Darker Than Any Shadow - By Tina Whittle Page 0,69

my hand. She took it. She had a firm grip, like someone I could trust. Too bad I didn’t. Still, at this stage in the game any opportunity was worth exploring.

“Anything else I can help you with?”

“Yeah.” She glanced at the display behind me. “Do you have any carry cases? I spilled a café au lait in mine. The gun’s okay, but the case smells like a Starbucks trashcan now.”

“What do you carry?”

“S&W Bodyguard.”

“Pistol or revolver?”

“Pistol.”

A woman after my own heart. Maybe this partnership was a good idea after all.

***

My previous searches for Lex had turned up only the persona. But within two seconds of looking at images for magicians in South Florida, I found him.

His name was Kyle Alexander. I had to squint to make him out, but even though the spiky black hair was combed neatly, it was definitely him. He was dressed for the stage in a dark blue silk shirt, with a black vest and black trousers. Not a hint of Goth. But I’d have recognized his expression anywhere, the sharp knowing appraisal that he brought to the stage. No wonder he could rock an audience—he’d had twice the practice, since he was in effect two people.

“Presto chango,” I said.

I was right about the top hat, right about the scarves and handcuffs. I was even right about the rabbit, a fluffy white creature straight out of central casting. But I’d been wrong to assume Lex hadn’t had a lovely assistant.

In the videos, she was petite and cute, with rolling waves of chestnut hair practically shellacked in place. A spangled halter dress emphasized a knock-out body, short and curvy. She smiled, a white and dazzling smile, as pretty a diversionary tactic as ever climbed into the box and got sawed in half.

I clicked on the included link. It took me straight to Kyle Alexander’s website. I examined his schedule of appearances, which—I realized with a prickle—had dwindled to almost nothing by the middle of August. My prickle turned into a full body ripple when I clicked on his last scheduled performance, a lunchtime gig in Tampa Bay the Wednesday before the debut party. I noted the details. And then I spent twenty minutes on the phone talking with Kyle’s last employer, a human resources manager in the Bay area who’d hired him to entertain at the company picnic.

When I hung up, I was certain of three things. One, the Tampa Bay show had been Kyle Alexander’s swan song. Two, no way he’d made enough money working the corporate magic circuit to survive, not with the recent meagerness of his bookings. And three, he had survived, which meant he was making money some other way, probably by selling stolen merchandise through Debbie’s online store.

So I sent Cummings an e-mail explaining everything with a helpful collection of links. I bcc’d Garrity. And Rico. And my new friend Sloane. Because like they always say, turn-about’s fair play.

I checked my watch. Only two hours before the open mike started. Time to get back to the city, dump off all my research at Trey’s, and get us out the door before the curtain went up and the poetic blood sports began.

Chapter Thirty-three

I had to use the shop’s hand truck to do it, but I managed to get all my research—including Lex’s box of poetry scraps—into Trey’s lobby in one trip. The concierge paled when he saw me coming. I raised my Frankie Styles mug at him, and he stared in soft baffled horror until the elevator doors closed.

It was Wednesday, which meant Trey had been at Krav class since five-thirty. Add thirty minutes for a post-class run, another fifteen for a shower, and he’d been ready to go since seven-fifteen.

I unlocked the door and pushed it open. “I know I’m late, but you’re not going to believe—”

Gabriella jumped, startled. Then she smiled really big. “Tai!”

Trey’s ex. She always acted ridiculously glad to see me. Tonight she was dressed in her spa uniform—white cotton yoga pants and a white baby tee, her red ringlets piled on top of her head. She was barefoot and carried a designer yoga bag on her shoulder. Probably something expensive and French and high maintenance, like her.

I managed something like a smile in return. “Hi.”

Trey sat in a kitchen chair in front of her. He wore sweatpants, but his chest and back were as bare as a romance novel cover. I tamped down a surge of primal female possessiveness.

Gabriella made a stern face at Trey. “You keep using