The Dangerous Edge of Things - By Tina Whittle Page 0,85
from the pitch and hang of the sleeves to the cut and break of the jacket.
I walked over and made a pretense of straightening his tie. “Did you tell anyone I was coming?”
“No.”
“Not even Eric?’
“No.”
“Oh good—I like surprises.”
Trey’s eyes were tight. I put my hand to his forehead and found his skin smooth and cool, still unfevered. Somewhere on the lake I heard the low drone of a motorboat, a distant conversation layered with laughter.
“I’ll leave you to get dressed,” he said. “Find me when you get to the reception.”
“Oh no, you don’t. We’re going together. Stay put.”
I grabbed the dress and the shoe box and went into the bathroom. The dress slithered from its bag, this slinky length of red, heavy with beading, cool as water.
“Do you have a plan?” I called.
“For what?”
“Finding Gabriella, of course.” I stuck my head out the door. “I’d think locating her would be your first priority.”
He looked annoyed. “We don’t know the specifics of the situation, therefore I can’t create a response plan.”
I struggled into the dress. It was like trying to shove my entire leg into a glove. “So let’s pretend I have proof that she took your gun and bugged your computer, solid evidence.”
“I can’t—”
“Pretend it’s a simulation.” I undid my ponytail and ran my fingers through my hair. “Pretend you had proof that a hypothetical person with connections to the Beaumonts had stolen Landon’s firearm and tapped his computer, and that said person was headed this way. What would your next move as security officer be?”
“Alert perimeter control and establish a BOLO. Double-check entry and exit procedures. Inform the head of operations.”
“Okay, whoa.” I stuck my head back out. “Can you skip that last part? I mean, if Landon finds out about this…”
“Not Landon. Marisa. And procedure requires—”
“This is all hypothetical, remember? As you keep pointing out, you don’t know for sure that Gabriella has done anything. So let’s take it a step at a time, shall we?”
I returned to the main area and shook my hair out, my purse strap slung across my chest like a bandolier. The effect was not exactly Vogue-worthy, but it would do. Better tacky than dead.
Trey examined me. There was scrutiny in the look, but appreciation too. And puzzlement. I could see him sorting and analyzing, his neural circuits trying to make a connection.
I slipped into my shoes. They were beaded three-inch pumps the same flaming scarlet as the dress. I stood up, wobbled a bit, but held steady. “What exactly does perimeter control entail?”
“Alerting Steve Simpson.”
“Then let’s do it. And keep the part about the missing gun to yourself, can you do that?”
He considered. “For now, yes.”
I took his arm. A team, I’d told him.
Yes, indeed.
***
We found Steve in his native habitat—the surveillance van. It was parked near the entrance and could have been mistaken for a catering van except for the periscope extending through the roof. Inside, multiple screens captured feeds from around the resort, including real-time footage of the van itself. I also spotted a microwave, a coffeemaker, and a tiny, well-appointed restroom.
Steve swiveled back and forth in a gray velour captain’s chair, a can of Sprite in hand. “If it isn’t James Bond,” he said, then grinned at me. “Which one are you, Ursula Andress?”
I ignored him. Trey ducked his head to keep from crashing into the periscope viewfinder. “I need to review the access protocols.”
“You want real time or archived?”
“Neither. I need to see the incoming and outgoing attendance rosters.”
Simpson rolled the chair to a massive console. “I’ve got entrance but not exit, and before you start, that wasn’t my idea.”
“But we need the exit roster to—”
“I said, don’t start. Not my decision.”
“Whose then?”
“Marisa’s. The guests were miffed enough at getting inspected on the way in—she didn’t want them to have to go through a checkpoint on the way out. Leave them with that happy generous feeling, you know?”
Trey’s jaw tightened. Suddenly the interior of the van felt a lot smaller. I bent over the console and read down the list. Bingo—Gabriella’s name was near the top. “It says she hasn’t arrived yet.”
Trey straightened up, narrowly avoiding a swinging remote control. “Have you seen Gabriella?”
“The redhead from the spa? Not tonight.” Steve double-checked the column of figures. “There’s other people from her shop here, and they brought a truckload of formal wear. But not the madam herself.”
Trey scratched a number on a notepad. “If she arrives, please let me know as soon as possible. Use this code.”