Trey’s voice cut through the damp air like a whipsaw. “Put the gun down, Ms. Ray!”
Chapter Fifty-three
Portia raised her voice. “Is that you, Trey? Behind the wall there? Tai too, I suspect.” She exhaled theatrically. “I was wondering when you two would show up.”
“The police are on the way, Ms. Ray. Put down your weapon.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I still have to shoot my maggot of a husband.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Hurt him?” She spat blood and barked a laugh. “No. I don’t have to. But I want to.”
Quint’s voice was hoarse. “She tried to kill me! She admitted it! She pretended to be drunk last night and let everybody see her making out with the prop guy! She wants it to look like I had reason to hurt her! She’s been planning this—”
“Shut up, Quint.” Portia’s voice remained mild even as she got louder, an actor’s trick. “You there, Trey? You listening? Because I’m about to make your day.”
“Ms. Ray—”
“Quint killed Jessica.”
Quint sputtered. “I did not!”
“And he tried to blame Nicky for it. Because with Jessica dead and Nicky locked up somewhere—jail, institution, it didn’t matter where—my darling husband would control his entire estate.”
“She’s lying!”
“And it worked. For a while. He did get control of Nicky’s money. But it’s all gone. And I’m through covering for him now.”
“Shut up, Patsy! It was all your idea!”
Her voice went shrill. “Don’t call me Patsy!”
Quint had moved from desperation to fury—he’d take Portia down even if he went down with her. Trey absorbed the information, but he already knew the truth. Not Macklin. Not Nick. Not nameless syndicate thugs. Quint. He flexed his fingers around the handle of his weapon.
Portia raised her voice. “Did you not hear me, Trey? Quint’s the killer you’ve been looking for all these years, and I have him on the ground in front of me with a gun at his forehead. But he has lawyers, a whole team of them. They’ll get him off on some technicality. Some other cop will make a tiny mistake, and he’ll walk free. You know how that goes.”
Trey’s expression wasn’t calm anymore. His eyes were narrowed, his jaw clenched. I chanced a quick look through the bricks. Quint was on his knees, Portia in front of him, the antique revolver aimed at his forehead. I couldn’t tell which barrel she had primed and ready to go, but it didn’t matter—Quint wouldn’t walk away from either.
Portia was on a roll. “You’re not a cop anymore, Trey. You don’t have to save the day. You can walk away, and we can all wash our hands of this lying, thieving, murdering—”
“Stop talking,” Trey said.
“I’ll claim self defense. You saw the video. He had a gun. He was desperate, crazy with jealousy. His scheme falling apart around him. I was lucky to get away, lucky to survive.” Her voice was gentle, cajoling, a siren’s song. “Remember the day Jessica died? Remember how it felt to watch her mother sobbing in the courtroom?”
“I said, stop talking!”
Trey’s breathing had gone shallow. He tilted his head back against the bricks, and I knew the inside of his skull was a neurochemical traffic jam, vengeance and justice and rules seething and colliding. And I understood, I really did. I remembered his crime scene sketches, remembered my own dark nights, every time I’d ever felt helpless or hopeless or betrayed…
I readjusted my grip on the .38. Unlike the pepperballs, it could execute. Neatly and precisely.
“Trey?” I whispered.
He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No. It’s all…and I can’t think…I can’t…”
“Yes, you can. Look at me.”
He turned his face in my direction, and he let me see all the way in, to the deep well of anger. Grief and pain burned there too, helpless before the wild howling unfairness of it all. Yes, he wanted Quint dead. He wanted to do it himself, but letting Portia take the shot would be satisfying enough. Quint would be dead either way. She was right—he was not a cop anymore. He had no rulebook now, no guiding protocol. He was on his own.
Except that he wasn’t.
“We came out here to stop this,” I said.
“I know.”
“So let’s stop it. The right way. You and me. Okay?”
He didn’t reply. But he did take a deep breath in, let it trickle halfway out. He peered through the brickwork for a final assessment of the situation. Then he pulled his rifle into ready position, muzzle down, finger alongside the barrel. I did the same. The adrenaline narrowed my vision and dampened the ambient noise, but I wasn’t afraid. There was only the moment, simple and clean. Only the response.
I heard a familiar sound in the distance. Sirens. Portia heard too, and her arms straightened and locked as she extended the gun.
And that was all it took.
Trey whirled around the corner and fired three rounds, then flattened himself against the wall again. Portia screamed. Quint bellowed. I heard the sounds of scuffling as a shot rang out, then the clatter of the LeMat hitting the bricks.
Trey moved into the open archway. I trained my sights on the tangled couple rolling around on the grass, coughing and gagging as the pepper overwhelmed them. Trey covered his mouth with his sleeve and ran toward them, just close enough to kick the gun in my direction. I scooped it up fast, the sting of the capsaicin making my eyes water even from a distance. The wail of sirens intensified, and I spotted the strobe of blue lights as three cruisers ripped across the lawn and slid to a stop.
Trey still had the rifle out. He had it aimed straight at Portia, on her knees, moaning and choking. Quint hunkered behind her, retching
