Deeper Than the Grave

by Tina Whittle

“There’s something missing in the story,” I said. “I don’t know what it is, not yet. These bones connect to the Amberdeckers, though, I’m certain of it. And since we’re going to be stuck inside a while…wait a second, why are you in the exit lane for 400?”

  He looked at me like I was an idiot. “Because we’re going to my place. You always stay at my place on Saturday nights.”

  “Yes, but that was before Brenda got shot, and the bones got found—”

  “Which is even more reason to stay at my place.”

  “Which is even more reason to stay at the shop. To protect it.”

  He returned his attention to the road. He couldn’t articulate his reasoning, but I’d seen it before. I’d get into trouble, he’d go into crusading knight-at-arms mode, then when the situation cooled off, he’d retreat into the vacuum of his black-and-white apartment.

  I swiveled in the seat to face him. “My place is as secure as yours. There’s a Kennesaw cop out front, a safe room in the back, and a fully functional state-of-the-art security system throughout.”

  “There hasn’t been a shooting at my place.”

  “But my research is at the shop! I can’t—”

  “You can get it in the morning. I’ll drive you back.”

  “But—”

  “Tai.” He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, jaw tight. “Please.”

  I sighed. The snow blew in frenzies and twirls. Already patches of white covered the medians, as flimsy as a negligee. The traffic would steamroll right over it; the airport would spasm for a few hours and then snowplow it into dirty humps. Life would go on. But it was the eighth of February. And Trey had said please.

  “Fine,” I said. “We’ll stay at your place—”

  “Thank you.”

  “But we have to go back to the shop first. I need my car, and my research.”

  “But the snow—”

  “—is barely on the ground.” I rested my hand on his shoulder, feeling the muscle tighten and then relax. “Besides, this way you can check the security system one more time.”

  “Tai—”

  “Please.”

  He thought about it, then flipped the turn signal to move out of the exit lane. “Fine. But be quick about it.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  I awoke the next morning to the pounding of footfalls—rhythmic, steady, muted by the mechanical hum of the treadmill. Trey, back to his routine. He ran with the precise cadence of the long distance runner—head up, spine straight, arms loose. He ran without music plugged in his ears or heart monitors strapped to his wrist, ran with only the rhythms of his breath and body as accompaniment.

  I rolled over, dragging the ridiculously plump comforter tighter around me. I’d been so exhausted the night before that I’d crawled into bed in my underwear, leaving a trail of discarded clothes behind me. Now I squinted into winter-crisp light, even whiter than the walls or the curtains, and I knew that thirty-five stories below me, the whole of Atlanta lay in snow-swaddled brilliance.

  I burrowed back under the goose down and tried to go back to sleep. My phone had other ideas. I almost ignored it, but one peek at the display, and I changed my mind.

  I grappled it off the nightstand and pulled it under the covers with me. “Hey there, Garrity.”

  “Why the hell is there a guy named Fishbone throwing your name around like it was some get-out-of-jail-free card?”

  I sat up quickly. “Fishbone? Seriously?”

  “Perez pulled him in. He says you told him to ask for me if that happened.”

  “Yeah. I kinda did.”

  Garrity muttered a string of detailed expletives, weaving them into a blinding tapestry of vulgarity. Trey stopped the treadmill and stood, hands on hips, breathing hard.

  “I am not your one-stop law enforcement shop, Tai Randolph, I can’t…” He paused to collect himself again. “Do you know how much sleep I’m going to get tonight? None. This city is going to turn into crazy town about ten minutes past sunset, when the freaking polar vortex swoops in.”

  “The what?”

  “Check the weather. Things have changed. Now I’ve got this knucklehead yammering—”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Then why’d you call me?”

  Garrity started explaining as Trey hopped off the treadmill. He walked over beside the bed, wiping his forehead and chest with a towel, and I caught the smell of the herbal liniment that Gabriella made for him, menthol and rosemary. He waved a hand at the phone, one eyebrow raised. I mouthed Garrity at him.

  Garrity kept talking. “—and I’d really like Trey’s take on it, so as soon as you see him, send him in.”

  “His take on what?”

  An exasperated sigh. “The laundry detergent thefts. From four years ago. Are you even listening?”

  “Did you say—”

  “Trey will remember. Went nowhere then, but I’m seeing something very interesting this morning, and I’d like to run over the old Sinaloa cartel report with him. When he’s up to it.”

  “He’s standing right here. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  “He is?”

  “He just got off the treadmill.”

  “You’re at his place?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because it’s the ninth. Remember?”

  And then I did. The anniversary. The day that Trey made a fortress of his life, surrounded himself with silence and solitude. And yet there he was, breathing hard and a little puzzled. And there I was, half-dressed and sticky-eyed from sleep. Just another Sunday morning.

  I shoved the phone in Trey’s direction. “Garrity wants to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “Your old Sinaloa case.”

  Trey put the phone to his ear. He listened. Eventually I saw him pause, cock his head in perplexed curiosity, then go to his desk to get paper and pencil, the treadmill abandoned.

  I stayed under the sheets. Laundry detergent—the same item Cat had been arrested for shoplifting, the ridiculous “five finger” dare she’d taken at Lucius’ request. And then it hit me, like it had hit me in the skate shop even if I hadn’t been able to identify it then, that fake lemony smell that had permeated the place.

  Laundry detergent.

  I heard Trey talking in the living room, the slide of folders, the tapping of keystrokes. I stretched out under the sheets. I had to get up and get dressed eventually, something warm and layered for heading outside into a white morning as sharp as a scimitar.

  No rest for the wicked, they said. Not even on a snow day with a polar vortex bearing down.

  ***

  Ten minutes later, Trey brought my phone back to me. I moved my legs to make room for him. “Laundry detergent theft, huh?”

  Trey sat on the edge of the bed. “Hundreds of bottles at a time, premium brands. Coordinated crews timed for shift changes. They hit across the spectrum target-wise. Small family shops, corner grocery stores, big box retailers, some outlets reporting ten to twenty thousand dollars in losses per month. We found a stockpile of it at the Sinaloa bust I was telling you about.”

  “Just to be clear, we’re talking about the stuff you pour in washing machines?”

  “Correct. Which is why it made no sense. Until now, apparently.”

  “Until Fishbone.”

  Trey shook his head. “Garrity didn’t say—”

  “He didn’t need to. I smelled it myself. The morning we chased Fishbone and his skateboard into the shop.”

  “You chased Fishbone. I waited outside.”

  “Right. Which is why you didn’t…except that you did.” I grabbed his wrist. “Omigod, Trey! That’s what triggered you at the skate shop. Not the smell of marijuana alone, like in the park. The smell of
marijuana plus laundry detergent! Like the Sinaloa bust!”

  Trey’s index finger started tap-tapping on his thigh. “That makes sense.”

  “And another thing—remember Cat the bartender? Richard kicked her out of the house for shoplifting. Guess what Lucius told her to steal?”

  Trey narrowed his eyes. “Laundry detergent.”

  “Bingo, boyfriend. Which means this thing with Fishbone is connecting some major dots in a major way down at the FBI. And you’ve been invited to play along.”

  ***

  By the time Trey got out of the shower, I was dressed too—jeans, sweatshirt, running shoes. I had my tote bag fully packed, and a travel mug full of coffee. I’d made tea for him, some of the Lapsang souchong from the shop, which I had waiting on the counter.

  He met me in the kitchen wearing his best suit—the Armani made-to-measure, the closest thing to a dress uniform he had. I held out my hand, and he dropped his cuff links into my palm. He was a live wire, barely contained where he stood, and I saw the first hint of the anxious wrinkle between his eyes.

  I reached for his wrist. “Stop worrying.”

  “The traffic—”

  “Everything’s open from 400 to the Connector.”

  “But the snow—”

  “Barely an inch. All the main roads are clear. No ice. I checked.”

  I slipped the cuff links into place on his right wrist, then his left. He kept both hands extended, checking to make sure everything lined up properly—shirt sleeves a half-inch below the suit cuff, jacket concealing the holster.

  “That will change when the rain starts,” he said.

  “I know, I saw the new predictions. That’s why I’m getting my stuff done before the sun sets.”

  “What stuff?”

  I kept my expression neutral. “Shop stuff.”

  “The shop is secure. I checked two minutes ago.”

  He pulled his phone from his pocket and with a quick swipe revealed the four-plex video screen, one quadrant for each of the three camera feeds—the front entrance, the back lot, and the deer-eye view of the main room. He turned it around so that I could see.

  I moved behind him and reached for the loose ends of his tie. “I see. But I need to put in a final bit of cold proofing before I settle in here for the night.”

  He relaxed. “Oh. That’s a good plan.”

  I brought the wide end of the tie over the narrow end, then back over to make the knot. Over and through, tuck and neaten. I was finally getting the hang of tying ties—Windsors, double Windsors, half Windsors—and I was finally getting the hang of lying to Trey. It simply required moving where he couldn’t see my face. Not that the lie was a huge one. It was a tiny prevarication, more along the line of Technically True But Deliberately Evasive. It would have set off his alarm bells, however, and he had other things to focus on this morning.

  I turned him around and examined the final result. As usual, he was an immaculate portrait of male power and potency, at least on the surface. His inside was a stew of insecurity and confusion, but his outside? Dazzling as a diamond.

  I smoothed his lapels, the wool satin-soft beneath my fingers. “Trey?”

  “Yes?”

  “This meeting with Garrity? It’s not a test.”

  He looked puzzled. “I know.”

  I placed one hand just below his rib cage. “Then why have you stopped breathing into your diaphragm?”

  He paused, then put his hand on top of mine. When he inhaled, I felt the movement of air flowing into the tight places, from his lungs into his belly, a breath that went all the way in this time.

  I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “Much better. Now go kick ass.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  Every grocery store I passed on the way to Kennesaw had a packed parking lot. The city gleamed Christmas card pretty, but the sky was a sheet of threatening gray. I checked the time—six hours until sunset, when the sun would dip below the horizon and the sky would unload several metric tons of ice and sleet. I shivered at the thought and vowed to be safely tucked in back at Trey’s apartment, where the heating stayed on and the water stayed warm.

  I parked in the lot of the Best Buy, avoiding two kids hurling snowballs at each other while their harried father tried to herd them into a mini-van. Inside the store was hardly more civilized, with shoppers snatching generators and batteries, crowding the cash registers. I spotted Kenny at the help desk, looking harried in his blue uniform shirt, and pushed my way toward him.

  I broke to the front of the line. “You and I need to talk. Now.”

  Kenny looked startled. “What? Why?”

  “Fishbone’s at the police station, spilling his guts. The cops won’t tell me what he’s saying.” I leaned forward. “But I bet you can.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know anything, Miss Tai, I—”

  “I’ve been thinking about this mystery long and hard, Kenny. It’s got holes. I’m betting you can fill them because I’m betting you know something you’re not telling. And either you tell me what it is right now, or I take my suspicions to the cops. Your choice.” I rapped the counter with my knuckles. “You’ve got ten minutes to decide. I’ll be in the red Camaro out front.”

  ***

  Seven minutes later, he climbed into the front seat of my car, shaking his head. “I don’t know what you think—”

  “I think you’ve been lying to me. Everybody can talk about the damn Russian mafia all they want, but you’re the key to all this, aren’t you?”

  “No, ma’am!”

  “Cut the ‘ma’am’ crap. Lucius started out trading credit card numbers for drugs, then relics, cutting Fishbone out of the deals. He worked alone then, but eventually he got a partner. You.”

  Kenny shook his head frantically. “It wasn’t me!”

  “Bullshit. The Amberdecker bones weren’t in the coffin, Kenny—Lucius’ were—which means somebody else took them off Lucius’ hands. The same somebody who hid a completely different set in Uncle Dexter’s walls.” I held up the photograph of the re-burial. “And there you are Kenny, front and center.”

  “But I didn’t, I swear!” He shoved his glasses up with one hand, practically hyperventilating. “I don’t know anything about those bones!”

  “Then who does? “

  “I can’t—”

  “You’d better. Unless you want to explain this to the police.”

  Kenny let his head fall backward onto the seat and closed his eyes. “I didn’t take the bones. But I know who might have.”

  “Who?”

  “He uses the screen name White Wolf. He’s one of the traders in the Rabbit Hole.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s a Darknet forum. White Wolf buys and sell things you can’t buy or sell other places.”

  “Things like guns and drugs and illegally procured relics?”

  Kenny nodded. “When Silk Road went down, Lucius asked me to find him a new connection. Someone flexible, willing to work trades. So I vouched for him to White Wolf.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Lucius paid me to do it. And I needed the money.”

  Kenny looked miserable to be admitting this. No doubt he fancied himself a true hacker, motived by principles, not profit. But we all had our needy places.

  I cranked the engine. “Fasten up, Kenny.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re going to my place. And then you’re taking me down the Rabbit Hole to meet this White Wolf.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. I’m done with buts. I am getting to the bottom of this once and for all.”

  He reached for the seatbelt. “Yes, ma’am.”

  ***

  Fifteen minutes after we arrived at the shop, he had the Tor download completed and the Darknet up. He logge
d into an online forum—headed by a stylized Black Ops bunny graphic with a leery evil grin—then typed a username into the search box. What he pulled up looked like an online shopping page, but the classification system made it clear that this Wonderland was even darker than the one Alice stumbled into. Categories like Food and Gardening were listed next to Pharmaceuticals and Firearms.

  “Gun runners,” I said.

  Kenny looked offended. “Not all of them. Some are patriots.”

  “Patriots avoiding background checks and ATF restrictions, which means criminals.”

  “Not always. People come here because they can participate in a commerce system outside of government control.”

  “And yet illegal goods seem to be the main draw.”

  I clicked on the category for pharmaceuticals—it featured twenty-seven subcategories, including Opioids, Psychedelics, and Cannabis—but nothing for skeletons. Kenny was ahead of me.

  “Click Etcetera,” he said.

  I did. Skulls. Human hair. Mummified hands. Each of them detailed with a precise description. One skull was so small it would have fit in the palm of my hand, and I had to fight the urge to look away from the screen.

  “Lucius traded with White Wolf through this site?”

  He nodded.

  “How does that work?”

  “The site uses bitcoin, a cryptocurrency. You click this box and a message goes to the contact with your username, and they send you a message back if they’re interested in buying. If so, the buyer sends a bitcoin payment to your account, and the seller ships the merchandise.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. “Like through the post office?”

  “That’s the most dangerous part. The rest of the transaction is untraceable.”

  “So where did Lucius have his drugs shipped?”

  “The skate shop mostly. Until Fishbone got mad and wouldn’t let him anymore.”

  I’d known the answer before the words got out of his mouth. I was half-listening anyway, more fascinated with the screen. It really was a psychedelic version of Amazon. There was even a little online shopping cart. Sellers with names like Elvish226, Jackleg, and…

  “There’s our buddy White Wolf.” I peered closer. “Omigod, he has an approval rating.”