just explained that as long as Trey works within certain boundaries—lots of rules, highly organized structures—he’s capable of some amazing shit.”
“Like the lying thing?”
“Like that, yeah. So now his job is premises liability, knocking holes in other people’s security systems and then fixing them. It’s all simulations, though, so nobody ever gets shot for real, and he’s so damn good at it, it’s scary. Plus, the Armani routine impresses the hot shot clientele.”
“That’s the second time you’ve used the word ‘scary.’”
“If the shoe fits.” He shot me a sideways glance, and then his mouth softened at the corners. “I’m not trying to frighten you; I’m just being honest.”
I pulled off my blue rubber gloves with a thwack. His every word rang with deliberate honesty. Why then was every secret of mine still in that tote bag? I railed at Eric for keeping things from me and then proceeded to do the same thing. Were we really that much alike? Was I that calculating?
I wiped my hands. They were pasty and shriveled, like they’d been submerged in brackish water. “Is he going to get better?”
Garrity shook his head. “No. He learns how to handle things better, so he improves in some ways. His brain adapts. But the injury is permanent.”
I remembered the way words eluded him sometimes, the way he repeated things. The way he stood too close. But I also remembered the shelves of books on neuroscience. Trey hadn’t given up. He was still fighting.
Garrity laid out containers of food, yellow rice and pulled pork. “Listen, I may not be his partner anymore, but I trust him with my back. He has bizarre rules coming out his ears, but his main operating procedure is the one he learned in Catholic school—do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
I picked up one of the forks. “So I’m supposed to trust him because a bunch of nuns taught him the Golden Rule?”
“Yeah, that’s the gist of it. And you might want to lay off brandishing weapons at him. You do not want to trigger that Special Ops training.”
***
Once Garrity left, I cleaned until I couldn’t see straight. I thought about crashing on the sofa bed in Dexter’s office, but then I remembered the photo of me with the bullet hole through the center, and my stubborn streak vanished.
The Ritz received me once again, as plush and predictable as Phoenix. My gritty hair and sweat-drenched clothes earned me horrified glances from the other guests, as if I were wearing convict stripes and leg irons.
The desk clerk displayed no such aversion. “Ms. Randolph?”
I turned around. So much for surreptitious. “Yes?”
“A gentleman left a package for you.” She pulled a manila envelope from under the counter. I immediately recognized Rico’s heavy scrawl across the flap: CONFIDENTIAL—FOR TAI RANDOLPH ONLY!
I thanked her and took it to my room, where I opened it while the bath ran, hot and steamy. It contained several printed pages, official documents on William Aloysius Perkins AKA Bulldog. I examined the first one, not sure I was seeing what I was seeing. But when I figured out what I was looking at, I knew Janie and I were having another talk, even if I had to corral her in a bathroom again.
Chapter 20
The phone rang at six the next morning. It was Trey.
“Marisa has called a meeting. You need to be here.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because she said so. Nine o’clock.”
I rubbed my eyes, still thick with exhaustion. “You’re an abomination.”
“Nine.”
“Yeah yeah. I’ll be there.”
On the way across town, I stopped at a convenience store and got a pack of cigarettes, then threw away all but two. One I smoked on the way to Phoenix, the other I wrapped in tissue and left in my wallet, an emergency ration for whatever weirdness the day planned to throw in my face.
Yvonne waited for me in the lobby. I was expecting another lecture about my lack of appropriate badgewear, but she fixed me with her sweetheart eyes. “Third floor.”
The room was deserted except for Trey, who occupied one chair on the long end of a rectangular table. He had a slew of paperwork in front of him—charts, graphs, summary reports.
I sat beside him. “You have any idea what this is about?”
“No.”
“Me, either. She didn’t say anything yesterday.”
“Who?”
“Marisa. Who’d you think I meant?”
“Janie Compton.” Trey fixed me with a hard stare. “She mentioned that you spoke with her yesterday, in the bathroom. You didn’t tell me this.”
I started to reply, but before I could formulate