The Dangerous Edge of Things - By Tina Whittle Page 0,64
it interesting. Eliza had called him a month or so ago, wanting some pot, a little meth. He’d ponied the stuff right up, and—he’d admitted—moved to Atlanta where he tried to renew the romantic relationship. She kept putting him off, which just made him more persistent. This was why he’d been following her the Wednesday she went to Eric’s house, why he’d followed her back to her place. Only she’d refused to talk to him.
“Big surprise there,” I said.
“Yeah, well, Bulldog saw her talking to your brother and freaked. He admitted that he got loud, maybe a little rough with the hands.”
“The fight that Jake Whitaker heard.”
“Right. He denies being the one to play rough with her the night of Mardi Gras, though. He said she had the bruises when he saw her.”
“You believe him?”
“No. Anyway, Eliza threatened to call the cops, so he left the premises. Sort of. His idea of leaving the premises was to hang around the gate waiting for her to appear again.”
“No wonder she didn’t go meet Eric for dinner. There was a nutcase outside.”
“Yeah, that’ll put a damper on your social life.”
“But psychotic or not, his version of events makes sense.”
“Oh, yes,” Garrity agreed. “Lots of sense. Only one problem—they found her purse in the floorboard of his truck, everything in it but the cash, along with what’s looking like the murder weapon.”
I almost dropped the phone. “Get out!”
“Nope. Thirty-eight revolver. Some blood on it—still waiting for the DNA on that, but it’s her type, and it’s consistent with the bullet they pulled from her skull, according to the ME anyway. No fingerprints though. Looks like someone wiped it.”
“Who’s it registered to?”
“Nobody. It’s a throwaway.”
“So is he admitting anything?”
“No, but he’ll crack soon enough. He’s too stupid to maintain a story for long.”
“He was smart enough to keep from being blown up,” I reminded him.
Garrity made a noise. “Lucky enough, you mean. He’d stepped across the street to get some beer and cigarettes when the place went up. Stupid people shouldn’t mess with meth—they incinerate themselves eventually.”
“Any chance it was deliberate?”
“Interesting you should say that. Bulldog’s claiming that he’s being framed and that the explosion was a deliberate attempt on his life.”
“Is that possible?”
“Sure. Blowing up a meth lab is cake—a second grader could do it. Plus the gun is the alleged weapon until the forensics come back. No matter—he’s denying any knowledge of how it got in his truck.”
“Just like he’s denying killing her?”
“Just like. And just like he’s denying having anything to do with you either, not the break-in, not the threatening pictures. Says he doesn’t even know who you are.”
So much for my prime suspect. From the looks of things, I had plenty more to choose from, however. “Do the Beaumonts know about this development?”
“Chances are good they’re gearing up for a press conference as we speak.”
“Maybe not.”
Then I told him about Mark Beaumont’s decision to downplay things for a while. I also mentioned that Trey had been drafted for Senator Adams’ reception that weekend in an effort to keep it as low-key as possible while still maximizing the its political potential.
I looked up to see Rico standing in my doorway, waving a Varsity takeout box. I motioned him inside.
“But if they’re pinning this on Bulldog, then my back-stage pass is about to expire. I’m only good as long as the case is unsolved.”
Garrity took a beat. “I meant what I said earlier. Be careful with Trey.”
Suddenly, I knew what it was that was constantly zipping between them. I’d thought it was some man thing, but it wasn’t. It was fraternal, yes, but more like a big-brother-little-brother relationship. And Garrity was the big brother—protective, anxious, always trying to hide it.
“I’ll be very careful,” I promised, “but it’s a moot point. Marisa’s got him desk-bound.”
“Not surprised. But you know what? It’s nice to know he’s still got a little vroom-vroom in him.”
“The Iceman Melteth.”
“Maybe. Just maybe.”
Chapter 33
Rico placed a bag on my desk. “Nice suit.”
I preened for him. “You like? It came in real handy during the morning car chase and my subsequent trip downtown. My third.”
He laughed. Then he stopped laughing. “You’re serious?”
“As the proverbial heart attack. And speaking of…” I peered into the bag. “All right, chili dogs.”
So we sat in the secondary room, and I filled him in on my morning. He ate delicately, fastidiously even, whereas I managed to blop ketchup on my pants. I papered myself with napkins and kept eating.