The Dangerous Edge of Things

CHAPTER 29

Gravel crunched beneath the tires as we pulled into the storage facility, past the barrier that kept out the news crews but far away from the smoking heap at the end of the driveway. The security zone, Garrity had informed me.

“Tell them you’re bringing in the identifying witness,” he’d said, “and they’ll let you in. Do exactly as you’re told, and I mean exactly. A meth lab burnout is not the place to go snooping.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. The air at the site reeked of ash and chemicals, even from our parking spot. Janie looked grim and determined. She wore her crucifix, but her fingers went nowhere near it, as if she didn’t want to be reminded of all that “turn the other cheek” stuff. When the patrol made her put out her cigarette, I thought for a second she might refuse. But she dropped it into the dregs of her coffee and got out of the car. I was not invited to go with her.

It was a slice of hell, that place, heavy with the stink of ammonia, like a radioactive litter box, and thick with clotted oily smoke. A hazmat-suited agent crouched next to an overturned oil drum, waving a Geiger counter at it.

But I did see one thing I recognized. A beat-up blue pick-up, swarming with uniforms. Janie was led to it. She stared at it, nodded, then spat on the ground.

Back in my car, she reached for her cigarettes. “They wouldn’t let me look at the body, said it was too dangerous right now. They said it didn’t matter anyway, that I couldn’t ID him if I tried. I asked if it was bad, and they said yes. Three people, all of them burnt to death. Crispy critters, one of them said. Didn’t think I could hear him. Somebody told him to hush.” She blew out smoke in a burst. “But I wanted to see.”

“They didn’t find any ID on the body?”

“All burnt up. The truck, though, that’s his. No doubt.”

We were back in the city by the time the morning commute had started its sluggish crawl. The radio reported the usual litany of accidents and road work and stalled vehicles. I was regretting my fashion choices. In an effort to look like a liaison, I’d put my hair up and worn this purple pantsuit I’d gotten at J.C. Penney. Now I was regretting it—the armholes were too high, and it itched. But I looked official. Somewhat.

“The fire took out the whole block of units, twenty at least. Went up like that.” Janie snapped her fingers. “You get a bunch of tweakers playing with fire, next thing you know, the whole neighborhood’s burning like hell itself.”

I thought of the smell, the ash, the odor that surely signaled death. The landscape, toxic and wasted. And somewhere in there, under a sheet, the charred corpse of a murderer.

“I wanted justice,” Janie said, and ground out her cigarette. “But this will do.”

***

Phoenix was jumping when we got there. Yvonne steered Janie toward Landon’s office, casting suspicious looks over her shoulder as she did. I shoved my ID into my tote bag the minute she got out of sight and headed straight for Trey’s office.

Marisa was already in there, clad in a charcoal skirt and jacket, accented with pearls a shade darker than her blouse. One eyebrow arched as she gave my pantsuit the up and down.

“Interesting color choice,” she said.

I smoothed the fabric. “It’s aubergine.”

And then she pummeled me with questions. I answered as best I could. Trey took notes. He watched me as I gave my recitation, jotting down information in his neat precise hand. Not reading me, just paying attention.

Marisa stood by his desk. “If this means what I think it means, then our part in the investigation is over. This changes everything.”

I understood. After all, every piece of evidence I’d seen was pointing to Bulldog as Eliza’s killer, so now that he was a pile of disreputable ash, further speculations seemed a moot point, as did the reward the Beaumonts had offered.

She directed a look at Trey. “Which means I need you this Friday at the Adams reception.”

He stared at her. “But I completed the security plan two weeks ago.”

“Things have changed. I need you in person.”

“Landon—”

“—is a personal guest of the Beaumonts, you know that. You were the only person who wasn’t going to be there this weekend, and now you are.”

Trey shook his head. “I don’t do that kind of work anymore. There are too many variables.”

“That’s why I need you. We’re dealing with rent-a-cops, local cops, other people’s bodyguards. I need somebody I can trust in the middle of all this.”

“We planned—”

“Not for this, we didn’t. You did the zone breakdown, the contingency protocol. All I’m asking you to do is be there and be available.”

He didn’t reply. But he didn’t drop his eyes or look away either.

“This is a major event for major players,” she said. “None of us wants it ruined by some stupid rumor.”

I was confused. “What rumor?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “It’s going around that there was something between Mark and Eliza Compton. The blogs are all over it, talk radio too. Probably that little photographer creep we ran off.”

Dylan. Of course.

Trey kept his eyes on his yellow pad. “Is there evidence?”

“Of course not. What evidence could they have for something that doesn’t exist?”

“Evidence can be misinterpreted.”

“Then it’s not evidence,” Marisa continued, “it’s nonsense, and if Mark takes the energy to deny it, he’ll just look defensive.”

“I still don’t understand why I have to be there this weekend.”

“I want you there because Mark wants you there, so you will be there. Period. Cocktails start at six, dinner at seven-thirty.”

Trey exhaled loudly. Marisa ignored the huff, dropped a file folder on his desk. “Black-tie. I know you’ve got a tux.”

“I do not.”

“So get one, now. Put it on your expense account.” Marisa indicated me with a nod. “Take her with you.”

This caught me off guard. “But Janie—”

“We’ll see that she gets back to her hotel, don’t worry. You stay with Trey.”

She glared at me as she said this. I remembered Simpson’s words: they want to control you. Setting me up with the resident Boy Scout probably seemed a great way to do it. I didn’t argue. Trey was a maze of rules, but I was beginning to get the hang of how they bent. And bend they did.

Trey stared after her, tap-tapping his pen on the edge of the desk as her heels click-clacked down the hall. His expression was blank, but the little wrinkle between his eyes was fast becoming a furrow.

I perched myself on the edge of his desk. “So tell me, where does one go to get a tux in this town?”

He slid the folder into a drawer. “Gabriella’s.”

I stifled a grin. The woman in the photograph Charley had confiscated from Trey’s office, the stunning redhead at his side during the Mardi Gras ball. In Marisa’s efforts to keep me out of the thick of things, she’d thrown me right into the briar patch.

I leaned over and rubbed the spot on Trey’s forehead. He looked puzzled, but he let me do it.

“Stop worrying, Mr. Seaver. Otherwise we’re gonna have to Botox you.”