Darker Than Any Shadow

by Tina Whittle

  I sat on the edge of his desk. “But you said we’d have lunch!”

  He went back to his spreadsheet. “I can’t. This is due at five.”

  “But it’s right down the road.”

  “I still can’t come.” He looked at me slant-wise. “Why are you going to Frankie’s art gallery for lunch?”

  “Come with me, and I’ll tell you. And then I’ll tell you about my morning visit with Maurice AKA Vigil and the dinner I’ve planned for the Sun Dial tonight.”

  He started to say something, but at that moment, Marisa came in the door. It was very much like the Titanic arriving, with a definite sense of big water parting, a heavy wake to follow. Today she was a perfect bookend to Trey—black skirt suit, white blouse, black heels, her white-blond hair in a no-nonsense chignon. And she was not happy with me.

  “Tai. What a surprise.”

  I threw up a hand. “Hey, Marisa.”

  She ignored me and handed Trey a folder. “Sign these, then have Yvonne notarize them and put them in my in-box. Do it now.”

  He slid a glance my way, but accepted the folders and left without commentary. Marisa shut the door behind him and faced me.

  “Imagine my delight to see my top employee’s name in the newspaper, yet again connected with some sordid criminal dealings.”

  “You heard.”

  She leveled her gaze. “All of Atlanta heard. Fires, stabbings, a dead poet, and then some kind of altercation at a memorial service. Just another Fulton County weekend. Except for the part where I saw your name there. And Trey’s.”

  “You know as well as I do that nobody picks this stuff. It happens and then you deal with it.”

  “I know about dealing, believe me. And I know that Phoenix cannot afford to get plastered all over the news again. Neither can Trey. It might help your little firearms business for all I know—the redneck element might adore this sort of thing. So poke around to your heart’s content. But keep Trey out of it.”

  “You mean keep Phoenix out of it.”

  “I mean both. We’re not in the personal protection business anymore. Our focus now is behind-the-scenes loss prevention and asset protection. It requires discretion. I will not have him paraded around in some poetry smackdown—”

  “Slam.”

  “Whatever. I learned my lesson last time. Did you?”

  Before I could answer, the door opened and Trey returned. He didn’t interrupt. Instead, he moved behind his desk, paperwork in hand. Waiting.

  Marisa smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. “It was good to see you again, Tai. You take care.”

  Trey watched her go. He looked a little annoyed, but mostly resigned. He sat down and pulled up his spreadsheet again.

  “I’m sorry I can’t go to lunch.”

  I shouldered my bag. “It’s okay. You can make it up to me tonight. Or maybe this afternoon.”

  “What’s this afternoon?”

  “A shopping trip. I have to get something to wear for tonight. And if you’re willing to spring for it, I’ll make it another short red dress.”

  He reached for his wallet.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I found the Styles Gallery smack in the middle of a Dunwoody shopping center with almost half of the bays vacant. It was a common sight in post-downturn Atlanta and its outskirts. After rebounding from the late nineties crash, areas like this one were struggling once again.

  The gallery seemed to be doing well, however. The window display contained a large oil painting, three of them actually, a triptych in edge-of-night blues, the colors swirled together like a tornado had touched down on the canvas. I looked closer. Each lacy tendril of paint was a stream of words. More poems, frame after frame of poems.

  I pushed open the door, and a blast of ferociously cold air hit my sweaty skin. I looked around, surrounded by words. Every painting, every sculpture, every inch of wall space, all wrapped in words. And, I was willing to bet, every single word was Frankie’s.

  A black cat sat inside the door. It had one good eye, a golden orb that appraised me, unblinking, with feline disdain. As I watched, it slinked underneath a table until all I could see was its tail whip-stitching the air.

  “Can I help you?”

  A woman came from the back and stood behind the counter. She was short and plump, with shoulder-length brown hair cut jagged at the ends. Small gray eyes lurked behind thick black glasses. Her tank top and fringed short skirt were summertime cool, but the cowboy boots must have been like twin saunas. The eyelash-fringed knitted scarf around her neck certainly wasn’t helping—it made her look like a boho Muppet.

  Textile artist, Padre had said. I smiled. “You must be Debbie.”

  She pushed her bangs aside. The skin on the back of her hand was a maze of black glyphic tattoos, as dark and shiny as only new ink could be.

  “Nice work,” I said. “Very familiar. You must have been a big fan.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Tai Randolph. You don’t know me. But I know you.”

  I showed her a photograph I’d pulled from the Atlanta team’s website, one of many I’d found of Debbie, behind the mike, in the spotlight. This one showed her standing next to Lex, looking feverish with excitement.

  “You wanted to be a poet too?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. So?”

  “So I hear you’re a fixture at poetry events. Which makes me wonder, why would Lex’s biggest fan, and a wannabe poet herself, miss the team debut?”

  “I had to work.”

  She was getting skittish. I noticed a stack of mugs on display in front of me, balanced in a neat pyramid. I picked one up. It was mass-market ceramic, emblazoned with one of the paintings in the display case. I checked the price sticker.

  “These look cool. I’ll take two.”

  I handed them to her, and she took them to the cash register. She rang them up with one eye fastened on me, like she thought I might try a smash and grab.

  I leaned on the counter. “Frankie said you were working. But I think you were at Lupa.”

  She picked up a sheet of tissue paper with forced nonchalance. Her eyes were liquid behind the glasses, but I could see appraisal in them. I’d tripped a switch. Could I see her stabbing somebody in the heart, watching them die up close and personal, then setting a fire to cover up the evidence? Maybe. She had the look of someone with an edge.

  She kept her eyes down as she wrapped paper around the mug. “There’s nothing to tell. Lex called, I brought him some CDs, and then I came back here. I didn’t hear about the murder until the next morning.”

  Lies coming hard and fast, one right behind the other. I realized I didn’t need Trey to peg them—they were as easy to spot as low-hanging fruit.

  “You were the last call he got before he died, you know. I was there in the hall with him.”

  Her gaze darkened. “So you’re the one who told the cops.”

  “Nope. They figured it out themselves because they have access to cell phone records. I don’t, mind you. I had to actually see the number on the phone. Which isn’t missing anymore, by the way, as of this morning.”

  “I don’t have to talk to you.”

  I ignored her. “So why is this a secret? All you did was bring CDs, right? That’s not illegal. Neither is being a groupie. I mean, even if you were sleeping with him—”

  “Shut up!”

  Before I could reply, the door to the back room slammed open and Frankie stood there, hands on hips. She squinted at me. “I know you. You’re Rico’s friend, the one dating the human lie detector.”

  I smiled. “Tai. Hi again.”

  She shut the door behind her and pointed at the painting in front of the counter. “Take that in back and get it ready for mailing.”

  Debbie did as she was told, scurrying out like a startled rabbit. I kept smiling. I’d been doing so much on-demand smiling that the corners of my mouth felt like they were about to crack.

  She returned the smile, but her lips barely cu
rved. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Did you know your employee was the last one to see Lex alive?”

  “So I’m hearing. The cops came by this morning and asked her all about it.” Frankie waved a hand at the mugs. “Did she finish ringing these up?”

  I shook my head. Frankie pulled out a cardboard box and placed the wrapped mug inside, then picked up another sheet of tissue paper. “You didn’t come here to get mugs.”

  “I came to talk to Debbie. She was there the night Lex died.”

  Frankie shrugged. “So I’m discovering. But it’s not my concern.”

  “You’re not worried you’ve got a potential murderer in your shop?”

  “I suspect if that were the case, that nice detective would have hauled her downtown.” She regarded me craftily. “I’ve heard he does that.”

  I ignored the dig. I knew she was up to something, but until Vigil AKA Maurice Cunningham spilled his beans, I had no clue what it might be. Better to keep that ace up my sleeve until I needed it.

  Frankie finished wrapping the second mug and put it in the box. Then she unrolled a length of cream-colored wrapping paper and sliced off a section with large silver scissors. “Do you believe in testimony, Tai?”

  I hesitated. “Like in court?”

  “Like in life, this one and the next. Do you believe that we are all prophets here, if we only heed the word and open our mouths?”

  I stood there, dazed. What in the hell…

  She pulled the edge of the paper up and secured it with a piece of tape. “Someone’s trying to destroy our team, but I’m not letting that happen. That’s the message. You can trot it right back to Padre.”

  “Padre?”

  “He wants to take leadership of the team away from me. He thinks I don’t see through him, but I do. All his offers of help, all his assistance, all so he can be a star again. But he needs to let it go. We’re a new generation, with new visions and new horizons, and he’s ancient history.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Our team will heal itself, and we will move forward. And if Padre wants to join us, he’s welcome, but if all he wants to do is instigate and sublimate and pontificate…” She dusted her hands as if wiping off dirt. “Then he should stay out of the way.”

  How did we end up talking about Padre? But it was interesting, yes it was. There was a schism here, and it went way beyond who controlled the team. Maybe even beyond the documentary.

  She closed her hands on the box and shoved it toward me. I put it in my bag.

  “Here’s the thing, Frankie. I’m here because I’m Rico’s friend, and because I’m trying to figure out what happened at the debut party that ended up with a dead guy. So forget Padre, maybe you want to explain to me why I shouldn’t be telling the cops to be suspicious of you?”

  “Me?”

  “You were arguing with Lex Friday night. Rico said you were about to drop him from the team.”

  “That’s my responsibility as team leader. So what?”

  “So nothing maybe. But with all that fortune and fame on the line—”

  “I already have fortune and fame. I do this for the love of the word.”

  Right, I thought. Frankie’s gallery was a hall of mirrors—nothing but wall to wall Frankie Styles Incorporated. Love of the word, my ass. Frankie loved Frankie.

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “One of us has been taken and the rest spared, like the spirit of the Lord passed over the firstborns after the plagues.”

  I stared open-mouthed. She was quoting Exodus. Any second she’d get to Revelations, with three-headed beasts and the whore of Babylon, and then I’d run, flat out, as fast as I could for the door. Homicidal I could handle. Pseudo-evangelical nuttery? That terrified me.

  But Frankie took a deep breath, and the crazy evaporated. That was when I knew she was capable of becoming whatever she needed to be to get whatever she wanted. She was a Russian nesting doll of personas.

  “Talk to Rico,” she said. “Tell him he’s got the team in his corner, if he wants to be a team player.” She jabbed her chin at me. “Now it’s your turn. Pick a corner.”

  I shouldered my bag. “I never left my corner.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Short on time, I decided to abandon my dress shopping plan. Instead, I went by the dry cleaners and retrieved my Friday night dress. I was heading back to the condo to change when Trey called, as promised, at five-fifteen on the dot.

  By five-sixteen, however, I was fuming.

  “What do you mean, you can’t make it? I know you got that report finished on time.”

  “I did. But a new client came in this afternoon, and Marisa needs an intake report.”

  “That’s bullshit, Trey. You could do that in the morning.”

  “She wants it tonight.”

  I felt like snatching my gun out of the holster and shooting something, preferably something overbearing and fake blond. “This is a power play, Trey, nothing more.”

  “Tai—”

  “She’s pissed that you have a life outside of that office that might inconvenience her empire, and she’s gonna step on you every time you try to—”

  “Tai.”

  I took a breath. “What?”

  “I know this.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Do you understand?”

  I understood. He needed that job as much as she needed him to do it. It provided a framework to hang his life on, and without it…

  I sighed. “I understand. I’m not happy, though.”

  “I can still meet you at the gym after class.”

  The gym. I’d forgotten. Every Monday night Trey taught basic self defense there. I usually joined him afterward for a private session, since he had the room reserved for the entire evening. I was tired, so tired, but the thought of beating up a weight bag was enticing.

  I let out a breath. “Okay. I’ll see you at the gym.”

  “Are you staying over?”

  This was also a mostly regular thing for Mondays—kicking things and then a night at his place, where the showers were continuously hot, the AC predictably cool, and the big bed soft and clean and filled with Trey.

  “That sounds good too.”

  “I’ll see you at eight. Bring your wraps. Tonight is sparring.”

  He hung up abruptly. So much for putting Maurice Cunningham AKA Vigil through Trey’s cranial lie detector. I was on my own, again, facing some suspicious no-good-nik, again.

  And then my phone rang. It was Rico. I pressed it to my ear.

  “You called.”

  “I said I would, didn’t I?”

  “So what happened, did they—”

  “Can we talk about it when you come and get me?”

  “When I what?”

  “I’m stuck at the lawyer’s office. Adam was supposed to pick me up, but he never showed, and he’s not answering his phone.”

  I got a twinge of worry. That wasn’t like Adam. He was usually Mr. Good Deed. I immediately hooked a left back downtown.

  “In return, you get to do me a favor.”

  “This doesn’t involve anything Confederate, does it? You know I hate—”

  “Nothing Confederate, only a wardrobe change.” I hit the parking lot of GA 400 and slammed to a halt. “So why’d you get hauled in last night?”

  “They found the money at my place.”

  “The missing two thousand?”

  “Yep. Shoved under my mattress. I’m guessing Lex wasn’t kidding when he said he could prove I took it.”

  “But how did he get it under there?”

  “We had practice there Friday afternoon. It would have been easy.”

  I added up the evidence. Blood on his shoes, stolen money in his apartment, an intense and well-documented dislike of the deceased.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Rico, but…why aren’t you behind bars?”

  “Beats me all to hell, baby girl.”r />
  ***

  Rico didn’t speak on the way to his apartment. I let him have his space until he started up the stairwell, when I couldn’t hold back anymore.

  “What’s going on with you and Adam?”

  “Tai—”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to know. First, he calls me and tells me the bloody shoe story, then he doesn’t come with you to the memorial. Then he gets all hot about the police search, and now he abandons you at the lawyer’s.”

  Rico sighed. “Tai—”

  “I’m for real, he needs to step up.”

  Rico’s hallway smelled of curry and menthol cigarettes. It was always quiet, though, even though his apartment was one of four upstairs units. This afternoon was no different. And yet…something was off. And then I saw it. I grabbed Rico’s shirt and pulled him back.

  The door to his apartment was wide open.

  I heard the noises then, thumping and shuffling inside. Rico froze. I fumbled my gun out of my carry purse. I’d practiced this so many times—in a clinch, in the dark, at the range—but never for real.

  Rico’s eyes went wide. “Tai!”

  I ignored him and took two steps toward the open door. Suddenly, Adam appeared at the threshold, pale and silent. When he saw the gun, he shook his head. “Goddamn it, Tai. You’re a menace.”

  I put the gun back in my bag. “Goddamn it yourself. What are you doing banging around in there with the door wide open?”

  “What do you care?”

  There was a slur in his voice, and a mean streak. He stood in the middle of the living room, his plaid shirt untucked, his face pale. It was chaos. I could see black fingerprint powder on the walls and door jambs. Rico’s desk was dumped out, sofa cushions pushed aside, papers scattered about.

  Rico stepped inside and took in the scene, especially the suitcase open on the bed. I was about to rip into his ingrate boyfriend with everything I had when Rico touched my hand and shook his head.