Necessary Ends

by Tina Whittle

  “They?”

  “The producers.”

  “Meaning your brother?”

  “He’s one. But there’s a whole board of them, not just Quint.” He shook his head. “Addison’s the biggest talent on this lot. Without her, Moonshine would be just another supernatural bloodbath. But producers think like producers, not artists, so they’re not telling her crap.”

  “You were a producer too. Back in California.”

  Nick busied himself with a jar of brushes, sorting and examining. “I was.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Backstabbing and mind games? No. I leave that to my power-junkie brother.”

  “Who abandoned a group of high-level investors, it seems. Is that typical?”

  Nick propped an elbow on his knee. “You’ll have to ask him. I’m sure he’ll give you a big important earful. Just don’t let Portia see you getting too close. My sister-in-law is a suspicious woman, and I haven’t told her about Friday night, so—”

  “Did you say sister-in-law?”

  His eyebrows knit in puzzlement. “Portia is Quint’s wife. Didn’t you know?”

  A club cart zipped next to Portia. She hopped in, and it hauled her down the twisty paved road toward her next shoot. A battalion of techs and runners and other second-tier crew jogged in her wake.

  I shook my head. “I knew your brother was married. I didn’t know it was to the star of the show.”

  Nick laughed as he stood. “Mr. Seaver didn’t prep you very well. You should complain. Of course Portia went by Patsy during the trial, when she was a nobody, so I understand how he could miss the connection.” Nick hoisted his kit, then started walking toward a cluster of tiny trailers, less sleek and silver than the massive ones I’d first seen. He looked over his shoulder at me. “You coming or what?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The inside of the makeup trailer was empty except for the two of us, and it was still close quarters. Nick plopped his kit on a table crammed with cans of hairspray and rows of makeup brushes. It smelled like a cross between a nail salon and my high school chemistry lab, bright with marquee lights surrounding a wall of mirrors. He went to a table in the corner where an electric kettle perked next to an assortment of tea boxes. I recognized all of Trey’s favorites—Darjeeling, green, rooibos.

  Nick spooned loose leaves into an infusion ball. “Would you like some?”

  I wrinkled my nose. It smelled like wet hay and mushrooms.

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  He laughed as he dropped the ball into a mug and poured hot water over it. “Pu-erh. It’s an acquired taste. I haven’t actually acquired it yet, but Addison says it’s got electrolytes and lipo-somethings, so I drink it. I have regular flavors too. You like vanilla?”

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  As the tea steeped, Nick flung himself into a salon chair. I sat on a red velvet stool, the only other seating in the room, my feet inches from his. Images of the crime scene photos kept flashing in my head.

  Nick swiveled in the chair. “You’re wondering why, aren’t you?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why I set up this interview.”

  I tried to get comfortable on the stool. “It has crossed my mind.”

  “I did it because somebody tried to kill me. I need to know if Officer Seaver is that somebody.” He laced his fingers over his stomach. “Why did he say yes?”

  “Because you threatened him.”

  Nick scoffed. “He was a SWAT bad-ass then and he’s some kind of private security bad-ass now. He’s not afraid of me. So why did he agree to this?”

  Just then I heard footsteps coming up the rickety metal stairs, quick, followed by three solid knocks. Impatient knocks.

  “Ask him yourself,” I said.

  Nick stopped spinning in the chair and pulled a medicine bottle from his pocket. Herbal relaxants, the same kind Trey carried. He grabbed for the still-steeping tea, cursing under his breath.

  “You okay, Mr. Talbot?”

  “Call me Nick. Maybe not. Too late for that now.” He washed the pills down and cleared his throat. “Door’s open.”

  Trey yanked the door with more force than necessary, and the trailer rattled. He was still in his suit, though the trek through the parking lot had deposited a few stray grass clippings around the hem of his trousers. Nick stood up and slipped the pills back in his pocket, putting the chair between himself and Trey.

  I smiled. “You made it.”

  Trey looked my way. “I did.” Then he fastened his gaze back on Nick Talbot. “You have fifty-nine minutes.”

  Nick gave him a ghost of a smile. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  Trey didn’t reply. He wasn’t going to play this game. He was willing to let Nick reminisce, though, because he was watching him talk, concentrating on his mouth. Nick didn’t even know he was hooked up to a cranial lie detector.

  He shook his head at Trey. “Finn told me you’d never agree to this.”

  “Finn was wrong.”

  “So I see.” His hands were shaking, but his voice was stronger. “I knew you would, though. You made my life hell back then. I told her you’d jump at the chance to make it hell again.”

  Trey’s jaw clenched. “Fifty-eight minutes.”

  “Fine.” Nick sat back in the chair, balancing his mug on his stomach. “You think I’m a murderer. Fair enough. I think you tried to put a bullet in my head.”

  Trey’s expression remained bland. “I did not.”

  “Really? Well, damn. Guess I have it all wrong. Glad you straightened that out for me.”

  He kept both hands wrapped around his mug as he talked, tried to look casual and calm. But his pupils were dilated, and one foot tapped the floor in manic rhythm. He acted as if he wanted to get right up in Trey’s face. But there was a deep instinct that kept him from doing that, the same way it kept him from picking up a rattlesnake.

  “I started to call the police,” he said. “Show you what it felt like to be unjustly accused. But my brother reminded me of what happened last time. He reminded me that the APD still carries a grudge for me. And he was right. Because here you are, vindictive as ever.”

  “I’m here to see that justice is served.”

  “Really? Me too. How coincidental.” He blinked rapidly, but he didn’t break eye contact. “So. About that. What were you doing at ten o’clock on Friday night?”

  Trey’s voice was monotone. “I was asleep.”

  “Let me guess. Not alone.” Nick said this with a knowing look in my direction. “The irony of it all, you telling me you couldn’t have done it because the woman you were sleeping with says you were with her. What did you call it four years ago, when I said the exact same thing?”

  “A soft alibi.”

  Nick’s smile twitched, but did not fade. “Right.”

  It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps Finn had misinterpreted this entire setup and that I’d let Trey get drawn into a booby trap. I stood up and went to his side, but he didn’t look at me. He kept his attention on Nick, and I knew this was the moment he’d been waiting for.

  “Mr. Talbot,” he said. “Did you kill your wife?”

  Nick sighed. “Seriously? After everything that came out, you still think I did it?”

  “I do.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Then say it.”

  “Say what?”

  Trey’s expression never wavered. “Say you didn’t kill her.”

  Nick returned the stare. “I didn’t kill Jessica.”

  Trey froze. “Say it again.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  Nick’s voice grew more adamant. “I did not kill my wife. And I don’t know who did.”

  Trey went pale. Before I could speak, he
turned and pushed open the door. He took the steps two at a time, then hit the ground and started pacing. Not the thoughtful kind of pacing. The kind that happened when he was trying to bleed off a bunch of frustration before he exploded and took out a few square miles of humanity.

  I quick-stepped down the stairs after him. “Trey—”

  “He’s telling the truth.”

  “I guessed as much.”

  He pressed his thumb between his eyebrows, still pacing. This was not what he’d expected. He’d expected that Nick Talbot would lie, and then he’d catch it, and then the march toward justice and retribution would begin. Except for the inconvenient fact that Nick was innocent.

  “Trey—”

  “All the evidence. Every piece of it. I’m not…I can’t…”

  I put myself into his path. “Stop pacing and look at me.”

  He did both, and I breathed a silent sigh of relief. Good. He was listening and following instructions. I could work with that.

  I placed one hand against his stomach. “Deep breath. All the way in.”

  He inhaled, and I felt his diaphragm expand. I placed my other hand against the center of his chest, and his heart galloped against my palm. People came and went in streams around us, talking on cell phones, eyes on clipboards.

  “Now count with me,” I said. “You know the drill.”

  He swallowed, drew in a shaky breath. “One.”

  He’d talked me down in exactly this same manner many, many times, his hands grounding and calming, his voice like a clear white light I could follow out of the dark. I took him by the hand and led him to a folding chair next to the steps. He sat, elbows to knees, still counting on the inhales and exhales.

  I knelt in front of him. “Look. You came here with an idea. It was an idea based on evidence and experience, but it was an idea you made a long time ago.”

  Trey was breathing more steadily now. “Go on.”

  “Things have changed. You now know he didn’t do it. Which means you gotta let go of the idea that this is the day you finally bring Nick Talbot to justice.”

  He drew in a deep breath, let it halfway out, a sniper’s trick. “Yes. You’re right, of course.” Then he squared his shoulders, stood, and started back into the trailer.

  I grabbed his elbow. “Whoa, whoa! What are you doing?”

  He had one foot on the ground and one on the step. “I need to talk to him some more.”

  “Why?”

  Trey looked perplexed. “Because he didn’t kill his wife.”

  I should have seen it coming. We’d discovered that the man he’d decided was guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt, the man whose freedom irritated him like a splinter, was, in fact, innocent. Trey was still in the justice game, only now he had a different goal.

  I didn’t let go of his arm. “You sure this is a good idea?”

  “No. Do you have a better one?”

  “Not right this second.”

  “Okay then.” He disengaged himself from my grasp. “We’ll continue with this one.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  So we went back in the trailer. Nick had a cigarette going, and the air inside was bluish with tobacco smoke. My throat caught at the scent, and my fingertips itched. Nick jumped when he saw us, then blew a narrow stream of smoke in our direction.

  “You’re back.”

  Trey cocked his head. “You didn’t kill her.”

  “Of course I didn’t! That’s the whole point!” He tapped ash into an empty coffee mug and returned to the stylist chair. “Look, I sat through your testimony at the indictment, and I know what it looked like. Hell, if I hadn’t had Addison keeping me straight, I might have started thinking I did it too. But I didn’t kill Jessica. I loved her.”

  “Then why were you having an affair?”

  “Because Jessica didn’t love me.” He sucked at the cigarette, let the smoke wallow in his mouth. “She wanted a divorce.”

  “But you didn’t,” I said.

  “No, I was fine with a divorce. Not so fine with the money she wanted.” He examined the smoldering tip of the cigarette, and behind the softness I saw calculation. “How would you feel if you learned that someone you loved had been using you as a meal ticket?”

  “I’d feel pretty damn bad,” I said. “Bad enough to kill said someone, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah, but I’m sure you wouldn’t. I didn’t either.” He ground out the butt in the mug. “Have you ever done something you regretted? Because if you say you haven’t, you’re a liar. And if you say you have, and your life didn’t go to hell because of it, then you are one lucky human being.”

  I couldn’t argue with him there. He had a point. Life could go sideways in the blink of an eye, and playing it safe was no guarantee against tragedy. I glanced at Trey. He was listening, calmer now.

  “Tell me what happened that morning,” he said.

  “You know what happened.”

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  Nick sighed, patting down his pockets for a fresh cigarette. He fished one out and lit it, then told the story of his wife’s murder, starting from the top. It was a recitation, dispassionate, like he’d memorized the sequence of events.

  “And then I got the call. I went home and the police intercepted me.” He pointed the cigarette toward Trey. “The police being you. And then you handed me over to somebody in a suit, and he told me that Jessica was dead. And I don’t remember much else except the dawning realization that no matter what I did or said from that moment on, my life was ruined.”

  His life. He’d just learned that someone had murdered his wife, and all he could think about was himself. Not his dead brutalized wife. Not even his surely panicked lover. Himself.

  “They wouldn’t let me see her,” he said. “But that’s SOP, isn’t it? And then they asked me the same questions over and over.”

  “And you lied.”

  “At first. But only to protect Addison.”

  Bullshit, I thought. You lied because you worried that if the cops knew you’d been off banging your hot sidepiece, you would look like Guilty Party Numero Uno. You were trying to keep that secret in your back pocket.

  “And then you realized you needed her alibi,” Trey said.

  “Addison insisted. And she wasn’t lying, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  Trey remained unmoved. “I’m establishing the facts. And the fact is, you had no solid alibi except for her testimony.”

  “I didn’t know I’d need one.”

  Nick took one final drag on the cigarette, then dropped it into the mug. He reached for the pack as if he were about to fire up a third, but changed his mind. He folded his hands on his stomach instead, interlaced his fingers. His foot did not stop bouncing, and he continuously swiveled in the salon chair, back and forth, back and forth.

  Trey assessed his every move. Not once had his expression flared with that gotcha look, which meant that every word Nick had spoken had been the truth. So far.

  “Tell me about Friday night,” Trey said.

  “It was late, around ten, I guess. I didn’t look at the clock, but that’s what Quint said. Anyway, just when I got on the patio, I heard the shot.”

  “Only one?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I ran back inside.”

  I was itching to jump in, literally itching with the fierce desire to pull apart his story layer by layer and see what twitched underneath. But I wasn’t a part of this. This had nothing to do with me, at all.

  Trey didn’t move from his position in the corner. “Did you see anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Anything suspicious?”

  “No.”

  “Do you live there alone?”

  “Nobody lives there. Addison and I hav
e a place closer to the studio—that’s where she was when all this happened, at home working. The house technically belongs to Talbot Creative now, but Quint has it on the market. There’s a staging team coming tomorrow to get it ready. That’s why Quint was there Friday night, supervising the real estate crew. The Buckwild people left it in a big mess.”

  Trey looked confused. “The what people?”

  “Buckwild in Buckhead. You know.”

  Now Trey looked utterly baffled. But I knew exactly what Nick was talking about.

  “It’s a reality show,” I said. “Lasted three seasons before it was canceled this year. They imported twelve rural Southerners into a fancy Buckhead mansion and tried to teach them to function in the upper echelons of Atlanta society. Hilarity ensued.” I looked at Nick. “That was your place they used?”

  “’Used’ is the right word. We tried to sell it after the grand jury hearing—no luck—so Quint leased it to the Buckwild production company. But now that’s canceled, and he’s trying to get it ready to show again. Anyway, he needed me to fill out some paperwork, so I went. But he told me I couldn’t smoke in the house, so I went outside.”

  “Where outside?” Trey said.

  “By the pool. Next to the diving board.”

  “Were the lights on?”

  “Outside? No.”

  “What about in the pool?”

  He frowned. “Now that you mention it, yeah. Why is that important?”

  “I don’t know if it is.”

  Trey had his arms folded, his expression curious, calm. Some part of his brain was assembling a blueprint and a timeline, and every detail Nick shared went into its proper position.

  “Continue,” he said.

  Nick shrugged. “That’s it. I was standing there, cigarette in my mouth. I dug in my pocket for my lighter, heard this crack, high-pitched. And then this whistling hiss like something straight outta Gunsmoke.”

  Trey slid a look my way. Nick was describing a sonic wave. Suddenly, his story seemed much more plausible.

  “And you recognized that as a gunshot?” Trey said.

  “Oh yeah. I hear them all the time on the set. This one was far away though, not close. Not like right beside me. Which is why I thought sniper.” He pointed at Trey. “Which is why I thought you.”