I went behind the counter and poured the last of the cold coffee into a mug. I held the pot Finn’s way, but she shook her head.
“How much do you know about Jessica Talbot’s murder?”
I stuck the mug in the microwave. “That was before I moved here, but it was big news everywhere. Anytime a pretty rich white woman is killed, the whole country goes nuts. She was an actress, right?”
“A model with acting aspirations.”
Atlanta ran heavy with those. Small-town sweethearts arrived every day with stars in their eyes and Pinewood Studios in their sights. I pulled my coffee out of the microwave, spooned some sugar in. Finn stayed near the door, one eye on the parking lot.
“Nick Talbot was a producer,” she said, “back in Los Angeles. He and his brother Quint founded Talbot Creative with fair to middling success in the indie film market. Then Nick derailed himself with a very unglamorous drug arrest and tried to get a fresh start out here with a modeling agency. That flopped, but he met and married Jessica, a gorgeous wannabe who proceeded to spend every penny she could get her hands on. And sleep with every available man, if you believe the tabloids.”
“Do you?”
“I do. Nick was spreading himself around too, including an affair with the woman who is now his fiancée, and who also alibied him for Jessica’s murder, not that anyone believed her. Anyway, Nick and Jessica had a train wreck of a marriage. They were two steps from divorce court when someone broke into their Buckhead home one lovely morning and murdered her. Nick was charged in the crime, but during the preliminary hearing, evidence surfaced that Macklin, the first responding officer, had pocketed some of the victim’s jewelry. Macklin’s fence gets hauled in, and he lays the finger down.”
“The cop had a fence?”
“Oh, yeah. This was not his first larceny, as it turned out. He was also hip-deep in illegal gambling and prostitutes and maybe even extortion for some of Atlanta’s seedier loan sharks.”
“And Trey?”
“He was second responding. The Office of Professional Standards worked him over good too. He was pronounced clean, but Macklin was charged with felony theft by taking. He committed suicide before they could arrest him. But his crime tainted the evidence, and the grand jury didn’t indict.” She leaned back against the counter, folded her arms. “Nick Talbot’s life fell apart, though. He filed for bankruptcy, quit his fancy job. Now he works as a makeup artist on Moonshine.”
I almost choked on my coffee. “Moonshine the TV series?”
“Yeah. Talbot Creative produces it. A dark horse hit, they tell me, maybe their biggest.”
That was an understatement. The show filmed all over Kennesaw, especially in the outlying rural areas and around Kennesaw Mountain, lots of secret base camps, very hush hush. Deciphering the bright yellow directional signs emblazoned with code words was the hot thing to do, with star-spotting Twitter feeds and celebrity-finder apps flourishing. I’d looked into the vendor licenses for the show and abandoned that idea. Too rich for my humble blood.
“Nick Talbot lived the opposite of a Cinderella story,” Finn said, “and you can bet the entire Atlanta PD was happy to see him fall. So even if somebody took a shot at him, not a single cop in Zone 2 will care.”
“Wait a second, you said if somebody took a shot. Is there some doubt?”
She gave me a crafty look. “His brother Quint was there when it happened. He insists there was no shooting. He says what Nick thought was a gunshot was actually kids messing around in Chastain Park with some firecrackers.”
“His own brother doesn’t believe him?”
Finn drummed her fingers along the countertop. “Nick has suffered from a destabilizing mental illness for most of his adult life. Paranoid delusional disorder. He’s been involuntarily committed twice in addition to his stints in alcohol and drug rehab. After the grand jury trial, he was almost admitted a third time, but was released under the conservatory care of his brother.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Quint is in charge of Nick’s life, everything from whether or not he takes his meds to his financial arrangements. Well, that used to be the case. A few years ago, a judge granted Nick’s fiancée custodial care, so Quint only controls the financial now. The fiancée wants that too, but Quint is arguing that she’s not doing a great job, that Nick is relapsing.”
“Exhibit A being the shooting that may or may not have happened?”
“Yep. Quint says he can find no evidence of a gunshot—no bullet, no nothing. He thinks Nick’s delusions are returning.”
“Are they?”
“That would be the simplest explanation.”
“But is it the right one?”
“It’s the one Nick’s brother believes.”
“What do you believe?”
She smiled. “I haven’t decided. But you understand now why nobody at Talbot Creative wants to get the police involved. And why I need Trey.”
And suddenly, I did. “You know, don’t you?”
“About Trey’s lie-detecting ability? Sure. Your brother wrote an article in last month’s Psychology Today. Trey is obviously Subject J.”
My brother’s fascination with Trey’s brain parlayed into another professional publication. Trey himself kept this particular function disguised and turned down to low. Truthfully, it was more of a handicap. In a world where people lied with every other breath, the cognitive overload could be overwhelming.
I smacked my coffee mug on the counter. “You want Trey to be your own personal lie detector.”
She winced delicately. “You make that sound so cold-blooded.”
“It is.”
“Not if I have something to offer in return, and I do—Trey has the chance to look Nick Talbot in the eye and find out once and for all if he is guilty of Jessica’s murder.”
She was right. That should have been bait enough to capture Trey’s interest.
“Trey can only pick out lies,” I said. “If Nick is suffering from delusions, if he believes what he’s saying, Trey won’t read it as deception.”
“I know. But I
