Chapter Twelve

Trey escorted me into the station, where Detective Ryan shook hands with him. Apparently they knew each other from Trey's days with the APD, and even though there was no attempt at small talk, some strange off-the-radar communication zipped between them. I decided it was a cop thing.

"I'll wait out front," Trey said, and left me to it.

Ryan indicated a drawing on the table in front of me. "This person look familiar?"

It was a police sketch, a guy with a military buzz cut and a dribble of a goatee. The eyes were blank—not mean, just vacant—and there was something muscular about him, something close to the ground.

I shook my head. "Nope. Who is he?"

In the florescent light Ryan's skin looked ashy, but his eyes were sharp as ever. "That's a good question. The manager at the apartment complex where Eliza lived gave us this description. He said he'd seen him around her place, maybe a boyfriend?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Ever seen him hanging around your brother's place?"

I tried to remember everyone I'd seen in Eric's neighborhood. The woman next door with her pug dog in a stroller. The race walker with the rolling toe-heel stride. The mother with the whiny toddler who pulled up people's flowers. But not this guy. This guy made me think of pool halls and construction sites.

"Has the manager ever seen him driving a dark blue pick-up?"

Ryan's eyes went even sharper. "You hear that from your brother?"

"Yes." I tapped the sketch. "Or maybe this guy sometimes wears a baseball cap and drives a black Explorer with the license plate D MAN?"

"Now why do you ask that?"

So I told that story too, which got Trey dragged into the room to surrender his version. He told the story better than I did, knew things like exactly what time it happened and exactly what intersection we’d been at. Ryan nodded every now and then, like Trey's story was utterly profound and fascinating. Then he thanked us for our time, told us he'd be in touch, and escorted us right out of there.

I'd been expecting something different from my second official interview, like a chair under a bare bulb, maybe some trick questions. The whole episode felt more like a job interview than an interrogation.

"That's because it wasn't an interrogation," Trey explained afterward. "Detectives only interrogate people they think are guilty."

We were headed back to the Phoenix, the heart of the city behind us now. The sun was still out, but a chill remained. I blamed the pavement and concrete, the slick-walled buildings and glass and steel. Sometimes I tried to picture the whole city ablaze, as it had been during Sherman's March. But even imaginary fire didn't take.

I turned to face Trey. "They think I'm guilty, don’t they?"

"No. You’re not a suspect. Unless they find a motive."

Which I didn't have. Means and opportunity, however, were a different story. I'd found the corpse, after all, right after returning from my shop full of potential murder weapons.

"They told me they weren’t extraditing Eric," I said. "Unless something else comes up."

"Unless he becomes a suspect."

The same refrain. "He told Landon to pull some strings. Do y'all really have that kind of power at Phoenix?"

"I don't. But Landon does."

Trey stuck to the back streets on our return to Dunwoody, avoiding 285 North, which looked like a clogged artery. The feeder roads weren't much better, but at least traffic was moving. The apartment complexes and office buildings alternated in cookie-cutter rhythm, vernal and urban intermingling—Forest Hills, Concourse One, Summergrove, Centre Square.

We'd stopped at the light, and we were just about to make the left that would take us to the Phoenix parking garage when I saw it, just ahead, right beside the Phoenix main building.

Beau Elan, Eliza's apartment complex. She'd lived and worked right next door to Phoenix. I'd been looking for the connection between Eliza and my brother, and there it was, in brick and mortar with a gated entrance and a big sign.

I pointed. "Let’s go there first."

"Beau Elan? Why?"

"I just want to see what it looks like. I know you need a pass to get past the gate, but I figure you have one, right?"

He neither confirmed nor denied my hypothesis.

"And if I remember the brochure right, there's a café on premises, right? With free wi-fi? I can have a look around, get some coffee, check my e-mail. You can do…whatever it is you do. And then I’ll go right back wherever I’m supposed to be."

The light remained red. Trey angled in the seat so that he was facing me. "Say it again."

I looked straight at him. "One coffee. Fifteen minutes."

The light changed. Trey faced front again, shifted into first.

"You're doing it again," he said. "The technically true but deliberately evasive thing."

I didn't deny it. But he took me there anyway.

* * *

"Here," I said. "Vanilla rooibos. No sugar. Steeped for exactly five minutes, just like you requested.”

He accepted the cardboard cup. "Thank you."

The Beau Elan café pulsed with the same "uniquely familiar" vibe that permeated most coffeehouses. Hardwood floors, bistro chairs, folkish artwork. There was a fake moose head on the purple wall to show they had a sense of humor.

Whatever. They had tea. Trey was content.

We sat side by side at a bar running along a picture window. From what I could see, the complex looked predictably comfortable—multiple three- and four-story units catty-cornered along a curving driveway, each one washed in a different pastel, faux-aged and earthy. Like Bourbon Street crossed with Disneyland.

I'd pulled up a Home and Garden feature on my phone, a photo essay about the Beaumonts’ residence on Tuxedo Road, a nine-million-dollar property that looked like what Louis XIV would have built if he'd been a plantation owner. The mansion had eight bedrooms and a kitchen the size of a gymnasium where a beaming Charley Beaumont showed off a platter of cheese straws.

"Why is it always cheese straws?" I muttered.

Trey looked up from his phone. “What?

“Nothing. Never mind.”

The article also gave a synopsis of the Beaumont Enterprise backstory, how they brought their millions into Atlanta, making some well-received expansions into the suburban apartment-complex market. Charley's backstory was of the Cinderella variety—broke waitress at the Fontainbleu Miami (her) charms a visiting millionaire (Mark). Two years and one serious pre-nup later, she's the new missus. A few clicks brought me her wedding picture—the caption identified the dress as a Christos Yiannakou silk taffeta—plus a slew of society shots. Mark and Charley at the Botanical Gardens. Mark and Charley at the High Museum.

Trey frowned at the screen. "What exactly are you trying to find out?"

"I don't know."

He looked suspicious, but I was telling the truth. I didn't know how any of these parts connected—Phoenix, the Beaumonts, my brother, Eliza. But I did know one thing, and I'd learned it as a tour guide—the truest stories get made from the weirdest bits and pieces.

I scanned the list of links associated with the Beaumonts. One of them featured a familiar name. I tapped it, then pointed.

"And there you are," I said.

It was Trey’s Phoenix profile, complete with a bio/resumé and a serious straight-on head shot. Apparently, he was in charge of Security Needs Assessment with a focus on Physical Security Analysis and Premises Liability (including independent analysis and coordination of vendors). He also conducted CEO training in Executive Protection Services, including threat assessment and special event security.

It was a catalog of competence, undeniably reassuring. I looked from his photograph to the man himself, all neat hair and smooth hands and small weapons proficiency. But Trey looked confused.

"Why is my Phoenix profile showing up in a search about the Beaumonts?"

"Because of the Blue Knights Mardi Gras Ball. See?"

He peered at the list of supporters and saw his name there. This did not please him. "That should have been Landon’s name. He usually works directly with the Beaumonts. He was unable to attend, however, so Mark asked me to take his place. Marisa says he finds me utterly fascinating. Her words."

I couldn't argue with that. Trey was every inch the elegant bad ass. And with bodyguards being the new cutting edge fashion accessory, having one as spiffy as Trey was a coup indeed. There was no way Landon could match his appeal, no matter what Air Force training he had.

I licked at the foam on the inside of the plastic lid. Coffee made me want a cigarette. My fingers twitched, but there was nothing to hold, nothing to steady the physical urge.

I pushed my chair back. “Let's take a walk."

"Why?"

"I want to take a look around."

"I have the schematics back—"

"Can we just go for a walk? Please?"

He took one final sip of his tea, placed the cup precisely in the center of his napkin. "Of course."

* * *

We walked. The sunshine had warmed the day up, so I took off my jacket and tied it around my waist. Just past the laundry facilities, we saw Eliza's unit—the yellow police tape gave it away. Trey looked over his shoulder at the parking lot. A patrol car sat there with a cop behind the wheel, paying us very close attention.

"There's probably a team inside," Trey said.

I knew he was right. This was turning into a high profile crime, with lots of media attention. But right now, the complex was quiet. The only other people we saw were tenants; they talked amongst themselves, moving quickly from car to building. No one went near Eliza's apartment, a ground-floor unit in the corner near the perimeter wall.

"Garrity said you designed the security for this place?" I said.

"The original spec assessment, yes. The Beaumonts’ analyst ran the hedonic regression calculations, however, and they decided on a plan that was…not mine.”

“You say ‘not mine” like you mean ‘sub-standard.’”

He shook his head. “That’s not…no.”

And then he walked faster. I hurried to match his pace, giving Beau Elan a more critical examination as I did. In addition to the gated entrance, I saw a ten-foot concrete wall around the perimeter of the property, nicely disguised with hedges and such, but a wall nonetheless. And I knew from the brochure that there were security cameras throughout the grounds.

“It looks very secure to me,” I said.

"It looks that way, yes. But there are places where the perimeter wall is easily breached from the exterior, and the foliage disguising it on both sides provides good cover for anyone attempting to do so.” His voice had grown increasingly snippy. “The cameras record around the clock, but in many areas, the lighting doesn’t meet IESNA requirements. I also explained that a twenty-four-hour manned presence at the gate was the only way to guarantee the kind of limits they wanted on entrance and exit procedures. But they decided to focus on less expensive public-facing aspects."

"You’re saying the Beaumonts cut corners, that they went for what looks secure, not what is secure?”

He opened his mouth, and then closed it, clamping down on whatever he’d been about to say. He looked peeved, and I couldn’t decide if he was annoyed at me or the Beaumonts. And I remembered what Garrity had told me in the park: Trey lets things slip if he's not careful, which is why he stays so damn quiet most of the time.

He started walking even faster, and I decided to quit prying before he shut down completely. We passed the swimming pool, deserted except for a bikini-clad woman stretched out in a lounge chair, engrossed in a magazine. She directed a suspicious look our way over the top of her Cosmo. The pool was empty of swimmers, its blue surface so flat it seemed fake.

"Do you miss being a cop?" I said.

Trey kept his eyes straight ahead. "I think so. Mostly I miss the…I'm looking for a word. Multi-syllabic, starts with C."

"Camaraderie?"

"Camaraderie. I miss that, I think. It's hard to tell. Everything's different now."

"You mean after the accident?"

He nodded. We were outside the Beau Elan main office, right at the center of the complex. It was closed and dark, which was a disappointment. I put my face to the window, peered inside.

Trey kept walking. He was a good fifteen feet ahead of me, already clearing the corner, when the office door opened and a man stepped out. He looked scruffy and annoyed and carried a toilet brush in one hand.

He frowned. "Can I help you?"

I hesitated, tried to think fast. Failed.

"Umm…hi?" I said.