Blood, Ash, and Bone

CHAPTER Twenty-four

The morning sun pierced the hotel room as Trey slipped his arms through the holster and adjusted the straps. “It’s immaterial. Neither you nor Reynolds could have come last night. The permit was for three, no more.”

Marisa stood in front of him—foot-tapping, eyes-flashing, bodice-popping incensed. She’d shown up at seven-thirty waving a piece of paper, ready to keel-haul her premises liability agent. Trey had been up for hours—running, showering, paperworking—but I was still in my bathrobe, reading the news, the remains of our room service breakfast still on the table.

“You should have told me,” she said.

“I did. I typed up the 302 this morning. That’s the protocol.”

“Don’t protocol me.”

I snagged another pastry. This was the problem with trying to work the rules against Trey. He would snatch them from your hands and beat you with them, expertly and ruthlessly.

Marisa put her hands on her hips. “So what happens to it now?”

“You mean the map?”

“Of course the map.”

Trey slipped his H&K into the holster, then loaded spare ammo into the holding pouch. “That’s up to the authorities. I assume it will be returned to Emmy Simmons when they’re finished with it. The Harringtons can approach her about purchasing it then, but I don’t think they’ll be interested since it’s most likely a fake.”

“Regardless, you can’t go gallivanting all over the city without telling me.”

“I was not gallivanting then, and I’m not gallivanting now. Tai is conducting a follow-up later this morning. I want to be there.”

“And the objective of this little Q&A?”

I picked up my coffee. “Hope’s behind the map, I know she is, but she had to have a partner, and I think I know who that is. And we’re going to talk to that person this morning.”

Marisa pointed to the newspaper. The headline read FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED IN LOCAL MAN’S DEATH.

“Someone who could be a suspected murderer?” she said.

I shook my head. “I don’t think Winston had a thing to do with that old man’s death—he runs tours, not assassinations. But I want Trey along to make sure he’s telling the truth when I ask him about it.”

I’d considered hard if Winston could kill. I thought not, but I wasn’t about to risk my neck on a guess. I had a logical reason to believe that neither Hope nor Winston had killed Simmons—they were the ones who had put the whole map scam in motion, and he’d stumbled right along their rosy path. Killing him made no sense. But they were behind the scam, I was sure of it. And I was using my suddenly free morning—and my surprisingly free boyfriend—to find out how.

Marisa slapped the 302 on Trey’s desk. “And how does this relate to your assigned duties?”

“I have no assigned duties until this afternoon. I’ll be back then.”

“I need you this morning.”

“No, you don’t.”

Marisa glared. I raised the newspaper. As gratifying as it was to watch Trey stand up for himself, I had the feeling there would be shrapnel flying any second.

I was right.

Marisa’s expression hardened. “I have about had it with you.”

“I know.”

“I’d replace you if I could. Right now.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. It was the first hint of reaction I’d seen in him since she’d stormed into the room.

“I know that too,” he said evenly.

Marisa closed her eyes, then rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t. Look at me.”

Trey scanned her forehead and cheekbones in that chemical-peel examination of his, pausing at her mouth. For some reason, lies lay especially heavy on the mouth.

“I don’t want to replace you,” she said. “You’re the best, and I charge accordingly, which makes you very valuable to me. But I don’t sell paperwork, Trey, I sell you.”

She placed one white hand on the inside of his elbow. He flinched, but didn’t move. He looked at her hand. And then he looked at her.

“Go on,” he said.

“I’m going to quote the Vulnerability Assessment Methodologies Report at you now, which says, in these exact words, that the quality and diligence of the assessor is the most important criteria in the success of any security plan.” She tilted her head and regarded him cannily. “And you, Mr. Seaver, are my assessor.”

He folded his arms. “My job description—”

“We’ve had this conversation before. You’re a field agent, you have fieldwork, and sometimes it will involve nothing more than showing up and looking pretty. And you will do this. Because it’s your job.”

He didn’t argue. But she’d gotten to him, I could tell, and I knew why. She’d used the phrase “showing up,” and in Trey’s world, showing up was everything. It was where he drew the big unbreachable line—people who showed up, and people who didn’t.

He exhaled slowly. “What do you need from me?”

She smoothed the front of her blouse, calm now in victory. “I need you to finish the tiered assessment, including cost analysis. I need you to coordinate with our current secondary vendors and make sure they have lines on the proposed budget.”

“I can do that.”

“And I need you to spend the afternoon with Reynolds.”

He opened his mouth, and she held up a hand.

“Not personal protection. He’s the linchpin to bringing off this tournament because he’s the only one who can convince Audrina it’s doable. Listen to what he wants, then figure out how to make it happen in a way that sticks with the numbers Audrina gave us.”

Trey raised an eyebrow. “And what about this morning?”

“You have four hours. I need you back here at noon.”

He nodded once. “I’ll be here.”

He went into the bedroom to get his notebooks and pens, the materials of his craft. He may have been strapped with a nine-millimeter and honed with Krav Maga, but in his bones, Trey was a math geek.

Marisa watched him go. Then she turned her gaze on me like a firehose. “I blame you for this.”

“For what?”

She pointed at the other room. “For that. He used to be my most reliable employee. Now I cringe when I see a 302 from him. What is it now? I wonder. Car chase? Dead body? Shooting? Did he really call Senator Lovejoy last night? Please tell me he didn’t.”

I put the newspaper back up. “That wasn’t Phoenix business. It was a personal favor, for me.”

“It involved Phoenix when it involved my premises liability agent in an ongoing criminal investigation.”

“Hence the 302 under your door.”

“He didn’t follow procedure!”

“Yes, he did. To the letter.”

She folded her arms. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

“Looks like my work has merged with Trey’s.” I nibbled my croissant. “And don’t act surprised. This is why you invited me along, after all—to poach my leads. Unfortunately, I found the map first, and I’m hot on the Bible. Try not to be a sore loser.”

Her eyes held a daggered loathing. “You think this is one big adventure. I suppose I might too, if my life revolved around a backwards little gun shop. Trey must take your mind off things.”

I lay the pastry on the plate and put down my newspaper. “I don’t think you want to start this fight.”

“I am itching to start this fight.” There was heat in her voice. “Unfortunately, I have real work to do. It’s not fun and games keeping Phoenix afloat, not since you darkened Fulton County with your presence.” She headed for the door. “I would say keep him out of trouble, but that doesn’t seem to be your M.O.”

“Trey has a mind of his own.”

“Indeed he does, as unique a mind as I’ve ever come across. I have the entire psychological profile on him, after all, compiled by your brother.” She narrowed her eyes. “I know things.”

“You know how to manipulate him.”

“So do you. But I know the dangers too, especially of dragging him into an investigation.” She made a little tsk-tsk noise. “Wish I could share that info, but it’s confidential, as I’m sure your brother has explained.”

She opened the door and tossed a look over her shoulder. “Be careful, sweetie. That’s all I can say.”

She turned on her heel and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Trey came out of the bedroom, fastening his cufflinks. He’d heard every word, of course. But his expression was clear and bland and utterly undisturbed.

He adjusted his already perfect Windsor knot. “Are you ready?”

***

We took the bridge to Bay Street under a blue sky as brilliant and wet as fresh paint. The clouds were still present, though, tumbled and billowy and moving fast, a portent of things to come. The tropical storm continued its offshore spin, sharpening its teeth on the warm Gulf Stream waters. Landfall was imminent, said the forecaster, although its target remained unpredictable. Until then, the Lowcountry was being blessed with a temporary stretch of benevolent weather.

But I wasn’t fooled one bit.

River Street lay four hundred feet below us down the sloping pavement-and-cobblestone incline, and since the day was adazzle with fresh clean light, tourists already clogged the area. Trey drove carefully, avoiding the oblivious pedestrians lurching from every sidewalk.

“Please tell me you didn’t fall for that drivel,” I said.

He frowned. “What drivel?”

“Marisa’s drivel. I know you heard her.”

He turned the car into Emmett Park, within sight of the Waving Girl. The woman depicted in the giant bronze statue—waving a flag at the incoming ships, hoping against hope for the return of her one true love—was a monument to lost causes if there ever was one.

“It wasn’t drivel,” he said. “She had valid points.”

“That she uses to manipulate you.”

“Regardless.”

He eased the car into the parallel space on the curb, uneven and pocked with puddles. It was a short walk to Winston’s shop. But Trey remained seated, his eyes on the steering wheel, keys in hand. Something percolating in his head.

“You can have access to the psychological profile she mentioned,” he said. “I’ll call Eric and sign the authorization paperwork as soon as we get back to Atlanta.”

I tried not to look startled. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. It’s mostly Eric’s occupational assessments. APD records and recommendations, the OPS transcripts.”

The Office of Professional Standards investigation, my brain filled in. On Trey, on the fatal shooting. The reason he resigned from the force.

“Your brother can explain more,” he said.

Are you sure you want to know? my brain countered.

I ignored my brain. “Marisa implied she knows something about you that I don’t, about why I shouldn’t involve you in investigations.”

“I heard.”

“Does she?”

“No.” He kept his eyes on the dashboard. “Investigation is not my strong point. But Eric has referenced no contra-indications to such work.” He turned to face me. “I’m not hiding anything from you. But there are things I don’t know how to talk about, not yet. Do you understand?”

I knew what he was telling me. It was the same thing Eric and Garrity were always telling me in oblique and nonspecific ways. Be careful, they said. Depths within depths. But I also knew my brother was as professional as they came. If Trey were a hazard, Eric wouldn’t have okayed him to work at Phoenix.

“I understand,” I said. “Just promise me two things.”

“What?”

“One, if I ever do need to know something, so matter how hard it might be to talk about, you’ll tell me.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

I pointed toward the statue. “And two, if you ever leave me, and I start standing on the street corner waving at every Ferrari that goes by, you’ll come back long enough to shoot me in the head. I’ll do the same for you. Deal?”

The corner of his mouth kinked in a suppressed smile. “Deal.” He opened his car door. “Shall we find Winston now?”