Darker Than Any Shadow - By Tina Whittle Page 0,30

at me. I kept my face toward the window as he snapped shot after shot.

“Don’t say stuff like that. You’re a legend.”

“Which is a famous relic.”

“Stop being modest.” I took another sip of the tea. It was beginning to grow on me. “Why’d you stop leading the team?”

“It was time. I missed photography, plus Frankie’s good at being in charge. And making money.”

“I heard she runs an art gallery.”

“Owns an art gallery, a successful one too. Poetry doesn’t pay the bills, babe—all of us are something else from nine to five. But that’s not why she’s the leader. She’s a damn fine poet despite her lack of a sentimental streak.” He grinned at me from behind the camera. “Come on, give me a smile.”

I smiled, but kept my face averted, relieved when a knock at the door interrupted the impromptu photo shoot. Padre rose and peered through the peephole, then opened the door to reveal a young woman in a waitress’ apron, her ponytail swinging, face sweaty.

He looked puzzled. “Angie?”

“Hey, Padre. You left this on the counter this morning. We hit a slow spot, so I ran it over.” She handed him a white paper bag. “I slipped you another bagel too. Don’t tell.”

He accepted the bag, mumbled his thanks, then shut the door on the woman rather abruptly. He hustled the bag into the bedroom without explanation, shutting the door behind him, leaving me in the sitting area.

Alone.

My conscience prickled. I’d been trying to reform myself since hooking up with Trey—no sneaking, no peeking, no fudging. But the opportunity to snoop was irresistible.

I stood quickly and went to Padre’s desk, dominated by stacks of notebooks. A wooden bowl contained random detritus—rubber bands, paper clips, pens. Receipts and coupons and flyers crammed his in-box, and crumpled paper overflowed the wastebasket.

Then I saw the folder. It was shiny, clean, and thick with paperwork. I peeked inside and saw contacts and indemnity agreements, all of them lawyer-dense with small print, all of them riddled with zeroes. Lots of zeroes. Soon, Frankie wouldn’t be the only financially successful team member.

Except that Padre wasn’t an official part of the team anymore.

He came back from the bedroom as I closed the folder, but if he noticed me standing there hunched and furtive beside his desk, he didn’t say a word. When he sat again, he was much calmer.

“Sorry. Old man brain again. I leave stuff lying around everywhere.” He hoisted the camera, then lowered it. “Come on, Tai, I know you’re not here to get your picture taken. What’s up?”

“So maybe I have one question. Who usually provides the CDs for team events?”

“Frankie.”

“But Friday night, Adam said Frankie hadn’t brought enough. Who else would the team call?”

He scratched his chin. “Maybe Frankie’s assistant?”

“She has an assistant?”

“Yeah. Debbie. Weird chick. Wannabe poet. Almost your age and still lives with her parents. She claims to be a textile artist.”

“A what?”

“You know, she runs one of those online shops full of hand-knit beanies and fingerless gloves. Wearable art. She and Lex were tight, but I think he was only shining her on.”

“About what?”

“About being a poet. She frankly sucked. Her work was juvenile, sloppy, derivative. I think he liked having a groupie, though, so he kept her on the hook.”

“Do you have her contact info?”

“Sure.”

He went to his desk and rummaged in the in-box. Then he paged through a decrepit notebook, finally scribbling a phone number on a piece of scrap paper.

“Here you go. That’s her cell.”

I put it in my bag. “Was she there Friday night?”

“I didn’t see her. I got there late, though. Traffic.”

I remember Trey’s pronouncement, that Padre had been lying. And yet when I looked into his face, all I saw was honesty, clear and plain.

He sipped his tea and watched me watching him. “How well did you know Lex?”

“Not at all. You?”

“Only a little. He had potential, but he spent too much energy on the clothes and hair, not enough on craft.”

“Did you get along?”

“Nah. He didn’t want to drink from my fountain of wisdom. His loss.” He winced. “Our loss, I mean. Lex was a baby. You’re supposed to think you’re hot shit when you’re a baby. Like I said, he had potential. Frankie and I may have our disagreements, but we both agreed on that.”

We hung out in the silence for a second. Through the open windows, I heard the babble of tourists, the roar of Harleys. Padre picked up the camera again. He seemed more comfortable with it in his