Necessary Ends

by Tina Whittle

  “I didn’t say that.”

  I gave him a thorough examination. He was calm, curious. Whatever he had hidden, it wasn’t something dark and melodramatic. He was dangling it like bait, playing with me.

  “Care to make a bet?” I said.

  “What are you wagering?”

  “When I find out—”

  “If.”

  I tapped a finger on his chest. “When I find out, you have to come camping with me. In a tent. On the ground.”

  He flinched, tried to cover it. “And if you don’t?”

  “Then I will consent to getting the information the old-fashioned way. Word by word, straight from your lips. Even if it takes all night. Deal?”

  He considered. “Deal.”

  I stuck out my hand, and he took it. I grinned at him. “You are in such trouble, boyfriend.”

  “I know.” He tilted his head, and the spark in his eyes flared tender. “You’re smiling again. I’ve missed that.”

  That pulled me up short. He was right, of course. I hadn’t been feeling very smiley. But now…the light bill was still overdue. The DNA results were still in the drawer. The hornet’s nest of complications still hung from my family tree, poisonous and tricky and dangerous as hell. And now I’d heaped a new mess of complications on my plate. But strangely enough, I felt energized instead of worn down. I wasn’t sure what this said about me except that perhaps Eric was right—we all needed an outlet.

  “In the meantime,” I said, “we’ve still got a case to solve.”

  “Two cases,” he corrected.

  He was right about that too. The Talbots wove a tangled web spanning almost four years. But it was also the first time he’d called what we were doing a case.

  “And you,” I said, “need to buy a cheap suit.”

  “Apparently so.” He looked toward the door as the rest of his class streamed in, then back at me. “Are you staying here tonight?”

  Traffic from Buckhead to Kennesaw would be a nightmare in the morning. I’d have to get up stupid early. But the bed at Trey’s place was bigger and softer and full of Trey. And once he went to sleep, I would have free run of his employment files. I decided rush hour was Tomorrow Tai’s problem, not mine. She could deal with it in the morning.

  “Of course I’m staying,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Of course I regretted my decision to stay over once I was in the morning commute, relentless as usual. The weather was glorious as long as I kept the windows rolled up and pretended that the air quality index wasn’t creeping into the red zone. I checked the traffic on my phone. Two accidents, a gas leak, and construction. I was going to be on the road a while.

  Spending the night had been worth it, though, even if all we’d done was catalog the massive amounts of information we’d collected. I’d enjoyed watching Trey put it together, aligning this evidence with that circumstance. I hadn’t asked him any further questions about the firing, and he hadn’t offered any further information. At breakfast, he’d barely raised an eyebrow when he saw his employment folders sticking out of my tote bag, which told me two things: one, he was enjoying watching me scramble, and two, I wasn’t going to find the answer in the paperwork.

  Which reminded me.

  “Call Ritz Carlton Buckhead,” I said, and my phone dialed me through. I had to go through a receptionist, the bell captain, and a mid-level manager before I finally got to the assistant human resources supervisor. It took me thirty seconds to realize he was going to be of no help whatsoever.

  “Can you at least verify the dates that Mr. Seaver worked for you?”

  “No, ma’am. We are not authorized—”

  “But—”

  “Good day, ma’am.”

  The guy hung up politely but definitively. This was not surprising, but calling them had been a necessary first step. Now on to the second step…whatever that might be. I drummed my fingers on the dashboard. Traffic ground to a halt yet again, suddenly, illogically. I caught the reek of burning tires. It was going to be a long morning.

  At work, I sold ten boxes of shot cartridges to the same guy who bought them every week and who insisted every week that the government was rationing ammo. A reenactor client picked up his priming wire and blasting caps. Around lunchtime, I made another pot of coffee and jumped into an online auction on my computer, setting my sights on a left-handed officer’s sword with a presentation inscription, an unusual bit of militaria.

  My assistant Kenny watched the bidding with some interest. “That for Mr. Reynolds?”

  “It is.”

  “That means you can bid as high as you want, right?”

  I laughed. That was the fine thing about shopping for Reynolds, his wide-ranging tastes and generous wallet. Kenny put down the boxes he was unloading and peered over my shoulder.

  “What is that mess you’re watching on your phone?” he said.

  “Season One of Buckwild in Buckhead. In fast forward.”

  The show was as bad as I’d expected—pixilated nakedness, bleeped expletives, corn pone accents, and over-the-top theatrics in every way except for the fights. Those were honest-to-goodness redneck scrapping.

  Kenny scratched his head. “Looks like a bunch of people who weren’t raised right.”

  “Three seasons of it. Wanna grab some coffee and join me?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  He picked up his load, and I went back to the show. Somehow the producers had managed to find the crassest collection of Southerners to ever walk the green earth. They poured champagne in the hot tub. They made out on the buffet table. There were slapfights aplenty, mostly between Daizie and Daiquiri over Braydon, a tanned roughneck with a three-drink-minimum leer and a bleached-blond ponytail.

  I shook my head. “My people, my people.”

  I quickly discovered that the footage fell into four categories. The first two—confessional single-camera monologues and videos of the Buckwilders out on the town—were useless to me. There was also indoor video, courtesy of the cameras that Quint insisted the production team had stolen. I was interested in the fourth type, the outdoor scenes.

  “Come on,” I said. “Show me the corner behind the pool.”

  The camera operators were not cooperating. They trained their lenses on the parade of cleavage and ass, not the pool decor. Kenny brought in the last of the boxes.

  “What’s this show got to do with this weekend?” he said.

  “Background investigations.”

  “Oh.” He pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “I thought you said you were done messing with other people’s problems.”

  “Trey’s the one messing, and he has his reasons. I’m supporting him. That’s all.”

  Kenny dusted off his hands. “Whatever you say, Miss Tai.”

  He headed for the storage room, whistling. He was such a cheerful presence, good-natured and smart, a member of the local historical society and a skilled reenactor, or as he preferred to be called, heritage interpreter. I didn’t tell him that his extra hours had wiped out my bank account, that I was counting on the sword sale to Reynolds to fund our electricity for another month.

  I put that thought out of my mind and got back to the Buckwildness.

  The first season was a waste, with the field trip to the High Museum especially cringe-worthy. The second season managed to out-tasteless the first by hauling the Buckwilders to the Cathedral of St. Philip, which they kept calling St. Phil on the Hill. The third season was promising more of the same until the tenth episode, a Cinco de Mayo pool party with massive sombreros, mustache stickers, a mariachi band, and, standing right between the pool and the sunroom windows…

  A giant turquoise cactus.

  I hit pause. The cactus was easily seven feet tall and was covered in shiny bits of mosaic tiles. I could never get a good look a
t the base, but I would have bet my last dollar it was circular with a diameter of approximately two feet. It also looked familiar. I went back to the episode list and pulled up the field trip to an art gallery in Little Five Points.

  And there it was. The turquoise cactus. I hit pause. The name of the gallery was Expresso. I did a quick search, wrote the address on the back of my hand.

  “Kenny!”

  He stuck his head out. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You have the shop for the rest of the afternoon. Lock up on your way out, okay?”

  Little Five Points felt like hanging out with a slightly trashy best friend. It was the first place Rico had taken me when I’d visited him for the first time—we had mojitos and tacos at the Tijuana Garage and I bought a pair of go-go boots at the Junkman’s Daughter. I could still do those things. L5P was still dreadlocked and funky. But with its geography sandwiching it between two affluent neighborhoods, prosperity was booming whether anyone liked it or not. The infamous Clairmont Lounge was slated to become a boutique hotel, and the now-defunct Murder Kroger was being torn down with a twelve-story office building to rise in its place.

  The Expresso Gallery straddled the divide between gentrification and authentic homegrown weirdness. It sat at the corner of Euclid and Moreland, Atlanta’s very own Haight-Ashbury, and even though it was open, it appeared deserted. The walls were freshly painted with primer, still wet in places.

  “Hello?” I called.

  “Yes?”

  I turned around. A woman entered from a side door, her long brown hair held back with a bandanna. She wore overalls over a tube top, and buff paint smeared one cheek. A tattoo that said Goddess of Kush ran up the inside of her forearm.

  I showed her the image of the cactus on my phone. “Do you recognize this piece?”

  “Oh, yeah. Commercial. Derivative. Appropriative.”

  “Evidence.”

  She didn’t even blink. “Really? What kind of crime?”

  “A confidential one.”

  “Murder?”

  “No.”

  She looked instantly bored. “Oh well. That thing was one of LaLa’s.”

  “Can I speak to…her?”

  The woman popped her gum. “Him. And he’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yeah, it’s a rule. Loser doesn’t pay the rent, loser has to hit the road. Or course some losers will then deface the walls with crypto-fascist manifestos, and I have to spend my afternoon repainting.” She wiggled her nose like a rabbit, wiped her forehead with her forearm. “LaLa let the TV people borrow that piece, for the exposure. They returned it Saturday afternoon. I sold it to pay back rent.”

  “Can you tell me who bought it?”

  “This chick headed out to Burning Man. It’s going on her festival fire at the Playa and then the ashes will be scattered in the desert, symbolizing—”

  “That sounds great, but…” I tried to keep my smile steady. “It really is evidence. It can’t be burned.”

  The woman shrugged. “Outta my hands now.”

  “Can you give me the contact info for the person who has it?”

  “You got a warrant?”

  “No. I’m not a cop.”

  She folded her arms. “Then you’re out of luck. If word got around I was selling my mailing list—”

  “I don’t need your list. Just one name.”

  She shook her head. “Sorry. No can do. Not without—”

  “A warrant, right. I heard you.” I tapped my foot, thought a little harder. “This chick. You know how to find her?”

  The woman shrugged coyly. “Maybe.”

  “You think she’d be open to a resale?”

  “Maybe.”

  “How much would she want? Including the commission for yourself, of course.”

  The woman’s eyes turned cagey. How much could someone like me pay? She gave me the up and down, noting the khakis and plain white button-down, good leather boots worn all to hell, no jewelry except gold studs in my ears. Thank goodness she couldn’t see my bra, which was a La Perla cross-back that had set Trey back five hundred dollars, or she would have upped the price considerably.

  “It’s a stalking case,” I said.

  She stopped evaluating me. “It is?”

  “Yes. And I shouldn’t be telling you this, but there’s a life on the line.”

  I didn’t tell her the life belonged to a rich white male. That turned out to be a good move. I watched her eyes get hard.

  “Wait here,” she said, and put down the roller brush.

  An hour later I had a number, and a name, and an address. What I didn’t have was a check for thirty-six hundred dollars. I waited until I got back in my car to call Trey. He didn’t answer his cell, so I tried his work phone. To my surprise, I got a familiar female voice.

  “Hello, Marisa,” I said.

  Her tone was annoyed. “Is this Tai?”

  I tried to think of a better answer than yes. Failed miserably.

  I sighed. “Yes. Could I please speak to—”

  “Where’s Trey?”

  “What?”

  “It says on his calendar that he’s taking personal leave. I assumed that meant with you.”

  Oh crap, I thought. Now she’s suspicious.

  “He mentioned he had errands to run,” I offered.

  “Like what?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Really? And I thought you two were bound at the ankles, like some kind of two-person chain gang.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was angry or just her usual ice queen sarcastic. I was the thorn in her side, after all, corrupting her famously reliable premises liability agent into someone who didn’t always snap to at her command.

  I forced a laugh. “Ha! Well, gotta run. Nice talking to you.” Then it hit me. “If he’s not there, what are you doing in his office?”

  “Answering his phone,” she said, and hung up.

  So I tried Finn. That call went straight to voice mail. In desperation, I tried one more number. To my astonishment, Nick Talbot himself answered.

  “Hello?”

  I cleared my throat. “Mr. Talbot—I mean, Nick. It’s Tai Randolph, Trey’s partner. I need you to buy some art.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Nick told me to meet him at the production studio, a warehouse-looking building in the middle of an industrial park. I pulled into a deserted parking strip, then followed the sidewalk past a row of crepe myrtles until I reached a gray metal door. A sign warned me not to enter if the red light was on. It wasn’t. I knocked, and heard footsteps coming.

  Nick opened up. “Hey. Come on in.”

  I followed him into a room the size of an aircraft hanger, echoing and dark. It smelled of dust and machine oil, with lighting grids like giant metal spider webs on the ceiling.

  “Nothing going on today,” he said. “All the action’s up in Adairsville, getting ready for the press party, so I’m minding the store while the important people do important things.”

  He took me to a tiny office crammed with plywood furniture. Pale blue walls didn’t match the brown carpet, which wasn’t even a fancy brown. It reeked of closeout sale, as did the bargain-basement cabinets. The only decoration was a color-saturated poster for Moonshine, this one featuring Luna in profile against a red moon, a feral gleam in her eyes, the LeMat revolver on her hip. She looked lean and ruthless, dangerous as a lit fuse, a white-blond braid snaking over one shoulder.

  Nick shut the door and sat behind a drawing table. He smiled crookedly. “Welcome to the heartbeat of Talbot Creative.”

  I sat opposite him. “Y’all didn’t go for flashy, I see.”

  “Not even a little. We didn’t expect to be here for very long, frankly. Now that Moonshine’s taken off, we’re expanding to the bigger facilit
ies down the road. We’ll get actual leather chairs then.”

  Except for a still-swollen eye, he looked well. Maybe a little paler than usual, but not sickly. He noticed my examination.

  “IV fluids and a good night’s sleep. Liver enzyme tests came back good.”

  “So…no overdose?”

  “The doc says something went wrong, that was for sure, they just don’t know what yet. Finn says those tests will take longer. Titrating out the something-something.” He stifled a yawn, reached for his mug. “Addison now keeps all my food and beverages in her office. Locked. Even I can’t get to them. She is not a happy camper. But enough…” He smiled again, blandly. “So I’m buying art today?”

  “Yes, but not for artsy purposes. Trey’s theory is that this particular piece of art caught the bullet meant for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Big turquoise cactus. With mirrors.”

  He looked startled. “Wow. That’s uh…unmistakable.”

  “Did you notice it that night?”

  “No. But it was dark. And I was in stealth mode, you know? In my bubble. Trying to keep out the negative energy.”

  I did know. Trey sometimes had difficulty with his bubble too. If Nick had been focused on just getting through the evening, his would have been pretty thick, almost impenetrable.

  I shook my head. “Why did you go? You knew it would be hard.”

  He fiddled with a pencil, eyes down. “I wanted to bury that whole episode, finally and for good, and I thought it would be easier with Quint there. He’s very no-nonsense, you know. So I told Addison I was running an errand here at the studio. I left her at our place steady working.” He exhaled through pursed lips. “I came clean with her the night of the crash, told her everything. She was so mad. But mad as she was—at me and Quint both—she agreed to keep the police out. She saw what happened last time the APD got their hooks in me.”

  I remembered Trey’s analysis. I couldn’t blame Nick for wanting to avoid another interrogation. I also couldn’t tell him that Addison had lied to him as well, that she wasn’t at their place the night of the shooting. Maybe he already knew. Maybe he was providing an alibi, protecting her the way she’d protected him when he was accused of Jessica’s murder. Regardless…