Necessary Ends

by Tina Whittle

  I finished the last of my sandwich, rewound the final scene for another watch. No wonder Quint Talbot was desperate to keep the production schedule moving. Moonshine was as addictive as heroin with twice the merchandising potential. It was the hit he’d been waiting for his whole life.

  My phone rang, and I hit pause, freeze-framing Portia’s brazen, blood-smeared face.

  It was Eric. “I got your message. What’s wrong?”

  “Why is that always your first question?”

  “Experience.” The sounds of cutlery and lunchtime conversation backgrounded his voice. “Seriously, what’s up?”

  “Has Trey ever mentioned anything about getting fired from the Ritz to you?”

  Eric hesitated. Trey had long ago given my brother permission to share what would have otherwise been confidential information with me. He’d served as Trey’s occupational psychologist after the accident, guiding him through the transition from cop to corporate security agent, and more importantly, through the maze of his own reconfigured brain. Eric was still tentative with his answers, though.

  “He wasn’t fired. He left of his own volition to enter the police academy.”

  “There’s a firing in there somewhere. He’s admitted as much. But I can’t find a record of it.”

  “I’m not surprised. Employment records are not public.”

  “How could a PI find it then?”

  “Those things sometimes float around in cyberspace, officially dead but showing up in certain searches, even if the record itself has been deleted.” A pause. “It doesn’t make any sense, though. Trey was admitted to the Ritz’s Leadership Center for training. They wouldn’t have let him in there with even a hint of termination on his record.”

  Eric was right. The Ritz ran a tight, picky ship. I reached under the cabinet and hauled up the stack of employment files I’ll pilfered the day before. I paged through the folders until I found one marked with the Ritz’s iconic lion head logo.

  “You mean the Executive Culture and Experience program?”

  “Yes, that. That was one of the reasons Marisa was so eager to hire him for Phoenix. She sends all her executive protection people to it.”

  “Marisa trains her bodyguards in etiquette?”

  “Executive culture. And Phoenix isn’t the only company that does so. It’s an especially good transitional tool for former cops.”

  I flipped through the pages. Certificate of completion, signed and dated. A slick newsletter from the Buckhead Ritz headlined with an article about Trey and another employee graduating from the program. The photo on the front showed Trey and the other young man—stocky, suntanned, with blond curls and an exuberant grin—shaking hands with the hotel manager, everybody smiling.

  My heart contracted. Trey was so young, baby-faced. His smile was hesitant. He didn’t like the spotlight, even then. I started to close the folder, but the other guy’s name caught my attention. John McDonald. I knew that name, but I couldn’t place how. He didn’t look familiar, but then, the photo was fifteen years old.

  “Why aren’t you asking Trey these questions?” Eric said.

  I typed the name John McDonald into the search box. As expected, it returned almost a hundred hits in the metro area. Even narrowing the search down by age still gave me several dozen names.

  I cursed under my breath. “We have a bet that I can’t find out on my own.”

  “And?”

  “I’m losing.”

  Eric laughed. “I suspected it was something like that. How is he doing?”

  I hesitated. Should I tell him we were off chasing wild geese and perhaps a killer? My brother could be as lecture-y as Trey at times. Still, he was an expert on all things cognitive, especially the particular workings of Trey’s mind.

  I tapped my pen on the counter. “Do you remember the Jessica Talbot murder?”

  “Of course. It was front-page news.”

  “Did you and Trey talk about his OPS investigation?”

  “Some, yes. No charges filed. Trey was cleared. It all went on that other officer, what was his name?”

  “Joe Macklin.”

  “Yes. Him. God, that was a big deal around here. My neighborhood got hit, did you know that? This couple returned from vacation and all the silver was gone. Old pieces too, Paul Revere stuff. Twenty thousand dollars’ worth. The husband was angry about not being there at first, but after the murder, he thanked his lucky stars he wasn’t home.”

  “You think Jessica’s death was a robbery gone bad?”

  “Makes sense. The break-ins stopped after that.”

  I remembered Garrity and Trey both saying that there was still a LINX alert for that crime, but that none of the hits had panned out. The Buckhead Burglar had either moved on to less patrolled pastures, given up stealing, or died.

  “How did Trey seem when he talked about that case?” I said. “I mean, in your professional opinion?”

  “The same way he seemed about everything at the time, utterly complacent.”

  “You didn’t sense any obsessive angst?”

  “No. Why? What’s happened?”

  Eric’s voice was smooth, inviting. So I took a deep breath and told him the story—all I knew of it, anyway. Eric listened. He could listen like the desert soaking up rain.

  “And how is all of this affecting you? Especially considering the other matter.”

  Eric knew about the DNA test, even if he didn’t know the results were in my cash register. My brother looked like the man who’d raised me, who’d taught me to love the salt marshes, taught me how silence could be nurturing and how silence could cut like a rusty knife. Eric had hazel eyes, like most of the Randolphs. I had eyes that were mossy gray, eyes I’d always called hazel because there was no other word for that silver-boned green.

  Not Bennett Randolph’s eyes. Beauregard Forrest Boone’s.

  My hands started shaking. “That’s a harder question.”

  Eric didn’t reply. It was a psychologist’s trick, I knew, as canny as any interrogator. Leave the space and people will talk to fill it. But I had no idea what could fill the space between us. How to even begin? He was a decade older than me, wiser in many ways. I’d grown up in his shadow, nursed our mother through her death in that same shadow, supported by his money but not his presence. And now, with that envelope in the drawer…

  I started to say something, but at that moment, a sleek black sedan pulled to my door, taking up two of the empty spaces. I could see the driver, but the backseat occupant remained a mystery, hidden behind tinted glass. The driver looked in my direction, assessing.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  “Okay. But listen, you know I’m here—”

  “I know, I know. Gotta run. Thanks for your help.”

  I slid my phone into my back pocket as the driver came into the shop. He pushed open the door, bells jangling in his wake. Black slacks, white shirt, tiny earpiece with the lines snaking down inside his collar. He didn’t take off his sunglasses, and he entered the shop the way Trey did—assessing, wary, noting blind spots and exits.

  “Can I help you?” I said.

  He didn’t answer. He returned to the car and opened the back door. And Portia Ray unfolded herself from the backseat.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  She was far less Luna than she’d been at the photo shoot. Instead of bootlegger clothes, she wore yoga pants and a fitted running jacket, and instead of a machine gun, she carried a bright blue designer bag. With a baseball cap covering her ice-blond hair and sunglasses shielding her eyes, she looked exactly like an incognito celebrity. The driver opened the shop door for her, then posted himself outside, hands folded low across his groin, feet slightly splayed.

  Once Portia was safely in the shop, she took off the cap and shook out her hair. She glowed even under fluorescent lights, he
r skin so perfect she seemed airbrushed.

  She pulled off her sunglasses and smiled. “Tai Randolph.”

  I cursed inwardly, but returned the smile. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

  “You came to see Nicky yesterday at the studio. And you were at the base camp on Monday. I saw your name on the security logs. Your name was also on the supplier contacts, so when I saw it again on the list for the press party, I decided you were a woman I needed to meet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I knew you could help me with this.”

  She rummaged in her bag and pulled out an antique revolver. I recognized it immediately—there was no mistaking that delicately spurred trigger guard and double barrels, the top a .42 caliber, the underbarrel a smoothbore sixteen-gauge. Notoriously inaccurate but deadly at close range, the LeMat was dear to the Confederate heart, the favorite of legends like General P. G. T. Beauregard and Jeb Stuart. This one had most of its original blued finish and an intact serial number, inching its price tag into five-digit territory.

  “That’s the LeMat I sold your technical director,” I said.

  “It is. He sold it to me yesterday. He said now that we have the replicas made, we don’t need it anymore.”

  She slipped her finger in the trigger, closed one eye, and pointed the thing at my front door. I put a hand on the barrel and lowered the muzzle.

  She clucked her tongue. “Don’t worry, it’s unloaded.”

  I kept my hand on it. “Every gun is loaded until you check.”

  She didn’t look the least bit chastened, but nonetheless laid the gun on the counter. I rotated the cylinder and checked each chamber, gave the shotgun barrel a good examination too. Outside, her bodyguard/chauffeur scanned the sidewalk. Maybe he was expecting fans to rush out of nowhere like some Hollywood-dazzled flash flood, but unless the folks at the taqueria spotted Portia, he’d have no trouble today.

  She watched me. “Do you have bullets for it?”

  “It doesn’t take bullets. You need lead balls and caps and wadding, black powder too.” I sent the gun back her way. “And yes, I sell those. But a LeMat is a pain to load, and it will run a chain fire on you in a heartbeat.”

  “The TD said the same thing. But I haven’t had any problems with it.”

  I was surprised. “You fired this on set?”

  “Not this one, one of the replicas. They won’t allow real weapons on set.” She ran her index finger along the barrel. “It made a lot of noise, but that was it. Noise and smoke and nothing else. But this gun…this gun has history. I can sense it when I hold it in my hand.”

  I’d heard similar talk from my clients. Antiques supposedly soaked up the past like some kind of metaphysical battery. Reenactors spoke of tapping that energy on the field, feeling it connect them to the long-dead soldiers who’d carried the relics into battle.

  “I understand the appeal,” I said, “but if this were my gun, I wouldn’t be shooting it.”

  “Why not? Is it dangerous?”

  “Probably not. This one’s in solid shape. But shooting it could destroy its resale value.”

  “I won’t be reselling it.”

  She took it in hand again, but didn’t point it. Her expression was curious and cunning, very Mad Luna, but also analytical and shrewd. Very Portia Ray, I decided. Unlike my reenactment clients, she felt no stirring inside her, no connection to a larger purpose. It was a tool to her, as practical as a screwdriver.

  “Regardless,” I said, “if you plan to take it anywhere besides your car or home or place of business, you’ll need a carry license.”

  “Can I get that from you? Ammunition too, the whole deal?”

  “The license comes from the probate office, but I can supply the rest, including a nice carry bag. If you’d like to pick one out—”

  “No, you do it. Send everything to me in care of the TD. Put it on the Moonshine tab.”

  “Of course. I’ll have it delivered in the morning.”

  “Thank you.” She returned the gun to her bag. “I’ll admit, I’m not very good with guns and bullets and such. But if Luna and I are in it for the long haul, I need to learn.”

  I smiled. “Very admirable.”

  She smiled too, regarding me with frank appraisal. She was here for something that had nothing to do with the gun. I was about to quiz her when she got down to business.

  “What were you really doing at the set, Tai Randolph?”

  I blanked my expression. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Nicky said you were bringing props. But you weren’t. I checked with the TD.” She leaned forward in a just-between-us pose, propped her elbows on the counter. “Yours wasn’t the only pass Nicky approved that day. He also approved one for this tall drink of water in an Italian suit, one Trey Seaver, currently of Phoenix Corporate Security, formerly of the Atlanta Police Department.”

  Dang it, I thought. She’s a better detective than I am.

  “And?” I said.

  “And that means you’re no ordinary gun supplier. Because I remember Trey Seaver. Very well.” She tapped my countertop with her forefinger. “And you two left together. In a Ferrari.”

  Crap. She’d seen everything.

  “Is that why you’re here?” I said. “To quiz me about Trey?”

  “I’m here because I want to know what’s up. It’s something with Nicky, isn’t it? What is it this time? Drugs? Sex parties? He hasn’t gone off the deep end again, has he?” Her cheeks flushed with sudden emotion. “Quint came out here because of him, did you know that? Nicky started using again, and Quint had to give everything up to take care of him. Has Nicky dearest explained that?”

  I got a pang of empathy and reminded myself that she was an actress. This was her job, provoking a response in me. Was Quint really that caring a brother? I had a hard time believing it. From what I’d seen, he wanted to control Nick more than care for him. And if he and Portia were so cozy, why was he living in the guest house?

  Portia shook her head. “Addison thinks she cured him. He was all cute and dangerous when she met him, a bad boy in need of a good girl. Nicky mumbling nonsense? Nicky not bathing? She won’t want any part of that. Wait until she sees him in his underpants with breakfast still in his beard.”

  I remembered Addison the night of Nick’s crash. She was getting a taste of the challenges, that was for sure. And stepping up to the plate, I had to admit, even if she carried a whiff of martyrdom about her. Like saving Nick Talbot was her ticket to heaven, and she was willing to mow down anyone in her path to do it.

  Portia’s eyes grew bright and wet, but her jaw was taut with anger, not sadness. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get personal. It’s just that…” She exhaled in a burst, straightened her shoulders. “How much?”

  “How much what?”

  “How much would it take for you to get me the script for next season’s premiere?”

  I felt my jaw drop. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “The script. Look, I know you’re sniffing around for dirt. You’ll find it, especially about Quint and me. I couldn’t care less. But if you come across that script…”

  She let the words trail off. I remembered her in the season finale, on her knees, her beautiful face bloodstained and defiant. Moonshine had made her a household name, and the second season promised to be even more lucrative.

  “You want to know if you’re coming back.”

  “Damn straight I do. Quint said the producers haven’t approved the script, and just to prolong the agony, he’s making the writers complete all of the Season Two scripts before we start filming. The investors want it, he says, but that’s bullshit.”

  I remembered back at the Kennesaw base camp how Addison had been complaining about the same. Apparently she wasn’t the only one pissed about Quint’s handling of the script situation.

>   I shook my head. “I have no access to the scripts. And even if I did—”

  “Oh, don’t even try it.” She laughed. “Former Special Patrol Officer Seaver? He’s obviously got bigger people to answer to. But you? You make your own rules. I can tell.” She lowered her voice, looked me in the eye. “Find that script, and I’ll triple whatever Nicky’s paying you.”

  “He’s not paying me anything.”

  She examined my features, decided to play it cool. “Whatever you say. Just remember, if you need a friend, you’ve got one in me.”

  “How so?”

  “I know things.” She bit her lower lip, like she was deciding whether or not to trust me. “Take Addison, for example. Her interest in Nicky is pure, no doubt. But she’s smart enough to understand that even true love can have a profit margin.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Talk to her and find out.” Portia dropped her sunglasses on her face. “There are some smart moves to be made here. Getting me in your corner is one. And you can start by finding that script.”

  She smiled, shouldered her bag. And then she walked right out of my shop and into the dazzling high noon glare.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Getting into Trey’s apartment required two separate keys, a swipe card for the elevator, and a visual inspection by the concierge, who in a less fancy place would have been called the manager and who would’ve had better things to do than lurk in the lobby glaring at me. It was after seven when I finally stood at Trey’s door, juggling my research and the take-out bag containing my dinner. I opened the door with my foot, switched on the light with my elbow…

  And then I froze.

  The turquoise cactus stood in the middle of his living room, its metallic plates and mirrored dongles reflecting the lamplight. The thing had all the subtlety of a disco ball, and there it was in Trey’s black and white apartment. I was still standing there gawking when I heard the ding of the elevator and a familiar tread. I waited as Trey came up behind me.