled onto it.”

  “It’s not a secret. It’s just information that I tell very few people.”

  “Like Gabriella.”

  The mention of her name sounded like a warning bell. Of the two people closest to him in the whole world, one had apparently betrayed him. I pressed on, however.

  “Why won’t you admit that she’s up to something?”

  He thought about it. “I told you, I need evidence. Her guilt contradicts other facts about her that I already have.”

  “So replace the facts.”

  “It’s not that easy. I think it used to be, before the accident. Garrity says I had good instincts. He says I was very intuitive. But I’m not anymore. I can sort fact from fiction, but I can’t figure out what they mean.” He looked at the glove compartment. “Like those. They used to mean something to me. I keep thinking I’ll remember what, but I never do.”

  I remembered then, from the car chase. “The rosary beads?”

  “They were my mother’s. Garrity was looking for them for the funeral. He thinks they were lost in the accident.”

  His voice was steady and calm, with no hint of emotion, but I felt the impact nonetheless.

  I fingered the glove compartment handle. “May I?”

  He nodded, and I took them out. They were cool to the touch, small round stones of gray-green marble with a finely chased silver crucifix.

  “Connemara marble,” he said, “from Ireland. That’s where my grandparents were born. County Donegal.”

  I held them in my hand, and they felt like faith is supposed to feel—solid, soothing, tangible. He was still looking straight ahead, his hands resting lightly on the wheel.

  “I’m trying to explain something to you,” he said, “and I can’t. It’s about those, and Gabriella, and about the accident itself, but…I’m looking for a word.”

  I shook my head. “There isn’t one. It’s too much for words.”

  He thought about that.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  Chapter 44

  Beaumont Waterway rose out of nowhere, this colossal white-columned spread that bloomed on the edge of Lake Oconee like a crop of enormous mushrooms. Inside, the main hall was decorated with muscular grandeur—stag-horn chandeliers, gray stone floors, and a massive fireplace I could have stood in.

  Phoenix had two suites reserved for its agents. Trey gave me the key to one and he took the other. I opened it to find my garment bag hung on the bathroom door and a fully stocked bar with fresh ice. Through the patio doors, the lake rippled silver in the clear diffuse light. I opened them, and the astringent scent of pine blew in.

  Down at the lake edge, segregated from the main complex, I saw the Beaumonts’ private cabin. Charley loitered on the wrap-around porch, talking on her cell phone. She wore a white summer sweater and Jackie O sunglasses. Beside the pool, Mark enjoyed a drink with Marisa underneath a green canvas umbrella. Landon stood at her elbow, sipping something amber and neat. And there was my brother, spic and span in his Brooks Brothers casual, pouring a red wine.

  Everyone but Gabriella.

  I watched for several minutes, the casual glamour of it more fascinating than I cared to admit, until I heard a soft knock on my door. I turned and saw Trey. Just as I’d suspected, he was the very man tuxedos were created for, from the pitch and hang of the sleeves to the cut and break of the jacket.

  I walked over and made a pretense of straightening his tie. “Did you tell anyone I was coming?”

  “No.”

  “Not even Eric?’

  “No.”

  “Oh good—I like surprises.”

  Trey’s eyes were tight. I put my hand to his forehead and found his skin smooth and cool, still unfevered. Somewhere on the lake I heard the low drone of a motorboat, a distant conversation layered with laughter.

  “I’ll leave you to get dressed,” he said. “Find me when you get to the reception.”<
br />
  “Oh no, you don’t. We’re going together. Stay put.”

  I grabbed the dress and the shoe box and went into the bathroom. The dress slithered from its bag, this slinky length of red, heavy with beading, cool as water.

  “Do you have a plan?” I called.

  “For what?”

  “Finding Gabriella, of course.” I stuck my head out the door. “I’d think locating her would be your first priority.”

  He looked annoyed. “We don’t know the specifics of the situation, therefore I can’t create a response plan.”

  I struggled into the dress. It was like trying to shove my entire leg into a glove. “So let’s pretend I have proof that she took your gun and bugged your computer, solid evidence.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Pretend it’s a simulation.” I undid my ponytail and ran my fingers through my hair. “Pretend you had proof that a hypothetical person with connections to the Beaumonts had stolen Landon’s firearm and tapped his computer, and that said person was headed this way. What would your next move as security officer be?”

  “Alert perimeter control and establish a BOLO. Double-check entry and exit procedures. Inform the head of operations.”

  “Okay, whoa.” I stuck my head back out. “Can you skip that last part? I mean, if Landon finds out about this…”

  “Not Landon. Marisa. And procedure requires—”

  “This is all hypothetical, remember? As you keep pointing out, you don’t know for sure that Gabriella has done anything. So let’s take it a step at a time, shall we?”

  I returned to the main area and shook my hair out, my purse strap slung across my chest like a bandolier. The effect was not exactly Vogue-worthy, but it would do. Better tacky than dead.

  Trey examined me. There was scrutiny in the look, but appreciation too. And puzzlement. I could see him sorting and analyzing, his neural circuits trying to make a connection.

  I slipped into my shoes. They were beaded three-inch pumps the same flaming scarlet as the dress. I stood up, wobbled a bit, but held steady. “What exactly does perimeter control entail?”

  “Alerting Steve Simpson.”

  “Then let’s do it. And keep the part about the missing gun to yourself, can you do that?”

  He considered. “For now, yes.”

  I took his arm. A team, I’d told him.

  Yes, indeed.

  ***

  We found Steve in his native habitat—the surveillance van. It was parked near the entrance and could have been mistaken for a catering van except for the periscope extending through the roof. Inside, multiple screens captured feeds from around the resort, including real-time footage of the van itself. I also spotted a microwave, a coffeemaker, and a tiny, well-appointed restroom.

  Steve swiveled back and forth in a gray velour captain’s chair, a can of Sprite in hand. “If it isn’t James Bond,” he said, then grinned at me. “Which one are you, Ursula Andress?”

  I ignored him. Trey ducked his head to keep from crashing into the periscope viewfinder. “I need to review the access protocols.”

  “You want real time or archived?”

  “Neither. I need to see the incoming and outgoing attendance rosters.”

  Simpson rolled the chair to a massive console. “I’ve got entrance but not exit, and before you start, that wasn’t my idea.”

  “But we need the exit roster to—”

  “I said, don’t start. Not my decision.”

  “Whose then?”

  “Marisa’s. The guests were miffed enough at getting inspected on the way in—she didn’t want them to have to go through a checkpoint on the way out. Leave them with that happy generous feeling, you know?”

  Trey’s jaw tightened. Suddenly the interior of the van felt a lot smaller. I bent over the console and read down the list. Bingo—Gabriella’s name was near the top. “It says she hasn’t arrived yet.”

  Trey straightened up, narrowly avoiding a swinging remote control. “Have you seen Gabriella?”

  “The redhead from the spa? Not tonight.” Steve double-checked the column of figures. “There’s other people from her shop here, and they brought a truckload of formal wear. But not the madam herself.”

  Trey scratched a number on a notepad. “If she arrives, please let me know as soon as possible. Use this code.”

  Steve accepted the piece of paper. “Why, what’s she done?”

  “Earlier this afternoon, Tai discovered a key logger on my computer. We suspect Gabriella might have some information about it.”

  Steve’s eyes widened. “Really? Whoa.”

  I sensed it then, the shift. Steve was suddenly nervous. I wasn’t an expert in micro-emotive readings, but I knew “technically true but deliberately evasive” when I saw it.

  “He knows something,” I said.

  “I know,” Trey replied. He took a step closer to the captain’s chair.

  Steve panicked. “Dude, I wasn’t, I mean, I didn’t…” He drew himself up. To his credit, he was a lot cooler than I would have been. At that moment, Trey radiated more menace than a snake-bit pit bull.

  “Landon’s orders,” Steve finally said.

  “What was?”

  “The key logger. I installed it before the computer was even assigned to you. And then Landon assigned me to your cases, so I could report back to him if you were acting weird—which you were, always.”

  “Why?”

  “How should I know? I don’t ask questions, I just follow orders. Isn’t that what you do too?”

  The piss and vinegar was coming back once he decided that Trey wasn’t going to strangle him. To me, it wasn’t a smart bet, but Steve kept talking.

  “Landon doesn’t like you, and he doesn’t trust you. But you already know that, so why harass me? Take it up with him.”

  He was talking too loudly, nervous again. But Trey was done. He pushed past me, heaved open the bulkhead door and disappeared. I tried to follow, but the step-down was impossible. I took off the heels and eased down backwards, cursing to myself.

  “This is why I don’t wear dresses,” I muttered.

  Trey waited for me, looking like someone had sprung his compass. I sympathized. Not only was his mistress a thief, his employer was spying on him. If I’d gotten a one-two like that, I’d have been standing bewildered on the asphalt too.

  “It makes no sense,” he said. “All Landon had to do was ask me to turn over the computer. It’s Phoenix property. He has full access.”

  “He didn’t want you to know about it.”

  “Why not?”

  Trey was honestly confused. Like Gabriella, Landon was behaving illogically, and Trey couldn’t formulate a motive beyond logical progression.

  “He thought you were up to something,” I explained, “and this was his way of catching you unaware.”

  “What would I be up to?”

  “I don’t know, Trey. I told you, these are some snaky people.”

  “You never said that.”

  “Well, I should have.”

  I was annoyed at myself. I’d been blinded by the assumption that Gabriella had been guilty of both misdeeds. Just like Trey, I’d only followed the one path. He needed me to do better than that.

  “We need to find Landon,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I want to hear what he has to say about this. And I want you to tell me if it’s the truth.”

  This wasn’t what I had planned. But thinking Trey’s way did have a certain logic. Start with the evidence you have, and see where it goes next. And right now the evidence showed that Landon was even more of an unscrupulous bastard than I’d thought he was.

  I slipped my shoes back on, adjusted my purse strap. “Come on, Mr. Seaver. We’ve got a suspect to question.”

  Chapter 45

  Down by the lake, we moved through tables scattered like seed pearls all over the sloping lawn. The wait-staff glid
ed around silver platters filled with itty-bitty ham biscuits while the elite mingled and laughed and ignored the food. The alcohol flowed, however, and each couple trailed a handsome black-suited man wearing shades and an earpiece—a faux bodyguard, included in the ticket price. I was surprised they hadn’t hired fake paparazzi.

  I scanned the crowd. No Gabriella, and no Beaumonts either. I saw my brother at the bar, however. He raised his glass at me, a puzzled look on his face. I’d been hoping to escape his attention. Luckily he was busy with extremely important people. He stayed in his circle, and I stayed in mine.

  I nudged Trey’s shoulder. “There’s Landon.”

  He stood separate from the crowd, a lone figure by the star-spangled dais, wearing a dark gray tuxedo that made him look almost handsome. As we approached, he shook his head. “You brought a date to work? How unlike you.”

  “There’s no rule against it,” Trey replied.

  He glanced at my purse knowingly. “Remind me to make one.”

  Just then the buzz of conversation cranked up a notch—the Beaumonts had arrived, walking up the path from their cabin, arm in arm. The mass of well-wishers parted for them, pressing close at times, but always separate.

  “I talked to Simpson,” Trey said. “He told me about the key logger.”

  “I heard.” Landon snagged a white wine from a passing waiter. “Don’t hold it against him; he was just following orders. That’s what we all do, isn’t it? Me, you, him. All of us.”

  He said this with his eyes focused on the entrance. Marisa circulated among the people now with much smiling and chatting and patting of backs. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders, and her white column dress glowed like an opal in the low lights.

  “Why?” Trey insisted. “Why not just ask me for it?”

  “That defeats the purpose of undercover surveillance, now doesn’t it?”

  “It was still wrong,” I said, “and probably illegal.”

  “Trey’s computer is Phoenix property. He signed away his privacy when he signed his contract. So if either of you want to get your feelings hurt, I suggest you do it on your own time.”