The Dangerous Edge of Things - By Tina Whittle Page 0,26
a big guy, stocky, with dark brown hair and a square jaw. He wore faded blue jogging shorts with roughed-up athletic shoes, and in addition to the toilet brush, he carried a can of Comet.
He scratched his forehead. “Look, this is a very bad time. If you’re here about an apartment—”
“Actually, no. But if you’ve got a minute, I’d like to ask you about Eliza Compton.”
He opened the door, and I stepped inside the reception area, which obviously doubled as a community room—matchy-matchy sofa and chairs around a fireplace, a small kitchen area. The lights were off, which gave it a staged and ominous feel, but I could see soda cans on the counter, a wastebasket overflowing with paper cups.
“Sorry about the mess,” the man said. “With Eliza gone, I’m pulling double duty around here.”
He switched on the overhead and stowed his cleaning materials under the sink, leaving me standing by the information desk. A photograph of the Beaumonts hung above the stacks of pamphlets and brochures. I examined it as I slipped some of the sales materials in my bag.
It wasn’t the typical display. In fact, it was decidedly unusual, a photograph of Charley and Mark shaking hands with a General Robert E. Lee look-alike in full dress grays. I recognized the figures flanking them too—Senator Adams, who was smiling in an official manner, and the guy with the toilet brush. Only this time he wasn’t wearing faded jogging shorts—he carried a musket and wore the butternut uniform of a Confederate infantryman.
I peered closer. I couldn’t read the tombstone, but I did recognize the statuary in the background, as any Southern tour guide worth her salt would—the Lion of Atlanta, guarding the tomb of the Confederate Unknown. Oakland Cemetery.
Trey joined me, hands on hips. He didn’t look angry; if anything, he seemed extremely calm. “This is inappropriate.”
“Five minutes.”
“No. We’re leaving now.”
I put my hands on my hips too. “You can’t make me.”
I saw it in his eyes—throw me over his shoulder, toss me in the car, slam the door while I kicked and screamed—and I didn’t doubt for a minute he could do it. He’d be sorry, and it wouldn’t be as easy as he imagined, but he could do it.
“This is police business,” he said.
“So?”
“So we’re not police.”
“So?”
He stared at me, then reached under his jacket. I froze. He pulled out his cell phone. “I’m calling Marisa.”
“You do that.”
“And Garrity.”
“Fine by me.”
He moved just outside the door, scowling. While he tattled on me, I grabbed a Beau Elan memo pad from the information table and scribbled my name and number down. The man walked over, looking puzzled.
I held out the slip of paper. “This is my personal cell phone number. Please call me later, Mister…”
“Whitaker. Jake Whitaker. I’m the manager.” He accepted the information with two fingers and looked at it earnestly. “The cops have been here already. I let them into her apartment.” He lowered his voice. “They’re saying she was murdered.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“They know who did it yet? Or why?”
“That’s why we’re here, to try to find out.”
“So you’re an agent, huh? Like him?”
He was looking at Trey, who was still talking on the cell phone while he paced a six-foot strip, back and forth, tight turns at each end. I angled my body so that only Whitaker could see my face.
“Yes, like him. You know Trey?”
“A little. He works for Phoenix, and they’re out here a lot.”
“What about Eliza? How well did you know her?”
He shrugged. “She moved here about six months ago, right after she started the job. I live in the building opposite hers, so we were neighbors.”
“I’ve heard she had some creepy guy hanging around her. Buzz cut, goatee?”
“Sure, I was the one told the police about him.”
I didn’t tell him I already knew that. “Ever see what he drove?”
“No, I never paid attention. I didn’t have any trouble until Wednesday, when he parked on the street and walked past the gate. Then he was pounding on her door, and she was threatening to call the police. He left. And then the cops showed up here Thursday night.”
Wednesday. The morning Eliza had come to Eric’s place, only to be followed by the blue pick-up. The night she missed their dinner. The guy must have followed her from Eric’s back to her apartment. And then on Thursday…
At that moment, Trey came over and stood at my elbow. The chill was palpable, as if an iceberg had suddenly materialized on a clear