The Dangerous Edge of Things

CHAPTER 4

Eric’s cul-de-sac reeked of spooky. Police tape still ringed the neighbor’s driveway even though the Lexus had been towed, and with the exception of the crime scene clean-up crew, the street was deserted. I saw a white panel van parked nearby, probably a plumber or exterminator, and I prickled. All of a sudden, even the ordinary felt dangerous.

His office had a similar vibe, especially in the half-light of his desk lamp. I took several swallows of coffee, hoping the caffeine would clear my jumbled head. I allowed one pang of guilt, then I sat down and got to work spying on my brother.

His password was easy to guess—BFSKINNER. He used it for everything, despite my telling him what a dumb idea that was. Now I was glad he hadn’t listened, because with that one word, I suddenly had access to his entire life—files, programs, photographs, everything.

But the first thing I did was pull up the Internet and type in the name Eliza Compton.

Her murder flashed front and center, the top story. I saw myself in several background shots, looking unfocused and vaguely guilty. And awful, Rico had been right about that. I looked like I’d seen a ghost, and then I realized with a start that I had. From the second I’d peered into that car, my vision had been clouded with a stranger’s ghost.

Eliza Compton was haunting me, only not in some supernatural way, like in the stories I spun for the tourists down in Savannah. She haunted me with the smell of her blood, the sound of her voice, the gleam of the silver bracelet, strangely untouched with gore.

Her Facebook profile intensified the feeling. She’d been very pretty, with liquid brown eyes and bobbed chestnut hair layered with wispy bangs. In her profile shot, she wore a silver halter top, low rise jeans, and a coquette’s smile. She’d ignored the concept of privacy settings, which meant that even though I wasn’t her “friend” I had complete access to her life. Within two minutes I knew that her favorite band was Slipknot and her favorite club was Vortex, the grinning goggle-eyed skull unmistakable even if the photo seemed to have been shot out of the window of a moving car. No mention of where she lived, but she worked at a place called Beau Elan, a mixed-use development Rico had briefly considered before finding a more appropriately artsy loft over in Sweet Auburn.

Beau Elan. Cookie-cutter and predictable, I was betting. Not words I would have associated with the girl on the page.

I sifted through her friends, her photos. Lots of beautiful people, but no photos of Eric, which was a relief. Just this parade of sharp young faces, generic in their prettiness. It occurred to me that one of these attractive darlings might be her killer. I knew the statistics—more often than not, people were murdered by someone they knew. Someone who snowboarded, who liked macaroni and cheese, who posted videos of sleepy kittens to YouTube.

It was too much, this life spread out before me like a dumped-out drawer. How was my brother connected to this, my respectable brother with the gold-rimmed glasses and the hair just beginning to gray at the temples? What could he possibly have in common with this beautiful, tasteless girl?

I glanced at our family portrait. I’d never noticed the way his upper lip curled, the way his eyes narrowed. Like I was betraying not only him but our entire genetic line.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I said. “If you’d just get your ass back to Atlanta, I wouldn’t have to be digging through your drawers.”

I turned my chair so I was facing the ridiculous crossed swords, not the portrait, and got back to work.

I found his cache of business cards in the top drawer. Most were unfamiliar and uninteresting, but one caught my eye—Marisa Edenfield, Executive Partner, Phoenix Corporate Services. The name sounded familiar, as did the address on Ashford Dunwoody Road.

The office building where Eric worked—I’d picked him up there that morning.

I stuck the card in the back pocket of my jeans along with the only other card that seemed useful—Dan Garrity, Senior Investigator, Atlanta Police Department. That card had a private phone number scrawled on the back. I could see that coming in handy.

Then I scanned Eric’s calendar. I noticed my arrival time marked in blue ink, an unexpectedly touching flourish which only ratcheted up the guilt even more. I ran down the rest of his appointments and saw nothing out of the ordinary, for even though the word Phoenix appeared a lot, and the name Marisa, Eliza Compton was nowhere to be found.

I peered at the computer screen. One of his folders was entitled Phoenix Confidential. I clicked on it. But before I could get a good look, I heard a noise in the kitchen—the swift open and shut of the back door, then footsteps coming toward the office.

I jumped up, and hot coffee tumbled all over my shoes. Panicked now and lacking any better idea, I snatched down one of the Japanese swords hanging above Eric’s desk. The footsteps came closer, coupled with a masculine voice, low and indecipherable.

I hefted the sword. I knew the thing wouldn’t cut warm butter, but it was shiny and intimidating. I tightened my grip. The blade shook violently.

And then he stepped through the doorway right in front of me.

Trey.

I pointed the sword right at his throat. “Stop right there, you son of a bitch!”

He froze. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“It’s my house, I get to be here if I want!”

“No, it’s your brother’s house, which means—”

“Shut up!”

I wrapped both hands around the sword, trying to hold it steady. He was dressed differently than at the Ritz—black nylon pants and a long-sleeved black shirt—and he looked stiffer, less graceful. Exactly like a burglar caught in the act.

I pointed the sword. “You followed me!”

“I did not. I was here first.” He cocked his head. “Did you follow me?”

“No!”

“I didn’t think so.”

He still hadn’t moved, was just standing there examining me, just like he had at the hotel.

I waggled the sword. “You make one move and I will run you through.”

“I know.”

“Do you? You don’t seem to be taking me very seriously.”

He held out his right hand. It shook with the slightest of tremors, even though his expression remained blank and neutral.

“Adrenaline,” he said.

“Hands behind your head,” I shot back.

He complied just as his cell phone started ringing. I pointed at it with the sword. “Who’s that?”

“Probably Simpson. He’s tech support.” The phone stopped ringing. “Since I didn’t answer, he should be calling my supervisor, who should be calling back in approximately thirty seconds. Assuming he’s following protocol.”

The phone remained silent. Trey shook his head slowly. I reached for Eric’s phone and started to dial 911.

“Wait,” Trey said.

“Why? So you can steal something else?”

“I haven’t stolen anything.”

“Right. What else would you be doing here?”

He just looked at me some more.

“Fine,” I said, and reached for the phone.

“Wait.”

I sighed. “Look, here’s the situation. You lied to me at the Ritz.”

“I did not.”

“You told me you worked there, but you don’t, and now here you are, breaking and entering at my brother’s place.”

“I’m not breaking and entering, and what I told you was—”

“Your name probably isn’t even Trey, is it?”

“Yes, it is, but—”

“And now you’re stalking me, aren’t you?”

“No, I—”

“Stop interrupting! And keep your hands where I can see them!”

He closed his mouth and put his hands back up.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t call the police,” I said.

He thought about that for a second. “It would be the next logical step, of course. But if you’ll call Detective Dan Garrity—”

“Who?”

“Dan Garrity, with the APD. He’s a friend of your brother’s. He’ll vouch for us.”

“Us?”

“My team.” He frowned. “If I still have a team. He’ll vouch for me, though, regardless. And Phoenix.”

“Phoenix? As is Phoenix Corporate Services?”

“Yes. I’m one of their agents. Your brother is one of our consultants.”

Eric. Trey. Phoenix. Things weren’t making sense yet, but I could feel some sense forming beneath the chaos and weirdness. I checked the clock. Almost two A.M. Detective Dan Garrity was most likely asleep. But then, he was a cop, and cops were used to being startled awake and confronted with strangeness.

I fished the business card out of my pocket and dialed the handwritten number. A man answered on the second ring. “Yeah?”

“Detective Garrity?”

“Yeah?”

“This is Tai Randolph, Eric Randolph’s sister? Anyway, sorry to be calling you at home, but I’m in my brother’s office holding this guy at sword point—”

“Sweet Jesus, what in the hell!”

“He says he’s a friend of yours. Name of Trey. Works for some place called Phoenix. Any of this familiar to you?”

An unnerving pause. “Listen to me, Tai, you put that thing down right now!”

“I don’t think so. Not until—”

“He’s on the level. Really. But first, I want you to put the sword down. And get the hell away from Trey, I mean, right now. Back up slowly.”

“I’m not an imbecile—”

“You’re not hearing me—put down that sword. Now!”

There was a panicked edge in his voice. Trey watched, hands raised, eyes flat. Curious, perhaps, but not the least bit distraught.

Just then, I heard the squeal of brakes outside, followed by a slamming door and footsteps sprinting up the front walk. Silence, then a polite knock. A business card slid under the door.

“You’re supposed to pick that up and read it,” Trey said.

“I am, dammit, just give me a second!”

The doorbell rang, and I cursed. Keeping Trey in sight, I backed into the hallway. I could still hear Garrity on the end of the line, calling my name. I knelt to pick up the card, eyes on Trey.

Kent Landon, the card said. Managing Partner, Phoenix Corporate Services.

I tucked it in my back pocket under Trey’s watchful eye. Then I lowered the sword a fraction of an inch. “Is your name really Trey Seaver?”

“It really is.”

There was another knock at the door, more insistent this time. I backed up and opened it. A stocky, sandy-haired man waited on the mat. He had his hands shoulder high, palms out, an expression of weary frustration on his face. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place how.

“Ms. Randolph?” he said.

I nodded.

“May I come in?”

I nodded again. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Trey watched from the office, hands still in the air.

The man shook his head in his direction. “Get back to the van.”

Trey lowered his hands and stepped forward, his face unnaturally composed. He walked past me toward the door, then paused at the threshold and looked back over his shoulder.

“Simpson?”

“Fired,” Landon replied.

“Thank you.”

And then he was gone. I put his phone to my ear. “Hey, Detective? It looks like the show’s over. Trey’s booked it, and there’s a Mr. Landon here now, so—”

“Where’s the sword?”

I tossed it in the umbrella stand with a clatter. “Gone.”

“Good. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Keep your hands empty, you hear me?”

He hung up before I could reply. Kent Landon waited in the entrance, and I suddenly remembered where I’d seen him before—he was the sandy-haired guy talking to the detectives at the crime scene earlier that afternoon, Mr. Big Dog G-Man in the gray suit.

“Detective Garrity’s on his way,” I said. “I think he’s pissed.”

“I assumed as much.” Landon folded his arms, looked weary. “Is it my imagination, or do I smell coffee?”

“Coffee?” I shot a quick glance at my sneakers—they were soaked brown. “Maybe.”

“Mind if I have a cup?”

I threw my hands in the air. “What the hell, I guess I’ll go make some.”