Tina Whittle_Tai Randall Mystery 01 (16 page)

Chapter 30

Gabriella’s Day Spa and Boutique lay behind Lenox Square Mall, not three blocks from Trey’s condo and within walking distance of the Ritz. It was hardly impressive from the parking lot, especially in the monochromatic gray drizzle, and there was a closed sign on the door. Trey ignored it. I followed suit.

Inside was a surprise. Small but lavish, it smelled of sandalwood incense and beeswax candles. We stood in the boutique area, surrounded by tiny cocktail dresses and pointy-toed heels on marble columns. The spa area lay to the right, through an arched doorway. I heard female voices beyond it, saw some votives shimmering around a soft gold loveseat.

A woman stuck her head around the corner. Her red hair was piled on her head in careless ringlets, and she had enormous green eyes, round like a cat’s.

“Trey!” she exclaimed.

She hurried over, and I noticed that even though she wore white pants and a matching baby tee, her feet were bare. She took his hands in hers, and he let her do it, even let her press a kiss to his cheek, but his face registered no emotion at the contact. She, however, looked positively enraptured.

“You must be Gabriella,” I said.

“And you must be Tai. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Her voice carried the vowels of someplace European. France, I decided. I slid a look at Trey, but he was examining this red dress, running one finger along the beaded neckline.

“I need a tuxedo for Friday night,” he said.

“So I’ll see you at the reception after all.” She took his arm. “Don’t pout. Come on back and we’ll double-check your measurements. It looks like you’ve been overworking your deltoids again.”

“It’s the Krav.”

Then they disappeared behind this burgundy curtain, leaving me alone. I examined the red dress that had caught Trey’s eye. It was gorgeous, all right, a glittering length of red beading and tiny sequins with a thigh-high slit like a bolt of lightning. I fingered the price tag, whistled under my breath.

I could hear the two of them talking behind the curtain, but I couldn’t catch what they were saying, so I moved closer. It wasn’t eavesdropping, per se, just paying attention to a conversation of which I wasn’t a part. I heard her laugh, softly, heard his monosyllabic reply. I took another step toward the curtain.

That’s when I saw the photograph.

It was just lying there behind the counter, half covered with other mail. I reached over—casually, like I was looking for a pen or something—and brushed the envelope aside so I could get a better look.

It was the exact same shot that Mark had brought to Trey, the one Charley had confiscated. Lying next to it was the envelope from Snoopshots. Apparently Mark Beaumont wasn’t the only one who’d gotten Dylan’s sales pitch—he’d obviously sent the same shots to Gabriella, hoping to impress her with his photographic genius.

And then I noticed something else, something I’d missed the first time.

I snatched up the photos and marched the whole lot right into the dressing room. Trey was standing very still while Gabriella ran a tape measure across the back of his shoulders.

I shoved the photo at him. “That’s her, standing outside of the frame.”

“Who?”

“Eliza.” I tapped the image. “See? That hand there, on Charley’s waist?”

Trey looked where I was pointing. “How do you know that’s Eliza?”

“The silver cuff bracelet. She was wearing it when she died. I remember it vividly.”

“Let me see.” Gabriella stood, peered over his shoulder. “That’s a bracelet from my silverwork collection.”

“So you knew her?”

“The girl who was killed? Eliza? Not very well. She came in here sometimes, but she rarely bought anything.”

“Except this bracelet.”

Gabriella looked at me pointedly. “It’s from my more accessible line.”

“You mean it’s the only thing somebody like Eliza could afford?”

“Yes. She seemed to enjoy looking, though, and she asked a lot of questions about my clients, especially Charley.”

“That didn’t seem odd to you?”

She shrugged. “People ask about Charley all the time.”

“But you remember this girl in particular. Why?”

“Because this girl asked very personal questions. Other people bring in magazines and say, I want this, or, do you have shoes like that? But this girl wanted to know about Charley, not the clothes. And for a while she showed up right after Charley did, within minutes.”

“Did you tell Charley any of this?”

“Of course. She didn’t seem concerned. In the end, the girl stopped coming here, and I stopped worrying.”

While she spoke, she continued to take Trey’s measurements, running her pink tape measure around his waist, across his chest. There was familiarity in her touch.

“And now the girl’s dead,” I said.

Gabriella tucked the tape in her pocket. “Yes. But what does that have to do with Charley?”

“It has everything to do with Charley! Eliza was obsessed with her in way that goes far beyond some celebrity crush! She’s got her hand on Charley’s waist, for crying out loud!” I turned to Trey. “Now will you believe me when I say there’s something fishy going on with the Beaumonts?”

He handed the photo back to me. “There’s a logical reason—”

“Of course there is! Charley took
this
picture from
your
office because she’s trying to cover up a link between her and Mark and this girl. I can’t believe you don’t see it!”

“Hundreds of people are linked to the Beaumonts.”

“But why her, why here, why at this party? She was a receptionist, how could she afford a Mardi Gras party that cost two hundred bucks a ticket?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did she bring a date?”

“I don’t know.”

“You were there! Didn’t you see her?”

“There were 587 people at that event.”

I started to argue, but then I remembered the other photographs in my hand. I took them over to a cushioned bench and dumped them out. If Gabriella was annoyed that I’d been going through her stuff, she didn’t say anything—she just joined me as I sifted through them.

“You got these from Dylan Flint,” I said.

“Yes. I wasn’t the only one. Several of my friends who were at the Mardi Gras ball got the same package.”

“Didn’t you think that was strange?”

“I’ve seen much stranger promotions than dropping off samples of one’s work.”

The photos looked identical to the ones Dylan had sent Mark Beaumont. They contained Mark and Charley and Senator Adams, my brother and the mayor. And then, in the background, another familiar face, only this time he wasn’t holding a toilet brush.

“Jake Whitaker,” I said.

Gabriella twisted her mouth in a tight knot. “Him.”

“You know him?”

She examined her fingernails like Rico did, fingers curled in a loose fist. “That night at the ball, he wouldn’t leave me alone. And then he showed up here the next morning.”

Trey’s head snapped back. “You didn’t tell me this.”

She waved him quiet. “It was only once, and I made it clear this was a place of business, and that if he had none, he needed to leave. He hasn’t returned.” She switched her cat-eyes back to me again. “Why all the questions?”

“Yes,” Trey echoed, “why all the questions?”

I tapped the next photograph. “This is why.”

It showed Eliza, her face half-turned away from the camera, her eyes bright and cunning. She had on a shiny purple dress, and standing right at her elbow…

Nikki. She wore a black cocktail dress and looked directly at the camera, but Eliza’s gaze was fastened elsewhere, on someone not in frame. I would have bet my emergency cigarette that it was one of the damn Beaumonts, uncaptured by the lens, visible only in Eliza’s hungry, fascinated eyes.

Trey tilted his head to examine it. “Who is that?”

“It’s Nikki, this stripper friend Janie keeps talking about, from Beau Elan.”

“Why is she important?”

“Do you remember those rumors Marisa mentioned, about Mark and Eliza? I was blaming Dylan and his stupid blog, but what if Nikki started them? Or Jake Whitaker. He was there, she was there, they were there. Maybe this didn’t start at Mardi Gras—maybe it started at Beau Elan.”

Trey’s expression switched to mildly interested. “Go on.”

“So maybe Mark and Eliza really were having an affair. Maybe Jake really does know something. After all, you said he was lying about her being nice.”

“But Marisa says—”

“Like Marisa knows everything. The point is, this is something we need to pursue. And I know exactly where to start.”

“I don’t think—”

I held out my hand. “Rock, scissors, paper.”

He frowned. “Again?”

I stuck my hand out. He did the same. And on three, I laid my flat palm over his closed fist.

“Paper covers rock,” I said. “Again.”

He didn’t argue, just looked at the photographs in my hand, then addressed Gabriella. “Do you mind if we keep those?”

She shook her pretty head. “Of course not. If it will help.”

“It will.” He checked his watch, then looked at me. “We leave in eight minutes. Get your questions ready.”

Chapter 31

Jake Whitaker spread his hands. “I really don’t see how I can be of any more help to you.”

By “you” he meant me, the person sitting in the client chair in front of his desk. Trey was standing off to the side. He and Whitaker had circled in that alpha male way, then ignored each other. Which had been fine with me. It meant that I had Whitaker’s full attention.

“You neglected to mention you were at the Mardi Gras ball Tuesday night. Or that you visited Gabriella’s the next day.”

“I met her at the party and she was hot—what can I say? I still don’t see what this has to do with Eliza.”

Trey glanced our way. Sharply. I took note, but kept talking to Whitaker. “Did Eliza ever tell you why she liked hanging around at Beaumont parties?”

“Are you asking me about those rumors?”

I played dumb. “What rumors?”

He ignored the dumb. “Because if you are, I’ll just put your mind at ease. I didn’t start the rumors, I don’t believe the rumors. I never saw them together that way.”

“You’re talking about her and Mark Beaumont?”

“Of course. What are you talking about?”

“There were rumors of a more illegal activity than fooling around with your married boss.”

He leaned back. He was looking professional today—dark gray slacks, winter-white oxford shirt, muted red tie. He’d shaved, which made him look smarter and more wholesome, emphasizing that former quarterback thing he had going on.

“You mean drugs,” he said.

I fixed him with a look. “Did you know she was using?”

“Sure.”

“What about dealing?”

“I suspected so.”

“So why didn’t you tell us?”

“It wasn’t any of your business. Had I had problems with her? Yes, especially recently. She was late a lot, she seemed unfocused and weird sometimes, and she and that redneck ex-boyfriend liked to argue in public. Did I see any reason to share this information with you? No.”

“Did she seem to be getting any special attention from the Mark? Or Charley?”

“No.”

Trey moved to stand in front of the photograph of the Beaumonts over the information table. Jake’s eyes flicked in his direction and then back to me.

“Did you notice her paying them any special attention?” I said.

He swiveled in his chair. “She had stars in her eyes, maybe. I told her she was out of her league, but she didn’t listen.”

“So you have no idea why anybody would want her dead?”

“Are you asking in some cute way if I killed her?”

“Not a bad question. Did you?”

Now he was mad. “No, I didn’t. I was meeting with the landscaping guy all day Friday. He verified it, ask the cops. Does that satisfy you?”

He wasn’t looking at me when he said this—his eyes were focused just above my shoulder. Trey moved into my peripheral vision.

“I’m satisfied,” he said. “You’re not lying.”

Whitaker took the comment in stride. “Nice to know I’m not a liar.”

Trey shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”

***

By now, the rain had intensified, and the breeze cut with a cold edge. We walked back to Trey’s car, sharing his umbrella.

“Well,” I said, “that wasn’t helpful at all. I guess I thought he would let something slip, so we could call him on it and then he’d confess everything.”

“Everything?”

“Hypothetical everything. Like in the movies.” I sighed. “But if you say he wasn’t lying…”

“He wasn’t. But he was being evasive.”

I stopped walking. “About what, which part?”

Trey shook his head. “Just generally evasive. Technically true—”

“—but deliberately evasive, yeah yeah, I know the drill. Do you think—”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop talking.”

He moved in face-to-face, inches between us. And the rain was pattering on the umbrella above us, and we were all alone beside the car, and I thought, omigod, he’s gonna kiss me, right here, right now, and I couldn’t decide whether or not to close my eyes.

“We’re being watched,” he said. “Don’t look.”

“Don’t look where?”

“At the stand of trees by the mailboxes, a hundred feet behind you. There’s a maroon Buick LeSabre with the engine running and a man in a gray sweatshirt standing beside it. It’s William Perkins.”

“Bulldog! But he’s dead!”

“No, he’s not.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

The urge to look was almost irresistible. “What do we do?”

“You get in the car and lock it.” He pressed the Ferrari keys into my hand. “Do you have your phone?”

“Yes.”

“Call 911—tell them what’s happening.” He handed me the umbrella. “Stay on the line. I’m going to keep an eye on him.”

I started toward the Ferrari. But I couldn’t help it—I looked—and when I did, the guy was staring right at me. He had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled down around his face, but he was Bulldog, without a doubt. Same small eyes, same round mouth, same little goatee. I froze, he froze, and then in a burst of motion, he made a mad dash for the maroon car.

Trey sprinted around to the driver’s side of the Ferrari. He already had the engine running by the time I scrambled in.

“Give me the phone,” he said.

I yanked at my seatbelt. “Screw the phone, just go!”

“I don’t think—”

“That’s Bulldog, Trey!”

“But—”

“Presumed dead, wanted killer—”

“I just—”

“Wanted killer, Trey!”

He slammed the car into first and accelerated with stunning velocity. Up ahead, Bulldog reached the Beau Elan exit. He plowed over the speedbumps and burst through the lowered arm of the security gate without hesitation. The Ferrari took the speedbumps painfully, then screamed onto the street, cutting off a pick-up and swinging into the far left lane.

I clutched the seat. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I assure you, I’m well-qualified—”

“Shit! Red light!” I closed my eyes and we slid through it. Horns honked behind us, brakes squealed. I opened my eyes. “That was not cool!”

Trey didn’t reply, just kept his eyes straight ahead, his jaw set. He pressed a button on the console.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling Garrity.”

Up ahead, the Buick did a shimmy at the next intersection and made a sudden left across traffic. Trey followed. In abrupt horror, I saw movement at the corner and realized that someone was about to step into the crosswalk.

I waved frantically. “Watch out! Old lady!”

We rocketed through the light, and I whirled to look behind us. “Shit! You hit an old lady!”

He glanced in the rearview mirror. “I did not. She just fainted.”

The Buick tore up the street, the Ferrari right on its tail. Bulldog had no chance of outrunning us. His only hope was to lose us, and he seemed to think that lots of impulsive, dangerous turns across several lanes might be the key.

I caught the reading on the speedometer. “Omigod, slow down!”

“I could concentrate a lot better if you’d—”

“He’s headed for the interstate!”

Trey yanked the wheel. I screamed again. I wanted to watch the road, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from him. He kept his shoulders down, his hands easy at the wheel, but his eyes were narrowed and focused, like a wolf. I recognized the look.

“You’re getting off on this!”

He exhaled sharply. “Perhaps.”

“That is
not
the correct answer!”

“It’s the adrenalin.”

“I don’t care what—”

I heard sirens behind us just as Garrity’s voice came in over the speakers. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I’m in vehicular pursuit,” Trey said, eyes scanning the rearview mirror. “William Perkins.”

“That’s impossible!”

“Not impossible. Tai is supposed to be calling 911.”

“School bus!” I screamed.

Trey snatched the wheel right and then left.

Garrity’s voice ratcheted into panic. “Oh, sweet Jesus. Where are you?”

“Ashford Dunwoody Road, headed south toward 285. And I’ve got a tail.” Trey’s voice had an edge. “Can you help me, please?”

“Hold on.”

We hit a bump. The glove compartment flew open, and a flurry of papers tumbled into my lap along with a set of rosary beads. Suddenly, a massive red bloom of brake lights materialized in front of us.

I grabbed his arm. “Road work!”

But Trey had already switched lanes and was downshifting so fast his hand seemed a blur. We slammed to a stop like we’d hit a wall.

Ahead of us, the Buick fishtailed, then slid sideways into the blocked lane, sending orange cones popping into the air. One police car swept past us, but another pulled in right behind. Bulldog scrambled from the car and took off into the chaos of the construction, two officers in pursuit.

Garrity’s voice returned through the speakers. “Huge ticket, my friend. Quadruple digits. You might even be arrested.”

But Trey wasn’t really listening. He leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes. Then he exhaled slow and deep.

“Want a cigarette?” I said.

The officer behind us got out of his car and came to the window. Trey lowered it.

It was a young guy, one of those corn-fed, earnest rookies. Surprisingly, he didn’t have his gun drawn, but his hand did hover nervously at his side. He bent and looked inside.

He smiled real politely. “Hey there, Mr. Seaver.”

Trey cocked his head. “Did I know you?”

“No. Dispatch gave us the ID.”

Garrity, I thought.

Trey motioned toward the glove compartment. “License and registration?”

The cop seemed apologetic. “Yes, sir. I guess so, sir.”