by Tina Whittle
Oliver continued. “So Quint made a deal. He offered the gamerunners corporate shares in Moonshine as collateral.”
“He can do that?”
“He’s an executive producer. He can do whatever he wants. With the proper tools, of course.” Oliver waved the cigarette. “Have you ever seen a studio contract? It’s a maze, a tangle of legalese and loopholes. You can make money appear and disappear at will, depending on how you define your terms. Back end deals. Gross versus net. Shares versus stock.”
“Can you prove this?”
“Of course. You met them at the party. The three men at Quint’s elbow all night. Well, until the unfortunate surprise nuptials cut the event short.”
I remembered them from the photo shoot too. Three men, well-groomed. Important investors, Bree had said, especially interested in Portia. Especially keen on talking to Quint.
“Racketeers take movie studio shares as collateral?”
“They’ll take anything of value, hence the vanishing of Quint’s Jaguar. And my own vehicle, the sons of bitches.” The cigarette shook between his fingers. “But the shares are legit, a very solid investment. They know that. They also know that without Portia, the series will tank. So they want guarantees that she’s staying.”
“Which Quint can’t provide.”
“Of course he can. Portia’s still under contract, so if she ever wants to work in Hollywood again, she’s not going anywhere unless Quint lets her go. Which he is most decidedly not doing.”
“Is that why he ramped up the script schedule? To assure his investors that Mad Luna Malone remained a part of the series?”
“Yes.” Oliver put the cigarette to his lips and spoke around it. “Quint’s tapped out. He’s emptied his own savings, emptied the company. Emptied Nicky’s accounts too. It’s quicksand, and as soon as Addison gets access—which will be any day, now that they’re married—the whole shebang comes crashing down.” Oliver shook his head. “Quint’s destroyed Talbot Creative, and he knows it. All the embezzlement, all the laundering—”
“That you helped him do.”
“I never said I was innocent. But these people coming after us are stone cold killers. They murdered Jessica, then they tried to kill Nicky, and—”
I waved a hand at him. “Wait wait wait…what did you just say?”
Chapter Fifty
Oliver let the smoke trickle out the corner of his mouth. “You heard me. They killed Jessica. What, you think this is the first time Quint’s gone into arrears? Please.”
Trey stared. He was calmer than I’d expected, but I could see the turmoil in his face, sharpened by that irresistible need to know, to understand, and to punish. He was close, and he could taste it.
He stepped forward. “Why Jessica? She was Nick’s wife, not Quint’s.”
Oliver stubbed out his first cigarette in a wine glass, pulled the crumpled pack from his pocket. “They were having an affair. Quint and Jessica.”
It took me a second to get my bearings after that revelation. There had been rumors of affairs, but not with Quint.
Oliver smiled wryly. “Don’t look surprised. Jessica got around, everybody knows that. And Quint hates Portia. Everybody knows that too. He can’t divorce her, though, or she’ll find out how much he’s ransacked their savings. And she can’t divorce him because that pre-nup she signed puts her on the streets wearing a paper bag, so they’re stuck with each other. Some days I think the only reason they get up in the morning is so they can hate each other even more.” He fished another cigarette from the pack with trembling fingers. “But killing Jessica got Quint’s attention, let me tell you. He straightened up and flew right after that. For a while.”
Outside I heard the lawnmower approaching. Oliver jerked, almost dropping his cigarette. He was on edge. So was Trey. But Trey was handling the interview, edging it closer to interrogation with every question out of his mouth. The mystery of who killed Jessica Talbot was being revealed right in front of him, piece by dirty piece. The emotional wallop must have been seismic.
“Did Nick know about the affair?” he said.
“No. I doubt he would have cared regardless. He was obsessed with Addison, still is. But if he knew why Jessica was killed…I don’t know what he would do. I wasn’t joking about his mental instability.” Oliver fired up his lighter, cupped his hands around the fresh cigarette. “Quint didn’t want Nicky to know that the same people who killed Jessica were also responsible for the bullet that almost killed him.”
Trey glared. “That’s why Quint has refused to go the authorities.”
“The police would have discovered everything. Quint decided the best place for Nicky was the institution. No one could get him there.”
I felt a flare of anger, and the words spilled out before I could stop them. “The missing cameras. Quint took them, not the Buckwild people. He needed to discredit Nick’s story, but those cameras proved that there really was a shot.”
Oliver stared at the burning tip of the cigarette. “Yes. So he hauled them to my place and bashed them to rubble with a baseball bat. Then he left the mess for me to clean up, the detestable bastard.”
“Is that what you and Quint were arguing about that night? At the Talbot house?”
“That was one thing. I was also very unhappy about Nick’s accident.” He looked down at his hands. “Quint used one of Portia’s herbal concoctions to drug Nicky. I’d told him this was a terrible idea, but—”
“He tried to kill his own brother?”
“Kill him?” Oliver looked at me in horror. “Of course not! He didn’t know Nicky would be driving that night. Addison always drove. No, he only wanted Nicky back in the institution, where he’d be safe.”
“He let his own brother think he was crazy—”
“Nicky is crazy! He needs to be institutionalized!”
“Which would conveniently allow Quint to retain control of his brother’s assets.”
Oliver shook his head. “There aren’t any assets, not anymore. But it would prevent anyone from discovering that unfortunate fact. All we had to do was postpone the conservatorship transfer and keep Portia through next season, and Moonshine would have filled the coffers and nobody would have been the wiser.” His eyes hardened. “Can we move to the part where I get protection now?”
I ignored his question. “What about the barn? Another scheme to make Nick look crazy?”
Oliver didn’t deny it. “Yes.”
“You left his cigarette butts to implicate him.”
“Quint’s idea. The acetone too. I was supposed to say that I saw Nicky hanging around there, but…” He closed his eyes. “I’d decided I’d had enough. I was leaving this fiasco and heading back to the city and then…hell, who knows what. I’m not constitutionally suited to go on the lam. But then those criminals came rolling up, and I had to shelter in the goddamn woods.”
“You left the barn door open. Why?”
“So the animals could escape. Why else?” He gave a rueful smile. “Remember that when there comes a recitation of my crimes and sins. I may have burned down a barn, but I couldn’t incinerate an innocent pony.”
I didn’t tell him his attempt had failed. Trey didn’t either. Instead, he motioned for me to follow him into the bathroom out of Oliver’s earshot. I did, positioning myself so that I could keep an eye on Oliver. He had resigned himself to our custody, it seemed. He sat on the edge of the armchair, legs crossed, staring out a window that had all the blinds drawn.
Trey got Jonathon on the radio. “Get Quint and Portia and put them in the check-in station. Keep them separate and do not let them leave until the authorities arrive. There have been developments. Restrain them if you must. Also, there is a group of men, three investors—”
“They’re gone, sir. They left last night, right before the altercation in the parking lot.”
Trey closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. “Unsurprising. How many guests remain?”
“Very few, sir.”
“Good. Lock the valet podium in the office. If anyone else wants to leave, hand deliver the keys and check IDs. But first, find Quint and Portia. They are your priority, and may be targets themselves, so adjust the protocol accordingly.”
Jonathon replied in the affirmative and signed off. Trey stood still, brow furrowed. Even if he didn’t have his cranial lie detector, he had an instinct for truth. And Oliver’s story was adding up in some places, but jarring in others.
“You’re thinking the same thing I’m thinking,” I said. “That bullet wasn’t meant for Nick, it was meant for Quint. And Quint knows it.”
“It’s a valid theory. The shot was fired as Nick approached the pool. He was in darkness until that moment, but the shooter didn’t wait for clear ID because there wasn’t supposed to be anyone else at the house.”
“Because the shooter knew Quint was there, but not Nick.”
“Correct. In the shadows, they looked alike.”
“Which explains why there wasn’t a second shot. Once the shooter knew it wasn’t Quint, he backed off.” I shook my head. “That sick son of a bitch. First, he convinces Nick he’s in danger. Then he overdoses him. Then he plans to blame him for arson. All of it so that Nick will get put back in the institution and Quint can keep control of his finances, not that there are any. He’s a twisted—”
“Yes, he is. But something is not making sense.”
“What?”
“Underground poker gamerunners don’t murder, not even those connected to organized crime. Garrity worked major crimes for ten years, and saw only one assault due to unpaid debt. There are better ways to coerce people into paying.”
“But you saw the video in the valet lot. Those car thieves came out guns blazing.”
“And hitting no one, not even Oliver, who did not present a difficult target. They weren’t interested in hurting people. They were interested in stealing cars, nothing more.”
I looked back at Oliver. Still nervous, chewing his lip now, his foot jostling as he stared at the window with the blinds drawn. He’d been a sitting duck and had managed against all odds, through zero skill on his part, to still be alive. He’d bought Quint’s story about the homicidal loan sharks, believed it with his whole devious heart. But the pieces weren’t adding up. I started to go back into the room, but Trey put his hand on my elbow.
“No. We’ve asked enough questions for now. We have to wait for the authorities. Everything he says to us is hearsay and not admissible in court. He needs to be Mirandized and properly processed.”
I cursed under my breath, but I knew Trey was right. Oliver was a valuable witness, and considering what had gone down at the previous grand jury trial, every bit of evidence and testimony needed to be as pristine as possible. But damn did I ache to interrogate him.
Trey’s radio crackled. It was the valet, the real valet, not one of the covert operatives. He was breathing hard, practically panting. “Quint Talbot is gone. His wife too.”
Trey pushed past me into the bedroom. “They weren’t in the cabin?”
“Jonathon went to get them, but it was too late, and then they showed up here five minutes ago and stole a car and took off. He’s sending me your way right now. He said to tell you it’s a possible hostage situation, that he needs you back up front.”
Trey yanked open the front door. “Which way did they go?”
“Toward the golf course.”
Beyond the golf course was the main road—they were making a run for it. The valet hit the porch at a dead run, radio clutched in hand. He was young, barely out of his teens, wholly out of his element.
His eyes were wide. “Jonathon said I’m supposed to watch Mr. James while you handle the station. He said—”
“Were both of them in the car?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who was driving?”
“I don’t know.” He was getting his breath back, but his nerves remained shot. “Jonathon’s alerted the authorities. They’ve scrambled State Patrol on I-75.” And then the valet looked at me. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but…it was your Ferrari they took.”
Trey’s eyes flashed fire. “What?”
Chapter Fifty-one
The valet’s eyes widened. “Their Jaguar was stolen, sir. So they took Ms. Randolph’s car.”
Trey reached for keys in a pocket that wasn’t there because his jacket wasn’t there. He took a deep breath and let it out. The valet took a step back, but he didn’t drop his eyes.
“All the other keys were locked up, sir. But you left your jacket on the chair when you went to intercept Mr. James, and they tried to get into the key podium, but couldn’t, and then they must have seen your jacket on the chair and—”
“Yes, I understand.” Trey’s expression was unnaturally calm. “Thank you.”
The valet sent a look my way. No dummy, this guy. He’d figured out we were sitting on a powder keg, and not just because Quint and Portia were making like the Adairsville version of Bonnie and Clyde. Trey was dealing with a mess of his own making. He’d come running to my cabin in knight-in-shining-armor mode. Of course he’d left the jacket behind. He hated the jacket. Of course he had the keys to the Ferrari in his pocket. That was where he always kept them.
And now he was…I wasn’t sure.
I examined his features. He turned away and addressed the valet.
“Is the resort on lockdown?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Stay here with Mr. James, locks and alarms engaged. Do not answer the door under any circumstance until I have called in the all-clear, understood?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
Trey took off at a run for the check-in station. I cursed and took off after him. To my astonishment, it felt good to be running. I could feel the stress hormones feeding exertion instead of anxiety, my heart pumping fresh blood, my lungs pumping fresh air. I picked up the pace, surprised at how easily my body moved into the next gear. I felt animal. Alive. Ready for anything.
I hit the station door. He’d left it wide open, which meant he knew I was on his heels.
“Trey?”
“In here.”
I followed his voice. He stood at the bank of security monitors, scanning them. He handed me his phone without taking his eyes off the monitors.
“The Ferrari is still on the property. I activated the tracking signal.”
The red dot that was the Ferrari moved across the screen very slowly and erratically, two states I never associated with it.
“They’re definitely headed for the golf course,” I said.
“Yes, but they can’t get off the property that way. Two creeks and the lake border that end of the course. Their only exit point is through here.”
He pointed to the map of the resort. The ruins. They looked impenetrable, but beyond them lay the barn and the stables. A cut between those would take Quint and Portia through a flimsy picket fence and onto the road leading back to the interstate. And once they hit the interstate, they would vanish like lightning.
“So let’s grab the utility cart,” I said. “It’s sturdy and fast and—”
“Not yet. I need to know if we’re dealing with two suspects, or a suspect and a hostage.”
He had a point. Those were very different scenarios.
“Which do you think it is?”
He shook his head, agitated. “The answer’s right there. I’ve seen the answer. But I haven’t been able to put it together.”
I knew what he was feeling. Somewhere in the maze of motive and machinations, media and money, there was the thread of a solution. Unfortunately, the security camera footage was grainy and unhelpful. It showed Portia and Quint approaching the Ferrari, its lights flashing as it
unlocked for them. Trey’s jaw clenched. I understood. It was like watching a faithful dog lick the hand of an enemy.
He hit the freeze frame, pointed. “Quint has a gun.”
I peered at the image. Definitely a gun, most likely the .357 Trey had spotted in the golf clubs. But once the car was unlocked, neither he nor Portia hesitated. Quint threw himself in the driver’s seat and Portia climbed in the other side…exactly unlike a hostage. I noticed something else—she had her new carry bag with her, the one I’d picked out.
“Two suspects,” I said. “Portia probably has a gun in that bag, probably a LeMat.”
“Does she know how to shoot one?”
“I am sure she does. She pretended otherwise in my shop, but that was an act. Which I fell for, because the next day I sent black powder and caps and—what are you doing?”
Trey abandoned the array for the closet in the corner of his suite. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now I saw the keypad and the industrial lock, and I knew that nondescript closet for what it was—a weapons locker. He punched in the code and the door unlocked with a beep. He reached inside and snatched up two handguns, plus two mags filled with red and black projectiles, each one the size of a marble.
“Paintballs?”
He shook his head. “PAVA tens. Capsaicin powder. Like we used in the simulation, only not inert.”
Damn straight capsaicin wasn’t inert. A hit with one of those would guarantee hours of tears and mucus and hellfire. And Trey was loading up two handguns and a carbine rifle and shoving back-up mags in his pocket.
“Same specs as in the training,” he said. “Pneumatic. Semi-auto. Target accurate to sixty feet, area saturation up to one hundred and fifty, so don’t use it in an enclosed space.”
He snapped the magazine on the side of the rifle. The thing was ninja black and had laser sights. It looked as deadly as an AK-47, which was deterrent in itself.
He handed me one of the handguns. “Do you have your .38?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He started to move past me, and I grabbed his arm. “Don’t you think you should have something with some real bullets in it too?”
