The Dangerous Edge of Things

CHAPTER 3

The Buckhead area of Atlanta is the ninth most expensive zip code in the United States. Often called Beverly Hills East, it houses two five-star restaurants, one governor’s mansion, and the Ritz-Carlton Buckhead. When I crossed that opulent threshold, carrying a plastic Rite Aid bag filled with deodorant and a three-pack of underwear, I entered virgin territory, as daunting a frontier as confronted any pioneer.

It was almost eleven, so except for a few businessmen returning from late dinners, the lobby was deserted. My first impression was the smell—lemon verbena mingled with leather and the ghosts of expensive perfumes. Velvety light gilded the dark wood and golden fabrics, making everything seem deeply textured. Even the fire in the stone fireplace was well-mannered, a tidy blaze in coordinating flickers of auburn and yellow.

The doorman directed me to the marbled swath of the check-in counter, where a crisp young woman took my information. She eyed the plastic bag with no reaction and summoned a bellboy to cart it to my room. He pressed his lips together tight, fighting a grin, then bore it away.

That was when I noticed the man standing at the other end of the counter, watching me. He was very good looking, broad-shouldered and lean, with coal-colored hair brushed back neatly from his forehead. His attire marked him as one of the corporate crowd—black suit, white shirt, black tie, all of it perfectly tailored, probably designer.

The clerk noticed the man too and smiled his way. He didn’t smile back. I noticed the earpiece then—tiny, black, discreet.

“Security guy?”

She smiled. “That’s Mr. Seaver, yes. He usually works upstairs, but he’s watching the lobby tonight.”

“Is he always this…intense?”

“He’s very thorough.” She laughed a little. “You must have done something to make him suspicious.”

“Discovered a dead body earlier. You think that could be it?”

Her eyes widened. “The woman they found in Virginia Highland?”

I nodded. The man was still watching me. Pointedly.

The clerk looked concerned. “If you require any special safety measures, I’m sure—”

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

I signed my name just as my phone went off. I tossed the key card in my tote bag and moved behind a luggage cart. Security Guy stayed focused.

It was Rico. I tried to keep my voice low. “Where have you been? I called you six hours ago!”

“Don’t even start, baby girl. Boss Lady’s got me working the Kanye concert—I told you this, like, a million times—and I didn’t get a break until fifteen minutes ago. Are you okay?”

Across the lobby, Security Guy moved down the counter, where he exchanged a few words with the clerk. She smiled at him, chatting while she worked the computer. He nodded at whatever she was saying, but kept his eyes slanted in my direction.

“I’m fine. Under surveillance, but fine.”

“Uh oh. That sounds bad.”

“We’ll see. Damn, it’s good to hear from you.”

“Same here. Well, except for the part where you gave my name to the cops. Who just showed up, by the way, and asked me a bunch of questions about where you were this afternoon.”

I apologized and filled him in on my situation. At his end, I heard muted crowd noise and the flurry of keystrokes on his laptop. He had steelworker hands with long thick fingers, dark as chocolate, but he could type like a house on fire. He worked tech support at a local PR firm, which meant that he logged some crazy hours, but it also meant he was on top of virtually every piece of breaking news in the Greater Metro area.

“Glad to hear your side of things,” he said. “All I knew was I came over to Mick’s to grab a burger, and there you were on the big screen, looking all Courtney Love and shit. And then I saw your seventeen messages, and then the cops—”

“I’m on TV? What channel?”

“All of them, all saying the same thing—that you found a body, somebody named Eliza Compton.” More tap-tapping. “The Fox website has footage up.”

“What else are they saying?”

“Shot to death in quiet cul-de-sac. Neighbors shocked. No leads. Anyone with information blah blah blah. They’re calling it a homicide. That true?”

An Asian man got off the elevator and stood within three feet of me. He wore an Atlanta Braves baseball hat and carried a big foam hand on a stick. It was yellow. He was grinning.

“Oh yeah,” I replied. “Definitely a homicide. No gun in the car, though, not that I could see anyway.”

The guy with the baseball hat stared and his grin faded. I smiled his way, did the tomahawk chop. He smiled back and returned the gesture, then headed out, humming a war chant under his breath.

“So yeah,” I finished. “Murdered.”

Down the counter, Security Guy remained vigilant. Another clerk chatted with him now, this one a dazzling brunette. She ran a hand through her hair, tucked it behind her ear. He kept his gaze fastened on me.

Rico’s voice was serious. “This is deep shit you’re talking. You called a lawyer, right? Doesn’t your brother work for some fancy people who would know a fancy lawyer?”

I made a noise. “Don’t worry about Eric, he’s good at covering his ass.”

“We’re not talking about his ass, sweetie. That’s your ass up there on 11 Alive News at Ten.”

“I didn’t even know this girl!”

Rico snorted. “Like the APD cares. They got prostitutes to push, drug cartels to run—”

“This is ridiculous.”

“So say all suspects.”

“Rico!”

“I’m for real! And don’t think for a second they’re not looking at that assload of weapons you inherited and—” He muttered a curse. “Crap, I gotta go. You gonna be okay tonight?”

“It’s the Ritz. Safe as Disneyworld. I’m just gonna get one drink—”

Rico made a noise.

“C’mon, Rico, it’s on my wayward brother’s tab. One drink. And then it’s lights out for me, I promise.”

“In that case, comb the hair,” he said. “And some lipstick wouldn’t hurt, you know what I’m sayin’?”

***

The Ritz-Carlton bar was low-lit and walnut-paneled, plush in a very masculine sort of way. Mostly empty too, which was not unwelcome. I sat down and ordered a top shelf mojito. The bartender slid a napkin in front of me and pulled down the rum. That was when I noticed Security Guy standing at the entrance of the bar, arms folded. Staring at me. Again.

I crooked a finger his way. He cocked his head and frowned, but to my surprise, he came right over. Up close, he was not as tall as I’d first thought, maybe six one tops. Narrow of hip, long of leg, the kind of build made for running.

I smiled up at him. “You’re Mr. Seaver,” I said. “And you’re kind of relentless, anybody ever tell you that?”

He didn’t reply. His eyes were blue, startlingly so, and he directed them like x-rays. The bartender pretended to be engrossed in mashing up mint leaves, but his ears pricked our way. I lowered my voice.

“Look, I know you’re watching me, so just do me the courtesy of admitting it, all right?”

After the slightest hesitation, he nodded once, crisply.

I smiled wider. “See how easy that was? Now we can be friends.” I patted the stool beside me. “Would you like to sit down, maybe have a drink? I’m putting everything on somebody else’s tab tonight.”

He shook his head. “I don’t drink. Except for water. And hot tea.”

“Water like in ice water?”

“Water like in Pellegrino.”

“Ah.” I signaled the bartender. Then I stuck out my hand. “I’m Tai Randolph, by the way. Hi.”

He took my hand. He had a good handshake, firm enough for me to know what was behind it, but not so powerful that I thought my knuckles might pop.

“Yes, you are,” he replied. “Hi.”

The bartender delivered my mojito, which I charged to the room, along with one Pelligrino. My first sip was heaven, like sunshine and honey on the tongue, almost better than a cigarette. I took two more sips before continuing.

“So what was it about me that tipped you off? Oh God, please say it wasn’t Fox News. Apparently I looked terrible.”

“Not the news.”

“Courtesy call from the cops?”

“No.”

The bartender popped a bottle of Pellegrino and a glass on the counter. Mr. Seaver poured the fizzy water into the glass, then positioned the bottle exactly in the center of a napkin, which he then positioned exactly in the middle of the bar. He adjusted it a millimeter to make sure this was so. I studied him through this procedure.

“You’re wasting your time with me, Mr. Seaver. I had nothing to do with that girl’s death.”

He cocked his head. “Say it again.”

“Say what?”

“The last part.”

“You mean the part where I assure you I’m not a murderer?”

His gaze moved deliberately across my face, focusing on my mouth, then returning to my eyes. There was appraisal in it, but no emotion.

“Well?” I prodded.

He nodded. “I believe you.”

“You do? Now why is that?”

“Because you’re telling the truth.”

One hand rested on his thigh, but the other toyed with the green Pellegrino bottle, a restless gesture completely at odds with the smooth blandness of his expression. Why did I feel strangely opened before him, as if I didn’t have a single secret anymore?

Something wasn’t right. Why was this man shadowing me like I’d just debuted on America’s Most Wanted? Eric had said the hotel had good security, but this was ridiculous.

I took another sip of mojito. “Must be a relief to know I’m not a killer.”

“It is.”

“I mean, it must be annoying to have some random woman show up at your hotel, RiteAid bag under her arm, her picture all over the news. Stuff like that probably makes your job really stressful.”

“Not stressful. Just complicated.”

I chewed on a spring of mint. “So as long as I stay here, you have to stay here, right?”

“Right.”

“Even if I’m just sucking down rum and hitting on the bartender?”

“Even then.”

This man was giving me nothing to work with. In some other bar, on some other evening, I might have tried flirting him into submission. He was a fine-looking creature, even if he never smiled, and I was pretty sure the suit disguised a first-class physique. But I had other plans, and tempting though he might be, Mr. Seaver wasn’t in them.

I finished off the mojito. “So I should just go to my room then? Get out of your hair so you can get on with your other important duties?”

“That would be helpful, yes.”

“You’re going to follow me up there, aren’t you?”

I expected him to smile at that, but he didn’t. Instead, his mouth curved just the slightest, a quirky pull to the left.

“Of course,” he replied.

***

I lost my key on the way up. I was legendary with keys, leaving them in restaurants, in taxis, finding them weeks later in my sock drawer or the glove compartment. He watched patiently as I searched my wallet, patted down my pockets. I finally found it in my tote bag and slid it through the slot. To my relief, the light flashed green, and he held the door open for me.

I saw my Rite Aid bag waiting for me at the foot of the king size bed along with a white cotton bathrobe and a tea tray. Through the window beyond, the Midtown skyline skipped and jutted across the dark horizon like an incandescent EKG.

“I’m sorry if I’ve been obnoxious,” I told him. “But first, there’s this dead girl, and then my brother vanishes, and nobody will tell me crap, especially not the police.”

As I talked, I heard the soft purr of his cell phone. His gaze dipped to examine the readout, and a tiny wrinkle appeared right between his eyes.

“And I’m tired, and stressed out of my mind, and I want a cigarette so bad I might steal one, if I could find one. I mean—”

“I have to go now.” He slipped the phone in his jacket pocket. “If you have any problems, call the front desk. They’ll find me.”

He was less than two feet from me, and he smelled good, a hint of crisp aftershave mingled with warm maleness and soap. I noticed a scar on his chin, caught the pattern of other scars, webbed and barely visible, at his right temple. This was a man with history.

“Mr. Seaver?”

“Yes?”

“I never got your first name.”

“Oh. It’s Trey.”

I smiled up at him. “Goodnight, Trey. Thanks for the escort.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Randolph. Please enjoy your stay.”

Then he was down the hall and in the elevator. I watched the doors close after him. Enjoy your stay, he’d said. As in stay put. As in Eric’s last remark. As in be a good girl and let the menfolk take care of this.

Phooey. I grabbed a bag of M&s from the mini-bar, plus some peanuts for later. I stuck my head into the hall—empty. Then, after making sure my key card was in my jeans pocket, I headed back to the lobby.

Taking the stairs, of course. Also keeping to the less-traveled hallways and finally slipping sideways into the bar, where I asked the bartender to call me a cab.

“And a coffee to go,” I added. “Heavy on the cream and sugar.”

Outside, Atlanta churned in all its chaos. Inside the Ritz, however, it was all potpourri and feather duvets and squares of dark chocolate on my pillow, none of which provided a single clue to what was going on.

I checked my tote bag one more time. Car keys, house keys, office keys—every tool of access I needed to get back into Eric’s and see what was in that desk of his, especially his calendar.

Returning to the scene of the crime. Excellent girl detective behavior.