Darker Than Any Shadow

Chapter Thirty-eight

Despite the available technology, Trey was a hard copy guy, which meant that his field work gear included a walkie-talkie from the Fox, an earpiece from Phoenix, and an enormous accordion-pleated file folder full of charts and schematics. Plus his H&K, of course, tucked in his shoulder holster.

We were on the balcony in the main atrium, closed to the public. Below us, a stage crew dragged step-ladders and screwed in light bulbs. I sat on the front row and watched Trey work. First he paced off the entire perimeter, making complicated notes. His contemporary efficiency was at odds with the balcony itself, designed to mimic the balustrade of a Bedouin palace, complete with minarets and turrets and canopies. Overhead, faux stars twinkled in an indigo sky, and wispy clouds sailed across the twilight arc. I could almost hear the cymbals, and the bouzouki, and the laughter of veiled concubines behind the flutter of fabric.

But it was all a mirage. The hanging canopies were incapable of flutter—they were painted plaster ribbed with steel. The turrets were really catwalks allowing access to the lights and electrical workings. And what looked like prestigious private boxes contained no seats—instead, they hid the pipes of the massive organ.

Trey stood beside me, hands on hips. “It’s sixty feet from here to the stage, and every seat provides clear targeting.”

I got a chill. An implacable bullet from Point A to Point B. Trey’s frown made sense. The same accessibility that made a venue audience-friendly also made it assassin-friendly.

“So can you do it? Can you make it safe?”

“I can make it safer. But there’s no such thing as one hundred percent safe.”

I’d heard this speech before. It was all about access limits and redundant safeguards. But professionals could beat any system, no matter how tight. And every system left holes wide open for the people we trusted. The heart was always the weakest link in a protocol, because the person most likely to do us harm wasn’t the bad guy sneaking in the fire escape—it was the loved one at our elbow, across the breakfast table, in our bed.

“How’s the team handling this?”

“Poets are complicated clients. Good at drawing attention, not so good at minimizing it. They have no practice in threat assessment, and they resist protocols. In matters of security, they are…” He paused. “I’m looking for a word.”

“Clueless?”

He nodded. “That’s it. Utterly clueless.”

***

I stayed out of Trey’s way for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, through the meetings with the APD, the emphatic uncompromising lectures, the walk-throughs and checklists and simulations. Marisa did the PR work. I saw her shaking hands with the APD sergeant assigned to the detail, hugging the mayor, making bright womantalk with the director of the Fox. She saw me out of the corner of her eye, but pretended she didn’t.

When Trey worked with the Fox security team or the APD officers, he was calm and collected. But when he had to confer with the poets, the wrinkle furrowed between his eyes.

Rico watched the proceedings with me. He seemed especially intrigued with Trey.

“Have you noticed that when Frankie starts arguing, his hand drifts toward his gun?”

“You’re making that up.”

“I swear. Watch next time.” He leaned closer. “Did you tell him what we talked about last night?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He’s very one-track mind right now, which he has to be to do this job. Plus I was worried he might beat you up for slipping implicating evidence in his pocket.”

Rico considered. “You should probably tell him.”

“Why, so he’ll beat me up instead?”

He made an annoyed noise. “Be serious.”

“I am. Dealing with Trey is complicated business. He doesn’t do personal dynamics real well.”

“So you got him put in charge of this whole she-bang?”

“He does being in charge very well. Look at him down there, this is his element.”

“Please. This isn’t about his job, it’s about you.”

“Me?”

“Haven’t you noticed? No matter what he’s doing—arguing with poets, taking down suspects, drawing diagrams—he’s always got one eye cocked in your direction.”

I sighed. “Yeah, I think I’m at the top of his loose cannon list.”

Rico popped me on the shoulder. “That’s not what I mean. That man cares about you. That’s why he’s down there.”

Rico’s words hit me right in the stomach. Caring? Trey? I mean, he seemed to like me, especially when I was wearing red. But caring?

I popped Rico back. “Shut up. You’re trying to change the subject, which is that you put a dead man’s phone in my boyfriend’s pocket.”

“The cops were there. I had to get rid of it.”

“But the only reason you had it in the first place was because Cricket took it from Lex and then couldn’t figure out what to do with it once he ended up dead in her bathroom. Getting rid of it wasn’t your problem, it was hers.”

He shrugged. Down below, Frankie argued with Trey, who didn’t exactly go for his gun, but who did keep his shoulders down and hands open. Cricket paced the edges of the stage, much less wishy-washy than I remembered. Vigil said something to her, and her expression softened, her mouth curving in a sudden smile.

Could I see her in the scene Rico had described, where she and Lex had argued in the parking lot about the ankh necklace, where she’d snatched his cell phone right out of his hand? Where a tussle had then ensued during which Rico, watching from his car, interceded with a punch to Lex’s mouth?

Yes, I could see it. An entirely plausible scenario all around. Especially the part where Lex slunk off into the shrubbery and Cricket pocketed the phone, intending to erase everything on it, later convincing Rico to get rid of it for her once things got problematic.

Down on the stage, Trey summoned Vigil over. Alone again, Cricket switched the smile off and paced the edge of the stage. Focused. Icy. Intense.

“Cricket’s good at working people,” I said. “She worked me on Tuesday, works Jackson like a mean dog on a short leash.”

“Jackson needs it.”

“Maybe. But she works everybody, even Frankie, which is no small feat.” I elbowed him. “She works you too.”

He sighed. “Yeah. I know. But she needed—”

“She needs to learn how to take care of herself without manipulating other people into doing it for her.”

Another sigh. I took that as a sign that he agreed with me.

“I know she’s your teammate, but you’ve got to be smarter than your hero complex, okay?”

“Okay.” Rico squeezed my fingers. “Look, I know it’s been weird between us ever since Lex died.”

“You shut me out.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“It didn’t work.”

“I know. But you didn’t exactly listen when I told you to back off.”

I put my head back and stared at the pretend clouds. “Possibly not.”

“So how about we cut it out and start being straight up, like you said last night? You, me, Trey. No more hiding stuff.”

I looked down to where Trey stood, straight and narrow, all purpose. He looked up toward the balcony and cocked his head. I waved and blew him a kiss. He ducked his head and looked at the wall, then threw one sideways glance back my way.

I leaned my head on Rico’s shoulder. “Promise me you’ll always be my best friend?”

“I promise.” He leaned his head on mine. “Talk to Trey. Tell him I said I was sorry and that it won’t happen again, that I appreciate all he’s doing. Just like I appreciate you.”

My heart swelled all warm and squishy. “I won’t forget. And I will talk to Trey. I promise.”

***

Unfortunately, Marisa stayed at my boyfriend’s side for the rest of the evening. If I came within spitting distance, she gave me a withering look and dragged Trey off into one of the field offices.

So much for talking.

I promised myself I’d catch him alone at some point before the show, then drove myself back to Kennesaw to prepare for Friday morning. Trey wasn’t the only one with a busy day on the agenda. He had eighty poets to protect, but I had two infantry units showing up at dawn’s early light to get their hand-sewn circa-1862 underwear. We would both need all the stamina we could muster.