The Dangerous Edge of Things - By Tina Whittle Page 0,45

technically shouldn’t have.”

“What kind of information?”

“Juvenile records.”

His eyes snapped my way, then back on the road. “You can’t get information like that without breaking the law.”

“I didn’t break the law.”

“You said this was hypothetical.”

“Hypothetically hypothetical.”

We hit a red light and he turned to face me. “Say it again.”

I looked him straight in the eye. “I didn’t break the law.”

He watched my mouth, focused on my eyes.

“You’re reading me.”

The light turned green, and he returned his attention to the road. “You’re doing it again. Technically truthful but—”

“Damn it, I just want to know what I should do!”

“You can’t use illegally procured information in a criminal investigation.”

“How do you know it’s illegally procured?”

“I know that juvenile records are sealed. Therefore—”

“I know, I know, you’re Captain Rules. Got it.”

Trey stopped arguing. There was a wrinkle right between his eyes, and one hand rested on the wheel, the other on the gearshift. His fingers were fidgety. Tap tap tap.

At the next light, a familiar figure crossed the street in front of us, cell phone pressed to his ear, camera around his neck. He looked like one of those gaunt models in certain blue jean ads, with pale tight skin and black hair spiked above his forehead, and he was so engrossed in his conversation that he didn’t look our way.

“Hey,” I said, “isn’t that the guy who was taking pictures at the end of the press conference, the one they threw out?”

Trey’s eyes followed him. “Yes, it is. The security guard didn’t get a name.”

The car behind us honked and Trey drove forward, slowly. I whipped around in my seat and watched the guy get into a black Ford Explorer with tinted windows. He roared away from the curb with a lurch, still talking on his cell phone.

I caught the license plate—D MAN—and I smiled. “Wanna bet it’s Dylan Flint?”

Trey watched in his rearview mirror as the SUV rolled down the street. He nodded sagely, but otherwise showed little interest.

I stared at him. “You’re not following him?

“Why would I do that?”

“Because he was following us on Saturday!”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Then call somebody! Tell them he’s headed down Peachtree…Damn it, which Peachtree is this again?”

“It’s not. It’s Ponce de Leon.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve got an idea where he’s headed.” I dragged his folder out of my tote bag and waved it at Trey. “He has a photography studio near Centennial Park. We can catch him there.”

Trey shook his head. “I don’t think—”

I held out my hand. “Rock, scissors, paper.”

“What?”

“You know this game, right? Winner chooses. On the count of three…”

He held out his hand. I counted, went with paper, which I then placed on top of Trey’s closed fist. The light turned green.

“1212 Luckie Street,” I said.

***

From the street, Snoopshots didn’t impress—a small shop front displaying sun-bleached photographs of brides and grooms, their faces sharp and averted like they were fleeing the scene of a crime. It was deserted, in stark contrast to the tan and sandstone squares of Centennial Park, which teemed with tourists. On the nights The Tabernacle held concerts, the street was a chaos of scalpers and music-drunk urbanites. But on this afternoon, the whole block felt like a throwback to Luckie Street’s less lucky—and much less lucrative—pre-Olympic days. Trey parked, but kept the engine running.

I opened my window and took a picture of the front door. “I remember now—his daddy owns this whole building. Converted it to lofts during the boom. I’m guessing our boy doesn’t pay much rent.”

“It’s closed,” Trey pronounced.

“Looks that way.” I put my cell phone in my bag. “So what do you think the best way around back is?”

I tried to open my door, but it was locked. Trey reached across me and laid his hand on top of mine.

“No,” he said.

We froze that way for five solid seconds, neither of us moving a muscle. A family of four passed Dylan’s shop, obviously lost. They all wore New World of Coke visors and carried dark blue plastic bags from the aquarium. The little girl licked a red, white and blue snow cone. The mother’s eyes darted back and forth, like a minesweeper.

“Fine,” I said. “But can we at least wait a few more minutes? Just in case he shows?”

Trey removed his hand from mine. He sat back and switched off the engine. “Five minutes. Then we go back to Phoenix.”

So I watched the doorway. He watched his watch. After exactly five minutes, when there was still no sign of our quarry, Trey shifted the car into first and made