Blood, Ash, and Bone (22 page)

Trey tapped the secondary trail. “The inciting incident here is a deliberate attempt to trick Simmons.”

“Which he fell for.”

“Yes. But why?”

“Because he was greedy and foolish?”

Trey shook his head, tapped the B1 circle again. “No, I’m not asking why Simmons did what he did. I’m asking why Hope did what she did. Why take him the fake map? Why blame you? Why create this entire sequence of events?”

“Is this you being rhetorical? Because I’m not used to that either.”

He exhaled in frustration. “It’s not rhetorical. You know motives aren’t my strong point. What possible reason could Hope have for setting this particular sequence of events into play? Because when you discover that, you can extrapolate this second sequence, perhaps predict her next move.”

I stared at the paper. “She did it for the same reason she came to our hotel—distraction. It’s all a ruse to throw us off the real trail.”

“The trail to what?”

“I don’t know. The real trail is invisible. We only know it exists because of the distraction.”

“So what could she—”

“Omigod!” I grabbed Trey’s arm. “That’s why she came to the hotel and got herself on the surveillance camera—long dark hair, slim build—because now she looks like me! Blond and…not slim.”

Trey’s eyes sharpened. “She was setting up a false description.”

“And we helped her do it.” I turned the paper around and stabbed at the circle with my finger. “She took the map to Simmons because she knew he’d be at the Expo with me. She knew I’d hear about his treasure hunt because she’d set me up to take the heat for it. And she knew I’d run after that lead like a dog after a squirrel.”

“All part of the same plan.”

“Yep. And I fell for it.”

“We fell for it.”

I was surprised to hear him use the word “we,” but it applied. She’d outfoxed, outsmarted, and out-connived both of us. Again. Which could only mean one thing—whatever she was trying to distract us from was very very big.

I spooned up the last bit of gelato. “Winston is the key, I know he is. Hope said as much. And his desk calendar suggests he has something huge and secret happening tonight.”

“His calendar? How—”

“Unfortunately, as Kendrick explained, Winston hasn’t done anything illegal. Not yet anyway.”

Trey didn’t reply.
Easy now
, I reminded myself. Baiting Trey was a delicate maneuver, hooking him even trickier. One false move, and he’d cut and run.

“It’s police business, that’s for sure,” I said. “And we should definitely let them handle it.”

Trey nodded. This was a plan he could support.

I licked the spoon clean. “But can’t we do both?”

“Both what?”

“Let the cops handle it and investigate ourselves? I mean, I can’t actually investigate Winston. I don’t have a security professional’s license. According to the law, I’m just a potential stalker subject to fines and imprisonment.” I tried to sound nonchalant and reasonable. “But you
are
a licensed security professional, are you not?”

His expression remained bland. “I am.”

“So you could see what Winston’s up to tonight, say around seven?”

“I could, but—”

“And since the Harringtons are all about finding that Bible, this could even count as billable hours.”

“Hope said the Bible was a fake.”

“And I trust her about as much as I trust a wharf rat.” I licked the final drop of gelato from my spoon. “So what do you say? Wanna do a little surveillance?”

He examined the paperwork one more time. I watched the wheels turn in his head.

“I’ll have to fill out the 302 ahead of time,” he said.

I stifled the grin. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

I licked salted butter from my fingers. “So this is a stakeout?”

Trey thought about it. “I suppose so.”

“I thought it would be more exciting.”

He didn’t reply. We were parked in a lot next to the river watching Winston’s shop. The Lincoln had all the comfort of a luxury suite on wheels—all it needed was a mini-fridge. I had popcorn and a Coke. Trey had tea. Lapsang souchong. Decaffeinated. No sugar, no honey, no milk.

He kept his eyes on the pavement. Winston hadn’t left his shop, not even for one second. We knew he was in there, but the door remained shut with the CLOSED sign out. It was extremely weird behavior for a late Friday evening, when normally he’d be on the stoop, hawking pamphlets and coupons.

I stirred my coffee. “Is this typical for a stakeout? Sitting around for hours?”

“We’ve been here thirty-five minutes.”

“You know what I mean.”

He took another sip of his tea. The crowd moved in a river of alcohol and high spirits, and the sun set behind the bridge in sluicing orange light. One couple stopped at the sweetgrass weaver to buy a rose. The man presented it to the woman with a courtly flourish, and she pressed it to her nose, even though it had no scent.

They were on a date. We were on a stakeout. I tried to remember our last date-date, and couldn’t. It had been dinner, I supposed, or sex. Did sex count as a date? Not that Trey ever actually asked me out. I usually made the plans, and he showed up. Unless he was working. Or running. Or off kicking things. Or it was past nine o’clock.

I looked over at him, so capable and efficient, eyes riveted on the tour shop. “Trey? Do you ever wonder how we ended up together?”

“Your brother hired me for a personal protection detail.”

“No, I mean romantically.”

“You propositioned me.”

“No, I…I mean yes, but…you’re messing with me, aren’t you?”

He kept his eyes on Winston’s door. “What exactly are you asking?”

“I’m asking why you’re with me. You know. Like a couple.”

His forehead creased, and he looked thoughtful. One finger tapped the dashboard, but his eyes remained on our target.

“Can we talk about this later?”

“You’re sticking a lot of conversation on that later plate, Trey. If I didn’t know better, I’d think—”

“Because Winston’s leaving the shop now.”

I snatched up my binoculars. Sure enough, Winston was locking his door, a briefcase in hand. He looked left, then looked right, then left again, the epitome of paranoia. He didn’t spot us, however, and started walking briskly, one hand shoved in his pocket.

Trey put down his tea. “Come on.”

He got out of the car, and I scrambled after him. We walked along the water’s edge, next to the concrete barrier. Pedestrians wandered in intoxicated flocks, gazing into shop windows, clotting around maps.

Winston was an easy tail, however, despite his rather sedate non-Hawaiian shirt. He stayed on the sidewalk next to the shops and moved with purpose, the briefcase close to his body. Trey knew how to keep distance, but it didn’t matter—Winston was oblivious to us.

“He’s definitely up to something,” I whispered.

Trey put a finger to his lips.
Shhh.

I shushed.

Winston sat abruptly at a table for two in front of one of the smaller cafés. Almost as abruptly, a man moved out of the alley and sat opposite him. I didn’t recognize the two men who remained standing at his shoulders, but I recognized the man at the table with Winston. There was no mistaking that hatchet nose and high forehead.

“Oh shit.”

“What?”

“That’s Gerard Dupre. He’s the Grand Wizard. Remember his picture? On those pamphlets the KKK’s been passing around? High level Klan, a much bigger deal than those morons at the booth.”

Trey pulled out a simple tri-fold map and opened it in front of us. He pointed to Forsythe Park.

“Look,” he said.

“At what?”

“At the map.”

“Why?”

“Because Hope’s here.”

I got a chill. “Where?”

“Eyes on the map.”

“I am!”

“She’s at a table—don’t look—on the rooftop bar, two hundred and fifty feet to the right.”

I fought the urge to search the rooftops. “What’s she doing?”

“Watching Winston and Dupre.”

He kept his head bent over the map, but I knew he had her locked in his peripheral vision. I tried to do the same, but couldn’t. I chanced a quick look at the roof. Sure enough, Hope sat at the corner table, her attention riveted on the street.

Trey’s voice was annoyed. “Tai!”

I snapped my eyes back to the map. “Sorry. Does she see us?”

“I don’t know.”

A wild thought occurred to me. “Trey, what if this is a set-up? What if she’s—”

“Shhh.” Trey didn’t move his head at all, but his eyes tracked the street. “Something’s wrong.”

“What?”

He shook his head, his brow furrowed. “The crowd flow isn’t right. There’s something—”

He froze, dropped the map, and then before I could take another breath, tackled me. He moved with the blinding speed of lighting, fierce and total, and I hit the pavement hard, the full weight of him landing on top of me. In the distance, I heard screaming.

“Trey!”

His hand covered my mouth. “Be quiet and stay down!”

“What happened?”

“Quiet!”

He shifted his weight so that I could breathe easier. Then he shoved me backwards against the concrete barrier, his body a shield. I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear the panic. The stampede. The screaming.

I twisted my head, craned my neck. One brief glimpse—Winston sprawled on the cobblestone, the café table overturned. I started shaking.

Trey took a deep breath in and out, his face expressionless, his eyes flat blue. He rolled off me in one swift tumble, pulling his gun as he did. Then he lay on his back, the H&K on his belly. He pushed himself to sitting, back against the concrete.

“Call 911,” he said. “And stay down. Don’t move from this spot.”

He was in the program now, not an ounce of shake in him. I closed my eyes. I wanted my boyfriend back, somebody to hold me against the rising hysteria, to tell me everything would be fine. That was the Trey I wanted. But this was the Trey I needed, this one with the clipped words and the cold eyes. He would be the one to get me out of this, not my boyfriend. He was the one I had to trust.

And so I did.

Chapter Thirty

Somewhere behind the crime scene tape and pulsing blue lights, I knew that Winston’s body was being processed. There were no more sirens anymore, no crowds, no honey-colored sunlight. Only the wind remained. It rippled up and down the empty sidewalk, riding across the rocks and the water, colder than before.

Trey and I sat in a booth inside the deserted café, cleared of customers and employees now. Kendrick sat opposite us, in uniform, a wall of official irritation.

“What the hell where you doing stalking Winston Cargill?” he said.

“I tried to tell you—”

“And I told you to drop it.”

“You told me to drop the murder, and I did. This was about figuring out why Winston and Hope set me up so that I could clear my name.”

“Yeah?” His expression was fierce. “How’s that working out for you?”

I shivered and pulled my jacket tighter. “What happened?”

He shook his head. But Trey answered for him.

“The shot came from behind us, probably from Hutchinson Island. That’s a long-range hit, even more difficult with the crosswinds, but possible.” Trey turned to Kendrick. “Head or body shot?”

Kendrick hesitated. He was watching Trey very carefully.

“Head,” he said.

“One bullet?”

“Right in the T-zone.”

“I thought so. Most likely police-trained, although I’m certain he used a suppressor system, which is more of a military strategy.” Trey turned and pointed. “I’d check the undeveloped lot next to the conference center. It’s a good set-up for a hide site—superior concealment in the underbrush, clear angle of sight, easy access to the highway.”

Kendrick examined Trey with new eyes. “Where’d you train?”

“SWAT. Eight years with the APD dignitary protection unit, four of them with the urban tac team.”

Kendrick leaned back. “So you know.”

“Know what?” I said.

Trey took a sip of water and looked out over the river. “That was an expert shot. You and I presented even easier targets. And yet we’re still alive.”

I looked to where we’d been standing by the water. The concrete barrier was only three feet high. We’d had our backs to Hutchinson Island, the soft vulnerable spot at the base of the skull exposed.

Kendrick nodded. “One shot, one kill. Sniper’s creed. If the shooter had been aiming for you…” He shrugged and looked at Trey. That cop thing passed between them.

“We would be dead,” Trey said.

I huddled deeper in my jacket, a sudden chill scraping my spine. Not from the coming night. Not even from my close call with a bullet.

I turned to Trey. “I didn’t know you were a sniper.”

He didn’t look at me or answer the question. His eyes were on Hutchinson Island, across the turgid water, debris floating downriver under the bridge.

His phone rang, and he pulled it out. “It’s Marisa. I have to take it.”

He got up and moved to a secluded spot next to the bar, away from the windows. Despite the workout clothes and running shoes, he carried himself in Armani mode. Precise. Proficient. Cool.

Like a sniper.

Kendrick watched him. “You didn’t know?”

I shook my head. “I knew he was on the SWAT team. The dignitary protection unit. I guess I never really pushed that idea to its logical conclusion.”

“He never told you?”

I shook my head again. I remembered Marisa’s words, her implication of the dark things lying in his psychological profile. His denial of such. I shook off the apprehension and got back to business.

“Did you find the briefcase?”

Kendrick shook his head. “Any idea what was in it?”

“I’d guess our infamous Bible. Except that every piece of evidence I’ve run across suggests it’s a fake.”

“Any idea who might be behind this?”

“The KKK is a good start. So is Hope Lyle. Trey can give you a 302 on her. We saw her on the rooftop right before the shooting, so if Trey’s analysis is correct, that the bullet came from behind us, she wasn’t the shooter. But she’s involved.”