The Dangerous Edge of Things

CHAPTER 18

Yvonne pressed her lips so tight her nostrils flared. “You can’t see Mr. Seaver without an appointment.”

“What if it’s urgent?”

Her mouth remained immobile. “I’m sorry, but—”

“Just ask, okay? Let him decide.”

Her expression never changed, but she reached for the telephone with excruciating slowness. As she spoke with Trey, I heard a voice I recognized coming down the hall—Landon. He was dressed in a very nice navy suit, the kind you’d wear to the funeral of someone important you didn’t know well, and he wasn’t alone.

A woman huddled close. She looked about my age, and she was sobbing. Landon draped his arm around her shoulders and spoke to her in low soothing tones, all the while steering her toward a conference room. He didn’t see me, and I caught only snippets of the conversation, but I did catch one thing clearly—her name was Janie.

Janie. Now where had I heard that before?

Just then I heard the ding of the elevator, and Trey got out. He was dressed once again in his black suit and tie combo, and the blue flash was back in his eyes. He reached me just as Landon closed the conference room door.

“Who was that?” I said.

“Who was who?”

As he spoke, I noticed movement over his shoulder. The woman came out of the conference room, still crying. I watched as she ducked down the hall to my left, toward the restrooms. Janie. Aha—my mysterious caller had warned me not to trust Janie.

Trey eyed me with curiosity. Not yet reading me, but damn close to it.

I slipped the folded-up target into my tote bag. “How about I meet you in your office?”

“Why?”

“It’s personal.”

“But you said—

“I need to go to the bathroom first, okay?”

His eyes sharpened. He was on point now, his curiosity quickening into suspicion.

“Feminine stuff,” I said.

I could sense the gears clicking and meshing in his brain, but he didn’t argue. It’s a rule: no man, no matter how screwed up, dares to question the phrase “feminine stuff.”

Even if he suspects you’re being technically truthful, but deliberately evasive.

***

She came out of the stall five minutes after I came in, her face white and her eyes red-rimmed. She was about my age and plump in a cheerleader way—lots of bosom, a generous behind, and curly brown hair clipped back in a high, tight ponytail. In her high school yearbook, she would have been Friendliest, maybe even Cutest. Now she smelled like cigarettes, and despite the denim skirt and matching vest and long-sleeved pink t-shirt, she looked middle-aged and worn out.

I waited until she’d started washing her hands before I spoke. “Janie?”

She froze, then reached for a paper towel. “Yes?”

“I’m Tai Randolph. I’m—”

“I know who you are. You’re the one who found my sister.” She threw the paper towel in the trash, and I noticed the silver cross, hanging from a chain around her neck, dangling over her heart. She put her hand to it, fingered it nervously. “What do you want?”

“Can we talk? Not here, of course, and maybe not even now—”

“Now is fine, if you know someplace I can smoke. I’m dying for a cigarette.”

“Ummm, hang on a second.”

I stuck my head out the restroom door. The coast was clear.

“Follow me,” I said.

***

We sat on the edge of the fountain out back, downwind from the spray. The place smelled like warm concrete and not-too-distant exhaust, but the steady hum of traffic mingled with the sound of splashing water in an oddly harmonious way. Janie tapped out a Virginia Slims and offered the pack to me.

I shook my head firmly. “I don’t smoke.”

“Wish I didn’t.” She fished a lighter from her skirt pocket. “Mama says it’s gonna kill me one day. ’Course she told Eliza the same thing, and look what happened.”

I just nodded. What could you say to that?

Janie continued. “’Course Eliza didn’t listen to much of nothing. I tried to tell her this was a bad idea.”

“What was?”

“Leaving South Carolina. She went from big city to big city, limping home between stops to cry and get money. Atlanta was her latest, like it was some fresh new start, like it was different. And then that damn Bulldog—”

“Bulldog?”

“Yeah, that’s what he called himself. Bulldog. Old boyfriend from high school. He’s the one got her into trouble back in Jackson. That’s where we’re from, even if Eliza stopped admitting it.” She frowned, took a long drag on the cigarette. “He couldn’t get it in his thick skull that she didn’t want anything to do with him anymore, so he tracked her down here.”

“What kind of trouble did he get her into?”

“High school stuff.”

“Like what?”

Suspicion flattened her expression, and she kept her eyes focused on the traffic just beyond the shrubbery. “It doesn’t really matter now, does it? All I know is, if there was trouble around Eliza, it would be that creep causing it.”

“White guy, built like a fire plug, crew cut, beady little eyes? Driving a blue pick-up truck?”

“Yeah, that’s him. I told the police about him and they said they’d get right on it, but they didn’t seem too interested, if you ask me. I don’t think they care about Eliza one bit. Just another dead girl to them.”

I wondered how many run-ins she’d had with uninterested officials of one stripe or another. And I understood, but what I really wanted to talk about was Eliza’s life back in South Carolina, especially the trouble Bulldog had supposedly gotten her into, but I sensed that Janie was clamming up on me.

“You know what?” I said. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that cigarette.”

She offered the pack and I took one, holding it to my nose. Ah, the crisp warm tang of tobacco, seductive and tantalizing. God, I’d missed it.

She held out the lighter. “Thought you didn’t smoke?”

“I don’t.” I fired it up, went easy on the first drag. It was like sucking in the fumes of heaven. “I gave it up a week ago. But I need one right now.”

“Why?”

The tip of the cigarette glowed red, grayed to ash. “The thing is, my involvement with your sister’s case is more than the fact that I found her. As it turns out, my brother knew her too. And even though neither of us had anything to do with her death, the cops are still suspicious.”

Janie nodded. “Go on.”

“So I understand what it’s like to fight a bunch of nameless, faceless people who don’t know you, who don’t care. I’m not a cop or a reporter or a lawyer. I’m not one of these Phoenix people. All I want is information.”

“Let me guess,” she said dryly. “You want me to give you some.”

“I promise I’m not out to ruin her reputation. I just want to know the truth.”

The cigarette smoke clouded her face in a gray haze. “What makes you think I care about her reputation?”

That caught me off guard. “I guess I just assumed. If I had a sister—”

“She wasn’t really my sister, just this brat my older brother dropped off right before he took off with some slut from out of town. Everybody tried to pretend otherwise, you know. Called her my sister. And then last year, the son of a bitch died. And now she’s dead too. So nobody has to pretend anymore, least of all me. I’m an only child now.”

Janie ground her cigarette out on the pavement, twisting her foot with more effort than purely necessary. “Eliza started off bad, I mean, right off the bat. Spoiled. Whiny. She never worked for a thing her whole damn life. But she was the baby, and she looked just like my stupid brother, so everybody cut her slack all the time. In the meantime, I’m out busting my butt, working to put myself through school, taking care of Mama after Daddy died, ’cause it wasn’t like my brother ever helped, but did anybody ever care? No. ’Cause that’s what I always did.

“And Eliza goes from one bad relationship to another. I tell her to stay away from the stuff, to stay away from Bulldog, but does she listen? No. She tracks down my brother, and he fills her head full of nonsense about how she’s better than us, and she believes him. She hits the road, and I don’t hear from her again until she’s gotten messed up with these Atlanta people.”

What Atlanta people? I thought. What stuff? But I didn’t get to ask. Janie was on a roll.

“So now she’s gone and got herself killed. And what’s Mama tell me? You better keep your sister’s name clean, she says. We don’t need no more trouble. Like it’s my fault all this crap happened in the first place.”

Janie put her palms flat against her thighs and looked straight at me. “And she’s right, we don’t need no more trouble. And I guess it’s my job to make sure we don’t get any more. But you know that Bible story, the one where the prodigal son runs off and wastes his whole life and then when he comes back, his father throws this big damn party for him while the good son, the one who did stick around, who did do what he was supposed to do, that son gets the shaft. You know that story?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I know that story.”

She shook her head. The tears were back again. “I always hated that story.”

Then she wiped her eyes. Her voice hadn’t changed the whole time—it was still rock steady. “And now you want a story too, and I just don’t know what to tell you.”

“Tell me you’ll help me find out what happened.” I hesitated. “Look, if there’s dirt, it’s gonna come out, and the cops don’t care one way or the other. But I do care, and if you’ll help me, maybe I can find something under the dirt that can spare your family—and my family too—any further grief.”

She sent this look my way. “Uh huh. Like you care about me. Like you’re not just saying that to get what you want.”

I started to protest. “I didn’t—”

She waved me quiet. “Oh, don’t say you didn’t mean it. Of course you did. But you know what? Maybe you’re right.”

She stood, wrapped her arms around her waist. “Let me think about it. I’ll let you know tomorrow.” She looked off toward the horizon, like she was trying to glimpse South Carolina there. “I just don’t want any of this getting back to Jackson. That’s my home. I don’t deserve to have to deal with it there. I’ve dealt with enough already.”

I stood too. “Here’s my number,” I said, scribbling on a scrap of paper I found in my pocket. “I’ll do my best, I promise.

She examined my face. “I guess you will.” She jabbed her chin toward the building. “I gotta get back in there.”

“Can I ask you one more question?”

“What?”

“This Bulldog person. What’s his real name?”

She told me. I started to write it on my hand, then hesitated..

“Could you spell that middle part?”

***

Rico called as I made my way back to the lobby. “Got your phone number—it’s a payphone on Cheshire Bridge Road. Looks like it’s next door to a strip club.”

No surprise there—that area was nothing but naked dancing and sex toy emporiums. “Another question—how hard would it be for a civilian to get juvie info?”

“You mean stuff that’s been sealed? Depends. You got a Social?”

“No.”

“Then it gets trickier, but I’ll try. What’s the name?”

I told him.

“Spell that middle part,” he said.