The Dangerous Edge of Things

CHAPTER 31

Jake Whitaker spread his hands. “I really don’t see how I can be of any more help to you.”

By “you” he meant me, the person sitting in the client chair in front of his desk. Trey was standing off to the side. He and Whitaker had circled in that alpha male way, then ignored each other. Which had been fine with me. It meant that I had Whitaker’s full attention.

“You neglected to mention you were at the Mardi Gras ball Tuesday night. Or that you visited Gabriella’s the next day.”

“I met her at the party and she was hot—what can I say? I still don’t see what this has to do with Eliza.”

Trey glanced our way. Sharply. I took note, but kept talking to Whitaker. “Did Eliza ever tell you why she liked hanging around at Beaumont parties?”

“Are you asking me about those rumors?”

I played dumb. “What rumors?”

He ignored the dumb. “Because if you are, I’ll just put your mind at ease. I didn’t start the rumors, I don’t believe the rumors. I never saw them together that way.”

“You’re talking about her and Mark Beaumont?”

“Of course. What are you talking about?”

“There were rumors of a more illegal activity than fooling around with your married boss.”

He leaned back. He was looking professional today—dark gray slacks, winter-white oxford shirt, muted red tie. He’d shaved, which made him look smarter and more wholesome, emphasizing that former quarterback thing he had going on.

“You mean drugs,” he said.

I fixed him with a look. “Did you know she was using?”

“Sure.”

“What about dealing?”

“I suspected so.”

“So why didn’t you tell us?”

“It wasn’t any of your business. Had I had problems with her? Yes, especially recently. She was late a lot, she seemed unfocused and weird sometimes, and she and that redneck ex-boyfriend liked to argue in public. Did I see any reason to share this information with you? No.”

“Did she seem to be getting any special attention from the Mark? Or Charley?”

“No.”

Trey moved to stand in front of the photograph of the Beaumonts over the information table. Jake’s eyes flicked in his direction and then back to me.

“Did you notice her paying them any special attention?” I said.

He swiveled in his chair. “She had stars in her eyes, maybe. I told her she was out of her league, but she didn’t listen.”

“So you have no idea why anybody would want her dead?”

“Are you asking in some cute way if I killed her?”

“Not a bad question. Did you?”

Now he was mad. “No, I didn’t. I was meeting with the landscaping guy all day Friday. He verified it, ask the cops. Does that satisfy you?”

He wasn’t looking at me when he said this—his eyes were focused just above my shoulder. Trey moved into my peripheral vision.

“I’m satisfied,” he said. “You’re not lying.”

Whitaker took the comment in stride. “Nice to know I’m not a liar.”

Trey shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”

***

By now, the rain had intensified, and the breeze cut with a cold edge. We walked back to Trey’s car, sharing his umbrella.

“Well,” I said, “that wasn’t helpful at all. I guess I thought he would let something slip, so we could call him on it and then he’d confess everything.”

“Everything?”

“Hypothetical everything. Like in the movies.” I sighed. “But if you say he wasn’t lying…”

“He wasn’t. But he was being evasive.”

I stopped walking. “About what, which part?”

Trey shook his head. “Just generally evasive. Technically true—”

“—but deliberately evasive, yeah yeah, I know the drill. Do you think—”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop talking.”

He moved in face-to-face, inches between us. And the rain was pattering on the umbrella above us, and we were all alone beside the car, and I thought, omigod, he’s gonna kiss me, right here, right now, and I couldn’t decide whether or not to close my eyes.

“We’re being watched,” he said. “Don’t look.”

“Don’t look where?”

“At the stand of trees by the mailboxes, a hundred feet behind you. There’s a maroon Buick LeSabre with the engine running and a man in a gray sweatshirt standing beside it. It’s William Perkins.”

“Bulldog! But he’s dead!”

“No, he’s not.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

The urge to look was almost irresistible. “What do we do?”

“You get in the car and lock it.” He pressed the Ferrari keys into my hand. “Do you have your phone?”

“Yes.”

“Call 911—tell them what’s happening.” He handed me the umbrella. “Stay on the line. I’m going to keep an eye on him.”

I started toward the Ferrari. But I couldn’t help it—I looked—and when I did, the guy was staring right at me. He had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled down around his face, but he was Bulldog, without a doubt. Same small eyes, same round mouth, same little goatee. I froze, he froze, and then in a burst of motion, he made a mad dash for the maroon car.

Trey sprinted around to the driver’s side of the Ferrari. He already had the engine running by the time I scrambled in.

“Give me the phone,” he said.

I yanked at my seatbelt. “Screw the phone, just go!”

“I don’t think—”

“That’s Bulldog, Trey!”

“But—”

“Presumed dead, wanted killer—”

“I just—”

“Wanted killer, Trey!”

He slammed the car into first and accelerated with stunning velocity. Up ahead, Bulldog reached the Beau Elan exit. He plowed over the speedbumps and burst through the lowered arm of the security gate without hesitation. The Ferrari took the speedbumps painfully, then screamed onto the street, cutting off a pick-up and swinging into the far left lane.

I clutched the seat. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I assure you, I’m well-qualified—”

“Shit! Red light!” I closed my eyes and we slid through it. Horns honked behind us, brakes squealed. I opened my eyes. “That was not cool!”

Trey didn’t reply, just kept his eyes straight ahead, his jaw set. He pressed a button on the console.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling Garrity.”

Up ahead, the Buick did a shimmy at the next intersection and made a sudden left across traffic. Trey followed. In abrupt horror, I saw movement at the corner and realized that someone was about to step into the crosswalk.

I waved frantically. “Watch out! Old lady!”

We rocketed through the light, and I whirled to look behind us. “Shit! You hit an old lady!”

He glanced in the rearview mirror. “I did not. She just fainted.”

The Buick tore up the street, the Ferrari right on its tail. Bulldog had no chance of outrunning us. His only hope was to lose us, and he seemed to think that lots of impulsive, dangerous turns across several lanes might be the key.

I caught the reading on the speedometer. “Omigod, slow down!”

“I could concentrate a lot better if you’d—”

“He’s headed for the interstate!”

Trey yanked the wheel. I screamed again. I wanted to watch the road, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from him. He kept his shoulders down, his hands easy at the wheel, but his eyes were narrowed and focused, like a wolf. I recognized the look.

“You’re getting off on this!”

He exhaled sharply. “Perhaps.”

“That is not the correct answer!”

“It’s the adrenalin.”

“I don’t care what—”

I heard sirens behind us just as Garrity’s voice came in over the speakers. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I’m in vehicular pursuit,” Trey said, eyes scanning the rearview mirror. “William Perkins.”

“That’s impossible!”

“Not impossible. Tai is supposed to be calling 911.”

“School bus!” I screamed.

Trey snatched the wheel right and then left.

Garrity’s voice ratcheted into panic. “Oh, sweet Jesus. Where are you?”

“Ashford Dunwoody Road, headed south toward 285. And I’ve got a tail.” Trey’s voice had an edge. “Can you help me, please?”

“Hold on.”

We hit a bump. The glove compartment flew open, and a flurry of papers tumbled into my lap along with a set of rosary beads. Suddenly, a massive red bloom of brake lights materialized in front of us.

I grabbed his arm. “Road work!”

But Trey had already switched lanes and was downshifting so fast his hand seemed a blur. We slammed to a stop like we’d hit a wall.

Ahead of us, the Buick fishtailed, then slid sideways into the blocked lane, sending orange cones popping into the air. One police car swept past us, but another pulled in right behind. Bulldog scrambled from the car and took off into the chaos of the construction, two officers in pursuit.

Garrity’s voice returned through the speakers. “Huge ticket, my friend. Quadruple digits. You might even be arrested.”

But Trey wasn’t really listening. He leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes. Then he exhaled slow and deep.

“Want a cigarette?” I said.

The officer behind us got out of his car and came to the window. Trey lowered it.

It was a young guy, one of those corn-fed, earnest rookies. Surprisingly, he didn’t have his gun drawn, but his hand did hover nervously at his side. He bent and looked inside.

He smiled real politely. “Hey there, Mr. Seaver.”

Trey cocked his head. “Did I know you?”

“No. Dispatch gave us the ID.”

Garrity, I thought.

Trey motioned toward the glove compartment. “License and registration?”

The cop seemed apologetic. “Yes, sir. I guess so, sir.”