by Tina Whittle
She tilted her head in a fetching manner. “Do you still?”
Trey got this wary look, like Finn had been digging through his diary. “What do you mean?”
“There will be a press party Friday night on location in Adairsville—the usual gossip mag writers, plus people with money to invest who want to feel Hollywood-important. Nick wants to be there, Addison too. Now I know I can’t ask for you officially. Marisa would never go for it. But if you’re free, I’d love to have you onsite this weekend. So would Nick.”
Trey went a shade paler. “I don’t…I mean, that’s…”
“Nothing official. Just keeping watch behind the scenes, like my own private Wizard of Oz. And, of course, Tai would be there too. Just as unofficially.” She favored me with a knowing smile. “Which she’s very good at.”
Trey was not saying yes, even though he wanted to, very much. Investigating on his own was one thing. Investigating at Finn’s behest quite another.
“What would you need from me?” he said.
“Information. Presence. Insight.” Finn smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. “I can hire close protection and security consultants out the wazoo, but you’ve got an insider perspective none of them can match.”
She did know, I decided. All the complications of the case. Why it would be irresistible for Trey and invaluable for her. Trey sensed the deeper machinations too, though he couldn’t quite pin them down.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
“Good to hear.” She moved to get out of the car, fixed me with a look. “About Martinez…what did you do with his phone?”
I sighed inwardly. Oh well, I thought. Time to be a team player.
“It’s back at my shop.”
Annoyance flitted over her features. “Under lock and key, I hope?”
“Trey designed the shop’s security plan. There isn’t a more secure lock and key in the metro area.”
“Good. Keep it safe tonight. I’ll get it from you tomorrow.”
She exited the car, smoothed her skirt. Her blouse remained unwrinkled, her pantyhose unmarred by even a single run. Tonight she was corporate professional. Who knew who she’d be tomorrow? Only one thing was certain.
I’d be seeing her.
Trey gazed out the window all the way back to Kennesaw, letting the passing street lights and thrum of tires on pavement soothe him. Exhaustion had finally set in—I could see it in the set of his mouth, the bleariness in his eyes. He still sparked, though. Tiredness hadn’t tamped that down.
I swung out to pass a puttering panel van. “You are going to be in a heap of trouble if Marisa finds out.”
“Technically—”
“Marisa won’t give a hot lick about technicalities. Your ass will be grass.”
Trey’s hands rested in his lap. “If she finds out.”
“She’s the freaking CEO of a corporate security firm. Of course she’s going to find out. And then she’s going to ask you, point blank, what the hell you’re up to.”
“And then I’ll tell her.”
“And then?”
“She will most likely get very angry. But I’m accustomed to that now.” He turned to face me. “I understand this isn’t a rational decision. But over the past year, I’ve grown more comfortable making emotional decisions that don’t, on the surface, seem logical.”
Like being with me, he didn’t say. He didn’t need to. I remembered the Trey I’d met a year and a half ago. The clipped responses, the hesitation, the thick and impenetrable wall around his emotional castle. For reasons I still didn’t understand, he’d lowered the drawbridge and let me come galloping in.
“How are you going to do this without involving the police?”
That one flummoxed him. He had to think really hard. “If those are the parameters Finn needs, I can comply. I understand rules.”
“Yes, but you’re allowing Finn’s rules, and the Talbots’ rules, to override your rules.”
“No, I’m not. I’m simply choosing between two conflicting protocols.”
I didn’t bother arguing with him. Trey had some blind spots, but he knew his own tricks as adeptly as any magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. He could keep one foot in reality and one in illusion and not lose his balance. He was doing it again, rewriting his own operating manual.
“Chances are good somebody tried to poison Nick Talbot,” I said.
“Overdose him.”
“Same difference. It’s a matter for the police.”
“I agree. And if there was an overdose, and if it was intentional and not accidental, then combined with the attempted shooting, it would provide enough anecdotal evidence to open an investigation. Without lab results, however, the evidence remains circumstantial.” He frowned. “There is another problem with involving the authorities, however.”
“And that is?”
“I spent my free time today reviewing the files, including the transcripts from Nick’s interrogation. I compared them to my own notes, cross-referenced those with the OPS files.” His frown deepened. “Nick invoked counsel, but the interrogator convinced him to resume questioning without legal consultation.”
“But that’s not legal.”
“It is, as long as the continued questioning is approved by the suspect.”
“Nick agreed?”
“He did. He was under duress, however. I recognized the symptoms. He was contradicting himself. Repeating questions. He became agitated. Belligerent.”
I recognized those symptoms too. In Trey’s case, exhaustion or mental stress usually brought it on. In Nick’s? He’d lost his wife only to be blamed for her murder. I imagined myself in that room, alone, detectives at my throat, unable to contact the person I loved—the person who could alibi me—because our relationship was secret. I would have been megawatt belligerent. Like borderline homicidal.
“You think he was coerced.”
Trey turned his face to the window. “I think I understand why he would not want the police involved again. After I reread the transcripts, reread Price’s reports…” He took a long time getting to the next part. “I think I agree with him.”
I tried not to sound as flabbergasted as I felt. “Really?”
“Really. Price’s OPS investigation is ongoing because there are still…problems.”
“Dirty cop problems. Even in the cops who are supposed to be watching the cops.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, shook his head. He couldn’t even say the words. He’d been kidnapped and beaten by dirty cops. Those had been prosecuted. The ones Keesha was after still wore the badge. Knowing this ate at him like acid in the veins.
He released a deeply held breath. “What I am saying is this. This situation is more complicated now than it was three hours ago. So I understand if you can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Continue to help me.”
I remembered the way he’d kissed me, hard and hungry. I reached over and took his hand, rubbed my thumb across his knuckles, a reminder of where we’d left off. And then I adjusted my grip on the steering wheel, turning my wrist up to reveal the tattoo there—Trey’s name. I’d inked it on my pulse point during one of the darkest times of my life to remind me of what truly mattered.
“Remember why I got this?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Good. Don’t ever forget.” I kept my eyes on the road. “I told you once, and I’ll tell you again—all in, partner. Always.”
Chapter Twenty-six
I spent Tuesday back in business, which was brisker than usual in the square. The big magnolia had no flowers this time of year, but it gave good shade, making the spot attractive to visitors even if the benches sagged and the grass was patchy. The taqueria two lots down had started to draw some of the tourist crowd, who picked up contraband Moonshine tee
shirts two for twenty. The proprietors had installed a life-size prop poster of Portia, which had prompted lots of photos hashtagged with #LongLiveLuna. The storefront next to me remained vacant, though Raymond Junior across the square said he’d seen a Korean church group touring the place the week before.
Finn had called not long before closing time—she had our paperwork ready for this weekend, she’d said, though I had no idea what that meant. We were meeting her at the gym where Trey taught his women’s self-defense class. I hadn’t been in a while. I’d had lots of excuses. It was time to drop them and get back into training.
But first…I had a phone to break into.
So I called Rico, who was grumpy because he was at his IT job. He became extra grumpy when I asked him to help me crack Martinez’s passcode.
“Stop worrying,” I said. “It’s not technically illegal.”
“Whose is it?”
“This trespasser stalker type.”
“And why do you have it?”
“I confiscated it as per regulations.”
Rico laughed. “Now you sound like Trey. Except that Trey would not be violating another person’s privacy by snooping in a phone he wasn’t supposed to have.”
“You might be surprised.”
“Whatever. You got this phone in front of you?”
“I do.”
“Is it charged up and turned on?”
“Yep.”
He took me through the steps, an uncomplicated if somewhat counterintuitive process. In less than sixty seconds, the phone flashed to life, glimmering illicitly in the palm of my hand.
“That’s it?” I said.
“Yep.”
“Wow.” I swiped the screen and Martinez’s email app opened. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. And I mean that literally. I do not want to be involved in your shadiness.”
He hung up on me before I could explain. I was contemplating what to explore first when the shop phone rang. I cradled it between my ear and shoulder. “Dexter’s Guns and More.”
“Hey Tai, it’s Ray. I got a little situation over here.”
I went to the front window. Ray’s lunch crowd had petered out, though a few of the old-timers remained. It looked calm as a convent over there, but something had him spooked.
“There’s a fellow here,” he said. “Young, Mexican maybe. I mean Hispanic.”
Bless Raymond, he was trying. “Okay.”
“He’s been sitting at the table a while, looking out your way. Betsy Ann said she ain’t had no trouble out of him, except for him watching your place like a hawk. Said she’s brought him four sweet tea refills and one rib platter and he paid with a nice tip. But he’s still sitting there, nursing that drink.”
“This guy, he got a little mustache, one earring, like maybe he wants to be a pirate?”
“That’s him.”
Diego Martinez. Expanding his stalking résumé to include me. I slid my fingers into the biometric gun safe under the counter, and the lock chirped, flashed green, and opened. I stuck the phone inside and locked it back.
“I think I know what’s going on,” I said. “You care if I come through the kitchen and take a look at things? He’ll bolt if I come in the front door.”
“Is it gonna get rough?”
“I doubt it.”
He chewed on that. “A’ight. Come on, then. Betsy Ann will let you through. And I got some reinforcement under the counter, if you know what I mean.”
“It’s not gonna come to that.”
But just in case I pulled my .38 from under the register and slipped it into my carry bag. Then I made one more phone call.
My stomach growled as I pushed open the screen door. The kitchen smelled like dish soap, smoke, and a bubbling pot of Brunswick stew. Betsy Ann stopped picking the meat from a hog jowl to point into the restaurant area. I peeked through the door.
Yep. Diego Martinez in the flesh, eyes glued on my shop. He was still looking out the window, cleaning his teeth with a toothpick, when I slid into his booth opposite him. He whipped in my direction, eyes wide.
“Looking for me?” I said.
It took him a second to get his bearings. Then he tried to act all cool and nonchalant and menacing, which would have been more convincing if he hadn’t had a smear of maroon sauce under his nose.
“You have something of mine,” he said.
“The only way you’d know that—and know how to find me—is if you activated the tracking on it.”
He didn’t admit to anything. “It’s mine. I want it back.”
“Talbot Creative owned that phone the second you tried to take video with it. There were signs up warning you about that…if you’d come in the proper way.” I glanced out the window. “Oh, look. The cops.”
Diego blanched when he saw one of Cobb County’s finest rolling through the square. Deputy Butch—who nurtured a slight crush on me and was happy to oblige my request for a drive-by—crawled his cruiser past the shop, his buttermilk complexion shining even through the tinted glass. Diego did not bolt. He seemed to want to, though, so I gave him points for steadiness.
I propped my elbows on the tabletop, steepled my fingers. “It’s like this. I’ve got no skin in this game. But I do have access to everything you have on that phone. Pictures. Texts. If you’ve got tracking turned on—and you obviously do—I’ve got a guy who can tell me everywhere you’ve been over the last six months.”
He wiped his mouth and tried to look nonchalant. He’d gnawed the ribs down to bone and gristle, practically licked his plate clean. My stomach growled again, and I cursed under my breath. So much for intimidating.
“You know how this works,” I said. “You tell me what I want to know, I make sure you get your phone back. Eventually.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because it’s the only deal you’re getting.”
He came to his decision abruptly, leaned forward. “Addison’s in trouble. She has no clue how bad Nick Talbot really is. He was in some workshop she led for people in recovery, activated her savior complex big-time. I warned her about that, but she didn’t listen.”
Betsy Ann sauntered by with a sweet tea and fries for me, raised a questioning eyebrow. I nodded and she left, dropping a heavy glare on Diego as she did.
I picked up one of the still-sizzling fries. “You and Addison met at the Iowa program?”
“Yeah. She graduated before I did and moved down here for an adjunct job, started volunteering at the rehab center. We tried the long distance thing, but it didn’t work. We stayed friends, though, and swore if we ever got to L.A., we’d—”
“Wait, you and Addison were dating?”
“Dating? We were living together.” His eyebrows lowered. “If Nick told you different, he’s lying. Fucker lies about everything. Lying fucker.”
I chewed another too-hot fry and tried to think fast. This did not jibe with my previous information. Which meant that either Diego was lying, or Addison had sold Nick a fairy tale. I watched as Diego rattled the ice around in his empty glass. He didn’t look deranged today, just heartsick.
I reached for the ketchup. “Tell me how you found the base camp.”
“There’s this app. Star Track. It’s real-time, location-based.”
I knew the app. It claimed to supply notifications for specific celebrities, maps with directions to the location of said celebrities, links to every online gossip mag that existed, and an in-app search engine. It was a stalker’s virtual Swiss army knife.
“I had to find her,” he said. “Nick’s brainwashed her, just like the others.”
“The others?”
He looked frustrated. “Damn, you don’t know shit. Nick has a following. When he was in jail, when he was on trial, women wrote him. They proposed. They offered…whatever. The
y wanna make a bad boy good, you know what I’m saying? There’s literally hundreds of them in the Nick Talbot group.”
“That’s in Star Track?”
“Yeah. It’s how I…you know. Found him.”
So someone in the group had insider information. I made a mental note to myself: look up the Nick Talbot group. I unloaded too much ketchup on the fries and tried to still look serious. “Am I gonna find anything incriminating on that phone?”
He gave me a hangdog look. “I’ve got some pictures of Addison.”
“Pictures you took?”
“Yeah. Nothing creepy, just…you know. Her.”
“Did Addison know you were taking these pictures?”
“Some of them. I mean, we were together for almost a year.”
“But she doesn’t know about all of them.”
“No.” He looked at his lap, trying to tamp down the anger and humiliation, then raised his head. “You’re not one of them, are you?”
“One of who?”
“Nick’s people. You’re not paid to look the other way, are you?”
“I’m not paid for anything.”
He nodded, bit his bottom lip. “All right, so do what you have to do with the phone. But I had to try. Addison’s in danger. And she won’t talk to me anymore, so…I had to do something.”
His eyes were pleading. Behind the counter, Betsy Ann dumped a flat of silverware in a plastic bin, creating a racket, letting me know she was there if I needed her.
“I’ll do what I can about the phone,” I said. “But you gotta stay the hell away from Addison and Nick in the meantime. I don’t care what happens.”
“Whatever. Just make her understand. Please.”
My cell phone beeped, warning me that it was time to hit the road. I wrapped a napkin around my fries as the cruiser snaked through the square again. Deputy Butch, protecting and serving.
“I’ll do what I can,” I said.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The gym where Trey taught was old-school iron and sweat. I spotted Finn in the parking lot waiting next to her Jeep. She was back to what I was beginning to think of as her template look—jeans and tee, no makeup, hair sticking up in blondish points.
