if she knew he’d killed her daughter?”
“She didn’t—he told her Trey had done it, that he was the one who roughed her up at Mardi Gras. She believed him. He also convinced her to be an alibi for everybody who was at Beau Elan on Friday. He told her it was the only way.”
Marisa had other concerns. “Phoenix is fucked. We’ll never get out from under this.”
I didn’t argue with her.
“Trey won’t even see me,” she said. “He’s up to his elbows in this mess, and he won’t explain, not even to save himself.”
“Can you blame him? You got Landon to get Simpson to spy on him.”
“Trey’s a pragmatist. That kind of thing doesn’t bother him.”
Right, I thought. Trey seemed invulnerable, the Ice Man with the bulletproof heart. But I knew what a façade that was.
“Landon screwed the pooch,” I said. “I can’t argue that. But depending on how you slant things, you could have a genuine hero in the next room. If he can be convinced to help your ass out of this, that is.”
Marisa considered. “What do you think it will take?”
“Let me see him.”
She pushed the call button without a second’s hesitation.
***
I found him sitting on an examining table, holding a cold compress to his head. He still wore his tuxedo shirt and pants, but the tie was gone and his shirt was wrinkled and untucked.
“Your hair is a mess,” I said.
He put a hand to it. “I know.”
I moved to stand in front of him. “How are you?”
“Concussed.”
“Which means?”
“Dizzy. Weak. A bigger headache than before.”
I put my hand to his forehead. “Is that from the conk or the tranquilizers?”
“Both. The EMTs also think I was overdosed with Topamax the night before.”
“What? That stuff you take for migraines? That’s what had you so sick?”
“I had all the symptoms—disorientation, agitation, nausea and vomiting but no fever.”
“So that wasn’t food poisoning, it was deliberate poisoning?”
He nodded. And he and I both knew who’d done it—Landon. Trey kept a bottle of the stuff in his desk drawer at Phoenix, unlocked, where anyone with access to his office had access to his prescriptions. And as we’d discovered, Pellegrino was the perfect disguise for all manner of drugs.
“He did it the night Dylan died, at the meeting I wasn’t allowed to come to.”
Trey nodded.
“Why would Landon mess you up like that?”
“One of the detectives said it would give him an excuse to come to my apartment. He needed to retrieve the files Marisa had sent home with me and see what other information I had.”
“Or perhaps set you up in some way.” And then I remembered. “You were supposed to be alone that night.”
“I was, yes.”
“But you weren’t alone.”
“No. You were there.”
I smiled at him, suddenly relieved. His expression was open, almost vulnerable, despite the wrinkle furrowed deep between his eyes.
“Are the police finished with you?” he said.
“For the time being. But you know what? I don’t want to talk about that right now.”
He nodded, wincing. “Okay.”
I moved my hand to his face. He closed his eyes.
“You still trust me?” I said.
He nodded.
“In that case, I have a proposition for you.” And then I put my mouth next to his ear and told him about it.
His eyes widened. “Now?”
“No, Trey, not now. Later.”
“Tonight?”
“No, not tonight.”
“Why not tonight?”
“Because you’re concussed. And poisoned.”
“Overdosed.”
“Twice. Two times.”
“But that doesn’t impair my sexual ability,” he protested. “Does it?”
This last question was directed to the doctor who’d moved to stand beside me. He was young and scrappy-looking, like a rock musician or a street fighter. But he had a white coat and stethoscope, so I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.
He got out a penlight. “That’s an odd question. Look straight ahead.”
Trey complied. “I ask odd questions.”
“Is it a trick question, like that old joke?”
“What old joke?”
“Look left.” He shined the light in his eyes. “You know, the one where the man asks the doctor if he’ll be able to play the piano after surgery, and the doctor says sure, and the man says, good, I always wanted to play the piano. Now look right.”
Trey obeyed. “I don’t know that one.”
“It’s an old standard.” He looked intently into Trey’s eyes. “Any double vision, blurring?”
“No.”
“Nausea? Vomiting?”
“No.”
“Dizziness?”
“Some.”
The doctor stepped back, folded his arms. “You’re going to have a major headache for a while, and all I can give you is acetaminophen. And we want to admit you overnight so we can watch your vitals. But after that, I’ll tell you what I tell everybody else with