The Dangerous Edge of Things - By Tina Whittle Page 0,27
horizon.
Jake kept talking. “She was a great girl, you know. Everybody’s going to miss her around here.”
“We’re leaving now,” Trey said. He turned on his heel and headed toward the parking lot.
I indicated the memo in Jake’s hand. “Just call me? Please?”
Jake nodded, and I hurried after Trey, who was not strolling anymore. I jogged into place beside him. “Sorry.”
He didn’t look at me. “You cannot interfere in an on-going investigation. There are procedures to be followed—”
“I wasn’t interfering! The cops had already talked to him!” I untied my jacket and slipped it back on. “I didn’t get much info anyway. All he said was that yes, he knew her, that she was perfectly nice blah blah blah. You ever notice how it’s always perfectly nice people who get killed, never nasty people, like on the soap operas.”
Trey unlocked the doors to the Ferrari. “He was lying about that last part, the nice part. Now get in.”
I almost grabbed his elbow, caught myself at the last second. “Lying? Are you sure?”
“Eighty-five percent sure. Now get in.”
***
We were barely ten minutes down the road when Garrity called me.
“The manager of Beau Elan asked about you at Phoenix,” he said. “Seemed to think you were some kind of investigator. Landon referred him to Ryan and Vance. They are not pleased.”
I mentally cursed Manager Guy. “Big deal. Trey said he’s just a big fat liar anyway.”
Trey shot me a look. “I did not.”
Garrity wasn’t interested in my explanation. “Do me a favor and leave the police work to the police, okay?”
“Oh, please, that’s such a cliché. If this were a movie, you’d be dead in the next scene, and your last thought would have been, I should’ve listened to that smart blonde.”
“Go to Trey’s. Stay put until I get there. No argument.”
“Fine.”
A pause. “Now I’m suspicious.”
“Look, I found a dead body yesterday, I get tailed this afternoon, I’ve been dragged downtown twice in two days. A bodyguard sounds like a fine idea, especially one with a nine-millimeter under his jacket.”
“Tailed?”
“Yeah, tailed. Trey didn’t tell you?”
“Put him on.”
I did. Trey kept his eyes on the road as he spoke. He explained things to Garrity rather succinctly, then said goodbye.
“So is this okay with you?” I ventured. “My staying at your place?”
“Of course.”
I felt a pique of curiosity. “You kept saying ‘I know.’ What is it that you know?”
“That you might try to sneak away, and that I shouldn’t let you, but since I probably can’t stop you without physically restraining you, it’s really a moot point. Trying to stop you, that is.”
“Were you supposed to tell me that?”
He considered. “Probably not. I guess that’s a moot point too.”
We turned left, heading back to the Buckhead area. As we turned off GA 400, I imagined I could smell the whiff of money, all flavors—old money, new money, dirty money. Trey didn’t head for the residential section where people like the Beaumonts live, nor to the Lenox Mall area where the Ritz-Carlton holds court, nor to the bar-choked party strip close to Midtown, where Peachtree Road changes to Peachtree Street. Instead, he took us down the Peachtree Road corridor, into the heart of the skyscrapers. They lined the road like steel gray dominoes, and I remembered Garrity’s words and wondered which one of these looming rectangles Trey called home.
“So Jake Whitaker lied?” I said.
Trey nodded. “Yes.”
“About her being such a great girl?”
“Yes.”
“So he’s covering up something.”
“That’s an assumption. All I can tell you is that he wasn’t being completely truthful.”
“I saw a photograph on the wall of him and the Beaumonts. Are they friends?”
“Not friends. He’s involved in many of the same causes as the Beaumonts, so he’s more of a…”
“Hanger-on?”
Trey nodded, but offered no further commentary. Obviously Jake Whitaker held little interest for him. Or maybe he was just pretending, pulling another one of his tight-lipped cover-ups. But then, from what Garrity said, he didn’t do cover-ups. He just kept his mouth shut until you asked the right question, like one of those magic cave doors in the Arabian nights.
He returned his attention to the road. I settled back in my seat and watched him drive. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t picture him and Garrity as partners. Garrity with his frank, easy-going diligence, his gruff professionalism. And Trey, he of the blank arctic stare, the flat appraisal, the perfectly-pressed trousers and monotone responses. The Ice Man.
I remembered Garrity’s words: “And then he was back, but it wasn’t him anymore.” Like who we