The Dangerous Edge of Things - By Tina Whittle Page 0,57
didn’t need to be told twice. The air at the site reeked of ash and chemicals, even from our parking spot. Janie looked grim and determined. She wore her crucifix, but her fingers went nowhere near it, as if she didn’t want to be reminded of all that “turn the other cheek” stuff. When the patrol made her put out her cigarette, I thought for a second she might refuse. But she dropped it into the dregs of her coffee and got out of the car. I was not invited to go with her.
It was a slice of hell, that place, heavy with the stink of ammonia, like a radioactive litter box, and thick with clotted oily smoke. A hazmat-suited agent crouched next to an overturned oil drum, waving a Geiger counter at it.
But I did see one thing I recognized. A beat-up blue pick-up, swarming with uniforms. Janie was led to it. She stared at it, nodded, then spat on the ground.
Back in my car, she reached for her cigarettes. “They wouldn’t let me look at the body, said it was too dangerous right now. They said it didn’t matter anyway, that I couldn’t ID him if I tried. I asked if it was bad, and they said yes. Three people, all of them burnt to death. Crispy critters, one of them said. Didn’t think I could hear him. Somebody told him to hush.” She blew out smoke in a burst. “But I wanted to see.”
“They didn’t find any ID on the body?”
“All burnt up. The truck, though, that’s his. No doubt.”
We were back in the city by the time the morning commute had started its sluggish crawl. The radio reported the usual litany of accidents and road work and stalled vehicles. I was regretting my fashion choices. In an effort to look like a liaison, I’d put my hair up and worn this purple pantsuit I’d gotten at J.C. Penney. Now I was regretting it—the armholes were too high, and it itched. But I looked official. Somewhat.
“The fire took out the whole block of units, twenty at least. Went up like that.” Janie snapped her fingers. “You get a bunch of tweakers playing with fire, next thing you know, the whole neighborhood’s burning like hell itself.”
I thought of the smell, the ash, the odor that surely signaled death. The landscape, toxic and wasted. And somewhere in there, under a sheet, the charred corpse of a murderer.
“I wanted justice,” Janie said, and ground out her cigarette. “But this will do.”
***
Phoenix was jumping when we got there. Yvonne steered Janie toward Landon’s office, casting suspicious looks over her shoulder as she did. I shoved my ID into my tote bag the minute she got out of sight and headed straight for Trey’s office.
Marisa was already in there, clad in a charcoal skirt and jacket, accented with pearls a shade darker than her blouse. One eyebrow arched as she gave my pantsuit the up and down.
“Interesting color choice,” she said.
I smoothed the fabric. “It’s aubergine.”
And then she pummeled me with questions. I answered as best I could. Trey took notes. He watched me as I gave my recitation, jotting down information in his neat precise hand. Not reading me, just paying attention.
Marisa stood by his desk. “If this means what I think it means, then our part in the investigation is over. This changes everything.”
I understood. After all, every piece of evidence I’d seen was pointing to Bulldog as Eliza’s killer, so now that he was a pile of disreputable ash, further speculations seemed a moot point, as did the reward the Beaumonts had offered.
She directed a look at Trey. “Which means I need you this Friday at the Adams reception.”
He stared at her. “But I completed the security plan two weeks ago.”
“Things have changed. I need you in person.”
“Landon—”
“—is a personal guest of the Beaumonts, you know that. You were the only person who wasn’t going to be there this weekend, and now you are.”
Trey shook his head. “I don’t do that kind of work anymore. There are too many variables.”
“That’s why I need you. We’re dealing with rent-a-cops, local cops, other people’s bodyguards. I need somebody I can trust in the middle of all this.”
“We planned—”
“Not for this, we didn’t. You did the zone breakdown, the contingency protocol. All I’m asking you to do is be there and be available.”
He didn’t reply. But he didn’t drop his eyes or look away either.