Blood, Ash, and Bone (19 page)

“Not this guy. I know Skip, and he knows me. Which is why when he sees me, he’ll know the gig’s up. Which is where you come in.”

“Doing what?”

“I need somebody to block his escape route.”

“Tai—”

“All you do is stand there. He won’t try to go past you. Otherwise, I might have to chase him down in the parking lot and tackle the fool.”

He considered that scenario. “When are you going?”

“Tonight.”

He nodded reluctantly. “Okay. But there are rules.”

“Of course there are. I have some too, starting with that suit.”

“What’s wrong with my suit?”

“People will think you’re a drug dealer who can’t find his way back to I-95. You have to blend.”

Now he looked like he was seriously regretting his commitment. “Blend?”

I held out my hand. “Give me your phone. I know who to call.”

***

Gabriella was equally incredulous. “Blend? Tai, darling, Trey doesn’t blend.”

I could hear the sounds of her boutique around her—the electronic pings of the cash registers, the soft laughter of pampered customers.

“He only needs to fit in for a little while,” I said. “Something between the extremes of workout wear and business formal. Normal person clothes.”

“I’ve been trying to get him into Boglioli, but you know how he is, a Virgo all the way. Luckily, Prada’s doing nice things in casual wear.”

“Can he get it in Savannah?”

“I know a place. But I’m afraid he’ll reject it.”

“He might surprise you.”

“Really? How intriguing.” I heard keyboard tapping at her end. “In that case, I’ll make the arrangements and let him know. And I’ll have them throw in a nice shiny t-shirt for you,
ma chère
.”

Chapter Twenty-six

For decades, Club One has ruled Savannah’s nightlife as the most well-known party-glam establishment for gay and straight and all the shades between. It has multiple levels, expensive drinks, and well-maintained billiard tables. Back in the day, I’d been good enough with the stick to shake down the arrogant and inebriated, but my skills were too rusty to try that trick now.

Billie had accompanied me for the preliminary portion of my plan—spotting the mark. Together we kept a close eye on the street-level entrance as we racked up for eight-ball. She’d curled her hair for the occasion and sported a short pink dress that showed off her blossoming décolletage. I kept glancing at her belly, then yanking my eyes back to her face.

She sat on the edge of the table, cue in hand. “Skip’s in trouble again, huh?”

I banked a clean one off the side, taking down the two. “Maybe a little. But I’m hoping I can prevent that from turning into a lot.”

“I thought he’d settled down with Nate.”

“You know Skip. Can’t resist a redhead.”

I got a flash of Gabriella suddenly and hit the shot too hard, scratching. Billie took advantage of the table and sank the eleven and the nine without even blinking.

“So when’s this boyfriend of yours showing up?” she said.

“Ten sharp. He had to pick up a change of clothes.”

She put a little too much spin on the cue ball, and it wobbled short of its mark. I bounced an easy rebound off the side and sank the five with a satisfying click.

Billy leaned in close. “Our mutual friend has arrived early.”

I looked over her shoulder and spotted Skip, headed straight upstairs to the Speakeasy. Part one of the plan was working—Skip was effectively a rabbit in a trap now. Our plan was for me to follow him up, let him get a look at me, and then when he bolted—as he would—he’d smack right into Trey, who had a way of convincing people to do whatever he told them to do.

I checked the neon clock over the bar. Three till ten. I adjusted my Sand Gnats cap and cued up for my next shot.

Billie frowned. “Tai?”

“Yeah?”

“About your boyfriend…did you say black hair, six feet tall, dressed in black and white?”

“Yeah?”

She grinned. “Girl, your vocabulary sucks if that was the best you could do.”

She nodded toward the door. I turned. And I almost choked on my beer.

It was Trey, all right, but not any Trey I knew. This Trey wore black low-slung jeans, a white t-shirt, and a black leather jacket complemented by—I clutched the edge of pool table—black leather boots.

I exhaled slowly. “Oh god. That’s him. I think.”

Billie gave a low whistle. “Wow. You must have been good in some former life.”

Trey spotted me, and I beckoned him toward the bar with a tiny tilt of the head. He took a seat. I banged the six into the corner pocket and laid my cue on the green, then headed his way, taking my beer with me.

“A Pellegrino,” Trey said. “In the bottle, the glass separate. No ice, one lime.”

His presence caused a ripple of excitement to run down the bar like an electric current. He kept his eyes straight ahead, however, his finger tapping the counter.

I slid onto the seat beside him. “Skip’s already here. He went into the Speakeasy two minutes ago.”

“So I’m…what was your word?”

“Blending.”

“Yes. Blending. I’m blending for no reason.”

The bartender brought his Pellegrino, and Trey arranged the bottle in the exact center of the napkin, glass to the left.

I put my hand on his leg. “I’ll give you a reason later. But for right now, do you remember the plan?”

“Of course.”

“Then finish your water and let’s go.”

He poured the Pellegrino into the glass. I stood and took off my hat, shaking out the tousled curls hidden underneath. Then I pulled off my jacket, revealing my spanking new t-shirt, a red silk Gucci number with rhinestone accents.

I grinned at him. “Hurry up. I’m dying to see Skippy talk his way out of this one.”

***

I entered the Speakeasy to George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue,” Gabriella’s t-shirt vamping and sparkling like a disco ball. As I’d expected, Skip had a seat at the bar. The bartender laughed at some story he was spinning, a big laugh that had strut and volume to it. She was impossible to ignore, an island of flaming red hair and bosom and luminous eyes with lashes like bottle brushes. Her manicure was impeccable, even if her hands were as big as Rico’s.

I took a seat, and her eyes twinkled. “Hello, sweetie!”

I smiled. “Hello!”

Skip looked down the row at me. He was a good-looking guy in a boy-toy way, with a sulky mouth and pecan-brown curls tumbling over his forehead. He recognized me instantly, and even in the dark, I saw him pale. I waved two fingers at him.

He nodded my way. And then he bolted.

I hopped up, jumped over a middle-aged couple in matching sweaters, banged into a waitress coming up the steps, then took off after him. All I saw was a flash of movement at the bottom of the stairs, and then a quick whip to the left, headed for the back exit.

I stopped running.
Rabbits and snares
, I thought, as I pushed open the exit door into the alley. Sure enough, there was Skip, face to face with Trey, who was examining him curiously.

Skip caught his breath, then jerked a thumb in Trey’s direction. “The muscle’s with you, huh?”

I nodded.

He sighed, resigned now to his fate. “What do you want?”

Trey glanced at me, puzzled. I was guessing that in his experience, criminals didn’t roll over at the tiniest bit of intimidation from some guy in stiff new jeans and unscuffed boots. He was accustomed to SWAT raids, where the thugs got their heads banged together first, then started talking.

I sidled up to Skip, wishing I had a cigarette to tap out of the pack and offer to him. All I had was gum, however. So I pulled out a stick and held it in his direction. “Have you seen Hope Lyle lately?”

He took the gum. “Nope.”

“What about Winston?”

“Nope.”

I held up my phone and showed him the photograph Trey had taken. “This isn’t you and Winston, arguing behind his shop?”

Skip glanced at it, his jaw working the gum. “Nope. Not me. I haven’t been there in months.”

“Really?” I plucked a bit of bright green down from his sleeve and showed it to him. “A little birdie says you’re lying.”

“So?”

“So this little birdie also says she’ll tell Big Nate you were hanging around making eyes at the bartender if you don’t cooperate.”

Skip swallowed the gum. “She said it was a prank.”

“Who did?”

“Hope. She promised me good money for the work, and it seemed harmless enough. A treasure map, for crying out loud. Like a party favor.”

“Did you know what she had planned for it?”

“Didn’t ask.”

“You made yourself an accessory to a crime and didn’t ask what it was?”

He snorted. “Now you sound like a cop.”

Trey took a step forward, and Skip’s attitude crumbled. He pressed himself against the concrete wall like he wanted to become a splotch of graffiti.

Trey put his hands on his hips. “This meeting is Tai’s idea. She believes that if she explains herself clearly, you’ll understand the seriousness of the situation and give her the information she needs.”

He reached into his pocket, and both Skip and I froze. Trey pulled out his cell phone.

“I don’t think that way,” he said. “I think that since you admitted to a criminal act, I need to call the authorities and have them arrest you. And unless she gives me a good reason—”

“What the hell, Tai?” Skip stared at me incredulously. “Your muscle is threatening to call the five-oh!”

I folded my arms. “It’s what he does. Which is why I’d start cooperating if I were you. My muscle used to be a cop, but he resigned after he shot some uncooperative punk right through the heart. And he hasn’t shot anybody since. Don’t tempt him.”

Skip looked at Trey. Trey examined him calmly, looking for all the world like a particularly stylish serial killer.

Skip sighed. “Fine. What else do you want to know?”

“I want to know what you were doing at Winston’s shop.”

“We argued.”

“About what?”

“I wanted out. I read about that old guy’s death in the news, and I wanted Winston to take his shit back and pay me what Hope promised.”

“What shit?”

“A forger’s kit, a nice one too. Old ink, old paper, old pens, like somebody robbed an antiques store. I dumped it off there and left, but he still didn’t pay me.”

My instincts went zing, but I kept my voice calm. “Start explaining, Skip, from the beginning.”

And he did, with only a few sputters and false starts. Hope had looked him up when she got back to Savannah, he said, offering him a pretty price for what she said was a prank. She supplied the materials—paper, ink, a rough sketch—and he created the treasure map.

“Were the materials in a paper box?”

“Yeah. But she didn’t tell me what she was going to do with it. You gotta believe me, I didn’t want to hurt anybody. Why do you think I want out now?”

Trey took his hand out of his pocket. Skip was thoughtless, not criminal. And he technically hadn’t broken the law. He hadn’t counterfeited bills or deeds or a driver’s license. He’d made “art.” What Hope has done with it, however, was a different story.

“Look, Skip, I don’t know what happened to Simmons, but I’m betting somebody killed him over that map and chucked his body in the channel. And I’m betting they’ll kill you too, if they think you need killing.”

“But I never…”

“You need to leave town. Tonight.”

Skip went pale. He looked at Trey, who nodded, and then back to me, every bit of cocky burned right out of him.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Tell Nate you two need a long weekend. Then go someplace far away that you’ve never been before and stay there a while. And lay off the bartender. The last thing you want to be now is predictable.”

Skip nodded. He was quiet and serious, which was good, because that meant he was listening. I squeezed his shoulder. He was shaking underneath my hand.

That was also good.

***

Back in the hotel room, I explained things to Trey around a mouthful of toothpaste. “Guys like Skip clam up around cops. But talk to them like a thug? Works every time.”

“You seem to understand criminals.”

I spat in the sink. “Some of my best friends.”

Trey had taken a shower and changed into his pajama pants. He was two degrees from exhausted. I was tired too, but I still had work to do. I’d already perked a pot of coffee for what was looking like a long night.

I wiped my face with the towel. “I wish I could get my hands on that box. If it really is a forger’s kit, and Vincent DiSilva down in Florida really was a forger, then everybody’s having a hissy fit over a Bible that’s probably a piece of well-crafted fakery.”

“It does seem that way.”

“Which means I’m even more confused.” I pulled a plain white t-shirt over my head. “Thanks for helping me out today. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.” He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, expression curious even if his eyes were flat and tired. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is the reenactment at Skidaway Island. I’m meeting Dee Lynn there.” I put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “And don’t panic when you hear this next part, but…I have a plan.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

I woke the next morning to the bubble and hiss of the coffee machine. I opened my eyes and blinked into the gray blur of dawn. Trey stood at the window. He wore workout clothes, his gym bag over one shoulder, his hair damp with sweat.

I pulled my head up from the desk, eyes sticky, mouth dry and thick. “What time is it?”

“Six-fifteen.” He turned to face me, a dark silhouette against the sheer curtains. “You didn’t come to bed last night.”

I forced myself to sit up slowly, stiffly. “I meant to. But then I had a little bit of a nervous breakdown.”

“I see.”

His desk was a mess. Pamphlets, printouts, garbled notes, everything I could find on the rise and fall and re-rise of the Ku Klux Klan. My cell phone lay on the floor next to the chair, along with two empty bottles of Jack from the mini bar.

I scrubbed at my eyes. “I remember calling Rico at some point and yammering at him for a while. Then I kinda fell apart. Then I fell asleep. Sorry. I’ll clean it up.”