The Dangerous Edge of Things - By Tina Whittle Page 0,69
fear twitched behind the bravado. Dumb, simple fear.
I shook my head. “You have no clue, do you? All you knew was she could get you some attention from the Beaumonts, maybe throw some dope in the mix. Good times. You make up all kinds of rumors—Charley and Trey, Mark and Eliza, me and God knows who—and hope something will stick so somebody will pay.”
“You just keep thinking that.”
“Why’d you bust out the parking garage cameras at Phoenix on Thursday?”
“What?” His mouth twisted. “I didn’t do that!”
“Trey saw you there that morning, don’t deny it.”
“I was just taking pictures!”
“That’s all you’ve been up to, huh? You haven’t been hanging around here, have you? Tossing a few bricks? Slipping a few threats under the door?”
He started to say something, then clammed up. “I ain’t gotta tell you a goddamned thing, bitch!”
That did it. “Listen to me, you moron, and listen good. You may not realize how deeply over your head you are, but I do, and I am telling you, getting your photographs nicked is the least of your worries. Whatever it was Eliza was involved in, somebody killed her to shut her up.”
“If anybody needs to shut up, it’s you.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Just layin’ it on the line.”
He stepped forward as he said this. I held my ground. His hand went into my face, and I smacked it away, hard. His sunglasses went flying, and he curled his fingers into a fist…
And then he froze.
“Is there a problem?” Trey said.
I jumped as Trey moved to stand beside me. He was in full corporate agent mode and looked calm, but he exuded hazard the way that knives did, on a purely visceral level.
Dylan didn’t back away. “What’s the matter, girlie, can’t fight your own battles?”
I suddenly want to yank off his arm and beat him to death with it. “Back up, Trey. You don’t want to get blood on that Armani.”
Trey didn’t budge, of course, but then, he didn’t need to. Dylan was already backing down. “I’m talking to the cops. And then you’ll be sorry, all of you!”
He jabbed a finger at us, one last pathetic attempt at menace, then disappeared around the corner. I picked up his sunglasses and examined them. Tommy Hilfiger. Nice. I pocketed them and turned to Trey.
“Where did you come from? I don’t see the Ferrari.”
He nodded toward a gray sedan parked across the street. “Company car. I’ll be working at Lake Oconee most of the day, and Marisa insisted I take it.”
“Was she being generous or does this have something to do with the car chase yesterday?”
“The latter, I suspect.”
Now that the confrontation was over, I was shaking from the adrenalin spike and plummet. I steadied myself, but Trey noticed. He extended a hand, then just as quickly retracted it.
“Are you okay? Perhaps you should—”
“I’m fine.”
And I was. Mostly. There had been a shift during the confrontation, a moment when I’d felt aggressively powerful, but calm. Now I was cold—the wind had kicked up and the clouds had clotted and lowered. But I remembered that feeling.
“Dylan was seriously pissed about a break-in. You know what he’s talking about?”
“There was a burglary at his studio—his photographic and video equipment were taken, photographs and videos too. His computer was destroyed, but not before someone hacked his website and deleted it.”
“He mentioned having photos of Charley Beaumont.” I took a beat. “And you.”
Trey looked puzzled. “She’s a client. Of course there are photographs of us together. Why would he mention that?”
“Because he thought he had photos of Charley Beaumont and her illicit lover.”
It took Trey a moment to make the connection. “But we’re not lovers.”
He said it so easily, with such disarming confusion, that I wanted to believe him. Could a human lie detector spin a falsehood as easily as he could spot one?
My next question was even more delicate. “Phoenix did this, didn’t they?”
Trey didn’t reply. But his index finger started a restless tap-tap-tap on his thigh.
“Come on, Trey. Did Phoenix trash that boy’s place and steal his stuff so that he’d stop making trouble for the Beaumonts?”
“The Beaumonts are our clients.”
“That doesn’t answer the question. Is Phoenix responsible for this?”
“You could ask Landon. He’ll give you the same answer he gave me.”
“Which was?”
“Of course not.”
“Was he lying?”
Trey looked directly at me. “Landon is usually lying about something. It’s part of his job.”
He turned abruptly and started across the street. I followed after him. “Dylan also admitted he was at Phoenix on Thursday, when the cameras were