Darker Than Any Shadow

Chapter Thirty-six

My phone rang at six a.m, the noise splintering my sleep like a hammer on plate glass. I pulled the pillow over my head, but the ringing continued. Cursing, I threw myself out of bed and lumbered into the living room, snatching up my phone without even checking to see who it was.

“This’d better be good.”

“It is,” Garrity replied. “I’m hearing some interesting rumblings this morning, stuff I’m guessing you did not see coming.”

I pushed back a wave of nausea. Oh jeez, I was too old to survive such a hangover. I swallowed and closed my eyes.

“Interesting how?”

“Looks like your dead guy Lex was in a mess down there in Florida.”

“How big a mess?”

“Let’s just say that perhaps we dismissed the idea of an assassin a little too prematurely.”

“Garrity—”

“Read the paper. And go gargle or something, you sound terrible.”

***

I dragged on some clothes. Even the weak light of the rising sun felt like a steak knife stabbing my retinas. The heat didn’t help. I shoved my change in the newspaper stand and dragged the paper back to Trey’s. As the coffeemaker burbled and hiccupped, and the soul-salving smell of caffeine filled the kitchen, I spread the front page on the table.

The headline was succinct: “Tampa Connection Found in Dead Poet’s Hidden Identity.” Sloane Sikes’ byline appeared right underneath.

I skimmed it quickly. Apparently the FBI had jurisdiction in what was now a multi-state investigation into the deaths of stage performer Kyle Alexander, also known as Lex Anderson, and Atlanta woman Deborah Delray. The article went on to explain Lex’s professional association with several Florida businesses currently under investigation for their connection to organized crime syndicates.

Gangsters. The kind of people that didn’t play. Garrity was right, I hadn’t seen that coming.

I threw the rest of the paper on the table. “Bada bing.”

***

The remainder of the morning went swiftly if painfully. I went to work, where I nibbled saltines until the nausea cranked down. And then right before lunch, I heard the tinkle of the bell on the front door. I looked up to find Frankie standing there.

She had her hands on her hips. “Cricket came here on Tuesday. You sold her a gun.”

Great. Exactly what I didn’t need.

“Sorry, Frankie, I don’t discuss my client list.”

“Like a doctor, I suppose, another profession that traffics in life and death.” She surveyed the store. “I guess you’re not worried about getting involved. I mean, you’re not a part of the poetry community. You’re just the friendly neighborhood arms dealer.”

My hackles were rising. “I’m not in the mood to argue Second Amendment rights this morning.”

“I hope not. That would be really ironic.”

“Why is that?”

She glared at me. “Because I came here to buy a gun.”

***

I poured coffee. She cast a withering glance at my Sisters in Arms poster. “I’m not a vigilante.”

“Never said you were.”

“And I have large philosophical problems with what you do. But someone is trying to destroy our team, and I refuse to sit by and let them do it.”

“The police seem to think Lex’s killing has nothing to do with the team, that he and Debbie were assassinated because they were pilfering from some very bad men down in Florida.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Why not? Didn’t you read the paper? They have the online shop Lex and Debbie were using to move all the merchandise. They have Debbie’s bank records, and will have Kyle’s soon enough. They even found the pet shop that was going to buy the python, Pierre’s Reptile Emporium, and got that part of the story verified by Pierre himself.”

“So?”

“So the case is becoming airtight. What could possibly—”

“Because somebody broke into my house last night! That’s why I don’t believe this mafia nonsense!”

She threw the statement out like a gambler tossing down an ace-high straight. I tried to be sympathetic.

“Did you tell the police?”

“They said I surprised a burglar. I told them that this ‘burglar’ broke into my home and went through my things, but that this ‘burglar’ didn’t take my jewelry or my electronics. Which means—”

“How do you know the intruder went through your things?”

She looked at me like I was an idiot. “A woman knows. I’m being stalked, probably by the same maniac that killed Lex and Debbie. And I will protect myself, whatever it takes.”

To me, it sounded like someone looking for information, not violence. But I didn’t want to second guess female intuition. If it felt like a stalker to her, then stalker it was.

“I have to tell you straight, Frankie. Despite your best intentions, you pull a weapon, you might kill somebody. Are you prepared for that?”

She kept her eyes straight ahead, her chin level. “I am.”

I got out the keys for the gun safe. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“Something accurate.”

“Wait a second.”

When I got back, she was wandering the store, examining my goods with a critical eye. I let her poke to her heart’s content. I was patient. I even let her click on the TV in the corner to check the 11Alive noon update.

The dark-haired reporter had a steely gaze and broad shoulders, like Superman touching down to deliver a bit of breaking news. It was a rehash of everything I already knew—Lex was a thief, abruptly ditching his life in South Florida for vagrancy and barely getting by in Atlanta, perhaps pissing off several underworld types in the process.

“This makes no sense,” Frankie complained. “Lex’s death had nothing to do with gangsters! What about the attack on me? I’m not connected to gangsters!”

“Perhaps these gangsters think you know something you shouldn’t? Or have something you shouldn’t? Perhaps Lex the petty thief stole something that wasn’t petty after all, like that necklace that’s still missing.”

She shook her head. “Ridiculous.”

“Did you know Debbie and Lex were selling stolen property?”

Frankie made a noise of disgust. “Right. Like I’d tolerate that in my gallery. Debbie did nothing but cause me trouble. She deserved everything she got.”

The reporter was narrating against taped footage, a montage of familiar faces and familiar places. And then suddenly, something utterly new—a woman crying, her face pale and drawn, her dark hair pulled back from classically regular features. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on where I’d seen her.

Frankie was still griping. “And who hides from the mafia by becoming a public figure? It’s—”

“Shhh!”

I turned up the volume. The woman spoke haltingly, reading from a crumpled piece of paper. The subtitle below her image read Amber Hocking. Friend of Slain Poet Lex Anderson. Only that wasn’t the name that came from her lips.

“The news of Kyle’s death hits hard,” she said, “but at least we know what happened and can begin to mourn. I pray that justice will be swift and soon.”

Someone who knew Kyle instead of Lex. I grabbed a yellow pad and scribbled her name down.

The news anchor moved on to the next story. Frankie frowned at my notes. “You’re not taking this mafia assassination seriously, are you? This is obviously some deranged psychopath—”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You don’t know, you—”

“I know Lex’s death was quick, clean, and professional. A stiletto of some kind in his heart. A fire to clean up any evidence left behind. A timed fire, mind you, one rigged from paper towels, lamp oil and a cigarette used as a fuse.”

“You’re making that up.”

“No, I’m not. See? I’ve been experimenting.”

I picked up my metal wastebasket and popped it on the counter. It still reeked of burning paper and tobacco. While Frankie watched, I pulled a pack of matches from my pocket, along with a cigarette. I slipped the cigarette between my lips and lit it.

“It’s an old technique,” I explained, as I tucked the lit cigarette into the pack of matches, closing it around the filtered end. “Trey discovered that the French resistance used it during World War II to rig bombs on enemy trains. He’s a treasure, my boyfriend.”

I dropped the smoldering contraption in the wastebasket. As we watched, the cigarette burned down to the pack of matches, which ignited in a burst. I dribbled coffee on the tiny blaze to put it out.

“I timed that one to be fast, but you can delay that spark up to seven minutes. And if you have accelerant-soaked paper under it—like maybe kerosene-based lamp oil you got from a convenient supply closet—it makes a serious blaze.” I put the trashcan back on the floor and dusted my hands. “So this is looking exactly like a professional hit.”

Frankie glared. “It can’t be.”

“You’d better hope it is. See these ashes? That’s your alibi for Lex’s murder going poof. Mine too, everybody’s. Seven minutes is long enough for any of us to have done the deed and dashed back up front. Any of us.”

Frankie didn’t drop her eyes. They burned cold yellow, like a tiger’s. She pointed at a Sig Sauer nine-millimeter with laser sights. “I want that one. How much is it?”

I told her. She pulled out her wallet.

“I assume you take credit cards?”

I thought hard for one second, then two. Then I closed my receipt book. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Sell you a gun. You want a gun because you think Cricket got a gun and because you want to be part of the evening news too, and that’s no reason to start toting around a lethal weapon.”

She looked stunned. “My employee dies, in my gallery, and then a stalker breaks into my home, and you won’t help me?”

“I’ll be glad to sell you some pepper spray. Or recommend someone to install a security system. Or sign you up for Krav Maga lessons. But I’m not selling you a firearm.”

She shoved her wallet back in her purse. “Fine. Don’t believe me. I’ll take my business to someone who does. In the meantime, you’d best get down off your high horse and pray you’re not the next target.”

“I’m not a poet, so I should be safe.” I folded my arms and kept my voice neutral. “But there is one thing wrong with the assassin theory. Lex was a master manipulator—blackmailing Cricket, setting up Rico with stolen money, slipping switchblades in Vigil’s jacket, taunting Jackson. Hell, he seemed to have Debbie the wannabe poet wrapped around his little finger too.”

Frankie waited, not reacting.

I kept my eyes on her. “And so I’m wondering, what did he have on you, Frankie?”

Her eyes got hard, and the hand clutching her purse tightened. But I saw it, the flash, and I knew I’d hit bull’s eye.

“Was it that old rumor, about your first sale being to yourself? Had Lex found proof?”

Frankie sneered. “That’s old gossip, not worth my time and energy. My work speaks for itself. Lex may have threatened the others on the team, but he knew better than to mess with me. He knew I’d take him down in a heartbeat.”

I smiled at her. “Was that a confession?”

Frankie turned on her heel and exited my shop. She closed the door behind her with such force that the cheerful door jingle sounded perturbed in her wake. I listened to the growl of her car peeling out, the kick-up of gravel. If people kept ripping angrily out of my lot, I was going to have to upgrade the paving.

Once my headache went away, I made arrangements to deliver the remainder of my Confederate gear personally, which made my clients happy and—most importantly—got me out of the shop. As I’d made my case to Frankie, I’d remembered the other person I suspected of harboring a murky secret ripe for exploitation.

And it was time to find out exactly what that secret was.