Chapter Forty-One

Trey slept through everything, which was just as well. When I checked on him, his breathing had deepened, dropping into a steady rhythm.

I left him to rest and flipped on the television just in time to catch the press conference. The gist was this: the Atlanta PD announced that they had arrested William Aloysius Perkins, AKA Bulldog, and were charging him with the murder of Eliza Abigail Compton. Mark and Charley did a nice concluding piece about community, culminating in a big fat check to the Police Benevolent Fund with lots of hurrah-hurrah and general back-patting.

Mark spoke with solemn relish. "There will be justice now, not just for Eliza Compton— "

Wow, I thought, he finally got the name right.

"— but justice for all."

A smattering of applause. I shut it off before I got sick. Now that Bulldog was behind bars, everyone was eager to move on, case closed, let's get some champagne. Forget Dylan's body with the bullets in his skull, forget that Nikki was missing.

Eric’s words at the gun shop came back to me: Life goes on, Tai. The grown-ups go with it.

He was somewhat right. Somewhat. I collected all the tobacco-related trash on the terrace and took it to the kitchen. The miso soup simmered. Other than that, the silence of the apartment was stunning. Combined with the stark black-and-white décor, the hard floors and empty walls, the place was downright unnerving.

Gabriella. I had one brochure on her spa, four sentences from my brother, and a morning riddled with French cigarettes and tarot cards. Other than that, she was a cipher.

A cipher who was sleeping with Trey, my gut reminded me.

I shoved the butt-filled Pellegrino bottle deep into the trashcan. I had no right to feel territorial, and yet her presence nagged at me. I finished straightening the apartment, including putting the file folders I hadn't used back in Trey's desk. I noticed that he'd left his computer on, his Phoenix laptop. This didn't surprise me—he'd been uncharacteristically haphazard with his things the night before—but what did surprise me was that his desktop was up.

Gabriella had been after more than cards—she'd been on his computer.

I sat at the desk too, and my conscience gave a twinge. Not snooping, I told myself. Investigating.

Thirty minutes later, I'd examined all the files that had been opened recently—nothing suspicious, just lots of reports, graphs, addendums. Boring stuff. His web history was a different story. An e-mail program had been pulled up during the time of Gabriella's visit. I clicked on it and got a log-in page, password required. No chance of retrieving the message or even seeing where it had gone.

She'd trespassed on his work computer to send an e-mail? Or perhaps do something more nefarious?

I fetched Rico's portable drive from my bag. From what I'd observed, running his security program was a simple matter of turning it loose and letting it do its thing. I ran a virus scan first, then a more intensive search for more dangerous malware. The second part of the procedure—fixing what it found—was beyond my limited knowledge. But then, I wasn't interested in correcting the problem. I just wanted to know if one existed.

While the program hummed along, I checked out Trey's desk—everything looked exactly like I'd left it when I reassembled it that morning. His gun drawer was locked, exactly as it had been the night before. I checked the drawers—papers, folders, pencils. The meds and the GQ magazine.

I picked up the magazine and thumbed through it. There was a single sticky note marking an article about formal wear. I thumbed through the rest of the pages and noticed an ad for Trey's watch, a Bulgari Diagono GMT. It retailed for $6600. Right beside it were his shoes, Ferregamo classic black lace-ups. $595. I turned back to the front cover, to the model wearing Trey's suit.

Always Armani, Garrity had said, or some other Italian crap I can't pronounce.

I flipped rapidly through the pages. The first article featured every piece of furniture in his apartment, all of it from B&B Italia with La Scala marble in the kitchen and bath. I kept going and spotted his tie, his pen, his tea cup. I even found aftershave, Acqua di Gio, and I knew if I could put my nose to it, it would smell of the ocean breezes tinged with evergreen.

And then I saw it, the piece de resistance, stretched out languorously on a two-page centerfold spread—the Ferrari F430 coupe in all its sleek glory. La Dolce Velocita, the headline read. Even a non-Italian speaking person like me could catch that meaning. Sweet, sweet speed.

I held Trey Seaver in my hands, all of him, or rather, all of who he was now. No wonder Garrity was confused—Trey had reconstructed himself with this magazine as a blueprint, obliterating the previous Trey like razing a construction site. Goodbye blue jeans and distressed leather. Hello pressed trousers and immaculate jackets.

I didn't have time to ponder the implications, however. Rico's program had done its job. I examined the screen—a flashing green light. No viruses, which wasn't a surprise, since Trey had rather formidable firewall.

But then the second part of the program kicked in.

And that was a different story.

* * *

I'd just finished talking to Rico when I heard the bedroom door open. Trey stood in the threshold, his dress shirt a wrinkled mess, untucked and unbuttoned.

"You were supposed to go home," he said.

His GQ magazine still rested in my lap. I slipped it nonchalantly into the drawer. "I was waiting to make sure you were okay."

He didn't move. "I'm okay. Go home."

I got right in front of him, then put the back of my hand to his forehead. He yanked away and scowled.

"Good," I said. "Still no fever."

"Go home."

"You are such a one-trick pony sometimes."

He was getting exasperated. "This could be contagious. I don't want you to get it. I want— "

"I know, I know, you want me to go home. But we need to talk first." I waved toward his desk. "Did you know you have a key logger program on your computer?"

That got his attention. "What? How?"

"Good question. I'm assuming you didn't install it."

He frowned and moved past me to the computer. Sick or not, he typed like wildfire. "What did you run?"

I moved behind him. "One of Rico's programs. It's behavior-based, looks for things that are trying to hide, which makes it more effective than the signature-based stuff. Or so Rico says. I mean, virus scans and firewalls are nice, but they don't protect you against something that's recording your every key stroke."

"But this isn't possible," Trey said, studying the information I'd scrawled on a sticky note. "Rico. I know that name."

"He came to Phoenix once—big guy, piercings everywhere. He says this was most likely a physical installation since you're not exactly a high-risk user, and the program didn't find any Trojan horses."

"A physical installation isn't possible. I mounted the locks on these doors myself. They're grade one deadbolts."

"So it was someone who has a key."

I let the words fall. He shook his head.

"Only three people besides me have keys to the apartment—the building concierge, Garrity—"

"And Gabriella."

He was still staring at the computer screen. "But she wouldn't—"

"She would. She came over and dropped off some soup right before she went through your things."

He turned around. "She did? How do you know that?"

"I saw her do it."

He fixed me with the look.

"Okay, not exactly." And then I told him the story—the picnic basket, the cigarettes, the tarot cards, the e-mail, the magazine with the sticky note inside being out of place. He stopped me there.

"She looked at the magazine several days ago, when she ordered my tuxedo."

"So? It's not any one thing that makes her look guilty, it's all the things."

"There's no evidence."

"Screw evidence, I thought you trusted me."

"I do."

"Then you should believe me without evidence."

"Belief and trust aren't the same thing. For belief, I need evidence." He stood up abruptly. "Go home now. I'll deal with this."

"You're still— "

"Go home."

He pushed past me toward the kitchen, where he got a bottle of Pellegrino from the refrigerator and unscrewed the cap. He took one tiny tentative sip.

"Go," he said.

I walked over to my stuff, slung my bag over my shoulder. "You want me to go home, you have to go back to bed."

"But— "

"That's my offer." I pointed toward the front door. "Home." I pointed toward his room. "Bed."

He turned around and went to his room without another word. I called after him, "Yes, and thank you, Tai, for saving me in my hour of need. Oh, you're very welcome, Trey, it's what I do. Saving people and all that."

His voice carried from the bedroom. "Go home."

"I'm going! Enjoy the soup your two-faced spying mistress brought you!"

I slammed the door on the way out. It felt really, really good.

* * *

I'd barely hit the lobby when my phone rang. I kept walking as I answered. "Now what?

"Thank you, Tai, for saving me in my hour of need."

My pace slowed from huffy to merely annoyed. "Whatever. Are you in bed?"

"Not yet. I decided to take a shower."

"Not a bad idea. For the first time since I've met you, you do not smell good."

A pause. "I mean it. I couldn't think of the words to say it, but I felt it. Thank you."

His voice was soft. It melted away the last scrap of resistance. "I know, Trey. Just be careful, okay? You're still pretty weak."

"You are too. You couldn't have gotten much rest."

I stopped at the exit. The concierge watched me with disguised disinterest.

"I can rest at the shop,” I said.

"Okay."

"Or I could come back up. But if I come back up, we have to talk about this Gabriella thing."

"Okay."

I sighed. "Fine. I'm coming back up. But I'm going to get you some crackers and ginger ale first."