Darker Than Any Shadow - By Tina Whittle Page 0,22
a bunch of rednecks to gun up? Something else to do besides mess with my life?”
Now I was angry too. “Hey, you’re the one put Trey on red alert. You asked us—”
“I asked Trey. Not you.”
“We’re a package deal.”
“Then I’m returning the package.”
I glared at him. He glared back. Fifteen years held us together, strong glue. I’d known him when he was a chubby mathlete with pastel oxford shirts buttoned to his chin. And he’d stuck with me through too many unwise follies of the uncouth variety. Bickering was old hat with us, maybe even affection. But there was something behind the words this time, something sharp.
I lowered my voice. “Bitching at each other isn’t helping.”
His expression softened. “Damn straight. But this isn’t your problem.”
“You made it my problem when you sicced Trey on the situation because you thought something might happen. Because—guess what?—something happened.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Rico, you are my best friend. But this isn’t about you anymore. I’m in it now, Trey too. And I love you like a house on fire, but you don’t get to call all the shots.”
I rubbed his arm, massive as a tree branch. He turned and took my shoulders in his hands, gently but firmly.
“I did not kill Lex Anderson.”
“I know you didn’t. But you’re hiding something, something besides a fight in the parking lot and bloody shoes, and I want to know what it is.”
He shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”
“I won’t tell Trey.”
“It’s not Trey I’m worried about, it’s those guys downtown.”
“I’ll plead the fifth.”
“You can only do that to avoid incriminating yourself. If the cops ask you questions about me, you have to answer them, or they’ll throw your ass in jail.”
“But—”
“I’m serious!” He stood up, wearily, as if his bones ached. “I swear to God, Teresa Ann Randolph, I love you too, but you need to drop this particular bone, okay?”
“But—”
“No buts.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his keys. “I gotta go get Adam. I told Cricket we’d help clean up the restaurant later. I’ll call you, okay?”
“Yeah. Just like last night.”
He sighed and headed back to his car. I watched his retreating back for a while, then drank my coffee and ate my doughnut. And then I reached deep into my tote bag, pulled out a lipstick case, and fished out the tissue-wrapped Winston Light. My emergency cigarette. I scrounged the lighter up from the depths too, flicked it once, and lit up.
Trey loathed cigarette smoke. I’d almost entirely given up the habit, one hundred percent around him anyway. But there were times. This was one.
A mother with her baby wrapped in a rainbow-hued sling shot me a dirty look as she passed. Whatever. The smog alert that morning was orange, which meant that she and her progeny were sucking in dangerous lungfuls of ground-level ozone for which I was blameless.
I blew a plume of smoke at the sun, riding lower now, but still flat yellow and relentless. Once again I was in a situation where nobody wanted to give me any answers. Once again I was forced to resort to my own devices.
I sucked in another sweet hit of nicotine. So much for rehabilitation.
Chapter Twelve
I entered Trey’s apartment to the sound of the shower. When I opened the bathroom door and stuck my head inside, the steam billowed around me in a thick tumble. Trey liked lava-hot water combined with lots of soap. The result was a heady overdose of sensation, like an ancient bathhouse, rich with the smell of unguents and oils.
I hopped up on the black marble vanity as the water stopped. “Hey boyfriend, I’ve got a problem.”
Trey’s voice echoed in the stall. “What kind of problem?”
“Rico’s hiding something, something big, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“What makes you think he’s hiding something?”
“Fifteen years of being his best friend. Plus blood stains on his shoes, which are in an APD evidence locker, which I will tell you about on the way.”
Trey pulled the shower curtain back and stepped out, a thick white towel wrapped low at his hips. He always looked so young without the suit and tie and perfect hair, practically virginal.
“On the way where?”
“Lupa.”
I pulled off my tobacco-scented shirt and tossed it in the hamper. He’d laid out a neatly folded stack of clothes—black sweatpants, white tee-shirt. Clothes for staying in.
He put his hands on his hips. “Why are we going there?”
“We’re helping clean up. Cricket said the bathroom’s still