I forced a laugh. “Ha! Well, gotta run. Nice talking to you.” Then it hit me. “If he’s not there, what are you doing in his office?”
“Answering his phone,” she said, and hung up.
So I tried Finn. That call went straight to voice mail. In desperation, I tried one more number. To my astonishment, Nick Talbot himself answered.
“Hello?”
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Talbot—I mean, Nick. It’s Tai Randolph, Trey’s partner. I need you to buy some art.”
Chapter Thirty
Nick told me to meet him at the production studio, a warehouse-looking building in the middle of an industrial park. I pulled into a deserted parking strip, then followed the sidewalk past a row of crepe myrtles until I reached a gray metal door. A sign warned me not to enter if the red light was on. It wasn’t. I knocked, and heard footsteps coming.
Nick opened up. “Hey. Come on in.”
I followed him into a room the size of an aircraft hanger, echoing and dark. It smelled of dust and machine oil, with lighting grids like giant metal spider webs on the ceiling.
“Nothing going on today,” he said. “All the action’s up in Adairsville, getting ready for the press party, so I’m minding the store while the important people do important things.”
He took me to a tiny office crammed with plywood furniture. Pale blue walls didn’t match the brown carpet, which wasn’t even a fancy brown. It reeked of closeout sale, as did the bargain-basement cabinets. The only decoration was a color-saturated poster for Moonshine, this one featuring Luna in profile against a red moon, a feral gleam in her eyes, the LeMat revolver on her hip. She looked lean and ruthless, dangerous as a lit fuse, a white-blond braid snaking over one shoulder.
Nick shut the door and sat behind a drawing table. He smiled crookedly. “Welcome to the heartbeat of Talbot Creative.”
I sat opposite him. “Y’all didn’t go for flashy, I see.”
“Not even a little. We didn’t expect to be here for very long, frankly. Now that Moonshine’s taken off, we’re expanding to the bigger facilities down the road. We’ll get actual leather chairs then.”
Except for a still-swollen eye, he looked well. Maybe a little paler than usual, but not sickly. He noticed my examination.
“IV fluids and a good night’s sleep. Liver enzyme tests came back good.”
“So…no overdose?”
“The doc says something went wrong, that was for sure, they just don’t know what yet. Finn says those tests will take longer. Titrating out the something-something.” He stifled a yawn, reached for his mug. “Addison now keeps all my food and beverages in her office. Locked. Even I can’t get to them. She is not a happy camper. But enough…” He smiled again, blandly. “So I’m buying art today?”
“Yes, but not for artsy purposes. Trey’s theory is that this particular piece of art caught the bullet meant for you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Big turquoise cactus. With mirrors.”
He looked startled. “Wow. That’s uh…unmistakable.”
“Did you notice it that night?”
“No. But it was dark. And I was in stealth mode, you know? In my bubble. Trying to keep out the negative energy.”
I did know. Trey sometimes had difficulty with his bubble too. If Nick had been focused on just getting through the evening, his would have been pretty thick, almost impenetrable.
I shook my head. “Why did you go? You knew it would be hard.”
He fiddled with a pencil, eyes down. “I wanted to bury that whole episode, finally and for good, and I thought it would be easier with Quint there. He’s very no-nonsense, you know. So I told Addison I was running an errand here at the studio. I left her at our place steady working.” He exhaled through pursed lips. “I came clean with her the night of the crash, told her everything. She was so mad. But mad as she was—at me and Quint both—she agreed to keep the police out. She saw what happened last time the APD got their hooks in me.”
I remembered Trey’s analysis. I couldn’t blame Nick for wanting to avoid another interrogation. I also couldn’t tell him that Addison had lied to him as well, that she wasn’t at their place the night of the shooting. Maybe he already knew. Maybe he was providing an alibi, protecting her the way she’d protected him when he was accused of Jessica’s murder. Regardless…
“Does Addison work at home a lot?” I said.
“She’s a writer. She’s always working.” He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Look, Addison can be overprotective, and Quint can be a downright ass. But it’s because they care about me. So even if you find a bullet, and that bullet has fingerprints and a signature on it, we’ll deal with the situation ourselves.” He waved a hand in my direction. “Which means, according to Finn anyway, you and Trey. And you obviously have your own reasons for keeping things on the QT.”
He didn’t phrase it like a question. But it was.
I uncrossed my legs. “Can we talk? Person to person?”
“Sure.”
“Trey was convinced you were a killer. Now he’s convinced you’re not. He’s wracked with guilt over what happened to you, and he’s trying his best to make it right again.”
Nick looked discombobulated. “Okay. And?”
“And so he’s on the justice trail. He has his own reasons to avoid getting the authorities involved, as do you. And your brother. And Finn. And me.” I leaned forward, folded my arms on the table. “That means you need to be telling the truth, about everything.”
“Are you accusing me of lying?”
“Not yet.”
He studied me. Not aggressively. Surprisingly calm. I was dying to quiz him about Addison, Diego Martinez too, and the contradictions between their stories. Was Nick lying or lied to? Was this information best kept in pocket or deployed strategically?
A knock interrupted us. Nick turned around, and a man
