now.”
“You two were here together?”
“Together like a couple? No, we’re just friends.”
I immediately wanted to take that back. Why did people use the word “just” to describe a friendship, as if friendship wasn’t deep and real and intense? As if only romance could be that serious. Or that complicated.
“Best friends,” I corrected. “But I came here with Trey.”
“You and Seaver? Really?”
He glanced at Trey, then reconsidered me anew. I was familiar with the look. People always assumed a man who looked like James Bond would have no interest in a rednecky woman with falling-down hair.
I shot him a look back. “Yes, me and Seaver. You wanna drag him over here to verify?”
“I’ll take your word on it. But let’s get back to Lex—you said you had a conversation with him in the hallway?”
“He threw some bravado my way, hit on me, then took a call from somebody he referred to as his ‘lady friend.’ That’s the sum total of our interaction.”
“Was this before or after his altercation with Jackson Bentley?”
“After. But you’ll need to ask Jackson about that.”
“I already have.”
I got a surge of annoyance. I hated trick questions. Cummings’ meter ticked one degree toward bad cop.
He tapped his pen on the page several times, then leaned closer in a just-between-us way. “Look, I heard you got railroaded during that last mess. Some guys like the power play routine, but I don’t work that way. You’re not a suspect, and I don’t plan on treating you like one.”
I nodded, but I knew better. Because good cop or bad, he was lying. I was absolutely a suspect. I found the body, after all, and cops always look extra hard at those of us unfortunate enough to stumble onto a corpse.
“I swear, Detective, I don’t know a damn thing about Lex. He left for the parking lot after our conversation, and he left alive and well.” I jutted my chin in Trey’s direction. “You can ask Trey. He saw him smoking a cigarette out there.”
My fingertips itched at the mention of the word “cigarette.” Nothing like a Q&A with the cops to kick a nicotine craving up a decibel or two.
“This ‘lady friend’ who called him, she have a name?”
“I’m sure she does, but I don’t know it. Somebody on the team might, though.” I hesitated. “Somebody needs to tell her, whoever she is. If it were my boyfriend…”
The memory of the scene flared again. Lex, sprawled on the floor, the red stain on the white tee-shirt, right over his heart. I imagined Trey in his place and shuddered.
Cummings noticed. “I know this is hard. But I need to hear about when you found Lex.”
I described it in as much detail as I could—the water, the bathroom smell, the smoke. The way Lex’s head tilted askew, as if he’d hit something on his way down. The bruising around his eye, the bloody split lip. The memory trembled in my retelling, as gray and shifting and insubstantial as smoke.
I tried to shake the scene into focus. “I keep thinking there’s something I’m missing.”
“Take your time. No rush.”
I concentrated, but in my mind’s eye, Lex was two-dimensional. All I could see was the red splotch. Everything else faded into the background.
“Nothing. Sorry.”
“Did you happen to see his cell phone in the bathroom?”
“The black one, with the rhinestones? No. It wasn’t in his pocket?”
“It wasn’t on the body. But you reported seeing it the last time you saw him alive, right?”
“Right.”
Lex’s phone was certainly a bank vault of data. Photos, e-mails, numbers, secrets. Little wonder someone had snatched it. I watched Cummings scribble in the margins of his notebook. I craned to get a look, but couldn’t make out anything.
He closed his book with a snap. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Randolph. We’ll be in touch.”
I stood to leave. Cummings shoved his pen in his pocket.
“Oh, and one more thing.”
I sighed. “I know, I know. Let me tell Trey.”
“Tell him what?”
I hesitated. “You’re about to take me downtown, aren’t you?”
He looked surprised. “No. I just wanted to say congratulations. Seaver’s a great guy. I’m glad he’s doing good.”
He clapped me on the shoulder. I stood there dumbfounded and watched him go.
Chapter Seven
I tried to find Rico, but he’d vanished, so I found Trey instead. He hadn’t moved two feet from his post beside the back door, only now an Atlanta PD officer guarded the entrance instead of him. He told me about his interview, which had gone very much like my interview.
Yes, Cummings was