The Dangerous Edge of Things - By Tina Whittle Page 0,34
remains in a cotton field. The Daughters of the Confederacy contacted Charley about it and here we are.”
“I thought she was from Miami.”
“Apparently she has these redneck credentials that she only drags up if it’s politically useful.”
“Why is it politically useful to drag your dead great-great-grandfather all the way to Atlanta?”
I pointed at the photograph accompanying the article, a twin of the one in Jake Whitaker’s office, looking once again upon Senator Harrison Adam’s beaming robust face.
“This, you cannot spin wrong. Somebody’s gonna be pissed at you no matter what opinion you hold about the Confederate flag. But this…” I gestured toward the grave. It was well-manicured and tidy, with tasteful purple irises. “This is history.”
“It’s a stunt,” Rico replied. He plopped down on a bench and examined his fingernails. “The Beaumonts dug up this man and dragged him from West Bum-Fucked to be buried here, just to get some good press so their boy will get elected.”
“Looking like.”
“What could this possibly have to do with the real live dead girl, the one in your brother’s driveway?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’m gonna find out.” I pulled at his elbow. “Come on. I gotta get my car back.”
***
Rico drove me back to Phoenix. He put me out at the main entrance, and I shoved three squares of gum in my mouth. He gave the building the skunk eye, then rejected my invitation to come inside.
“Just call me later. I’ll have that number looked up by then, unless it’s something tricky.” He examined me over his shades. “You quit smoking again?”
“Yeah, a week ago. Why?”
“Because you haven’t lit up once all morning. And you just ground out that gum wrapper with your shoe.”
I looked down. “Oops.”
***
The parking garage felt more deserted than usual. My footsteps echoed damply, and I didn’t see another person. I spotted Trey’s Ferrari right off—he’d parked it in a faraway corner and left it there, like a cowboy might tether his stallion before heading into the saloon. But no people.
My car was exactly where I’d left it, next to the elevator. Above it, I saw the empty spot where the security camera had been until someone had smashed it, that someone most probably being Dylan Flint. No security cameras meant no security. My paranoia quotient ratcheted up a few notches.
I quickened my pace, got out my keys. Suddenly, my little red Echo looked as sweet and welcoming and safe as a fortress.
I unlocked the door and climbed in. I was fastening my seatbelt when I saw the flyer on the windshield. My first thought was annoyance. My second thought was surprise. And my third thought? There wasn’t one. Fear will do that, short circuit your thoughts.
Because it wasn’t a flyer. It was a simple round target, black and white and clean as a whistle. Except that the center was a picture of me, with the middle shot clean through. Ragged edges, massive hole, probably something large caliber, something lethal.
A bull’s eye.
Chapter 18
Yvonne pressed her lips so tight her nostrils flared. “You can’t see Mr. Seaver without an appointment.”
“What if it’s urgent?”
Her mouth remained immobile. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Just ask, okay? Let him decide.”
Her expression never changed, but she reached for the telephone with excruciating slowness. As she spoke with Trey, I heard a voice I recognized coming down the hall—Landon. He was dressed in a very nice navy suit, the kind you’d wear to the funeral of someone important you didn’t know well, and he wasn’t alone.
A woman huddled close. She looked about my age, and she was sobbing. Landon draped his arm around her shoulders and spoke to her in low soothing tones, all the while steering her toward a conference room. He didn’t see me, and I caught only snippets of the conversation, but I did catch one thing clearly—her name was Janie.
Janie. Now where had I heard that before?
Just then I heard the ding of the elevator, and Trey got out. He was dressed once again in his black suit and tie combo, and the blue flash was back in his eyes. He reached me just as Landon closed the conference room door.
“Who was that?” I said.
“Who was who?”
As he spoke, I noticed movement over his shoulder. The woman came out of the conference room, still crying. I watched as she ducked down the hall to my left, toward the restrooms. Janie. Aha—my mysterious caller had warned me not to trust Janie.
Trey eyed me with curiosity. Not yet reading me, but damn close to it.