The Dangerous Edge of Things

CHAPTER 14

He thinks in black and white. I hadn’t taken Garrity’s words literally until I saw Trey’s apartment.

It was an open layout, all one room except for the bedrooms. Ebony hardwood floors gleamed darkly, bounded by matte white walls. No artwork marred the bland expanse, not even a clock, and there was little furniture, just an oversize black leather sofa and a low coffee table.

Trey turned on a floor lamp and opened the French doors leading to a wrap-around terrace, letting in the cool smell of night. Beyond him, the Midtown skyline sparkled, like someone had thrown rhinestones at the horizon. We were on the thirty-fifth floor, the streets below us a snaking dazzle of brake lights.

He loosened his tie. “Can I get you anything?”

“A pizza would be nice.”

He got a phone book instead. I ordered a meat lover’s special with extra mushrooms while he changed clothes. He didn’t shut the door to the bedroom, and from what I could see, it was as dichromatic as the rest of the apartment. I heard the closet door open, followed by the scrape of hangers.

Next to his desk, a bookshelf held rows of hardcovers. I ran my finger along the spines, noting a veritable library of neuroscience, cognitive psychology, and behavior modification therapy. A series of triathlon training manuals completed the collection. Not one sentimental novel, not one trashy beach read.

I checked over my shoulder. Trey was still in the bedroom, out of sight. Keeping my eyes on the doorway, I tried the top desk drawer. It slid open easily, revealing another set of neatly labeled folders, another bottle of medicine. Also a bottle of valerian root capsules and a GQ magazine, the Italian style issue. In addition—inexplicably, incongruously—he had a tarot deck. I picked it up, splayed the cards. The Fool grinned at me, his eyes bright as he took the step that would send him tumbling down a cliff.

The phone rang, and I dropped the deck. “Shit!”

I got on hands and knees and snatched at cards. I remembered then my promise—no more snooping—and felt ill. To my relief, Trey picked up the bedroom extension instead of coming back in the living room. His first words were unclear, but then, just as I got the deck back in the drawer, I caught his end of the conversation.

“No,” he said. “Not tonight. I have a guest.”

My fingers itched, and not from nicotine withdrawal. I moved my hand to the phone. I’d done it a thousand times with my last boyfriend—pick up the receiver, press a hand over the mouthpiece, listen for a discreet interval. But then, my last boyfriend hadn’t been some super-elite secret agent likely to kick my ass for snooping on his private calls.

“Yes, that’s her,” Trey said. “The blonde.”

I bit my lip and laid one finger on the receiver.

“No, everything’s fine,” he said. “Goodnight, Gabriella.”

Gabriella. The redhead in the photo. Garrity said she wasn’t connected, but I was willing to bet she was. I’d seen the telltale glitter in Charley’s eyes, and the expression on Trey’s face. And now here she was calling Trey.

But before I could wrap my curiosity around the possibilities, Trey returned. He appeared as silently and suddenly as a ghost, and I froze, hands behind my back, guilty fingers still wrapped around the drawer pull. He’d exchanged the suit for a white t-shirt and black sweatpants and he carried two items—a set of keys in his right hand, his Heckler and Koch in his left. His expression was as blank as a piece of paper.

He walked over, moving closer and closer until he was standing right in front of me. I felt the edge of the desk digging into my back.

“Looking for something?” he said.

I held his gaze. “A pen?”

He cocked his head, and I felt it again, the psychic unzipping, especially when his eyes moved to my mouth.

He reached around me and opened the bottom drawer—it contained a black metal gun case. He placed the handgun inside, the magazine too. Locked that. Then he tucked the ammo into a separate box. Locked that too. Then, and only then, did he reach around my other side, pull open the top drawer, and hand me a fountain pen. The inside of his wrist brushed my hipbone.

The pen was black. And fancy. Trey turned and headed for the kitchen, leaving me backed up against the desk, holding a pen I didn’t need but wasn’t about to turn down.

“I’m making tea,” he said. “Oolong. Would you like some?”

***

He brought it to me in a delicate ivory cup with a saucer. It smelled of herb and caramel and had not one speck of sugar in it. I drank it anyway, chased it with a piece of nicotine gum. Then I dumped my tote bag on the floor and sat cross-legged in the middle of the mess. Trey sat at his desk, a spreadsheet pulled up on his laptop. He had a ruler and a calculator out, and two mechanical pencils, one in hand, the other stuck behind his ear.

I pulled out one of the Beau Elan trifolds I’d picked up while talking to Jake Whitaker. Despite the economic downturn, even a studio seemed out of a receptionist’s price range. It boasted cutting edge security features, however—gated entrance, passcard entry, surveillance cameras—all of which must have been worth the expense to a young woman with a stalker-ish ex-boyfriend. Especially considering that Phoenix Incorporated was right next door.

“Did the Beaumonts put this complex so close to Phoenix for a reason?” I ran down the list of features, remembering the ones that Trey had pointed out. “Jeez, you’d think this was Quantico, not fancy apartments in Dunwoody.”

Trey got out a highlighter. “Managers like obvious security features. They make good sales tools.”

He had a point. Beau Elan’s prospective tenants valued themselves pretty highly, and they appreciated people who did the same. Mark Beaumont effectively translated that attitude into brick and mortar. I’d also picked up a brochure for Beaumont Waterway, their new resort at Lake Oconee and the location for the upcoming reception for Senator Adams. Slick, sleek, saturated with color, luxury practically dripped off the page.

This was starting to sound like a financial ménage à trois—the Beaumonts, Senator Adams, Phoenix. Throw my brother in the mix, and you had an orgy. I wondered how Trey fit into all of it. He didn’t seem interested in politics or social climbing. And despite his multiple quirks and weird complexities, he inspired a visceral trust that I couldn’t explain any more than I could explain why he had a tarot deck in his desk.

A small voice poked at me: if you trust him so much, why are you always going through his things?

I batted the small voice away. Trey worked diligently at his spreadsheet. Black and white choices, no emotional demands, everything compartmentalized, both literally and figuratively. But how long could a former SWAT warrior push paper before snapping and going Krav Maga on someone?

I put down my brochures. “Are you still on the clock? Being my bodyguard?”

He kept his eyes on the computer. “Personal protection. Yes, I am.”

“So you agree with Marisa, that I’m in danger?”

“I don’t know. But I think we should err on the side of caution. Considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Your connection to the crime, your current situation.” He took a sip of his tea, then lowered his cup. “Your pizza’s here.”

The doorbell rang.

I looked at the door, back at him. “All right, how did you do that?”

“I’ll get it,” he said. And he padded off to fetch my dinner, taking his oolong with him.

But it wasn’t a delivery boy who held my dinner—it was Garrity, looking tired and rumpled and very cop-like. He handed the pizza box to Trey and pointed right at me.

“You. In the kitchen. Now.”