The Dangerous Edge of Things

CHAPTER 12

Trey escorted me into the station, where Detective Ryan shook hands with him. Apparently they knew each other from Trey’s days with the APD, and even though there was no attempt at small talk, some strange off-the-radar communication zipped between them. I decided it was a cop thing.

“I’ll wait out front,” he said, and left me to it.

Ryan indicated a drawing on the table in front of me. “This person look familiar?”

It was a police sketch, a guy with a military buzz cut and thick flat features. The eyes were blank—not mean, just vacant—and there was something solid about the guy, something close to the ground.

I shook my head. “Nope. Who is he?”

In the fluorescent light, Ryan’s cocoa skin looked ashy, but his eyes were sharp as ever. “That’s a good question. The manager at the apartment complex where Eliza lived gave us this description. He said he’d seen him around her place, maybe a boyfriend?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Ever seen him hanging around your brother’s place?”

I tried to remember everyone I’d seen in Eric’s neighborhood. The woman next door walking her pug dog. The race walker with the exotic stride. The mother with the whiny toddler who pulled up people’s flowers. But not this guy. This guy made me think of pool halls and construction sites.

“Has the manager ever seen him driving a dark blue pick-up?”

Ryan’s eyes went even sharper. “You hear that from your brother?”

“Yes.” I tapped the sketch. “Or maybe this guy sometimes wears a baseball cap and drives a black Explorer with the license plate D MAN?”

“Now why do you ask that?”

So I told that story, too, which got Trey dragged into the room to surrender his version. He told the story better than I did, knew things like exactly what time it happened and exactly what intersection we’d been at. Ryan nodded every now and then, like Trey’s story was utterly profound and fascinating. Then he thanked us for our time, told us he’d be in touch, and escorted us right out of there.

I’d been expecting something different from the second official interview—the chair under a bare light bulb, maybe some trick questions. The whole episode felt more like a job interview than an interrogation.

“That’s because it wasn’t an interrogation,” Trey explained afterward. “Detectives only interrogate people they think are guilty.”

We were headed back to the Phoenix, the heart of the city behind us now. The sun was still out, but a chill remained. I blamed the pavement and concrete, the slick-walled buildings and glass and steel. Sometimes I tried to picture the whole city ablaze, as it had been during Sherman’s March. But even imaginary fire didn’t take.

“So they think I’m innocent?” I said.

“Probably not innocent. Just not a suspect. Unless they find a motive.”

Which I didn’t have. Means and opportunity, however, were a different story. I’d found the corpse, after all, right after returning from my shop full of potential murder weapons.

“They told me they were letting Eric finish his cruise,” I said. “Unless something else comes up.”

“Unless he becomes a suspect.”

The same refrain. “He told Landon to pull some strings. Do y’all really have that kind of power at Phoenix?”

“I don’t. But Landon does.”

Trey stuck to the back streets on our return to Dunwoody, avoiding 285 North, which looked like a clogged artery, surprising for 3:30 on a Saturday afternoon. The feeder roads weren’t much better, but at least traffic was moving. The apartment complexes and office buildings alternated in cookie-cutter rhythm, vernal and urban intermingling—Forest Hills, Concourse One, Summergrove, Centre Square.

We’d stopped at the light, and were just about to make the left that would take us to the Phoenix parking garage when I saw it, just ahead, right beside the Phoenix main building.

Beau Elan, Eliza’s apartment complex. She’d lived and worked right next door to Phoenix. I’d been looking for the connection between Eliza and my brother, and there it was, in brick and mortar.

“Wait!” I pointed. “Take me there!”

“Beau Elan? Why?”

“Because I’m curious. I know you need a pass to get past the gate, but I figure you have one, right? Being that Phoenix works for the Beaumonts.”

He neither confirmed nor denied my hypothesis.

“And there’s a cybercafé on premises, right? So I can have a look around, get some coffee, check my e-mail. You can do…whatever it is you do.”

The light remained red. Trey angled in the seat so that he was facing me. “Say it again.”

I looked straight at him. “One coffee. Fifteen minutes.”

The light changed. Trey faced front again, shifted into first.

“You’re doing it again,” he said. “The technically true but deliberately evasive thing.”

I didn’t deny it. But he took me there anyway.

***

“Here,” I said. “Vanilla chai. No sugar. You’ll like.”

He accepted. “Thank you.”

The Beau Elan cafe pulsed with the same “uniquely familiar” vibe that permeates most coffeehouses. Hardwood floors, bistro chairs, folkish artwork. There was a fake moose head on the purple wall to show they had a sense of humor.

Whatever. They had tea. Trey was content.

We sat at a bank of computers running alone a picture window. From what I could see, the complex looked predictably comfortable—multiple three- and four-story units catty-cornered along a curving driveway, each one washed in a different pastel, faux-aged and earthy. Like Bourbon Street crossed with Disneyland.

Trey peered over my shoulder. “Why are you researching the Beaumonts?”

I’d pulled up a Home and Garden feature about their house on Tuxedo Road, a nine-million-dollar property that looked like what Louis XIV would have built if he’d been a plantation owner. The mansion had eight bedrooms and a kitchen the size of a gymnasium where a beaming Charley Beaumont showed off a platter of cheese straws.

“Why is it always cheese straws?” I muttered.

The article also gave a synopsis of the Beaumont Enterprise backstory, how they brought their millions into Atlanta, making some well-received expansions into the niche apartment complex market. Charley’s backstory was of the Cinderella variety—broke waitress at the Fontainbleu Miami (her) charms a visiting millionaire (Mark). Two years and one serious pre-nup later, she’s the new missus. A few clicks brought me her wedding picture—the caption identified the dress as a Christos Yiannakou silk taffeta—plus a slew of society shots. Mark and Charley at the Botanical Gardens. Mark and Charley at the High Museum.

Trey looked puzzled. “What exactly are you researching?”

“I don’t know.”

He looked even more puzzled. But I was telling the truth. I didn’t know how any of these parts connected—Phoenix, the Beaumonts, my brother, Eliza. But I did know one thing, and I’d learned it as a tour guide —the truest stories get made from the weirdest bits and pieces.

I scanned the list of links associated with the Beaumont name. One of them was very familiar. I clicked on it.

“That’s you,” I said.

It was his Phoenix profile, complete with a bio/resumé and a photograph, a serious straight-on head shot. Apparently, he was in charge of Security Needs Assessment with a focus on Physical Security Analysis and Premise Liability (including independent analysis and coordination of vendors). He also conducted CEO training in Executive Protection Services, including threat assessment and special event security.

It was a catalog of competence, undeniably reassuring. I looked from his photograph to the man himself, all neat hair and smooth hands and small weapons proficiency. But Trey looked confused.

“How is my Phoenix profile linked to the Beaumonts?”

“Through the Blue Knights Mardi Gras Ball. See?”

He peered at the list of supporters and saw his name there. This did not please him. “That should have been Landon. He usually works directly with the Beaumonts. He was unable to attend, however, so Mark asked for me. Marisa says he finds me utterly fascinating. Her words.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Trey was every inch the elegant bad ass. And with bodyguards being the new cutting edge fashion accessory, having one as spiffy as Trey was a coup indeed. There was no way Landon could match his appeal, no matter what Air Force training he had.

I licked at the foam on the inside of the plastic lid. Coffee made me want a cigarette. My fingers twitched, but there was nothing to hold, nothing to steady the physical urge.

I pushed my chair back. “Let’s take a walk.”

“Why?”

“I’d like to take a look around.”

“I have the schematics back—”

“Trey! Can we just go for a walk? Please?”

He took one final sip of his tea, placed the cup precisely in front of him. “Of course.”

***

We walked. The sunshine had warmed the day up, so I took off my jacket and tied it around my waist. Just past the laundry facilities, we saw Eliza’s unit—the yellow police tape gave it away. Trey looked over his shoulder at the parking lot. A patrol car sat there, a cop behind the wheel, paying us very close attention.

“There’s probably someone inside too,” Trey said. “Crime scene investigators.”

I knew he was right. This was turning into a high profile crime, with lots of media attention. But right now, the complex was quiet. The only other people we saw were tenants; they talked amongst themselves, moving quickly from car to building. No one went near Eliza’s apartment, which was a ground-floor unit, on the corner near the perimeter wall.

“So you did the security plan for this place?”

“I’m still planning it, yes.”

“Nice work.”

“Acceptable, but hardly up to standard.”

I looked around. Besides the gated entrance, I saw a ten-foot concrete wall around the perimeter of the property, nicely disguised with hedges and such, but a wall nonetheless. And I knew from the ad copy that there were security cameras too. Short of providing a bodyguard-slash-butler for each apartment, I didn’t see anything that seemed “hardly up to standard” security-wise.

When I told Trey this, he shook his head. “The wall is easily breached from the exterior, and the plants disguising it on both sides provide a means, and a good cover, for anyone attempting to do so. The camera films around the clock, but in many areas, the lighting isn’t adequate for clear images. I also explained that a twenty-four-hour manned presence at the gate was the only way to guarantee the kind of limits they wanted on entrance and exit procedures.”

“What you’re saying is that the Beaumonts went for what looks secure, not what is secure.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

I noticed the security camera that he was talking about when we passed the swimming pool. The area was deserted except for a deeply-tanned woman stretched out in a lounge chair, engrossed in a magazine. She directed a suspicious look our way over the top of her Cosmo. The pool was empty too, its blue surface so flat it seemed fake.

“Do you miss being a cop?” I said.

Trey kept his eyes straight ahead. “I think so. Mostly I miss the…I’m looking for a word. Multi-syllabic, starts with C.”

“Camaraderie?”

“Camaraderie. I miss that, I think. It’s hard to tell. Everything’s different now.”

“You mean after the accident?”

He nodded. We were standing outside the Beau Elan main office, right at the center of the complex. It was closed and dark, which was a disappointment. I put my face to the window, peered inside.

Trey started walking again. He was a good fifteen feet ahead of me, already clearing the corner, when the office door opened and a man stepped out. He looked scruffy and annoyed and carried a toilet brush in one hand.

He frowned. “Can I help you?”

I hesitated, tried to think fast. Failed.

“Umm…hi?” I said.