Chapter Twenty-Seven

Trey arrived exactly at seven, just as he said he would, back in his official suit, but tie-less. His leather shoes crunched on broken glass.

"Garrity told me about the break-in," he said.

"Yeah, it's a mess. I’m just now getting around to cleaning it up."

Trey placed his briefcase on the counter and popped it open. "I'll perform a basic sweep first, then decide if more intensive measures are called for."

He scanned the shop, making notes on his ubiquitous yellow pad. He frowned a lot. The place did look rough—wooden slats nailed where the window used to be, gravel and crushed glass and the detritus of a dozen law enforcement shoes, the whole scene washed sallow by the fluorescent overheads. I picked up my broom. I’d done more sweeping in the last seven days than in the rest of my life put together.

Trey pointed with his pencil. "The windows were wired to an alarm, but not the doors. I don't understand why."

I did. Eric was less concerned with keeping me safe than with keeping tabs on me. My everyday comings and goings would have tripped a door alarm and spoiled his plan. My temper ignited again. When I finally got my hands on him…

Trey pointed at the ceiling. "What's up there?"

"I don't know. Attic space?"

"I'll check it later." He moved behind the counter to examine the now-defunct surveillance camera. He fingered the tangled wires and broken black plastic like an archeologist perusing a pottery shard. "This is a wireless system. When it was operational, it could be accessed through an internet connection, both archived and real-time footage."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that registered users could log in and view the shop at any time, from anywhere."

I dropped my broom and joined him behind the counter. "That means we can see what happened the night it got smashed!"

"No, we can't. The account is password protected."

"You can't override it?"

"I could, but that would make this a Phoenix situation. I'd rather keep it a favor. There are fewer complications that way. And less paperwork."

I looked to see if he was making a joke, but his delivery and expression were both deadpan. I understood his point, however. As rules went, not involving Phoenix unless absolutely necessary was fine with me.

But I was dying to see that footage.

Trey pulled a file folder from his briefcase. "Here's another copy of the installation paperwork. I sent two sets with Eric. You were supposed to get yours last week."

I glanced through the folder. Nothing unexpected. "What if the Kennesaw cops themselves asked you for the footage? Could you override the password then? Without, you know…paperwork?"

"That would require a subpoena, which would make it an official Phoenix matter. With paperwork."

"So until Eric coughs up the password, we're stuck."

"Yes. Stuck."

He fiddled with the camera for a few more minutes, then examined the rest of the shop. Working methodically from a checklist, he inspected the closet in Dexter's office, the gun safe, the light fixtures. He checked the telephone for bugs twice, even though I assured him I hadn't even gotten service yet. He ran his finger along the door jambs and took copious notes.

I contributed by staying out of his way. Garrity was right—Trey could spot eleven different ways to break into a place without even trying hard. He declined my offer of coffee, preferring his ever-present bottle of Pellegrino. I made a huge pot anyway, dark as road tar. While it perked, he explained the system.

"It's a hybrid," he said, "hard-wired except for the security camera. Door and window contacts in place, as well as glassbreak detectors and one motion sensor over there." He pointed toward the safe. "No surveillance devices. But I did find the control panel in the closet upstairs, the keypad behind the front door."

"That little gray plastic box thingie? I thought that was part of the air conditioning."

He shook his head. "That's how you control the system. One touch arm and disarm, one touch perimeter. It shows you which devices are engaged, which are not."

"What's engaged right now?"

"Nothing. The window was, but it was deactivated after the break-in."

"Can I change any of this?"

"I can—I have the installer code. And then I can create a user code for you."

I could have hugged him. "I owe you for this, Trey. Big time."

He shut his briefcase. "You owe me nothing."

"I do too. You're my hero."

He busied himself at the keypad and didn't say another word. But I thought I saw a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a slight blush fanning along his cheekbones.

While he worked, I poured myself a cup of coffee and opened three packages of sugar into it. Every now and then, I'd glimpse the holster under his jacket and remember, this is a man whose hands are lethal weapons and here I am, all alone with him. At night. In a deserted shop full of guns and ammo. And yet I felt comfortable with him, cozy even. At that moment, I trusted him more than my own brother.

I hopped up cross-legged on the counter. "If I ask you a hard question, will you tell me the truth?"

"It depends."

"Do you think Eric's involved in Eliza's death?"

Trey tapped a number sequence into the keypad. "He has a solid alibi."

"Not for the murder per se, just…involved."

"He's certainly involved—he knew Eliza, he planned on meeting her. Secretly. The evidence suggests she was killed while trying to talk to him. That doesn't make him guilty of any wrong-doing, however."

"Was Eliza pregnant?"

He looked up abruptly. "What?"

"Pregnant. I'm stretching here."

"I haven't seen the official report. According to what Ryan and Vance told me, however, the evidence indicates drug use, but no mention of pregnancy."

"That's what Janie told me too." I rummaged under the counter and found a half-eaten box of chocolate chip cookies. "What about her bank account, the deposits, the money in the shoe box? Any idea where that was coming from?"

"No."

"I can't figure it out either. I mean, you look at the money and her history with Bulldog, and it looks like she'd decided to start selling drugs."

"A reasonable hypothesis."

I dipped a cookie into my coffee. "But that doesn't explain her involvement with my brother. He's a lot of things, but drug dealer isn't one. Or drug taker for that matter. He’s ridiculously straight arrow about that stuff."
Trey didn't reply. He pressed numbers and examined the lights that lit up in response, over and over, like he was practicing a magic trick.

I dusted cookie crumbs from my hands. "I'm guessing she was blackmailing somebody. But who's done something blackmailable?"

Trey frowned. "Blackmailable?"

"It's a sort-of-real word, stay with me here. And what about Dylan? We know that his SUV was at Phoenix on Thursday morning—you saw it—the same day the security cameras got busted up. And we know he was following us on Saturday, and that he showed up at the press conference yesterday, but we have no clue what he was up to."

"We have a small clue." Trey closed the keypad cover. "You're on his blog now."

I bounced off the counter and over to Dexter's computer. A few keystrokes later and there I was, framed by the Ferrari's passenger side window, looking like a slightly frowzy movie star. I recognized the shot—it had been taken on Saturday, the day Dylan followed us.

I stared at the image, sunglassed and remote. "I swear, no matter what I find out, it just confuses me more."

"I understand. This is a complicated situation."

I looked across the room at him. Even under low wattage, his eyes were distractingly gorgeous. But the expression there was utterly professional, patient and polite and unwavering. He'd been nothing but above-board with me every step of the way, this man who opened doors, who said "please" and "thank you." This man who had driven all the way up to Kennesaw as a favor for me, a woman he barely knew, because it was the decent thing to do.

And then I remembered all the times I'd snooped in his desk, eavesdropped on his conversations, quizzed Garrity about his personal life or accused him of being a liar and held him at sword point…

A guilty knot congealed in my gut. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For everything. For disrupting your class. For yelling at you. For making a complicated situation even more complicated." I stood beside him at the counter. "Did Garrity tell you about the target with my picture in the middle?"

"He did."

"Did he tell you it wasn't the first time?"

Trey nodded. "Yes. He also said the same person was responsible for both threats. Almost certainly."

"I thought the first one was just somebody trying to scare me. But the second one feels like an actual threat."

His expression was serious and curious in equal measure. “Do you have any idea why someone would do that?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. But I'd say it's because I'm getting close to something somebody doesn't want me close to. And if it continues, I'm going to start packing heat. As soon as my carry permit arrives. Maybe even before that. I refuse to play sitting duck."

I expected an argument, but didn't get one. Trey went back to his legal pad without a word.

I leaned in closer. "Trey?”

He looked up. “Yes?”

“Does it really work? What you were showing that woman in class?"

"Of course. I wouldn't teach it if it didn't."

"Could you show me?"

He made one final mark and stuck the pencil behind his ear. "Of course."

* * *

And that was how I ended up in a chokehold, with Trey standing behind me, one arm looped around my neck. I had my fingers deep in his forearm, but it was like tugging at a steel bar. My brain ratcheted into panic mode.

It's just Trey, I told myself, the nice premises liability agent, he's not really trying to throttle you. But my body was having none of it.

"Damn it," I hissed. "This wouldn't happen if I had a gun!"

"Turn your head into the crook of my elbow so that you can breathe. Then lower your hips until I'm off balance."

I did as he said. But I was still breathing hard and fast, every muscle tensed for fight or flight. Even my teeth were clenched.

Trey's mouth was right at my ear, his voice calm. "I'm using your resistance against you, see? If you relax, you take away some of my power. Stop fighting so hard. Go loose."

My body rebelled, but when I did as he said, I felt the shift in his stance. Suddenly, he was struggling to support me.

"See? You have leverage now,” he said. “You can drop and roll, drop and get your weapon, drop and…stop."

I froze. "Stop what?"

"Are you expecting anyone?"

I heard it then—the slam of a car door, the crunch of footsteps on gravel. Then ominous silence.

Before I could react, Trey yanked me across the room and practically threw me behind the counter. "Get down. Stay there."

"What are you doing?"

"Quiet."

He moved beside the door, back flat against the wall, his gun held right below his belt. I hadn't even seen him get it out. Then he hit the overheads, plunging the shop into darkness.

That was when it became real, when the dark descended. I crouched on the freshly swept floor, light-headed and disoriented. Time slowed, every second bright with adrenaline, amplified. I searched the floor for a weapon and my hands closed on the broom handle. Great. I was going to die in a room full of guns with a freaking broom in my hand.

And then I heard a familiar voice. "Tai? What's happening? Open up!"

Trey switched on the light and opened the door. Eric stood on my doorstep, a vision of moral outrage in pleated navy slacks.

"What the hell's going on here?" he demanded.