Tina Whittle_Tai Randall Mystery 01 (6 page)

A plan, yes, one that was smart and flexible and included strategies for dealing with a human lie detector. An action plan. Because I knew the first part of my strategy had to include a face-to-face with Mr. Seaver.

Chapter 9

As it turned out, Trey wasn’t at the Ritz. I didn’t find him until the next morning, when I showed up at Phoenix. Yvonne escorted me to a different room this time.

“In there?” I said. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, then handed me a new
VISITOR
pass. Her eyes glittered sharply. “Don’t lose this one. And leave that here.”

I gave her the Krispy Kreme bag—it only had a tiny greasy scrap of donut left inside anyway—and stepped into the room. Yvonne closed the door behind me. It was dark and narrow, with a bright projection screen at one end. There I saw Trey silhouetted against the clear white light, standing with his back to me. He had a gun, but I knew from his lack of protective gear that it wasn’t a real one. His attention was concentrated on a body target projected on the screen.

I felt a little thrill from knowing what this was—a training simulation room, and a fine one at that. All Bluetooth technology, no wire or tethers to destroy the illusion that you were pumping hot lead into someone. Such set-ups were all the rage, my gun aficionado magazines reported, and very very expensive.

Trey pulled the trigger three times fast, and the gun kicked in his hands. He lowered it and examined the results—a definite kill shot, with nice tight grouping.

I moved beside him and clapped softly. Trey kept his eyes on the target. He wasn’t going to make this easy.

“I accidentally took this with me yesterday,” I said, pulling the MRI from my bag and handing it to him. I’d spiffed it up with a new manila folder, to show that even though I might be a thief, I was a conscientious one.

Trey gave it a quick glance, then looked at me, hard. “How did you get this?”

“I could tell you I was looking for a pen, but you’d know that was a lie, wouldn’t you?”

He placed the folder on the table and picked up the gun again. His eyes never left the target.

“I saw Garrity yesterday,” I said. “He explained some things.”

Still no reply. No reaction.

“Like that you really can tell if people are lying. Micro-emotive readings, he said. Is that true?”

He sighted along the barrel. “Yes.”

“Show me.”

He fired off one more shot, then turned to face me. His eyes met mine, moving to my mouth and lingering there before meeting my gaze again. It reminded me of how he’d looked at me the night we’d met, at the Ritz, and I realized he’d been sizing me up even then.

Say it again, he’d said.

Say what?

That you’re not a murderer.

I made my expression as blank as possible. “I have mace in my tote bag. I had pancakes for breakfast. Which is the lie?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “The second one.”

“Okay, that was too easy. Do it again. I was elected prom queen in high school. I’m allergic to shellfish.”

“Both of those are lies.”

“How about this one, true or false?” I took one step closer, just enough to breach his personal space. “I don’t usually let strange men escort me to my hotel room.”

He tilted his head, then shook it slowly. “Technically true, but deliberately evasive.”

I decided it was as accurate a judgment as any. Which meant I was going to have to be real careful with this man. I gestured toward the gun in his hand. “Can I have a try? Or is that against some rule?”

“There no rule about that.”

He handed over the gun and stepped back. It was a Glock, a 9 mm. I was surprised at how realistic it felt, with the heft and balance of the real thing.

Trey moved to a computer station and tapped out a key sequence while I took some deep breaths. Thanks to my recent marksmanship lessons, I’d learned that I enjoyed shooting. It was like yoga, only with weapons. Breathe in, breathe out, focus on the still point between.

The target appeared again, and I pumped it full of holes, amazed at the realism of the mock pistol, right down to the simulated recoil.

“You’re good,” Trey said.

“You sound surprised.”

“I am. You’ve only been taking lessons for a month.”

“The guy teaching it says I have natural talent.” And then it hit me. “Wait a minute, how did you know that?”

“It was in your dossier.”

“I have a dossier?”

“Just basic background—residence, employment history. Several university transcripts, no degrees. Two speeding tickets, no other criminal record. Concealed carry permit still in process. Identifying marks include a recent tattoo on your left bicep and an appendectomy scar. No birthmarks.”

He’d missed a tattoo, an old one, in a very private place. This information pleased me.

“Why do I have a dossier? Because you’re my bodyguard?”

“No. Phoenix always runs background on job applicants. It’s standard operating procedure.”

“I didn’t apply for a job here. Who told you I did?”

Trey took the gun over to the pneumatic refill and pumped it full of air again. “Your brother.”

I fumed. Eric. Once again meddling in my life, trying to make it into something more along the lines of his life.

“I don’t want to talk about my dossier, I want to talk about Eric. The cops think my brother is involved with this murder, or maybe they think I’m involved with this murder. Either way this is
not
good news for my burgeoning career as liberal feminist gun shop owner. And then there’s you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Garrity says if I’m gonna make any headway here, I’ve got learn how to work with you, and that means I have to trust you.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Why should I?”

“There are several reasons.” He slipped into his jacket. “I’ve got an excellent record, with good references. I’m proficient with firearms and most small weapons. I’m Krav Maga trained, other self-defense too, including judo. Special certification in security risk assessment and management.”

I studied him. “So you’d take a bullet for me?”

He straightened his tie. “Of course.”

“That was a joke.”

“Oh.”

“But that’s not the kind of trust I’m talking about. I’m talking about the kind where you don’t lie to me, deceive me, withhold information from me. I found a corpse yesterday, and it’s been downhill ever since. I need to know you’re on my side.”

“Is this why you looked in my desk without asking me?”

I suppressed the burn of shame. “I’m sorry about that. It’s an old habit. Won’t happen again.”

“Okay.” He cocked his head. “I’m sorry if I’ve seemed untrustworthy. Garrity explained that part, didn’t he? Because I don’t want you to think that I’m…I’m looking for a word.”

“Devious,” I offered. “Shifty. Underhanded.”

His eyes did this funny little crinkle. “Yes, any of those. I’m not any of those. I’m not good at them anymore.”

Behind him the screen was blank, but I remembered the target. Shot after shot clustered around the heart, kill shot after kill shot, expertly and coolly delivered. I looked up at him. His eyes weren’t empty, just impassive, like the ocean.

“Were you serious about taking a bullet for me?”

“Are you still joking?”

“No.”

A pause. “Yes, I would. It’s part of my job.” Another pause. “Does that make you trust me?”

“Not yet. But we’re getting closer.”

He nodded, then headed for the door. “The conference call begins in eight minutes. Landon’s office is this way.”

Chapter 10

Kent Landon’s office was the epitome of masculinity, like a plush cave. Bigger than Trey’s, it was stuffed with heavy dark furniture, including a library table scattered with official-looking detritus—maps, files, memos.

Landon was already on the phone when we arrived. He waved us in, and I seated myself in front of his half-acre desk. Trey, however, remained standing at my side, arms folded. He checked his watch.

Unlike Trey’s blank walls, Landon’s featured a hodgepodge of portraits and diplomas and certificates, mostly from the Air Force. The photographs were telling: Landon and Ron Reagan, Landon and Colin Powell, Landon and Dubya, all candid shots, not staged grip-and-grins.

Trey took a seat, checked his watch one more time. I leaned his way. “What’s the AFOSI?”

“Air Force Office of Special Investigation. Landon worked there before starting his own agency.”

“Phoenix?”

“No, a smaller one. He sold it when Marisa offered him a partnership here.”

“Oh.”

“Hold on a second,” Landon said into the phone. “I’m putting you on speaker phone.”

And then I heard my brother’s voice. “Are you there, Tai?”

I took a deep breath. “Yeah, Eric, right here.”

“God, it’s good to hear you.” He cleared his throat. “Look, I know you guys have lots of questions. So go ahead, fire them off. I gave Kent here the short version—”

“How did Eliza Compton end up dead in front of your house?” I cut in.

Eric sighed. “I figured you’d start with that.”

***

According to Eric, Eliza met him at the Mardi Gras ball. She told him she was a receptionist at Beau Elan, talked about her psychology class at Georgia State. It was a polite conversation—party chit chat—and he thought nothing more of it until she dropped by his home office Wednesday morning.

Which was very different story. She was nervous, upset, asking if there was a place they could talk. She said it was urgent, but she didn’t want to do it in his office. She insisted they go someplace in public, maybe that evening. She kept repeating the word “urgent.”

“She said it had to be someplace where no one from work would see us,” Eric explained. “She was very specific about that.”

Eliza then quizzed him about the ins and outs of therapist-client confidentiality, especially—and this was the interesting part—whether it applied to criminal wrong-doing. Eric told her privilege was a complicated matter and suggested that if she knew of something illegal, she should talk to the police. She told him she couldn’t go to the police, and that if he would just listen to her story, he would understand why. In the end, he agreed to meet with her that evening at a restaurant several miles out of town in Duluth.

Trey leaned toward the phone. “Did you meet her?”

“No. She never showed, so I went back home. I never saw her again. But here’s something strange. When she pulled out of my driveway on Wednesday morning, this dark blue pick-up truck that had been waiting at the curb pulled right after her.”

I stared at the phone. Why had nobody mentioned this before now?

“Did you see the driver?” Trey said.

“There was a guy behind the wheel, but I didn’t pay attention to him until the truck peeled out and took off down the street right behind her.”

“So he was following her?” I said.

Landon frowned. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“I didn’t actually
see
anybody, just a guy in a truck,” Eric insisted.

But I wasn’t letting this one go. “Do you think this person knows you saw him?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters if he figures out you can ID him.”

“But I can’t ID him!”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Landon interrupted. “Eric, listen to me. Have you mentioned any of this to the cops?”

“I told them exactly what I’m telling you.”

“You didn’t tell anyone when Eliza first came to you?”

There was a long pause. “No.”

“Why not?”

“She asked me not to. I saw no reason to get the police involved because there wasn’t a crime. Not then anyway.”

Trey again. “Then why did you lie to me Wednesday afternoon, about where you were going that night?”

“Look, Trey, no offense, but I couldn’t exactly tell the truth without having to explain everything, and I knew where
that
would lead.”

Landon had a look of perplexed frustration on his face. “Didn’t Eliza’s moves strike you as strange? Or alarming?”

“No, just odd. Then Marisa called me about the murder. She told me that it could be some kind of set-up, so she sent you to take care of the house and Trey to take care of Tai.”

Marisa. The CEO of Phoenix. Her name sure was coming up a lot for someone I hadn’t seen yet.

Landon’s voice was all business. “Listen to me, Eric. The media are going to be crawling all over this thing, which is a royal pain in the ass, especially with Senator Adams’ reception coming up. The cops want you back here ASAP.”

“But my workshop isn’t done until Sunday afternoon. Can’t you talk to the detectives?”

Landon didn’t reply. Eric kept talking.

“If I have to cancel, it’s going to cost Phoenix big time. And it’s not like I had anything to do with her death; that should be obvious. You know the strings to pull.”

Landon neither argued nor agreed. “We’ll see. In the meantime, I’m alerting legal that you’ll be talking to them as soon as you get back to Atlanta. Until then, you talk to no one. No reporters, no strangers at the bar, no one. Got it?”

“I’ve got it, don’t worry.”

“Good,” Landon said. “Keep every scrap of paperwork—receipts, tickets, billing statements. You’ll need all the alibi you can get. As for Tai, I think we’ll all feel better if she’s safely back in Savannah.”

I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Landon’s voice was flat. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not going.”

Eric made a noise of frustration. “Then we need to extend the personal protection order.”

Trey shook his head. “My job is premises liability. I don’t usually do—”

“No, you don’t,” Landon agreed, his eyes lasered on mine. “Which is a moot point, because the better idea is for her to go back home.”

“Atlanta
is
my home,” I countered. “I own a business here, which I’d like to get back to.”

Landon’s cheeks pinkened, but his gray eyes went hard. “There’s been a murder, do you understand that?”

“I’m the one who found the body; I understand that better than anyone!”

“So understand this. Trey is escorting you back to your hotel, where you are picking up your things and getting in your car and heading back to Savannah. Got it?”

“I got that you don’t get to tell me what to do. So I’m staying.” I shot a look Trey’s way. “With or without a bodyguard.”

“Personal protection,” he corrected.

***

The meeting ended swiftly after that. Landon threw me out, then had a quick confab with Trey. I couldn’t make out everything they were saying behind the closed door, but I did catch the word “liability.” Suddenly, the door opened, and Trey came out. He didn’t look the least bit perturbed, but Landon glared at me and slammed the door. Hard.

“Did you just get in trouble?” I said.

“No. But I think you did. Landon requested your dossier.”

“Oh.” I folded my arms. “I’m still not leaving town, you know.”

“I know. Marisa told him so. She said that until Eric returned, your hotel room is on her dime. Her words.”

He held the elevator door for me. I got on.

“So the Executive Partner of Phoenix Corporate Security Services is intervening with Landon on my behalf?”

“Correct. She also okayed the extension of the personal protection order for as long as necessary.”

“Why?”

“Because Detective Ryan has requested that you come into the station for a formal interview, and she decided that a security presence is still needed, for our protection as well as yours.”

“What interview? Nobody told me about any—”

My phone rang. Trey looked at it, then at me. “You should get that.”