by Tina Whittle
“Hey,” I said. “How’s Nick?”
“He’s at home today, resting. The doc says he’s fine.”
“Any results on the tea?”
“That’s gonna take a while.” She looked at me over her sunglasses. “You said you had Diego’s phone?”
“Yep.”
“What did you find on it?”
She didn’t say it as an accusation, just a point of information. I handed it to her.
“Several things. Diego admitted he’d been following Addison around, and there are tons of pictures to prove it. The usual obsessed former lover portfolio.”
“Diego says he and Addison were lovers? That’s not what she told Nick.”
“No, it’s not. But the photos on that phone back up his story—they were an item before Addison came to Georgia. But that’s not the most interesting thing. The night someone took a shot at Nick? Addison said she was at home working. But Diego has pictures of her leaving the house an hour before. Time-stamped.”
“Addison was lying about being home all night?”
“Yep.”
“Deception in the information age. Not easy.” Finn swiped through the images, shaking her head. “What else did you find?”
“Diego used this celebrity-sighting app to track down Nick, who became his target after Addison got a restraining order. Here. Let me show you.”
I pulled up the app on my own phone, went into the Nick Talbot group. It had almost two hundred members. The sightings and shared photos had started right after he arrived in Atlanta, but changed dramatically after his stints in rehab. No more club shots, drunk shots, limo shots. Now it was Nick at Whole Foods, Nick chowing down on Mongolian barbecue, Nick jogging on the Greenway. Ordinary moments only. Yet he was still catnip to a certain kind of female, still gave off a whiff of danger.
“Diego is one of the few guys in there—the rest are female groupies.”
“You think one of them is dropping inside information, like where the base camps are?”
“That would be my guess.”
Finn pocketed the phone as a group of women in booty shorts and fitted tanks filed inside the gym, no doubt headed for Trey’s class. Finn followed them. Inside, the speakers poured out a grinding nightclub noise punctuated by grunts and clanging weights. Behind the check-in desk, a corkboard featured photographs of the trainers and instructors, including Trey, an older photo from before I’d met him.
The owner looked up and grinned at me. He was short, bald, and heavily tanned, a semi-pro body builder. “Looking for Trey?”
“I am.”
“Check the ab station.”
I signed the check-in sheet, put Finn down as a guest. “Thanks, Mac.”
“No problem.”
He flashed a smile and went back to sorting protein bars. Finn followed me down the narrow corridors between the lat pulldown and the row machine. I spotted Trey in the corner, upside down on the core extension, knees locked on the pads, hands behind his head. When he spotted us, he curled himself up and off the equipment. Three women in the corner pretended not to watch, so I pretended not to see them when I kissed him hello.
He wrapped a towel around his neck. “We can talk in the classroom.”
I followed him inside, Finn right behind. It was familiar territory to me now, this bare room with the padded floor and heavy bags and the smell of leather and sweat. Trey rubbed at his face with the towel and held out a hand. Finn handed a file to him, and one to me.
I opened the folder. “What are these?”
“Paperwork for your covers.”
“Our what?”
“Covers. Nick wants the situation to remain under wraps. Only he and Quint and the Talbot Creative Board know why you two will be at the press party. And Addison. After I explained to Nick the danger she was in if he didn’t tell her, he relented and spilled the beans. But those are the only people privy to why you’re actually there. Et voilà…covers.”
I opened my folder. It was a dossier as well-collected as any background profile. Photographs, résumés, news clippings, social media sites. She’d pulled my college transcripts. Multiple classes at multiple institutions, including two semesters in the archeology program, but no actual degree. All the shop’s information was included as well.
I waved the file at her. “But this is still just me.”
“Not quite. I had them do a pretty significant scrub.”
“Them?”
“The ORM specialists. Online reputation management. Before they took a broom to your online presence, do you know what the number one autocomplete suggestion was for Tai Randolph?” She smiled. “Murder.”
I swallowed hard. “The mess this spring.”
“Oh, that’s the most recent hit, yes. But lots others. No longer.” She smiled bigger. “Do you know what the number two suggestion was?”
“Let me guess. Reckless?”
Finn shook her head. Trey looked up from his folder.
“Me,” he said.
Finn nodded. “Yep. The ORM specialist couldn’t quite delete you, but he did pile a lot of stuff on top of you.”
I was a little stunned. “That’s it? You just erased Trey from my life?”
Finn scoffed. “Of course not. I wish it were that easy. No, anybody seriously looking will find the connection in an instant. We’re just trying to discourage the casual “who the hell is she?” crowd. I had a good foundation—you did business with Talbot Creative when they first came to town, and I simply piggybacked on that. You’ll be just another local with Hollywood in her eyes. They’ll fall over themselves ignoring you.”
“But they saw us at the set. Both of us. And then Trey put a takedown on Diego.”
“Only the security team knows that. Otherwise Trey was a shadow that day. We just need to…” Finn wiggled her fingers at him. “You know. Blur him a little bit. That’s why we’re getting Mr. Seaver a new persona for the event.”
Trey looked up from his folder. “You can’t be serious.”
She eyed him shrewdly. “I needed a background you had the skill set to inhabit. That meant killing people or being a valet. I chose the one where you parked cars. Until you got fired anyway. But I’m assuming that wasn’t for lack of parking ability.”
He glared at her. Her eyes sparkled. She was baiting him. He was rising to it.
He extended the folder back to her. “Absolutely not.”
Finn ignored him. “Why not? Being at the valet station will work very well for this particular operation. You get to observe behind the scenes. Peek in the guests’ cars as they arrive. Dig around in their consoles for illicit receipts.”
He shook his head. Extended the folder more forcefully.
Finn sighed dramatically. “Okay fine, technically you’re the security manager. Other people will be doing the actual grunt work of running and driving. But you’ll have a nametag and a cheap suit. Everybody will look right through you, even with those cheekbones.”
Another shake of the head. “I will not—”
“And with an assumed name and cover, there will be no evidence anyone at Phoenix Incorporated could use to prove you were ever there. Not even Marisa will be able to find you.”
Trey didn’t stop glaring, but I saw the wheels turning in his head. He tucked the folder under his arm and ceased arguing.
Finn looked satisfied. “It’s only one night. And this way you’re right in the thick of things if we need you. We being Tai. I won’t be on premises.”
I looked up from my paperwork. “What? Why not?”
“Because they know what I am. Everybody clams up when I’m around. Don’t worry, I have covert protection in place, close protection for Nick. Plus the usual perimeter protocols and the resort’s own security team.”
Trey made a skeptical noise at that. Finn tapped his fold
er.
“I’m not talking about those studio rent-a-clowns Quint hired at the base camp. Look at your paperwork. I included the résumés of the team I have in place. You’ll find them satisfactory, I am sure.”
He took her up on it, opening the folder again and paging through it. “Where will Tai and I be staying?”
“You, Mr. Seaver, are in the staff cottage, which is connected to the check-in station, so you’re at choke point for all entries and exits with video surveillance of the entire resort right in front of you. Tai is in one of the guest cottages because she’s one of the guests.” Trey opened his mouth to protest, but Finn didn’t let him get one word out. “She’s in the cottage right next to the station, don’t even start.”
I shook my head. “Why would somebody like me, a glorified prop person, get to stay in one of the fancy cottages?”
“Good question. I’m sure somebody will think of it.”
“And then they’ll come talk to me.”
Finn tapped her temple. “See? Brains at work. Trust me, with you in the foreground and Trey in the background, we’ll have the intelligence gathering covered.”
Trey was still wary. “I refuse to be named Steve.”
“Too late. Your name is already on the manifest. And your nametag.”
He glared harder at her. She beamed at him and gave the heavy bag a shove, watched it swing.
“Go ahead, Mr. Seaver. Get acquainted with yourself. I’ll check in later. In the meantime, you’ll need to down market your wardrobe. Lose the Italian fanciness and get something off the rack.”
He ignored that. “When do I need to be there?”
“Friday at four. Tai will come later, around seven, with the other guests.”
And which point we had to pretend we didn’t know each other. Trey did not like that. He didn’t like a lot of the plan, but the professional part of him knew that Finn had done a bang-up job. He wasn’t ready to admit it, however.
He handed me his folder. “Keep this, please. I need to get the attendance rolls from the front desk.”
And then he left. I waited until he was out of earshot before I turned to Finn. “What in the devil was that about him getting fired?”
“I know, right?” Her eyes twinkled. “When he was twenty, he worked at the Ritz Carlton as a valet. Part-time evenings. I managed to dig up his employee record. Two great evaluations in a row. And then suddenly…boom. He’s fired.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. He was rehired a week later. I poked some more, but that part of his record is sealed, and I mean tight. Lawyer work. I recognize legal legerdemain when I see it. He’s never mentioned this to you?”
I shook my head. When Trey was twenty, he was a college junior with his sights set on the Atlanta Police Department and a good start on his criminal justice degree.
Finn frowned. “Huh. That’s even stranger.” She shrugged. “Oh well. An investigation for another time. I’ve got to run, but I’ll meet you Friday, get you the final details.”
She gave the weight bag one last punch and left. I remained behind, ravenously, ridiculously, deeply curious. Trey may have thought he could just walk out of that conversation, but there was something he and I had in common—once we caught the scent of interesting prey, we found it really hard to let it go.
He’d be letting go of this particular secret, though. I had ways of making him talk.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The class was scheduled to work on back choke, but I knew back choke so well I could do it in my sleep. Turn the head to relieve pressure on the windpipe. Drop the center of gravity to put your opponent off balance. Follow-up options abounded—thumb to the eye socket, elbow to the solar plexus, punch to the groin. So many ways to wreak havoc on the tender vulnerable parts of a no-goodnik.
Trey waited on the mat, barefoot. He didn’t bow or make any other acknowledgment when I joined him. This was no martial art we were practicing—no forms, no katas, no ritual politeness. Just down and dirty self defense.
I pulled out my handwraps. “You’re annoyed.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, and I realized we were at the crucial juncture where the rubber hits the road. Or not. The rubber could also spin in place and smoke and scorch and go absolutely nowhere.
I stood face to face with him. “We’re going to be separated. You didn’t see that coming, but since this whole investigation is your idea, you know you can’t back out of it. But you want to. Bad.”
He didn’t saying anything. I started wrapping my hand—three times around the wrist, five times around the palm, criss-cross between the fingers. Perfectly designed to distribute the force and protect the delicate metacarpals and phalanges.
“So yes,” I said, “you get to be annoyed, but you don’t get to—”
He snatched the wrap out of my hand without even breaking eye contact, then rolled it into a neat ball. “You’re right. I’m annoyed. I did not foresee that Finn would want us working separately, and I don’t like that. I should have expected she would, though—it’s good strategy—and that’s also annoying me. But mostly I’m annoyed that even though I thought I had progressed beyond this point, I have not. I still want to protect you. I can’t help it. It overrides logical processing.”
He moved even closer, toe to toe. I didn’t back up. He stuffed the handwrap into my waistband, leaving a piece dangling over my right hip.
“Today the class is working on back choke,” he said. “You, however, are working on close quarter weapons retention.”
And then he reached for the wrap. I moved away before he could get his fingers on it, but I knew he hadn’t really been trying. He was giving me a chance to get in gear. It wasn’t a courtesy a criminal would extend, but Trey did, at least in the first phase. The zone of proximal learning, he called it.
“Fine.” I adjusted my stance, opened my hands. “Let’s do this.”
No helmets. No shin guards. This wasn’t going to be rough. It was going to be fast, though.
Trey dropped his shoulders and took one step backward. I lowered my hands to waist level, angled my hip away from him. He was going for the weapon, in this case a balled-up piece of elastic on my hip, right where I’d side carry. He had speed and expertise on his side. Also agility. I had grit and sheer meanness, plus a few other tricks up my sleeve.
“So you got fired from the Ritz Carlton,” I said.
He flexed his fingers. “I did.”
He moved quickly, a sidestep and snatch. I back-pedaled, almost tripping, but the wrap stayed on my hip.
I tsk-tsked as I circled him. “You said you didn’t have any secrets.”
“This isn’t a secret.”
“Then tell me about it.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he lunged. I moved to block, but he fooled me with a feint, and I was off balance when he caught me from behind. He had me pinned before I could blink, both arms wrapped tight as a vise. I cursed under my breath. I hated it when I fell for an obvious trap.
I struggled to keep my feet planted. “Don’t act like you’ve won. You have to move your hand to get to my hip.”
“I know.”
“And I’m breaking this hold when you do. Plus I’m being real sweet because you’re not protected. Because if we were really training right now, I’d donkey kick you in the groin.”
“And if that didn’t work?
“That always works.”
He tightened his grip. “If it didn’t?”
“Fine. Just to make sure, I’d take out your knee.” I tapped his kneecap lightly with the heel of my foot, then brought it down slowly. “I’d squash your instep next. Slam the back of my head into your nose for good measure.”
I moved my head backward until I felt it touch the bridge of his nose. He didn’t move to avoid me, but he didn’t let go.
“All good options,” he said. “But what if you’re fighting an armored opponent?”
I swiveled my head and looked up at him. “Tell me why you got fired. I won’t laugh.”
He loosened his grip just the slightest. Not enough for me to break the hold, but enough to give me some leverage. That was how I knew it was another trap. He was wearing his bland innocent face. He fooled a lot of people with that.
“Do you really want to know?” he said.
“I really want to know.”
He adjusted his stance, redistributing his weight. Something was coming, and I tensed for it before I remembered that I was supposed to stay flexible. There would be no tussling, so I needed to come up with a break, not an attack. I wanted to attack, though. Offensive maneuvers were my specialty.
Trey’s mouth was warm against my ear. “Because if you really want to know, I’ll tell you. If you ask the right way.”
My heart did a backflip. I heard female conversation at the door, the first of the students. I could feel his chest rising and falling against my back.
I relaxed against him. “If I coax it out of you syllable by syllable, you mean.”
“Yes. That is exactly what I mean.”
I dropped my center of gravity. He almost moved to catch me, but caught himself. I hooked my foot around his ankle to throw him off balance, then hit the mat butt-first and pivoted, kicking both feet toward him. To get to me, he’d have to come through a flurry of heel strikes to the face.
“Ha!” I said. “What are you gonna do now?”
He put his hands on his hips, not even breathing hard. “Yield, I suppose.”
The words were utterly satisfying. But I hadn’t won yet, not entirely.
“Why couldn’t Finn find a record of it?”
He shook his head. “If you want me to tell you—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I remember how to get things out of you, don’t worry.” I hauled myself up, dusted off my backside. “But I can find out without resorting to a honey trap.”
“You can?”
“I can. You think otherwise?”