Chapter Eleven

Thirty minutes later, I was waiting out front for Trey to pick me up and take me downtown yet again. I had Rico on the cell phone. He was thoroughly intrigued.

"A hot guy who drives a Ferrari? I'm jealous."

"Don't be. It's weird and complicated and the hot guy is more trouble than he's worth."

"Why are you messing with him then?"

"I'm not! But my brother's in trouble, which means I am too, and like it or not, that means messing with Hot Guy." In the distance, I heard the roar of an engine, coming fast. "We'll discuss this later. I may be in need of some technical assistance. You feel like helping out?"

"How?"

"I don't know yet. But these Phoenix people are playing it close to the vest, and I suspect their version of the truth is very different from the truth-truth."

I heard him tapping at his computer. "I gotta ask, you know."

"Ask what?"

"If you think your brother—"

"Of course not! He may be a corporate tool, but he's no killer."

"You sure? He abandons you with a murder in your lap while he hunkers down in the Bahamas. That sounds suspicious to me."

Rico had a point, but the car was coming closer, so I put one hand over my free ear and raised my voice. "Are you up for cyber-sleuthing or not?"

"Of course. I’m just saying."

He hung up before I could thank him, just as a black car slammed to a precise stop right in front of me. It was a Ferrari, the real deal, and like all Ferraris, it was sleek and loud and predatory. Trey didn't get out, but he did lean over and open the passenger door for me.

I eased in as best I could. The interior was black on black with brushed aluminum detailing, including a dash display with about eight different readouts and a speedometer that arched up to—I did a doubletake—200 mph. I shut the door, and the leather seat molded intimately to my body, like a caress.

I fastened my seatbelt. "This is a Ferrari, an actual freaking Ferrari.”

Trey nodded. "Yes, an F430."

He accelerated with jaw-dropping velocity, and we hit the street in a dazzling burst of sunlight.

* * *

I’d visited Atlanta dozens of times, and yet I remained amazed at how abruptly it happens, how mile after mile of strip-mall sprawl rolls on by and then suddenly, everything goes enormous and vertical. And so it was this afternoon, with the bright sun shearing off the glass and steel, the shadows falling over the highway. Traffic wasn’t too bad on the way into the city, but not once did we venture above the speed limit. Cars zipped by us, including a motor home and a school bus. Trey let them pass with placid indifference.

"This is it?" I said. "You take me out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell and then you go forty-five?"

"Forty-five is the limit here."

"But nobody goes the speed limit in Atlanta!"

"I do."

"Well, obviously." I ran a hand along the leather dashboard. "Don't you ever take this baby to the triple digits?"

Trey slowed for a jaywalker pushing a charcoal grill across the street. "No. But I would under certain circumstances."

"Like?"

"Like emergencies. Life or death situations."

"What about chasing down suspects?"

"What suspects?"

"Hypothetical suspects. Dangerous escaped maniacs who don't obey speed limits. What about them?"

He didn't reply. He just put on the left turn signal, glanced at his mirrors again, then started easing into the left lane

"Hold on," he said.

Suddenly, he wrenched the car right with a sickening lurch, cutting off a VW convertible and veering into a tight turn. I shrieked, the Volkswagen honked furiously, and the guy with the grill flashed us a bird. Trey kept his eyes on the road.

I whirled to face him. "What the hell was that about?"

"A tail."

"No, the…what do you mean, a tail?"

"I mean someone following us in a black late-model Explorer, tinted windows. Male driver, sunglasses, baseball cap. Vanity plate reading D MAN."

I craned to catch a glimpse of the vehicle but couldn't. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I saw the same car Thursday morning at Phoenix, in the parking garage. That afternoon, Marisa discovered two security cameras destroyed."

"There’s somebody following you?"

"Following us."

"No, following you. People don't follow me."

He slipped me this sideways look.

"Okay, besides you. But why would anybody be following me besides you?"

"I don't know."

He downshifted and took the car into a tight left. And in that moment, in that completely coincidental convergence of angle and motion, I saw the break of his jacket on his left side. And there it was.

I pointed. "You have a gun."

He looked puzzled. "I usually carry a gun."

"And it never occurred to you to say, oh, by the way, Tai, I'm armed and dangerous?”

"I don't tell people I'm carrying a weapon unless they ask."

I couldn't argue. It didn't pay to go around advertising that you were armed and dangerous. But then, I doubted few people were in Trey's league of dangerous.

"You think something's going to happen?" I said.

"Something?"

"Yes, something." I scanned the traffic nervously. "You know, something like finding a dead body, getting surprised by intruders, getting tailed, getting shot at. Those kinds of something."

"You haven't been shot at."

"Do you think things are getting dangerous? For me, I mean, not you— I'm sure things are dangerous for you all the time—but I'm not used to this, not at all!"

He looked thoughtful. "There has been a murder. And now someone is following us. That means things are already dangerous."

My heart did a sick little shimmy.

"However," he continued, "even though personal protection doesn't technically fall under premises liability, I've been assigned to protect you. I intend to do so."

The way he said it was serious and matter-of-fact, but also surprising and reassuring and a little touching, all at the same time.

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome."

I gestured toward the holster. "So what you got under there?"

“H&K P7M8."

Heckler and Koch, a nine-millimeter. My firearms instructor had one too—it was practically iconic. Very expensive and hard to get now that they'd gone out of production, but smooth and virtually jam-proof once you got the hang of working the squeeze cock. It was also heavy and hot and required a strong grip, but I imagined Trey had no problem with the latter.

"That's an unusual choice for a service weapon."

"Phoenix issue. Landon's choice." His expression turned mildly curious. "Does it bother you that I'm carrying?"

I thought about the question. Guns in a display case were one thing. Guns in a holster to protect me from a deranged killer were quite another.

"No, but will you just tell me from now on, as a courtesy?”

"Of course."

And that was that. But I was glad he hadn't been looking straight at me when I'd said no.

He'd have spotted the lie for sure.

*      *      *