The Dangerous Edge of Things

CHAPTER 43

Dexter didn’t have a P7M8 in stock, but his reference list proved invaluable, especially when I mentioned that money was no object to this particular client. The piece was delivered in less than an hour, and Trey’s Amex Platinum was down $1500. He insisted on breaking down and inspecting it—a decision I totally agreed with—so while he cleaned it, I fetched some ammo.

“On the house,” I said.

He fed the eight rounds into the magazine and inserted it. “I have to try this before we go.”

“Of course. I’d like to try mine out too.”

He noticed the purse then, this snappy black leather bag.

“I’m testing it for the shop,” I said, showing it to him. “Zipper opening, holster insert. Lockable. Plus a separate place for lipstick should I ever decide to start wearing it.”

“You have your carry permit?”

I held up the piece of paper. “Came in the mail this morning.”

I could see the gears whirring in his head. But he knew the law as well as I did, and he knew I was within my rights to bring a weapon. The Beaumont reception was a private gathering on private property, teeming with conservative Second Amendment zealots. Unless someone asked me to leave, I had every legal right to be there.

“What do you have in there?”

“A revolver, Smith and Wesson Model 40. Compact, light, hammer cover to prevent it from snagging on a fancy dress.”

I saw that twitch at the corner of his mouth. I smiled. “You didn’t think I’d arm you to the teeth and then carry around just a nail file for myself, did you?”

We went by the range on the way out. Trey as usual exterminated the target. I did pretty well myself. Georgia’s castle doctrine required no retreat before reasonably resorting to deadly force. And considering all that had gone on, a purse full of deadly force swinging on my hip felt really good.

Traffic out to Lake Oconee was unusually heavy, and I guessed from the way the helicopters hovered in a knot above the interstate that there was an accident up ahead, or some other perversity that I couldn’t possibly predict. I played with the air vents and watched the city inch by, surrounded by the sounds of a thousand other motors of a thousand other people.

“Can I ask you something? Not about the case or Gabriella, about you.”

He nodded. Two small travel cases rested behind us, toiletries for me, a satchel of paperwork for him.

“When I was at your desk, I found this magazine, and I couldn’t help wondering…it’s hard to figure out the question I want to ask.”

Trey offered no help whatsoever. I stumbled on.

“Garrity said that after the accident, you bought this car, the apartment, the suits, all of it very different from how you were before. And then I noticed that the GQ magazine dated from when you got out of the hospital, and it had everything in it, just like Garrity described. And I thought, this can’t be a coincidence.”

“It’s not.” He kept his eyes on the road. “But I had to do something. And having a template worked. It still works. The decisions are too hard otherwise.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s hard to explain. Knowing what you like comes from knowing who you are. And I don’t know anymore.”

I’d never considered such a thing. I liked low-slung jeans and chunky boots. Shrimp, but not scallops. The color yellow. How did I know these things?

“Are you mad?”

He frowned. “Why would I be mad?”

“Well, if I had a secret, I’d be mad if someone stumbled onto it.”

“It’s not a secret. It’s just information that I tell very few people.”

“Like Gabriella.”

The mention of her name sounded like a warning bell. Of the two people closest to him in the whole world, one had apparently betrayed him. I pressed on, however.

“Why won’t you admit that she’s up to something?”

He thought about it. “I told you, I need evidence. Her guilt contradicts other facts about her that I already have.”

“So replace the facts.”

“It’s not that easy. I think it used to be, before the accident. Garrity says I had good instincts. He says I was very intuitive. But I’m not anymore. I can sort fact from fiction, but I can’t figure out what they mean.” He looked at the glove compartment. “Like those. They used to mean something to me. I keep thinking I’ll remember what, but I never do.”

I remembered then, from the car chase. “The rosary beads?”

“They were my mother’s. Garrity was looking for them for the funeral. He thinks they were lost in the accident.”

His voice was steady and calm, with no hint of emotion, but I felt the impact nonetheless.

I fingered the glove compartment handle. “May I?”

He nodded, and I took them out. They were cool to the touch, small round stones of gray-green marble with a finely chased silver crucifix.

“Connemara marble,” he said, “from Ireland. That’s where my grandparents were born. County Donegal.”

I held them in my hand, and they felt like faith is supposed to feel—solid, soothing, tangible. He was still looking straight ahead, his hands resting lightly on the wheel.

“I’m trying to explain something to you,” he said, “and I can’t. It’s about those, and Gabriella, and about the accident itself, but…I’m looking for a word.”

I shook my head. “There isn’t one. It’s too much for words.”

He thought about that.

“Yes,” he said finally. “Perhaps you’re right.”