hands, something to keep between us.
“You and Frankie don’t get along?” I said.
“Oh, we do okay. She’s mad about the documentary, but she’s gonna have to stay mad. I made that happen, so I get the proceeds, I get the control, and she has to suck it up.”
He said it pleasantly, too pleasantly. I suspected the conflict between him and Frankie ran a lot deeper than he was letting on. He hoisted the camera again. This time I didn’t look away as he fired off several shots in a row.
“Was Lex a problem for your documentary?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Because he was a problem in lots of other ways.”
“Drama means ratings, ratings mean money. And Lex was good for drama.”
“But you wouldn’t provoke drama for drama’s sake, would you?”
“I wouldn’t. But then, this isn’t totally my show.” He shrugged. “That documentary is theatre, as scripted as a sitcom. We get our dialogue written, all of us, and then we strut and fret upon the stage.”
“Famous words.”
“Famous last words.” He stood up and stretched, returning the camera to its place beside the chair. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to get ready for tonight. I assume you’ll be there?”
“What’s tonight?”
“Lex’s memorial. Haven’t you heard?”
He handed me a flyer announcing a candlelight remembrance service for Lex Anderson, scheduled outside of Lupa. It was professional, tasteful and smacked of a PR agenda.
“This Frankie’s idea?”
“Of course. But as ideas go, it’s not a bad one. Whoever else he was or wasn’t, Lex was one of us.”
There was nostalgia in his words. He kept saying “us,” and yet he was no longer the team leader, no longer on stage. There was no “us” that included Padre anymore.
“Do you miss performing?”
“Yeah.” He rubbed his chin. “But spotlights cast a long dark shadow, and I don’t miss that. I’m content being behind the scenes now. Less angst, more money.” He indicated the flyer with a jab of his chin. “So are you coming?”
I tucked the paper in my bag next to Debbie’s contact info. “I’m coming. I have a previous engagement I have to juggle, but I’ll be there.”
Padre tilted his head and looked at me curiously. “Are you convinced I didn’t kill him?”
“Is my Nancy Drew showing?”
He held up two fingers. “Just a smidgen.”
I laughed. “Reasonably convinced. But you might surprise me.”
“Nice to know I still can.”
He moved to the door and opened it. I shouldered my bag, paused at the threshold.
“Thanks for talking to me. You and your old man brain were very helpful.”
Padre didn’t react. Suddenly he did look old. Suddenly, in the stale light, he looked positively ancient.
“You’re welcome,” he said and shut the door quietly.
Chapter Sixteen
My previous engagement met me at the front entrance of Turner Field with my ticket in hand. Garrity was impossible to miss, with fox-red hair and a sharp canny face to match. Even in blue jeans and a faded Metallica tee-shirt, he looked every inch a cop.
He chewed a toothpick. “Another murder, huh? You’re turning into a walking, talking Bermuda Triangle.”
I ignored the insult. “A club killing downtown is hardly your jurisdiction.”
“You and Trey are my jurisdiction. Your names pop up, everybody finds me and tells me all about it. And sweet Jesus, Tai, why in the hell is your name popping up again?”
“Freakish coincidence.”
But it wasn’t. It was very much like last time—someone I love loses someone he knows, and perhaps has a problematic relationship with, to homicide. Last time it had been my brother. Now it was Rico. I didn’t want to explore this with Garrity, however. He had a way of looking at me that reminded me of bare light bulbs and two-way mirrors.
He handed me my ticket. “Come on. I’m dying to hear more about this freakish coincidence.”
***
Garrity had seats under the casino box, with a sideways view of the field. I’d barely gotten popcorn and beer before he started the interrogation, propping his feet on the empty seat in front of him and pulling his cap down low over his forehead.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You want me to spill what I know.”
I cooled my tongue with a sip of beer. Down below, Jason Heywood knocked a clean hit into the stands, and Garrity hoisted his beer in salute. He was Trey’s best friend and former partner, with almost ten years in the Atlanta Police Department major crimes division. He kept his ear to the ground, and as far as heart went, he’d gotten a helping and a half.