“I simply want the files.”
“You assume I have them.”
“The secretary at the church reported a woman matching your description—”
“A black woman in Westview?” She laughed and attacked her sandwich. “You gotta do better that that, Seaver.”
He folded his hands on the table. “A black woman in Westview who knew where I kept the key to my file cabinet.”
She didn’t argue the point. I heard the splash of a fish. Or perhaps a snake. I chewed and kept quiet.
Trey unwrapped his sandwich. “You won’t be involved.”
“You don’t know that. And unlike you, the walking talking poster child for white boy privilege, it will cost me. So don’t even start.”
“I need them for the information, not for any official action. Your name is redacted.”
“You know that doesn’t matter.” She stabbed the chip in punctuation. “If I took those files—not that I’m saying I did—it was for your own good. And if I had them—not that I’m saying I do—I would keep them for the same damn reason.”
He exhaled and pulled his sandwich apart, removed the pickles and put them on my plate. Then he started scraping the mayonnaise off with a plastic knife.
She flicked her eyes at me, hard like onyx, but kept talking to Trey. “And what about her? What’s she got to do with this?”
Trey reached for his water. “She’s my partner.”
“In what?”
“In everything.”
He said it matter-of-factly, but Keesha caught the weight of the word as much as I did. Yes, I was his partner in life, partner in bed, partner in crime. And he was mine. Equal and always.
“Justice was not served,” he said. “You know this.”
“You intend to serve some? You think that’ll help you sleep better?”
“I sleep well already.”
She examined him steadily. “What’s in those files you don’t already know?”
“My OPS transcripts. My preliminary reports. My testimony before the grand jury. I can remember what happened. Mostly. But I can’t put it into any context. And I need to do that before I meet with Nicholas Talbot.”
“Which you are set on doing, come hell or high water.”
“Maybe. Depending on what I find in those files.”
“I’m not sticking my head out again, and you shouldn’t either. You need to drop this thing.” She picked up her trash, nodded my way. “Nice to meet you, Tai. See you in field, Seaver.”
She balled up the wax paper and chucked it into the can from twenty feet, a slam dunk. She headed off into the woods without looking back.
I sighed. “Well, that went peachy.”
Trey watched her go. “Yes, it did.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“I’m not.”
Keesha vanished into the trees. Soon he’d be out there with her, hiding. He had a balaclava and a jacket in the same camouflage pattern, concealment from head to toe, but his most effective weapon was patience. Trey was the most steadfast, unwavering man I knew.
“You seriously think that went well?” I said.
“I do. Considering what I’m asking of her.”
I examined his expression. This was an old pattern with them. Whatever was in those files, she didn’t want it out of her control. But she did want it resolved. I could see the tension. The question was, did she trust Trey to resolve it? And me?
“So now what?”
He finished chewing the last bite of his sandwich. “Now I wait.”
He gathered his things—the jacket, the water bottle, a compass. He looked like he wanted to say something. I felt a stirring, not entirely uncomfortable, tingly like the leading edge of a thunderstorm. It was what I felt every time I found a mystery that needed solving, a puzzle that needed unpuzzling. Finn had delivered one to my doorstep. But another was standing right in front of me.
I ran a finger along the patterned fabric of his pants. “I gotta say, you have surprised me in many ways, but I never thought I’d see you in camo.”
He looked a little offended. “It’s ATACS.”
“Whatever.” I stood up, plucked a piece of pine straw out of his hair. “I always knew you had a little redneck in you.”
Chapter Eleven
I spent the rest of the afternoon updating my ATF records and filing paperwork, which took longer than I expected. By the time I got inside Trey’s apartment, it was almost dark, but the place was empty. Every sound echoed against the black hardwood floor and blank white walls.
I dropped my bag beside his desk and opened the French doors to the terrace. On the horizon I could see the skyline of Midtown and Downtown, the jagged line of the skyscrapers. Below me lay the heart of Buckhead with its exclusive clubs and organic spas and high-end boutiques. I couldn’t see Chastain Park, but I knew it was close, which meant the Talbot mansion was nearby. Two miles away, Finn had said, at the juncture where Tuxedo Road dead-ended into Powers Ferry.
Trey hadn’t lived in Buckhead when Jessica Talbot was murdered. He’d had an apartment in Edgewood, in a complex that was neither high end nor exclusive. Tuxedo Road was the ancestral home of the oldest of the old money, practically prehistoric money. But new money, Hollywood money, was buying its way into the club. Even Tuxedo Road couldn’t resist all those fresh green millions.
I left the door open and went back inside. Took off my shoes. Got a cold beer and a clean glass. Then I settled in on the couch with my computer in my lap. Files or no files, I was betting I’d find a goldmine of information just a few clicks away.
I was right.
My first search on Jessica Talbot brought up a vast image library, and I felt a stab of…I couldn’t even identify the emotion. She looked like Gabriella’s dissolute baby sister. Same red hair, same green cat eyes, same milky complexion. But she was raw where Gabriella was refined, and she lapped up the camera’s attentions, hungry for more.
Nick was on her arm in a couple of the photographs, the standard “fancy people arriving at the
