The Dangerous Edge of Things - By Tina Whittle Page 0,31

a piece of paper with names and numbers on it.

“If you have trouble, any of these people can help you. I’d prefer if you called me first, however.”

I tucked the list into my bag. Up close, he looked exhausted, but he was still being polite, attentive even. He kept his arms crossed, though, and stayed farther away from me than personal space dictated.

“I appreciate everything you did today,” I said. “The ride, the pizza, letting me hang out here.”

He nodded.

“You’ve been very considerate,” I said.

He nodded again.

I wanted him to say something. But he just stood there, arms folded, his body slanted away from mine.

“This has been the damn strangest forty-eight hours of my life,” I said.

“There’s always tomorrow.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea. It’s what people say.”

I searched his eyes for the joke. There wasn’t one.

Chapter 16

Garrity proved to be a swift instinctive driver. The nighttime sky loomed gunmetal and dense, like the inside of a helmet, and the view through the windshield of his sedan was dotted with the streaky blur of oncoming headlights. Only a few blocks over, the raucous Buckhead party crowd was grinding into high gear, roaming like drunken gypsies from Pharr Road to East Paces Ferry.

But not me. No, I was cruising with the APD. And the APD was not in a good mood. In fact, the APD was shooting me serious cop looks, and I was starting to regret ever getting in the car with him.

“You’re mad,” I said.

“I’m not mad.”

“Then you’re not telling me something, I can tell. You’re all squinchy around the mouth. That’s either holding back or mad.”

Garrity kept his eyes on the road.

“What is it, something about Eliza? Something about my brother? Just tell me, I can take it.”

“This isn’t my case. I don’t know enough about it to hold anything back.”

The streetlights flared the car from bright to dark, intermittent slices of illumination followed by darkness. Atlanta had such a gorgeous skyline, even if it was always dotted with cranes and holes and veering half-finished angles. The Ritz-Carlton lay just around the final turn. I could see the brightness of the entrance, dazzling, rich with spotlights. Garrity pulled under the awning and flashed his badge at the valet, who backed away.

“Go to your room,” he said. “And stay there. I’ll call you in the morning.”

I wanted to ask Garrity so many questions—what had Trey been like before, was he going to get better?—but the doorman was holding the door. So I got out of the car.

I crossed my heart and held up three fingers. “On my honor, Detective.”

***

I was true to my word. Sort of. I didn’t exactly go to my room, so technically I didn’t leave it either. Instead, I took my tote bag full of research to the business center. The beige room was deserted, so I dumped my collection onto the counter. I hadn’t realized I’d gathered so much information—the Beaumonts, Phoenix, Senator Adams, and now the disreputable Dylan Flint made a messy mix. Rico always warned that this was the danger of research. He said that it was less about finding stuff and more about knowing what you’re looking at, what matters and what doesn’t.

I understood. Putting together tours was the same way—too much history would avalanche on you and bore your customers. I always approached the gig like telling a story. You find out the arc, the plot line that’s driving all the facts in front of you. The who and why and how come naturally after that.

I typed “Dylan Flint” into the search engine. Just as I expected, twelve thousand hits, most of them referencing the infamous videotape along with other, umm, interesting words. I added the word “Atlanta” and tried again. This time the first entry was for a business, a local one, on Luckie Street next to Centennial Park.

I clicked the link. It was a photography studio—Snoopshots. The images on the home page looked startlingly familiar, with their eccentric composition and off-kilter focus. It was the same nervous energy that I’d seen in the photos Mark Beaumont brought to Phoenix, the ones Charley had taken such an instant dislike to and confiscated.

“Oh yes,” I said. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”

Dylan had a blog linked to his site—also called Snoopshots—which featured a running commentary of Atlanta nightlife. Lots of seen-about-town photos sprinkled with random fashion don’ts. His most recent post was a photo of Charley Beaumont from the Mardi Gras Ball, her eyes wide, her mouth half open. It