Chapter Forty-Seven

I walked back to the main building, shoes in hand. I'd left Trey at attention on the deck, his only concession to comfort a fresh bottle of Pellegrino. I could hear the party still going on by the swimming pool and could see the aura of the lights, bright and contained like a football stadium. It held no appeal anymore, none whatsoever.

I plodded on in the dark. I'd just hit the main building when I saw a figure duck behind one of the columns. Jake? Landon? Some treacherous stranger?

I threw down my shoes, dropped Gabriella's purse on top of them, and drew my own weapon. Pulling the revolver from its holster was challenging in the dark, more so than I had imagined it would be, but I got it in hand quickly enough. The figure slid from the shadows into a pool of light. The gun held steady, ready to fire. And then I saw the chestnut tumble of curls.

Not Jake.

Steve Simpson.

I pointed the pistol right at him. "You!"

He spun around and threw his hands in the air. "For crissakes, put that thing away!"

"Why aren't you in the van?"

"I'm getting a cup of coffee."

"Bullshit! You've got a coffeemaker in there, I saw it!"

He lowered his hands an inch. "Fine. You caught me. I'm running away. Happy now?"

I kept the gun on him. "Running from what?"

"In case you haven't noticed, fucked-up shit is happening, and I'm not talking about Trey's usual weirdness or Charley passing out or that crazy French chick."

"You're the one who let the crazy French chick in!"

"So what? I quit. A little wire-tapping is one thing, but people are getting killed, and I don't want to be next."

“Why do you think you might be?"

"Because I know stuff." He folded his arms. "And so do you. Which means I'd keep that gun ready to go if I were you. But not aimed at me, okay?"

I watched him in the light at the edge of the darkness, the groomed safety of the hedges behind him. He held the key to the whole mess, I knew he did, and if I didn't think of a way to get it out of him, he'd vanish into the night, and the Parade of Almost Truth and Sorta Justice would keep marching on.

"You know," I said, "if you know something and don't tell anyone, that makes you accessory after the fact. All I have to do is get out my phone and bam—you're a fugitive."

"Get real. The cops don't care about the truth."

"I know one who does. I’ve got him on speed dial."

Steve hesitated. I waited, ready to fire if he made one wrong move. Then I noticed the bulge in his shirt pocket.

"You smoke?" I said.

"Yeah?"

“Thank God. I’m dying for a cigarette.” I lowered the gun. "Come on, I know someplace out of the way. You tell me what you know, I'll tell you what I know. Maybe we can figure out a way to keep us both alive."

* * *

I took him down to the lake edge, far enough away from the party that we could have some privacy, but close enough that I could scream and be heard easily.

"Phoenix had Eliza under surveillance for about six months," he began, "ever since she showed up in Atlanta. I didn't ask why. That's part of the job, you know—do what you're told and don't ask questions—and frankly, I didn't give a shit."

We were in the boathouse, which was deserted except for a few party yachts bobbing in the water. Aside from the distant drone of the reception and the gentle slap of waves against wood, it was silent.

"Anyway,” he said, “Landon made sure we had a camera outside her apartment separate from the official Beau Elan feed. He had me reviewing that footage—when she left, who came over, how long they stayed. Nothing exciting. And then he asked me to put in the phone tap."

"Those are illegal without consent. Or a warrant."

"Yeah. But Landon said he had Atlanta PD authorization."

"And you believed that?"

Steve blew out a stream of smoke. "Nope. But I didn't argue. I figured if it blew up, I had deniability and could throw the shit back uphill. We didn't get anything interesting, though. Eliza was wild, but she wasn't creepy. Jake Whitaker, now, that's a different story."

"Let me guess—he liked to watch."

"Yeah, peeping in people's windows, messing with the surveillance cameras. He had the other camera outside Eliza's either pointed at the pool or the sunbathing area, not at the apartments. And he used his passkey to get into women's bedrooms when they weren't home."

"Did you tell Landon?"

"Yes. But he didn't care."

"Not even about Jake’s misuse of the security cameras?"

"Not enough to fix the problem. We had our own camera, after all."

My first drag on the cigarette sent a shot of nicotine right into my brain, like getting splashed with cold water. But it calmed me too. It made me forget I was sitting in a boathouse with a stranger while an unknown killer roamed free. Of course I had two guns in my lap, so there was that.

"How did Dylan Flint fit into the picture?"

"The paparazzi wanna-be? Eliza e-mailed him, IM'd and texted too. They traded pictures a lot."

"Did you help ransack his place?"

Steve shrugged. "Landon's orders. Dylan had a lot of shots of the Beaumonts that Phoenix didn't think he needed to have."

I tapped the ash into the water. "Jake said something to Charley that freaked her out so bad she fainted. I’m guessing he found out something, probably by snooping on Eliza, and whatever it was, he'd been saving it for a while. Any idea what that might be?"

Steve licked his lips. "Eliza was seriously into Charley—she had hundreds of pictures of her. She sent e-mails too, lots of them."

I didn't know whether I wanted to kiss him or smack him. "Did Charley ever send anything back?"

"Just the usual form reply."

"Nothing? No cease and desist warnings?"

"Why? Eliza was a dumb kid, annoying but harmless."

Dumb, perhaps, but smart enough to call Eric and ask about confidentiality. By that time, she was out of her league and scared to death. So many clashing motivations and backstories—Jake, Dylan, Eliza, the Beaumonts, Phoenix, my brother. I knew there was a thread somewhere in there, a thread that connected everything. Pull the wrong thread, though, and everything unraveled.

"Why didn't the cops find the Phoenix wiretap when they searched her apartment?"

Steve shrugged. "Beats me. All I know is, the cops showed up Friday night and that place was as clean as a whistle. I just assumed Landon pulled some strings."

It was coming together, like an astrological convergence. I could feel planets sliding into place, meteors colliding, stars imploding.

"I need a flow chart,” I said.

"A what?"

I handed Steve the rest of my cigarette. "Here. I've got to go find a legal pad."

He took the cigarette. I grabbed my guns and my shoes and started up the stairs.

“Where are you going?” he said.

“To talk to Trey.”

“You can't just leave me here! What if—"

I handed him my revolver. “Here. It's small and simple, loaded too. Click this, then point and shoot.”

He stared at it in bewilderment. I threw Gabriella's spangled purse, now empty, into his lap and kept Trey's Phoenix-issue H&K for myself. I loaded it with a full magazine of eight. And then I squeezed the grip, hard, listening as the firing pin moved back with an oily snick. I disengaged the squeeze cocker and tucked it in my bag.

"And Steve? You'd best be cutting yourself a deal, and soon. Call Dan Garrity, he's a good guy. And tell him all hell's about to break loose.”

I tried calling Trey on my way to the Beaumont cabin, but got no answer. It didn't matter—I was on the porch in two minutes—but he was nowhere to be seen. I tapped on the door, lightly, so I wouldn't wake Charley. Still no answer. I tried the door and it opened easily, revealing the dark interior. No lights, no noise.

I eased inside. "Trey?"

I saw him then, on the floor, and my stomach clenched. But before I could make a move, Charley Beaumont stepped out of the shadows.

With a gun. Which she had pointed right at me.

"Close the door," she said. "And don't even think about screaming."