I put that thought out of my mind and got back to the Buckwildness.
The first season was a waste, with the field trip to the High Museum especially cringe-worthy. The second season managed to out-tasteless the first by hauling the Buckwilders to the Cathedral of St. Philip, which they kept calling St. Phil on the Hill. The third season was promising more of the same until the tenth episode, a Cinco de Mayo pool party with massive sombreros, mustache stickers, a mariachi band, and, standing right between the pool and the sunroom windows…
A giant turquoise cactus.
I hit pause. The cactus was easily seven feet tall and was covered in shiny bits of mosaic tiles. I could never get a good look at the base, but I would have bet my last dollar it was circular with a diameter of approximately two feet. It also looked familiar. I went back to the episode list and pulled up the field trip to an art gallery in Little Five Points.
And there it was. The turquoise cactus. I hit pause. The name of the gallery was Expresso. I did a quick search, wrote the address on the back of my hand.
“Kenny!”
He stuck his head out. “Yes, ma’am?”
“You have the shop for the rest of the afternoon. Lock up on your way out, okay?”
Little Five Points felt like hanging out with a slightly trashy best friend. It was the first place Rico had taken me when I’d visited him for the first time—we had mojitos and tacos at the Tijuana Garage and I bought a pair of go-go boots at the Junkman’s Daughter. I could still do those things. L5P was still dreadlocked and funky. But with its geography sandwiching it between two affluent neighborhoods, prosperity was booming whether anyone liked it or not. The infamous Clairmont Lounge was slated to become a boutique hotel, and the now-defunct Murder Kroger was being torn down with a twelve-story office building to rise in its place.
The Expresso Gallery straddled the divide between gentrification and authentic homegrown weirdness. It sat at the corner of Euclid and Moreland, Atlanta’s very own Haight-Ashbury, and even though it was open, it appeared deserted. The walls were freshly painted with primer, still wet in places.
“Hello?” I called.
“Yes?”
I turned around. A woman entered from a side door, her long brown hair held back with a bandanna. She wore overalls over a tube top, and buff paint smeared one cheek. A tattoo that said Goddess of Kush ran up the inside of her forearm.
I showed her the image of the cactus on my phone. “Do you recognize this piece?”
“Oh, yeah. Commercial. Derivative. Appropriative.”
“Evidence.”
She didn’t even blink. “Really? What kind of crime?”
“A confidential one.”
“Murder?”
“No.”
She looked instantly bored. “Oh well. That thing was one of LaLa’s.”
“Can I speak to…her?”
The woman popped her gum. “Him. And he’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yeah, it’s a rule. Loser doesn’t pay the rent, loser has to hit the road. Or course some losers will then deface the walls with crypto-fascist manifestos, and I have to spend my afternoon repainting.” She wiggled her nose like a rabbit, wiped her forehead with her forearm. “LaLa let the TV people borrow that piece, for the exposure. They returned it Saturday afternoon. I sold it to pay back rent.”
“Can you tell me who bought it?”
“This chick headed out to Burning Man. It’s going on her festival fire at the Playa and then the ashes will be scattered in the desert, symbolizing—”
“That sounds great, but…” I tried to keep my smile steady. “It really is evidence. It can’t be burned.”
The woman shrugged. “Outta my hands now.”
“Can you give me the contact info for the person who has it?”
“You got a warrant?”
“No. I’m not a cop.”
She folded her arms. “Then you’re out of luck. If word got around I was selling my mailing list—”
“I don’t need your list. Just one name.”
She shook her head. “Sorry. No can do. Not without—”
“A warrant, right. I heard you.” I tapped my foot, thought a little harder. “This chick. You know how to find her?”
The woman shrugged coyly. “Maybe.”
“You think she’d be open to a resale?”
“Maybe.”
“How much would she want? Including the commission for yourself, of course.”
The woman’s eyes turned cagey. How much could someone like me pay? She gave me the up and down, noting the khakis and plain white button-down, good leather boots worn all to hell, no jewelry except gold studs in my ears. Thank goodness she couldn’t see my bra, which was a La Perla cross-back that had set Trey back five hundred dollars, or she would have upped the price considerably.
“It’s a stalking case,” I said.
She stopped evaluating me. “It is?”
“Yes. And I shouldn’t be telling you this, but there’s a life on the line.”
I didn’t tell her the life belonged to a rich white male. That turned out to be a good move. I watched her eyes get hard.
“Wait here,” she said, and put down the roller brush.
An hour later I had a number, and a name, and an address. What I didn’t have was a check for thirty-six hundred dollars. I waited until I got back in my car to call Trey. He didn’t answer his cell, so I tried his work phone. To my surprise, I got a familiar female voice.
“Hello, Marisa,” I said.
Her tone was annoyed. “Is this Tai?”
I tried to think of a better answer than yes. Failed miserably.
I sighed. “Yes. Could I please speak to—”
“Where’s Trey?”
“What?”
“It says on his calendar that he’s taking personal leave. I assumed that meant with you.”
Oh crap, I thought. Now she’s suspicious.
“He mentioned he had errands to run,” I offered.
“Like what?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Really? And I thought you two were bound at the ankles, like some kind of two-person chain gang.”
I couldn’t tell if she was
