by Tina Whittle
Chapter Six
Before Westview was a neighborhood, it was a battleground. In 1864, over three thousand soldiers died in what would be memorialized as the Battle of Ezra Church, a defeat for the Confederacy. This was how I knew Westview, as a piece of Civil War trivia. Trey knew it as home.
He’d grown up here in the eighties, in a sturdy square house with thick porch posts and a low sloping roof. The neighborhood was in decline then, hit hard with the rising drug crime of that era and devastated further as its residents abandoned it for the suburbs. Now in the uncertain first lurches of revitalization, it felt scrappy and optimistic, its citizens not yet priced out of their own history. Trey still owned the basement of his former residence, but the ground floor served as the parish house for St. Anthony’s Catholic Church, an arrangement his mother had specified in her will.
He pulled around back next to the basement door as the first twilight settled around us, dampening and softening the world beyond. He had recently unlocked his whole past for me, literally. He’d given me the key to this basement where he’d stored all the artifacts of his life before the accident. Too much for him to go through at once, he’d said. And, as it had turned out, too much for me too. It felt like occupied territory in that basement, a psychological terrain with no map, only myths and rumors and veiled legends. I’d been taking it slowly.
“Why are we here?” I said.
“To find my files from the Talbot case.”
“Atlanta PD let you keep them?”
Trey tapped his finger on the steering wheel. “Not exactly.”
“Oh. I see.”
He got out of the car, keys in hand. I followed him inside. He clicked on a floor lamp, and it cast a dim glow around the room. What had once been an efficiency apartment was now storage space: a bar table with two wooden stools upended on top, a hunter green velour sofa, a bookshelf filled with photo albums, and many paper boxes stacked against the walls.
I closed the door behind me, shutting out the last of the sunlight. Above us I could hear footsteps—the church’s secretary, going about her duties.
“Are you going to explain why you have contraband files in your basement?” I said.
“They’re not contraband.”
“So they’re public?”
“Not technically. They’re…complicated.”
I thought about that one for a second. “Fine. Any idea where to start looking?”
He pointed. A filing cabinet stood in the corner, slate gray and thick with dust. It was an exact match of the one Trey had in his present apartment, the one I knew to be fireproof, waterproof, impact proof, and ridiculously expensive.
He looked around the room. “I need to find the globe.”
“Globe?”
“Yes. That’s where the keys to the cabinet are.” He held up his hands and measured an imaginary circle. “About this big. If I remember correctly. It’s been a long time.”
We gave the room another once-over. Trey seemed hesitant about wading in. Going through the things from his life before the accident was like performing an archaeological dig on his own existence. There would be surprises. I sympathized. Given the state of my own personal history, I completely understood.
I started with a box helpfully labeled DESK STUFF. Garrity’s handiwork, no doubt. He’d been the one who packed up most of Trey’s things while he was in the hospital. I ignored the dust and pulled off the lid, revealing Trey’s personal effects from the police station: a stapler with his name written on top in permanent marker, APD coffee cups filled with ballpoint pens, business cards. Another box labeled JOB STUFF contained employment records, which we set aside to take back to his apartment, along with another box filled with newspaper clippings and photocopied reports.
“Nonclassified,” he said.
Eventually he found a plastic tub buried under old CD cases. He wrenched the top off and dug into the contents with both hands. After a minute’s searching, he pulled out a globe, an old-school faded and dinged model, probably with the USSR still on it. He turned it upside down and twisted the base. A tiny compartment opened, and a silver key the size of his little finger tumbled out.
“That’s a lot of precautions,” I said.
Trey went to the file cabinet. “They’re warranted.”
I watched as he twisted the lock and the cabinet creaked open. He did a quick search of both drawers, looked confused, then performed a more thorough examination of the files, one by one.
He straightened. “They’re not here.”
“What’s not there?”
“The files. But they have to be here. These locks are UL-listed high-security. Pick- and drill-resistant, with keys that cannot be duplicated without my permission. All the other files are here, but not those. I don’t…this doesn’t…”
He started pacing the narrow width of the apartment, six steps, pivot, six steps, pivot. I shoved my hair from my face. Even the normally cool basement was hot.
I tried to keep my voice calm. “Okay. Let’s stop and think for a second. Did anybody else have keys to that cabinet?”
“No.”
“What about to the basement?”
Trey pulled out his phone and hit speed dial. He spoke quickly, without preamble. “The Talbot files are missing. What did you do with them?”
I could hear Garrity on the other end of the line, sounding baffled. Of course he was. Trey had started mid-story with zero explanation. I felt the first twist in my gut. Finn was wrong. Getting involved in this case was not going to be for his own good. There were depths here, cold murky ones.
Trey pressed his thumb to the middle of his forehead. “Yes, yes, I know. Regardless, they’re missing, and I need to know…Oh. Right. Of course.”
He hung up, stared at the phone.
“Well?”
“It wasn’t Garrity.”
“Who was it?”
Trey closed the cabinet, locked the door, slipped the key into his pocket. “Gabriella.”
Chapter Seven
Despite its location in the heart of Buckhead, Gabriella’s cottage was fairy-tale cozy, with weathered plank siding the color of ripe plums and exuberantly overgrown flower beds. Late summer roses scented the evening air, and a single lantern illuminated the porch. Trey marched right up the path to the front door with me right behind.
“You should try calling her again,” I said.
“She’s not answering.”
“Then at least text her.”
He ignored me. He was reaching for the doorknob when he caught himself. Straightening his shoulders, he took a step back and knocked three times. On the other side of the beveled glass, I saw the blur of movement, heard the patter of bare feet against muted jazz. The door swung open.
Gabriella snatched a sash around a white satin robe that barely reached the top of her thighs. She’d cut her hair since I’d last seen her, razoring the red ringlets into an angled bob. With her pale skin and cat-green eyes, she looked straight out of a 1920s speakeasy. And—something else new—she had large black dog at her side. A greyhound.
She pointed to the ground. “Sit. Assis!”
The dog remained standing, its eyes large and doe-like. I held my hand out, fingers curled down in a loose fist. The dog gave me a polite sniff.
Gabriella’s frown vanished when she saw the expression on Trey’s face. “What is wrong?”
“Where are the Talbot files?” he said.
“The what?”
“The files from the Jessica Talbot case.”
Comprehension washed over her features. “Oh, those. I don’t know why you think I—”
“Garrity said he didn’t move the things from my personal office. He says it was you.”
“Yes, but Garrity packed everything first.” She ran a hand through her hair, thinking back. “I simp
ly picked up the boxes and the furniture and took them to the basement. That is all.”
“And the file cabinet?”
“If it was in your apartment, yes.”
“Did you open it?”
“Of course not.” She looked my way. “Tai, what is happening here?”
I shrugged. “You’re getting the story as coherently as I am.”
She sighed and put the back of her hand to her forehead. Somewhere inside the house a clock chimed the hour.
“I don’t have your files,” she said.
He fixed his gaze on her. “Say it again.”
Her eyes flashed. “Trey Seaver! You are not standing on my own front porch and accusing me of lying!”
“You’ve lied before. You took my gun once. And then there was that time—”
“Enough!” She belted her robe tighter. “These files, they are that important?”
“They are.”
She opened the door all the way and waved us in. I noticed then the wisp of a chemise under the robe, the whisper of scent about her, the artful tousling of her hair. A bottle of Viogner sat on the coffee table, open, with two crystal goblets side by side. The lights were low, and candles burned on the side table.
We hadn’t woken her up. She was expecting company.
Once we were inside, Gabriella turned down the music and switched on the overhead light. She folded her arms and glared at Trey. “Quickly.”
And so he explained. As he did, I watched her expression grown less stern. She glanced at the clock. Sighed.
“I don’t have any files,” she said. “I didn’t open the file cabinet. I simply had it placed in the basement.”
“By yourself?”
She looked at him as if he were deranged. “Of course not. I hired Peter from the shop. Very trustworthy.”
Trey opened his mouth, but she held up a single finger.
“And, no, I never left him alone with anything. No one has opened that file cabinet since you went into the hospital, not to my knowledge. Does anybody else have a key to the basement?”
“No,” he said. “Except for…but that’s not…”
“Who?”
“The church secretary. Mary Elaine. The basement is technically my property, but the rest of the house belongs to the church, so I thought it prudent to…” He pulled out his phone. “Excuse me for a second.”
He went back to the porch, shutting the door behind him. Gabriella dropped onto the sofa and tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling. We’d had a long talk, she and I, about the proper dynamics a former lover should maintain around her ex’s current girlfriend. Also about how said girlfriend had nothing to fear from said former lover, regardless, and should probably stop being so suspicious. After all, I knew that Trey’s heart beat with an intensely singular focus. I imagined two women would short-circuit him. Indeed, Gabriella and I almost had. Hence his insistence that we work things out.
She patted the sofa, and the dog jumped up beside her, resting its head next to her knee. I’d had the idea that greyhounds were hyperactive creatures, always bouncing around as if their veins ran with espresso. This one, however, had the poise of an Art Deco sculpture.
“What’s his name?”
“Trois. He is a rescue from the local greyhound group. The woman at the adoption center told me his final racing number was three, hence Trois.”
Outside, Trey continued talking on his cell. His voice was low, clipped. I could see him through the windows as he paced back and forth, half in shadow, half in the opalescent glow of the porch light.
Gabriella shook her head. “I cannot believe he is ripping open this case again.”
“You’re familiar with it?”
“Very. Is he perseverating?”
The clinical term for what happened when Trey locked onto an idea and wouldn’t—couldn’t, Eric reminded me—let go. Breaking his laser lock was almost impossible at those times.
“I don’t know,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “This is not your doing, is it?”
“This is all Trey, I promise you.”
“But you are involved?”
I felt the first prickle of annoyance. “I just told you that I wasn’t.”
“I am not suggesting that you are at fault. It is simply that where you are concerned, Trey tends to…” She rubbed her temple with her forefinger. “I am sorry. Mon Dieu, this is difficult.”
“It’s not easy at this end either.”
She flung a hand toward the porch. “It does not help when he comes stomping in here as if he were still…as if…”
“I know. He and I are going to have a talk about this.”
“Good.”
She stood up and crossed the room. Ignoring the wine, she pulled down a crystal decanter, held it in my direction. I shook my head, and she sloshed a cocktail glass half full. She took a long sip, then swirled the liquor as she spoke.
“He became obsessed, you must understand. He had always been very boundaried about his work. But this case, the Talbot case, was different.”
“Because his testimony was thrown out?”
“Yes. But there was something else.” Another sip, her eyes assessing and sharp. “He was not supposed to be in Buckhead that morning. It was not his assigned beat at the time.”
“Then what was he doing there?”
She kept the edge of the glass pressed against her bottom lip. “He was here. At this house.”
“With you?”
“No. Trey and I had…” She pursed her lips. “I do not like the phrase ‘broken up.’ But we had decided that we could no longer be together, and I had gone back to Provence to clear my head. And my heart. I was not in Atlanta during this time.”
I folded my hands in my lap. The clock chimed the quarter hour. “But Trey was here?”
“He was. Out front. Watching the house, he said. Thinking. The Talbots lived less than a mile away, right across Chastain Park. When the request for backup came, he was the closest officer on duty. So he responded, even though he knew he would be reprimanded.” She tilted her head, focused on the fireplace across the room. “It was a very difficult time for me. Trey too, I think, even though he knew our uncoupling was the right thing to do. He felt as if he’d failed. As if he’d been unable to save our relationship. I told him I would come back, and that we would talk. But he had the accident before I could.”
Uncoupling, she called it. And it hit me hard again, right in the gut, the whole history of these two people, years that I was not a part of. I could not deny him his past—I had quite the colorful one myself—but his backstory occasionally pole-axed me.
Outside, Trey walked back and forth on the porch, phone at his ear. The gauzy curtains blurred his features, but his posture was rigid.
Gabriella regarded me over the liquor. “I saw you in the cards before I ever met you. The Queen of Wands. And I am grateful for you in his life. I know that you and I do not always agree on what is best for him, but we have agreed to respect each other’s opinions, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then, please, be careful here. You and I both know Trey is a man of rules. That is his primary method of recovery. But if there is one case that could cause him to break every rule in his book, it is this one.”
Before I could say anything, Trey came back inside. He stood in the threshold, determined and frustrated and confused all at the same time.
I stood up. “Well?”
He put his phone back in his pocket. “I know who has the files.”
“And?”
He exhaled in a burst. “And now I really don’t know what to do.”
Chapter Eight
Trey stared out the passenger seat window as I drove us back to Kennesaw. He did this when he had to think or calm down, and both were
on his agenda now. He’d decided to stay with me for the night, which surprised me. His apartment was usually a refuge during times of stress. He’d click the triple locks in place, close the shades, and recompose himself in stillness and silence. But tonight he wanted to stay at my place, where the hot water ran out in five minutes and the mattress was uneven.
“I don’t want to be in the city,” he’d said, and I hadn’t argued.
We left the cloistered tidiness of Gabriella’s neighborhood, down through Buckhead proper, where the glass and steel gleamed even more brightly at night. I waited until we were on the interstate to speak.
“So are you gonna tell me?”
“Yes.” He kept his face toward the window. “When I can.”
“When will that be?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you do know who has the files, right?”
“Yes. That only complicates matters, however.”
“Why?”
“I can’t explain.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
He thought about that. “Both. I’m very tired. And I need more information. I need things to be more…something. Multi-syllabic, starts with…starts with…” He let his head fall back against the seat. “I can’t even think of what it starts with.”
He seemed unusually vexed by his vocabulary hiccups. It was late, and his gears ground when he got tired, but he typically dealt with it matter-of-factly. Unlike tonight.
“D,” he finally said, his eyes closed. “It starts with D.”
“Detailed?”
He shook his head.
“Definite?”
“No.” He opened his eyes. “Wait. Yes. Definitive. I need more definitive information before I can make a decision.” Now he did look at me. “It’s for your own—”
“Don’t even say it.”
“But—”
“Do you remember what you made me promise? That I would always tell you the truth, even if it made you angry?”
“Of course I remember. But—”
“But nothing. I’m holding you to the same deal. You’re not behaving like yourself. You’re unwilling to get the police involved, which is exactly the opposite of your normal response. You were rude to Gabriella. Garrity too. And now you’re refusing to explain things to me, which I hate.”