Darker Than Any Shadow

Chapter Twenty-one

Carmichael Celebrity Services LLC listed among its regular clients several basketball players, a couple of carpet-bagging Broadway actors, and a few L.A. musicians. They catered to a specific niche—out-of-town celebrities in need of an Atlanta-specific temporary entourage. I wasn’t a celebrity, so it was a bit of luck that the guy I wanted happened to be in the lobby. I recognized the ebony skin and coyote eyes immediately.

He smiled my way. “May I help you?”

I smiled back. “Maurice Cunningham?”

“Speaking.”

“Wow. You were ridiculously easy to find.”

No hoodie this afternoon. Instead he was impeccably tricked out in a slate gray suit with faint pin-striping and a dashing close-to-the-body cut. A suit for showing off, with a crimson tie like a mortal wound completing the package

I fingered the tip of it. “Silk, very nice. What do you call that color? Oxblood?”

The smile dampened. “Excuse me?”

“My boyfriend only wears black and white. You remember my boyfriend, right? Y’all got briefly and violently acquainted at Lex Anderson’s memorial.”

Maurice froze. “What do you want?”

“I want to sit and talk like civilized folks.”

He herded me into a corner behind a potted palm. “Frankie told you, didn’t she?”

“Told me what?”

He started to reply, but then turned to go. I blocked his escape. “Do your fancy bosses know about your arrest last night? Or the weapons charge that didn’t take?”

He stared, his narrow eyes calculating. “What will it take to make you go away?”

“Some explanations.”

“Not here.”

“Then where? And don’t even suggest some dark out-of-the-way alley at midnight, because—”

“The Sun Dial at six. You’re buying.” Maurice looked me up and down. “Ask your black-and-white boyfriend for some fashion tips before then.”

***

I was ten minutes late getting to Phoenix Corporate Security Services. Since the downsizing, it looked even more like a law firm than a corporate security agency, which was exactly what Marisa wanted, I suspected. The landscaping was still precisely groomed, and a fountain still burbled discreetly out front. Only half of the parking spaces were filled, however, and the overall effect lacked its previous monied sheen.

Trey’s new office was smaller and no longer had a slice of Midtown for a view. The décor remained the same, however—black and white contemporary, meticulously spare, impeccably organized.

Marisa had him desk-bound, but Trey didn’t mind. Previously he’d been her pretty boy cover model, a highly coveted accessory that Marisa pimped out to the highest bidder. But Trey’s talents did not lie in his looks, no matter how the clientele swooned, and it was part of Marisa’s bribe to keep him at Phoenix that he got to be a desk jockey. But even though his job description had changed, Marisa had not. Hard-nosed as ever, she made him toe the line when it suited her whims. Today was one of those whims,

I sat on the edge of his desk. “But you said we’d have lunch!”

He went back to his spreadsheet. “I can’t. This is due at five.”

“But it’s right down the road.”

“I still can’t come.” He looked at me slant-wise. “Why are you going to Frankie’s art gallery for lunch?”

“Come with me, and I’ll tell you. And then I’ll tell you about my morning visit with Maurice AKA Vigil and the dinner I’ve planned for the Sun Dial tonight.”

He started to say something, but at that moment, Marisa came in the door. It was very much like the Titanic arriving, with a definite sense of big water parting, a heavy wake to follow. Today she was a perfect bookend to Trey—black skirt suit, white blouse, black heels, her white-blond hair in a no-nonsense chignon. And she was not happy with me.

“Tai. What a surprise.”

I threw up a hand. “Hey, Marisa.”

She ignored me and handed Trey a folder. “Sign these, then have Yvonne notarize them and put them in my in-box. Do it now.”

He slid a glance my way, but accepted the folders and left without commentary. Marisa shut the door behind him and faced me.

“Imagine my delight to see my top employee’s name in the newspaper, yet again connected with some sordid criminal dealings.”

“You heard.”

She leveled her gaze. “All of Atlanta heard. Fires, stabbings, a dead poet, and then some kind of altercation at a memorial service. Just another Fulton County weekend. Except for the part where I saw your name there. And Trey’s.”

“You know as well as I do that nobody picks this stuff. It happens and then you deal with it.”

“I know about dealing, believe me. And I know that Phoenix cannot afford to get plastered all over the news again. Neither can Trey. It might help your little firearms business for all I know—the redneck element might adore this sort of thing. So poke around to your heart’s content. But keep Trey out of it.”

“You mean keep Phoenix out of it.”

“I mean both. We’re not in the personal protection business anymore. Our focus now is behind-the-scenes loss prevention and asset protection. It requires discretion. I will not have him paraded around in some poetry smackdown—”

“Slam.”

“Whatever. I learned my lesson last time. Did you?”

Before I could answer, the door opened and Trey returned. He didn’t interrupt. Instead, he moved behind his desk, paperwork in hand. Waiting.

Marisa smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. “It was good to see you again, Tai. You take care.”

Trey watched her go. He looked a little annoyed, but mostly resigned. He sat down and pulled up his spreadsheet again.

“I’m sorry I can’t go to lunch.”

I shouldered my bag. “It’s okay. You can make it up to me tonight. Or maybe this afternoon.”

“What’s this afternoon?”

“A shopping trip. I have to get something to wear for tonight. And if you’re willing to spring for it, I’ll make it another short red dress.”

He reached for his wallet.