The next morning started with me flat on my back, and not in a good way. I planted my feet and shoved myself backward another inch under the counter, struggling to keep the cell phone against my ear. “Tell me the wire I’m looking for again.”
“The input line.”
I poked the flashlight into the dark space. “What does it look like?”
“It’s black, thinner than the coaxial.”
“Damn it, Trey, there’s a billion black wires up here!”
“No, there’s not. Stop exaggerating.”
I closed my eyes and sneezed. The dead space under the counter was good for only one thing—hiding the multitude of wires from Trey’s various security devices. The latest trend was totally wireless systems, but Trey was nothing if not redundant, so he’d purchased a hybrid for the shop, a system with landline, wireless and cell phone signal transmitters, all of it with a battery backup. Of course that meant three times as much to go wrong.
“Did you tell Detective Perez about your interview last night?” he said.
“I did.”
“What did she say?”
“She thanked me for the leads.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
I wiped my face with the clean part of my sleeve. I didn’t tell him that I’d glossed over Cat’s involvement in the whole mess, focusing instead on the mysterious Fishbone. I’d looked up the Concrete Kings over breakfast. They seemed harmless enough, a bunch of white kids who posted goofy videos of themselves attempting skateboard tricks with names like Ollie 180 and Noseslide. Fishbone was a top contributor—in his clips, he flipped and looped and gyrated, his dark hair flying behind him, occasionally flashing the skeletonized tattoo that gave him his nickname, the great dome of Stone Mountain rising behind him like a lunar landscape. The park around the mountain provided the backdrop for most of his videos, and I remembered Cat mentioning something about a brother living in the town there.…
At Trey’s end of the line, I heard a no-nonsense female voice in the background. Marisa.
“I have to go,” Trey said. “I’ll finish the installation at lunch.”
“I can manage, I—” I sneezed again and the flashlight beam waggled.
“I’ll see you at one.”
I rolled to my stomach. Dust and cobwebs clotted my hair, and when I blinked, pieces of grit fell in my eyes. I gave up and climbed out from under the counter. The main room was cleaner, but still chaotic, with display cases waiting to be refilled, photographs waiting to be rehung. And—I couldn’t avoid it—the box of still-unorganized A&D materials next to an unopened package of color-coded labels Trey had brought me. I shook the dirt from my hair, Dexter’s voice echoing in my head. Time to get to work, girl.
The voice was right. Trey was right. But I couldn’t get my conversation with Cat out of my mind. Young, defiant, with lousy taste in men, finally getting it together only to have some jerk from her past come back from the dead to trouble the waters. She’d no doubt seen the morning’s newspaper. Lucius was right there on the front page, along with absorbing speculations about the nature of his death.
He hadn’t been alone in the AJC, however. The paper’s society section featured the Amberdecker-Pratchett bridal luncheon, an event happening at the High Museum in—I checked the clock on the wall—three hours. Chelsea’s engagement photo showcased her hothouse beauty—lush, full-lipped, peach-skinned. Only the assertive Amberdecker jawline revealed her DNA. She and Mr. Intercontinental Exchange made an elegant power couple, and considering the state of the Amberdecker family coffers, I couldn’t see either Rose or Evie complaining too hard.
I remembered Cat’s accusation of the night before, about Lucius and Chelsea. Had she been telling the truth? Lying out of spite? Plain wrong? I found it hard to imagine Chelsea with a shady dropout like Lucius. But then, society women sometimes had lowbrow tastes in the bedroom.
I tapped my foot. The High Museum was a public building. How hard would it be to slip inside, pull the bride-to-be into a discreet corner, and ask one simple question—were you having an affair with Lucius Dufrene?
I looked down at my clothes. There was a smudge of doughnut glaze on my jeans, and the two pistols on the tee-shirt looked like the crossed arms of the Battle Flag. My closet consisted of jeans and tees at one end, red haute couture cocktail dresses at the other. Not a single appropriate thing for subtle surveillance at a society luncheon.
I ran my hand through my hair. If I wanted to talk to Chelsea, I had less than three hours to transform into someone I wasn’t. Which meant there was only one person in the greater metro area who could help me.