The Dangerous Edge of Things - By Tina Whittle Page 0,5
things on the way, I’ll pay you back.”
“But my car—”
“You can get it tomorrow.”
“I just—”
“Look, I know this is hard. I’ll explain everything tomorrow, I promise, but until then, stay put at the hotel. And relax.”
He hung up, and I stared at the phone. Something was happening, of that I was certain. I felt like a minnow in a trawl net, flopping about with sharks.
Just then Ryan joined Vance in the lobby. She frowned and looked a question at him. He nodded, then looked at me. A taut smile stretched his mouth, but his eyes were sharp enough to slice brick as he said, “Rumor has it the Mercedes out front is for you.”
Chapter 3
The Buckhead area of Atlanta is the ninth most expensive zip code in the United States. Often called Beverly Hills East, it houses two five-star restaurants, one governor’s mansion, and the Ritz-Carlton Buckhead. When I crossed that opulent threshold, carrying a plastic Rite Aid bag filled with deodorant and a three-pack of underwear, I entered virgin territory, as daunting a frontier as confronted any pioneer.
It was almost eleven, so except for a few businessmen returning from late dinners, the lobby was deserted. My first impression was the smell—lemon verbena mingled with leather and the ghosts of expensive perfumes. Velvety light gilded the dark wood and golden fabrics, making everything seem deeply textured. Even the fire in the stone fireplace was well-mannered, a tidy blaze in coordinating flickers of auburn and yellow.
The doorman directed me to the marbled swath of the check-in counter, where a crisp young woman took my information. She eyed the plastic bag with no reaction and summoned a bellboy to cart it to my room. He pressed his lips together tight, fighting a grin, then bore it away.
That was when I noticed the man standing at the other end of the counter, watching me. He was very good looking, broad-shouldered and lean, with coal-colored hair brushed back neatly from his forehead. His attire marked him as one of the corporate crowd—black suit, white shirt, black tie, all of it perfectly tailored, probably designer.
The clerk noticed the man too and smiled his way. He didn’t smile back. I noticed the earpiece then—tiny, black, discreet.
“Security guy?”
She smiled. “That’s Mr. Seaver, yes. He usually works upstairs, but he’s watching the lobby tonight.”
“Is he always this…intense?”
“He’s very thorough.” She laughed a little. “You must have done something to make him suspicious.”
“Discovered a dead body earlier. You think that could be it?”
Her eyes widened. “The woman they found in Virginia Highland?”
I nodded. The man was still watching me. Pointedly.
The clerk looked concerned. “If you require any special safety measures, I’m sure—”
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
I signed my name just as my phone went off. I tossed the key card in my tote bag and moved behind a luggage cart. Security Guy stayed focused.
It was Rico. I tried to keep my voice low. “Where have you been? I called you six hours ago!”
“Don’t even start, baby girl. Boss Lady’s got me working the Kanye concert—I told you this, like, a million times—and I didn’t get a break until fifteen minutes ago. Are you okay?”
Across the lobby, Security Guy moved down the counter, where he exchanged a few words with the clerk. She smiled at him, chatting while she worked the computer. He nodded at whatever she was saying, but kept his eyes slanted in my direction.
“I’m fine. Under surveillance, but fine.”
“Uh oh. That sounds bad.”
“We’ll see. Damn, it’s good to hear from you.”
“Same here. Well, except for the part where you gave my name to the cops. Who just showed up, by the way, and asked me a bunch of questions about where you were this afternoon.”
I apologized and filled him in on my situation. At his end, I heard muted crowd noise and the flurry of keystrokes on his laptop. He had steelworker hands with long thick fingers, dark as chocolate, but he could type like a house on fire. He worked tech support at a local PR firm, which meant that he logged some crazy hours, but it also meant he was on top of virtually every piece of breaking news in the Greater Metro area.
“Glad to hear your side of things,” he said. “All I knew was I came over to Mick’s to grab a burger, and there you were on the big screen, looking all Courtney Love and shit. And then I saw your seventeen messages, and then the cops—”