by Tina Whittle
I shrugged off the compliment. “You know me. Queen of the Girl Detectives.”
He narrowed his eyes at me in a puzzled way, but then he got right back to pacing off the living area. I searched for a chair, and seeing none, took to the floor. I couldn’t bring myself to sit on the stairs. Watching Trey work was usually a visceral pleasure, but here, in this stark disturbing place, I couldn’t ignore an alarm bell of concern. What was he doing? Where was this leading? He was a goal-driven individual, a carrot-and-stick man. Did he think he could figure out what had happened to Jessica Talbot if he could figure out what had happened—or not happened—to Nick?
He stopped at the windows and contemplated the back yard. “Quint said he looked for bullets and didn’t find any.”
“That’s what he said.” I joined Trey. “But then, he’s not trained in looking, is he?”
Trey reached for the door handle. “No, he is not.”
Chapter Twenty
The back lot showed both the ravages of the Buckhead Buckwildness and the efforts of a professional cleaning crew. The annuals in the flower beds had died and not been replaced, and the lawn was patchy brown in places. But in the center gleamed the turquoise pool set in concrete bleached as bright as a celebrity smile.
In the distance, I could see a stone wall running along the edge of the grounds, topped by wrought iron. Very pretty, but not difficult to climb over. This was Trey’s peeviest peeve—security features that weren’t actually secure. The property was lovely and yet empty, as soulless as the stark white house. First a homicide, then three seasons of commercial debauchery, and now a shooting. Well, an alleged shooting.
“Any initial impressions?” I said.
Trey didn’t look up from his notebook. “Not yet.”
As I watched, he walked the perimeter, downloading the blueprint into his brain. The grounds occupied about two acres, half of which were paved and turfed, the rest thick with slender trees.
“Be careful not to disturb anything,” he said.
Of course things had already been disturbed—the film crew had tromped around collecting the last of their equipment and apparently every scrap of outdoor furniture—but Trey was working with what he had. He still had a sniper’s eye for distance and didn’t do any actual measuring. Beyond the border wall I could hear distant traffic, muffled and muted.
“Tai? Would you stand at the edge of the pool? Right beside the diving board?”
Where Nick had been standing when he’d heard the shot. I did as Trey asked. “Are you onto something?”
“Perhaps. Face south, please.”
I turned. The sky glowed peachy warm over the trees in front of me, deepening to golden orange to my right. The barn-like guest house lay behind me, the patio to my left. I could see the interior of the living room where Quint had been that night, organizing the paperwork. I could imagine him in that room of glass, like a shark in a fishbowl. Trey turned in a slow circle, one full revolution, then walked behind the guest house where he disappeared from view.
My phone rang, startling me. And then I remembered. I closed my eyes. Oh no.
I answered it and started spilling apologies. “Oh God, Rico, I’m sorry. I completely…we were supposed to have drinks.”
“I am having drinks. Where are you?”
He didn’t sound annoyed, just disappointed. I was too. Back in high school, we’d been inseparable. Now he ran with a crowd of writers and actors and poets, mostly black like him, edgy and creative and fierce. Not a single one of them wanted anything to do with suburban Civil War reenactors Outside The Perimeter.
“You’re not going to believe this,” I said, “but I am in the Buckwild in Buckhead house pretending to be the target of an assassination attempt.”
Silence. “Do I even want to know?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Your usual kind of complicated?”
“Yes and no.”
Trey reappeared underneath a tree at the corner of the property, a fully leafed oak much older than the saplings around it, probably preserved during the original development. He knelt and examined the base, prodding the dead leaves and grasses underneath with his pencil.
Rico sighed. “A’right. Raincheck then.” He delivered a calculated pause. “But Dante was looking forward to meeting you.”
“Dante?”
“Yeah.” Another pause. “My guy.”
“You have a guy? You never tell me anything anymore.”
“I was trying to! But you decided you’d rather be doing whatever you’re doing.”
Trey rose and took two steps in my direction and held an index finger in front of his face. Sighting the target. I could feel the imaginary crosshairs on me, and a delicate shudder ran up my backbone.
“I am so sorry. Tell Dante I owe him a drink.”
“Yeah. And you tell Trey I’m sorry he’s stuck keeping you out of trouble again.”
I started to explain that wasn’t exactly what was going on, but Rico had already hung up. I listened to the dead air for a second, then sat on the diving board, chin in hand.
“You finding anything out there?” I called.
Trey pointed to the tree. “This is the only concealment available that has a clear sightline to the patio. Any reasonably trained shooter would set up here.”
“So you’re standing on the shooter’s location?”
“Alleged shooter. And I don’t know. I didn’t find shell casings or any other evidence that a shooting took place. But…”
“But?”
“If I were called here to target someone in that house, this is where I would set up.”
I saw his reasoning. The other landscaping features and the guest house created a wall around the cloistered pool area. The shot wouldn’t have been difficult distance-wise—even a handgun would have been adequate—but it would have required patience.
Trey started walking toward me. “At first I was puzzled why Talbot would have been targeted while he was still in shadow. But if the setup site was here, the shooter would have had to take the shot before Talbot reached the edge of the pool. The guest house would block the sight line before, the cabana after.”
I could see what he was talking about. Nick had come out the French doors, cigarette still unlit. He would have been silhouetted against the bright living room, not yet illuminated in the watery blue glow of the pool lights. It would have been a tricky shot, but entirely possible the second he stopped walking.
“So they took one shot and missed,” I said. “Why didn’t they shoot again?”
Trey examined the pool. “I don’t know.”
I knew some things about single bullets. It was the sniper’s creed: one shot, one kill. Only this shot hadn’t killed, it had missed. And the shooter had not fired another one.
“The shooter was interrupted,” I said. “Or spotted. Or in danger of being interrupted and or spotted.”
“Possibly.”
“Which would mean there’s a witness somewhere, if that’s the case.”
Trey nodded in acknowledgment. He was listening, but his mind remained focused on his surroundings. “If the shooter was standing under the tree, and if Nick was standing beside the diving board, then the bullet had to go…there.”
He pointed toward the bank of windows gleaming in the sunlight. Unbroken. Not a shard out of place.
“Your theory has a problem,” I said.
He wasn’t listening again. He pushed past me, making a beeline for the windows, his eyes on the ground. He stopped short at the edge of the patio, where the concrete met the grass.
He crouched and pointed. “Something was here.”
I followed his finger to a circular patch of dead grass about two feet in diameter. The ground was dry, the blades crushed to a half-dead yellow.
“Something with a
round base,” I said. “Heavy and recently moved. You think whatever was here caught the bullet?”
“Alleged bullet. And it might have. If my calculations are correct.”
I nudged the squashed grass with my toe. “You think the film crew took it?”
“Perhaps.”
“But wouldn’t they have noticed a bullet hole?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. It depends on a number of factors.” He stood. “But if I am correct about the location of the alleged shooter, and if the other events of that night took place according to the statements we have, then according to my calculations, the alleged bullet is most likely not on the premises anymore because whatever caught it—whatever stood there—has been moved.”
That was a lot of ifs and allegeds. Except for one part. Which I did not miss.
“You’re saying it’s entirely possible that somebody really did take a shot at Nick Talbot.”
Trey exhaled. “Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Back at the base camp, we made our way through the rabbit warren of trailers to where we’d left Nick. Now that the photo shoot had ceased, the set felt deserted, as did the mountain. There was a loneliness about it, pervasive and hollowed out.
Trey was about to knock on the trailer door when it flung open, and a woman gasped and tripped and would have pitched straight down the steps if he hadn’t caught her. She righted herself and jerked away from him, breathing hard. Skinny, pale, black hair cut stick straight with razored bangs across her forehead. Like every other crew member on the set, she wore jeans and a tee, but hers seemed crisp as a uniform.
Her eyes widened behind her black-framed glasses. “You’re not Nick.”
Trey reached for his guest pass. “No, ma’am. I’m—”
“Who are you?” Her eyes flew to the keyring in his hand. “Why do you have Nick’s keys? What’s going on here?”
She had her walkie-talkie out before I could blink, index finger poised to call security. Trey looked my way, utterly helpless, and I remembered that no one knew about the attempted shooting except Nick and Quint, which meant we needed some extemporaneous falsehoods and needed them pronto. And that was my department.
I took the keys from Trey’s hand and extended them like a peace offering. “We’re with the staging team. Just returning these to Mr. Talbot.”
She snatched them from me. “Nick didn’t go to the house, did he?”
“No, we left him here.”
The woman finally relaxed. I glanced at the ID card strung around her neck. Addison Canright, Nick’s fiancée and partner in adultery. I’d pictured someone more femme fatale, less liberal arts grad student, but there was no accounting for taste. Who would have thought Trey would go for aggressive redneck?
Addison stared at Trey, her eyebrows knit in puzzlement. “Don’t I know you?”
Trey wouldn’t look her in the eye. Of course she knew him, from Nick’s grand jury trial, only Trey had been wearing the Atlanta PD uniform at the time. He shook his head, but Addison wasn’t letting go.
“Are you sure?” she said. “You look familiar.”
He kept shaking his head. She kept staring. I broke out my hugest smile and tried to look wholesome and trustworthy. “You probably saw us poking around earlier. We’re both big fans of the show.”
She hiked an eyebrow. “Oh really?”
“Absolutely. You’ve got a real transgressive subtext going, intersectional feminism complicated by the power dynamics of self-othering.”
Her head snapped back. “Yes! It’s the through-line of the series. The matriarchal world of the canine versus the patriarchal realm of the human. Wild versus civilized, instinct versus rationality.” She returned the smile, shaking her head in pleased astonishment. “God, I thought people only watched it for the were-sex.”
I didn’t tell her that I only watched it for the were-sex, which was hot and plentiful. Rico was the one who insisted that something more intellectual was going on. I guessed he was right. Gold star for the class valedictorian.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “It’s the smartest thing on TV.”
“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that. This place can be so hostile.” She put her hand on her chest. “Don’t get me wrong, the South has charm. But just when I think I might want to go native, somebody has a big damn Confederate parade or some watermelon festival, and I die a little inside.” She widened her eyes. “Not people like you, of course. I mean the other ones. You know the ones.”
Yeah, I knew the ones. I made myself keep smiling, though. I could make myself smile at just about anything, a trick of the tour guide trade where tips made the difference between a night on the town and a six-pack of Bud Light in front of the TV.
Trey cleared his throat. “Ms. Canright?”
“Yes?”
“Have you been to the Buckhead house recently?”
She stiffened. “Nick and I don’t set foot on that property, and we never will. Because I don’t care what Quint tells you, Nick is not to be involved in any stage of the process. If you have any questions, talk to me. Leave Nick out of it.”
Trey opened his mouth and closed it. She obviously had no clue Nick had even been out there Friday night, much less about the shooting. Trey was just as obviously itching to interrogate her further, but he knew he couldn’t. And it was taking everything he had to keep those questions in his mouth.
I shook my head sadly. “Such a lovely home. A shame what happened to it. And now all that stuff missing.”
She frowned. “Stuff?”
“Apparently the previous production company absconded with the security system. Among other things.”
She gave a delicate snort. “Don’t worry, Quint will sue. He’ll end up making money off this, watch and see.”
Her contempt for her future brother-in-law practically oozed from her pores. She examined us curiously, still blocking our way into the trailer. I was worried that any second her brain cells would collide and she’d figure out who Trey was. Or he’d blurt it out accidentally.
I heard footsteps behind us and turned to see Nick. Addison spotted him too. He favored her with a slow grin, nodded politely at us.
She put her hands on her hips. “It’s past time for your meds.”
“I was getting dinner before the craft table closed,” he said mildly. “You should get over there yourself, the vegan Caesar’s running low.”
She glared at him. “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Your brother’s really done it now. First he’s all about speeding up production, now he’s demanding the entire season of scripts up front. Just because a few investors are throwing their weight around.”
“The ones who were at the photo shoot?”
“Yes. Those.”
He sighed. “I suspected as much. Let’s take this inside, okay?”
Addison stood aside reluctantly, and the three of us joined her in the trailer. She watched as Nick went to his makeup table, opened a drawer, and pulled out a pill box the size of a large steak. He popped open the compartment and washed down a handful of meds with the remains of his tea just as his phone started beeping. He tossed the pill box back in the drawer and closed it with his hip.
Her expression darkened. “That script schedule is insane. You have to do something.”
“Like what? Quint’s the EP. He can ask for whatever he wants.”
“Talk to him.”
Nick laughed. “Why? I’m not a producer anymore. I take orders like everybody else.”
“But you’re his brother. Surely—”
“We’ll deal with this later, okay babe?”
He put his arm around her waist and steered her from the room. I heard their footsteps on the metal stairs, hushed conversation.
I dropped my voice. “Was she telling the truth?”
Trey thought about that. “She didn’t read as lying.”
“You do realize that if Nick is innocent, she’s the one who had the most to gain from Jessica’s death?”
“I do.”
I wasn’t sure he did. Except for Nick, Trey was having a hard time processing the Hollywood people. I wondered if their time in the land of make-believe had fuzzied up their sense of fact and fiction. Or maybe they existed in a world where things were true simply because they wanted them to be. Either way, Trey wasn’t getting good traction.
Nick returned with a smear of lipstick on his lower lip and a big grin. “Thanks for keeping everything on the down low. Addison worries enough as it is.”
She also keeps you under her thumb, I thought, but did not say this. She was petitioning to be his conservator. Being able to demonstrate that she had his physical care under wraps would go in her favor, even if from the outside, it looked a little overzealous.
“Has something happened?” I said.
He picked up his tea again. “Quint’s asking for the whole of Season Two, thirteen scripts, before they start filming the first episode.”
“That sounds like a lot of work.”
“It is. It’s also highly unusual. Usually we film maybe one or two scripts ahead of the writers, but apparently some investors want to see the whole thing upfront.”
“Because of Portia’s cliffhanger?”
Nick took a sip of tea, thought for a few seconds. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s weird, that’s all, and Addison is right to be unhappy. But I’m not sure what I can do about it. Like I keep saying, not a producer anymore.” He plunked his mug on the counter and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So. What did you find at the house?”
Trey stepped forward. “The evidence supports your version of events.”
Nick’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“You seemed surprised,” I said.