by Tina Whittle
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.” Sloane pulled the camera from her bag. “You don’t might if I snapped a photo first, do you?”
I slumped back against the pillow and resigned myself to it. There were worse pictures of me out there, I was sure.
“Fine. You want profile or straight on?”
***
Amber arrived under Trey’s intense scrutiny, her chestnut hair pinned up, her pale yellow dress wrinkled from the heat. She was even prettier in person, heartier and healthier, and she walked like a model—spine straight, neck elongated, one foot in front of the next.
She sat in the green faux-leather visitor’s chair, knees together, and explained that she and Lex were from the same hometown, some tiny place in Ohio. His parents were elderly and didn’t fly, so they’d authorized her to bring him home for the funeral. The story was precise and rehearsed, a consequence of the media onslaught, I supposed.
“How did you end up working with Lex in Florida?”
“I…I knew him as Kyle, so…”
“Of course. Kyle.” I could have kicked myself. “Please go on.”
She did. “We never lost touch after high school. He did a lot of traveling, the small circuits mostly, but then he moved to Tampa and started specializing in the corporate magic gigs. That’s when he called me and offered me a job. I was an actress in L.A. at the time, which meant I was broke and waitressing. Corporate magic was a relief after that—steady, easy, mostly weekdays.”
She shook her head, smiling. “Kyle was a natural. You couldn’t take your eyes off him.”
“I saw some videos. I couldn’t take my eyes off you either.”
She smiled bigger. “It took some getting used to, always getting vanished, or set on fire, or having rabbits plucked out of my hair.” Suddenly, her mouth twisted. “Is it true a python got Boxter?”
“Who?”
“The rabbit. His name was Boxter.”
I winced. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Then Kyle tried to sell the same snake?”
“Apparently so.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. I mean, he’d always had a dark side, and the corporate work was making it darker, but—”
“A dark side?”
She caught the spark of interest in my voice. Her expression grew cautious. “He’d developed a lot of contempt for the work, and it was coming out in weird ways. He lifted a manager’s wallet once. I was shocked, but he told me to stop worrying, that he’d just wanted to see if he could do it.”
I could see it happening, those swift talented hands, the sweet perverse challenge.
“I got mad, and Kyle returned the wallet, told the guy he’d found it. The manager was so happy, he gave Kyle a twenty for a reward. I got madder. Kyle got offended, told me to stop being so high-minded, that he’d restored that man’s faith in humanity for the low low price of twenty bucks.”
Her eyes glazed at the memory. She was pretty, but opaque. I was having a hard time seeing past the expert make-up and perfectly coiffed hair and polite responses.
“But you didn’t know about Lex?” I said.
“I noticed the tattoos, of course. And the hair. But the corporate clientele didn’t go for the new look, so he had to cover his hands with stage make-up, black the red streak out.”
“Did he ever talk to you about poetry?”
“That started a little over a year ago. He’d been barhopping in Miami one weekend and got pulled out of the audience to judge a poetry slam. That’s what you call it, right? A slam?”
I nodded. She continued.
“He started writing a lot after that. He even tried out for some teams, but never made it. Jacksonville, Miami, Atlanta, Savannah. He studied the winners like his life depended on it—in person, online—but he could never quite figure out how to make it work.” She inhaled with a shudder. “I’m guessing Lex had more success than Kyle did.”
“Did you ever see him perform as Lex?”
“No. I saw the videos, though, a few days ago. They didn’t make sense. Kyle was so earnest and sweet, Lex was so…” Her voice trembled. “Look, he wasn’t perfect. The part where you say he’s a thief makes sense, but I’m hearing that he blackmailed people and threatened people and set people up. That wasn’t the Kyle I knew. He wasn’t evil.”
“So what changed? Why did he create Lex?”
“I don’t know, but it happened quickly, over the last few months. He was never in town anymore. I know now he was here, but he never shared any of this with me.”
“This may sound off-the-wall, but I’ve heard that some of your corporate clients were…connected.”
She cocked her head at me, and for a moment it was like talking to Trey. Cool and curious, all surface and artifice. But I knew that wasn’t true of Trey. And I suspected it wasn’t true of her.
“The people we worked for weren’t gangsters,” she said. “I don’t know who killed Kyle. Or that woman. But I’m sure it had nothing to do with our work in Tampa.”
“But you cared about him, didn’t you? More than as a business partner?”
Her chin trembled, but only a little. “I was his friend. Maybe his only one.”
I reached out and took her hand. She jumped, startled. Her skin was cool and moist, her bones fine and delicate.
“I have some poems of his,” I explained. “In a box at my boyfriend’s place. I want them to go to someone who cared about him. Who knew and appreciated that sweetness.”
She nodded. And then I did see a tear, sparkling at the corner of her eye. She wiped her eyes delicately, trying to preserve her mascara.
“I would like that. So would his parents. Thank you.” She stood. “I’m meeting the rest of the team in a little while. One of them has something to give me too, a painting.”
Frankie still working the angles. “Good luck getting that on a plane to Iowa. And be sure to wear something camera-ready. If I know Frankie, this exchange will end up being a photo op.”
“It’s Ohio. And if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s smile pretty.”
She stood and smoothed her dress. Sloane gathered her files and shut off her recorder. She looked at the hallway and then back at me. “Listen, this is totally off the record…but if you’re so all-fired convinced that you weren’t the target, why is Trey guarding your door and not Rico’s?”
The utter rightness of what she’d said ripped through me. I got light-headed with the sense of it, which was as clear and coherent as a bucket of ice water.
“Trey!” I yelled.
***
Rico called forty-five minutes later. “I’m not saying I don’t appreciate the gesture, sending your gorgeous boyfriend over and all, but as you’ve explained, he doesn’t play for my team, so…”
“Be quiet and unfold the sofa. He needs a nap.”
“Like Mister Armani’s gonna settle for the Broyhill.”
“He will if I tell him to.”
A pause. “Sometimes you talk about that man like he’s a well-trained Rottweiler, you know that?”
I didn’t reply. The comment stung, mostly because it was true, but I’d deal with that particular personality flaw later. At that moment, all I wanted was Rico safe.
His voice was gentle but firm. “Baby girl, you know this is no good.”
“Rico—”
“Tch-tch. Just listen. How about we both come back up there and stay with you? They said they’d be releasing you this afternoon anyway.”
“Rico—”
“Trey agrees with me, don’t you, Trey? He’s nodding yes.”
I thought about it. As plans went, it wasn’t bad. Everybody in one spot, nurses in the hall, security guards on every floor.
“Whatever. But if you two insist on coming back, can you smuggle in a cheeseburger? I’m starved.”
Chapter Forty-three
Rico charmed the ward nurse into letting him lie down in the unoccupied bed in my room. Trey refused to
sleep, or even put his head down. He sat in the green chair, elbows to knees, all right angles and straight lines. Only his eyes gave him away, like they’d been washed and wrung out too many times.
I looked over at Rico, curled on his side. “C’mon, Trey, you don’t buy that poetry stalker nonsense, do you?”
“There’s evidence for it.”
“But it makes no sense.”
“Most murders make no sense.”
He had a point. No wonder the press was all over the Dead Poet Killer. It had a narrative.
“So until we know for sure, we need to keep our options open, right? Even if that means making you and Rico do things neither of you wants to do.”
“I agree. But this rule applies to you as well.”
Damn it. Leave it to Trey to turn my lecture back so neatly on me, like a Krav Maga move.
I leaned back against the pillows. “What do I have to do?”
“First of all, you have to let me make the decisions about what I do and when I do it, and not argue with me.”
Not fighting when he had to make a decision. Simple enough.
“Fine. What else?”
“You have to tell me every piece of information that comes your way, even if you’d rather I didn’t know about it because you suspect I’ll make a decision you don’t like or because you got this information through questionable means.”
Sharing my goodies, even the illicit ones. “Okay. No problem.”
“And you have to stay in a secure location for the rest of the competition.”
“What!” I popped back up. “Like hell I’m missing the finals!”
“The doctor said you have to stay off your foot.”
“I’ll get crutches.”
“And you’re on narcotics.”
“I’ll chew aspirin and go cold turkey. All I need is—”
“No!”
His voice was sharp. I stopped talking, a little stunned at the outburst. I got that feeling of standing on the edge of something again, my toes over thin air, pebbles tumbling into the abyss.
Trey leaned forward, eyes unwavering. “You wanted to know what I need to keep Rico safe tonight. I told you. There’s a reason I don’t do personal protection anymore. It’s a complex system, non-sequential and tightly correlated.”
I recognized the terms. He was telling me it was unpredictable, with multiple ways that things could go wrong, and that the tiniest wrong thing had a tendency to spiral into a huge wrong thing.
“You know I don’t perform well in non-linear systems, not anymore. Yesterday’s events prove it. I can protect Rico, or I can protect you. I can’t do both. And if I’m forced to choose…” His voice trailed off, and he sat back in the chair, flinging his gaze at the far wall. “You can’t ask that of me.”
My stomach hurt. Hell, everything hurt. I wanted to argue, but Trey wasn’t telling me about my character flaws, or making excuses for his. He was handing me reality in a plain brown wrapper, not a single pretty bow in sight.
“I understand everything you’re saying, Trey. But I can’t miss the biggest moment of my best friend’s life. And you can’t ask that of me.”
We stared at each other, a canyon of compromise between us. In the next bed, Rico stretched and rolled over. His eyes snapped with annoyance.
“If you two will quit all this angst-riddled explaining about what you can and can’t possibly do…I have an idea.”
***
The doctor listened to my chest one more time before signing my orders. “You’re good to go, Ms. Randolph. I’ll put in the release papers.” He made markings on a clipboard. “Do you have somebody here with you?”
A voice from the hall interrupted my reply. “Don’t worry, Doc. She’s covered.”
It was Garrity. He grinned. “Trey called. He said he and Rico are reviewing the protocol for this evening. So he sent me to fetch you and take you to his place before I head into work, a plan he said you were not going to argue with. Is that so?”
I exhaled deliberately. “Yes. That is so.”
Garrity popped his hands on his hips. “Well, that’s a sweet surprise, you being all docile.”
I set my jaw. “Don’t get used to it. Once the finals are over, it’s business as usual.”
***
When the elevator finally reached Trey’s floor, Garrity shouldered my bag while I maneuvered the crutches. It was harder than it looked, but Garrity was patient. At the door, he pulled a key from his pocket. He looked at me expectantly, then his eyes skipped sideways, then back to me, still smiling. It was a fake smile.
I frowned. “What’s going on?”
The door swung open. And then I smelled it.
Ham.
And there Rico stood, surrounded by the team, holding a platter of biscuits. There was a smattering of applause from the dozen or so people crowded into Trey’s living room. I saw Frankie and Padre within their own separate knots of supporters, Vigil with a sleek dark-skinned Amazon on his arm. Even the media had a presence, including Sloane with her reporter’s bag and one Hollywood chap with a camera on his shoulder and an entourage of underlings.
Trey himself stood in his corner by the window, arms folded tight. Uh oh, I thought. But then he looked my way, and if the wrinkle between his eyes didn’t disappear, it did soften.
“Don’t just stand there, hobble on in,” Rico said.
Chapter Forty-four
“Dammit, Rico, you know I hate surprises.”
“You only hate boring surprises, like fire drills. You love stuff like this, admit it.”
Poets packed the apartment. It was wall-to-wall dreadlocks and Rasta beanies and hipster jeans, beer and wine and salty bar food. And laughter, almost too much for the bare walls to contain. Rico sat beside me on the sofa, where I could prop up my sad throbbing foot.
“You could have dropped a hint.”
“Whatever. Trey was generous enough to offer, and we were smart enough to take him up on it.”
I blinked at him. “Trey did what?”
“Yeah, baby girl. He decimated the guest list to twenty. And I was afraid he was going to frisk everybody. But it worked out okay. He even let in the camera guy.”
I glanced back at the kitchen. Trey had his back to the wall and a glass of Pellegrino on the counter. His eyes worked the room like a SWAT team. I smiled and raised my glass of fizzy water, mouthed “thank you” in his direction. He ducked his head, but I saw the corner of his mouth quirk in that almost smile.
“That’s why Frankie’s here, I’m sure, making sure the camera guy gets her best side one final time.” I looked around the room. “No Cricket and no Jackson, though.”
Rico shook his head. “Padre said he made bail. But they’re keeping a low profile.”
“Are they charging him?”
“Not with murder, not yet anyway. Right now he’s on the hook for tampering with evidence.”
I tried to wrap my mind around it and failed. Their absence was palpable. And yet the world continued to spin, round and round and round again. And life moved with it, ever forward.
Padre banged a spoon against the rim of his glass. “Listen up, people. Let’s take a moment to thank our host and hostess.”
A chorus of verbal approval and applause at this. Trey unfrowned a little and nodded tightly in acknowledgment. I smiled and tried to look like a hostess. Padre kept his glass high.
“It’s been a hard road getting here, and there’s hard road still to come. We’ve suffered losses, too many. But we’ve stuck together, and we’ll continue to stick together, for each other, and for the word.” He lifted the glass in Rico’s direction. “You are the best of us, man. Bring it home.”
The crowd caught the chorus. “Rico! Rico! Rico!” Other voices chimed in with “Speech! Speech!” while someone else said “Poem! Poem!”
Rico stood. He cleared his throat and motioned them quiet. “For once, I got no words. Y’all are the best. Peace and blessings.”
And the
n he sat back down, and the party geared up again.
***
An hour passed before Trey came and sat beside me. I leaned my head on his shoulder, drowsy from the meds. “Rico said this was your idea.”
“Yes. There were several practical reasons. Containment-wise, it’s—”
“Hush. And thank you.”
He stayed in the kitchen for the rest of the party, washing champagne glasses by hand. Rico kept me company in the living room. Somehow, despite all the hugging, he remained unwrinkled.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Thanks to you, I’ve got Trey on me like a heat-seeking missile. And Garrity’s officially on duty down at the Fox. Plus whoever else you’ve decided needs to follow me around.”
I glanced over at my capable boyfriend. “Yeah.”
“And you’re safe here, which eases my mind. I know that’s not easy for you, but I’m proud of you for doing it.”
I swatted his arm. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious.” He laughed. “You’re blushing.”
“It’s the meds.”
But I knew he was right, even if my instincts recoiled at the prospect. Trey’s building was a fortress. Gated entry, a key-locked elevator, plus a concierge with a snotty attitude and a willingness to cause trouble at the least provocation. Add to that Trey’s self-installed double deadbolt locks, and no one got in without his permission. Besides, I had my gun, pepper spray, and a crutch. I was practically invincible.
“So show me this plan of yours for keeping me in the loop.”
Rico grinned. “In the bedroom.”
***
The first thing I noticed was the flat-screen television hanging on the wall, as thin as a deck of cards and big as a refrigerator door. I sat at the foot of the bed, and Rico handed me my computer.
“There are nine fixed remote access cameras—the entrance, the staircases, even the green room. They’re on the same public access system, so once you’re in, you’ll be able to see whatever they see, including backstage. And once the show comes on, you’ll be able to see center stage all close-up on the TV.”
Between the television and the computer, I had a bird’s eye view of almost every place a bad guy could lurk. I tapped the computer screen, and the grid sorted itself into a neat checkerboard pattern. I tapped one square, and the view from that camera expanded.
