Darker Than Any Shadow

Chapter Thirty-two

Back at the shop, I was surprised to see not five women on my doorstop, but one. And this woman was not happy.

I checked my watch. “I’m sorry, I thought we were meeting at five?”

The woman crossed her arms. “Obviously, you’re confused. I’m guessing this is a regular problem for you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You stole my source.”

I remembered her then, from Lex’s memorial. She had a sharp planed face and russet brown hair with an assertive flip. She was also about six feet tall, though most of that resulted from heels that required structural certification.

“You’re with the paper,” I said.

“And you totally stole my source,” she replied.

The guy at the zoo. I thought about playing innocent. Decided there was no use.

“Sorry. That just happened.”

“People say that about affairs, not about identity theft.”

“Whoa! I didn’t steal your identity! He assumed—”

“And you did nothing to correct this assumption!”

I put my hands on my hips. “There’s no reason to yell.”

“Trust me, this isn’t yelling.”

“And this isn’t contrition.” I thought about it. “How did you track me down?”

“I’m a reporter. It’s part of my skill set.”

“Yeah, I know but…for real, how?”

She laughed. “You’re all over the news, you and that python and that dead woman. Finding you was the easiest thing I’ve done all day.”

On the news, again. Rico was right—I needed a hairstyle.

I bumped the door open with my shoulder. “You wanna come in? You can tell me all about the news, and I’ll tell you all about that snake. And if the water’s back on, I can make coffee.”

She did want. And the water was on. So coffee it was.

***

She took hers black. I served it up in my new Frankie Styles mugs, and we took seats on opposite sides of the counter. She looked like the version of me that my parents always envisioned—smart, well-dressed, capable. A little sharp around the eyes but good-humored enough.

“Wikipedia not enough for you?” she said. “You gotta go straight to the reptile house?”

“I prefer the direct route.”

“No kidding.” She examined her mug. “Are you a collector?”

“Of two mugs. Everything else in her shop is out of my price range. What about you?”

“Me?” She laughed. “Two years ago, I covered her opening reception, the one at the High Museum. I bought a postcard.”

“Frankie’s work is at the High?”

She shook her head. “Not on exhibit. She rented the place for her opening.”

“You can rent the High?”

“If you’ve got the bucks. I covered the event for the paper, the subsequent auction too, the one where this particular work here went for five figures.” She examined the mug closer. “That always struck me as a bit too easy, you know? There were rumors she bought it herself as a PR stunt. But that wasn’t an angle my editor wanted to investigate.”

I spooned sugar into my coffee. “Where’s the painting now?”

“Anonymous donation to the Children’s Hospital. There’s probably a story there too, but that’s not my beat anymore.”

“What is?”

“Lifestyle and Entertainment, not the society stuff. Street level only. But occasionally, I get something with meat on the bone. Like this.”

She pulled out a copy of the AJC and threw it on the table, then indicated the byline with her finger. I leaned over and checked it out.

“Sloane Sykes.” I scanned the article. “You’ve been covering the slam.”

“I was. But now I’m covering the criminal goings-on associated with the slam, which have been plentiful and colorful.”

“That they have.”

We examined each other over our mugs, assessing and reassessing.

“So what did you want to know about pythons?” I said.

“Nothing. I already know about pythons. I needed the nice snake wrangler’s picture and some good quotes.”

“Then why are you hanging around my doorstep?”

“Because I want to know what this particular snake was doing wrapped around a dead woman. And why that has anything to do with Lex Anderson and an SUV full of allegedly stolen merchandise. And since you spent a couple of hours yesterday in the Atlanta Police Department’s interrogation room, you seemed the person to ask.”

I stirred my coffee. “Are we off the record?

“If you insist.”

“Here’s the crux of the situation—neither Lex nor Debbie was prepared to take care of a ten-foot apex predator.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning Lex didn’t find the snake, the snake found him.”

“How?”

I explained. I saw the point when she started to take me seriously as clear as day. Her expression sharpened, and she leaned forward, elbows on table.

“Can we go on the record now?”

“Depends on what you want from me. And what you’re willing to offer in return.”

“I want the heads-up on any developments in the murder case, including any jailhouse interviews should it come to that.”

I ignored the dig. “Which murder case do you mean, Lex’s or Debbie’s?”

She smiled. Suddenly she looked like an apex predator too.

“Haven’t you heard? They’re one case. There’s a serial killer stalking the poets of Atlanta.”

I stared at her. “Are you serious?”

“As serious as Frankie Styles. That’s her theory. Which she is telling every media source who will listen to her. And now that there are two deaths, there are many many sources lining up for a quote from her.”

I sipped my coffee. This was indeed news, and it was startling, but not surprising. Frankie was adept at fanning tiny flames into a PR firestorm.

“So that’s her angle, huh?”

“Why are you complaining? It’s not like you could be some serial killer.” She thought about that. “Actually, I guess you could. You were at both crime scenes.”

“Yeah. This is only good news for me if the Dead Poet Sociopath actually comes forward, otherwise…”

She grabbed her notebook and started scribbling. “The Dead Poet Sociopath. I like that.”

“That was off the record.”

“Whatever.” She stood and shoved her notebook in her fine leather messenger bag. “So that’s my deal. And in return for making me your exclusive media contact, I’ll give you a heads up on whatever comes my way through official channels—deal?”

I stood too, offered my hand. She took it. She had a firm grip, like someone I could trust. Too bad I didn’t. Still, at this stage in the game any opportunity was worth exploring.

“Anything else I can help you with?”

“Yeah.” She glanced at the display behind me. “Do you have any carry cases? I spilled a café au lait in mine. The gun’s okay, but the case smells like a Starbucks trashcan now.”

“What do you carry?”

“S&W Bodyguard.”

“Pistol or revolver?”

“Pistol.”

A woman after my own heart. Maybe this partnership was a good idea after all.

***

My previous searches for Lex had turned up only the persona. But within two seconds of looking at images for magicians in South Florida, I found him.

His name was Kyle Alexander. I had to squint to make him out, but even though the spiky black hair was combed neatly, it was definitely him. He was dressed for the stage in a dark blue silk shirt, with a black vest and black trousers. Not a hint of Goth. But I’d have recognized his expression anywhere, the sharp knowing appraisal that he brought to the stage. No wonder he could rock an audience—he’d had twice the practice, since he was in effect two people.

“Presto chango,” I said.

I was right about the top hat, right about the scarves and handcuffs. I was even right about the rabbit, a fluffy white creature straight out of central casting. But I’d been wrong to assume Lex hadn’t had a lovely assistant.

In the videos, she was petite and cute, with rolling waves of chestnut hair practically shellacked in place. A spangled halter dress emphasized a knock-out body, short and curvy. She smiled, a white and dazzling smile, as pretty a diversionary tactic as ever climbed into the box and got sawed in half.

I clicked on the included link. It took me straight to Kyle Alexander’s website. I examined his schedule of appearances, which—I realized with a prickle—had dwindled to almost nothing by the middle of August. My prickle turned into a full body ripple when I clicked on his last scheduled performance, a lunchtime gig in Tampa Bay the Wednesday before the debut party. I noted the details. And then I spent twenty minutes on the phone talking with Kyle’s last employer, a human resources manager in the Bay area who’d hired him to entertain at the company picnic.

When I hung up, I was certain of three things. One, the Tampa Bay show had been Kyle Alexander’s swan song. Two, no way he’d made enough money working the corporate magic circuit to survive, not with the recent meagerness of his bookings. And three, he had survived, which meant he was making money some other way, probably by selling stolen merchandise through Debbie’s online store.

So I sent Cummings an e-mail explaining everything with a helpful collection of links. I bcc’d Garrity. And Rico. And my new friend Sloane. Because like they always say, turn-about’s fair play.

I checked my watch. Only two hours before the open mike started. Time to get back to the city, dump off all my research at Trey’s, and get us out the door before the curtain went up and the poetic blood sports began.