Agent Cranky Pants was a husky man, with the barrel-like midriff of a former athlete and hair the brown of a good-natured spaniel. His eyes, however, remained locked in a perpetual squinch, his nostrils flared as if catching a whiff of something spoiled.
I sat behind my counter, in my purple slacks and jacket, my one piece of business attire. I wanted a sucker, wanted a piece of nicotine gum, wanted a cigarette. I wanted with bright flaring need as the inspector made a methodical examination of my shop.
“There have been complaints,” he said.
I kept my expression neutral. “About what?”
“Several things, actually.” He pulled out a piece of paper. “The Kennesaw Revitalization Commission reports that because of zoning violations, you may not be issued a business license for next year.”
I suppressed the seethe. “You mean Brenda next door, not the KRC. According to the KRC itself, I have six months to make the necessary upgrades or apply for an appeal.”
“There are also allegations that you have been making purchases for an individual without waiting for proper NICS verification, because you and this individual are romantically involved.”
“Excuse me?”
“You were heard making an agreement with this individual to trade handguns for…” He managed to look both embarrassed and offended. “Sexual favors.”
I was incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding. That was a joke.”
“It is also alleged that you then destroyed the paperwork surrounding the…arrangement.”
“No, that didn’t happen either. I was—”
And then it hit me. I was in my shop—Trey and me, all alone—when I made that joke. Except for the footsteps Trey had heard, in the alley where we weren’t allowed to have cameras. I took a three-count breath. Then another. I waited until the red cleared from my vision before speaking.
“The individual in question—who happens to be my boyfriend, yes—is a fully licensed security agent with both a professional concealed carry card and an HR218 permit from the Atlanta PD. I have documented every transaction he and I have made, every single one of them legal and proper, and accusing otherwise is more of my neighbor’s stuntwork so she can have the whole damn block to herself—excuse me, I did not mean to say ‘damn’—but I did not, nor will I ever—”
He held up his hand. “I think I understand, Ms. Randolph. That’s fine.”
“But—”
“I said that’s fine. I’m getting the picture. All I need at this point is your A&D book.”
I slid the box in front of him. “I wanted to make it more…presentable. But it’s been a hellacious morning.”
“If the records aren’t complete—”
“Oh, they’re complete. Just not neat.”
He made a checkmark on his sheet as he reached for the box. I suppressed a gulp. My phone vibrated against my thigh, and I took a quick peek. Richard.
I stood. “Could you excuse me for a second?”
Agent Cranky Pants waved a hand at the door and opened the lid. I hurried out, snatching the door shut behind me.
“You are a lying son of a bitch!” I hissed.
“What?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a daughter?”
A pause. “You talked to Catherine.”
“Damn straight I did. She had some very interesting things to say.”
“Where is she?”
“You don’t know? Haven’t you even looked for her?”
A stray whip of wind slapped my hair into my face, and I huddled closer to the window. Behind the glass, Agent Cranky Pants picked up the A&D book and placed it on the counter in front of him. I turned my back. I could not watch.
Richard’s voice was a monotone. “Of course I looked. She didn’t want to be found.”
“I found her in two hours. You could have done it in less if you’d tried.”
He muttered a curse. I pulled my thin jacket around me and wrapped my arms tighter. The wind had bite, like the snap of a feral dog. It chewed through my jacket, scraping shivers down my backbone.
“I made the rules clear—no drugs in my home. She came into my house smelling like a damn hippie, didn’t even try to deny it, and then got caught stealing.”
“So that was it, your way or the highway?”
“She chose—”
“No, you chose. She made a mistake. Now her name’s coming up in the investigation into Lucius’ death, which means God-knows-what for her. Or you.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means considering that he was sleeping with your daughter right before he died, you just hit a triple play, Richard—means, motive, and opportunity—so you’d better—”
“Catherine was what!?!”
His voice was a mixture of terror and anger and grief and total utter astonishment. Which I had discovered was one of the hardest emotions to fake, even over the phone. But I was too mad to care.
“You heard me. Congratulations, Richard, you have now replaced the freaking Russian mafia as Most Likely To Have Murdered Lucius Dufrene!”
“I didn’t kill him! I didn’t even know about him and Catherine! Tai, you gotta believe me!”
“Save it for the boys in blue. Because I promise you, Richard, if I find one shred of evidence that you had anything to do with Lucius’ death, or Braxton’s bones, or the missing relics, I will put that evidence on a silver platter and deliver it downtown in person!”
“But—”
“In the meantime, stay the hell out of my shop!”
I smashed the off button with my thumb, hard, and I held it down like I was squashing a bug until the display flickered off. And then I stuffed it in my pocket and marched over to Brenda’s, which was locked up tight despite the lights being on. I banged on the door. She stuck her head around the corner and jerked it back.
“I see you!” I yelled. “I know it was you the other night, in the alley! It’s been you all along, tripping my system, eavesdropping around corners!” I banged again at the door. “Listen to me, Brenda Lovejoy-Burlington, if you tell one more official person one more lie about me, or about Trey, I will come over here and personally kick your lily white ass!”
“Your car is parked out back again!” she yelled in return.
“Damn straight it is! And it’s staying there! Because it’s my space! I can put up a fucking lemonade stand if I want to!”
“I’ll have you towed!”
“You touch my car, and I will hurt you, you hear me?”
She stomped up to the door, but didn’t open it. “I will not be threatened by the likes of you!”
“You just were!”
I kicked the door once for good measure. Then I took another deep breath—which was not working, no matter what Trey said—straightened my jacket, and went back into my shop. Agent Cranky Pants was right where I left him, eagerly making notations in his notebook.
I cleared my throat. “Excuse me?”
He looked up. “Yes?”
“In my first interview with the ATF, I was asked why I wanted a firearms license. And I answered because I believe in the Second Amendment, which is the truth. But the realer truth is that every night, I lay down with my conscience, not the Second Amendment. I take what I do here seriously. That means I abide by the law. You may find some messiness in this shop, and in that book, but you won’t find a single legal violation, not one.”
He smiled at me, the first smile I’d ever seen on his face. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s it.”
“Good. Now may I get back to my evaluation?”
I averted my eyes and headed for the storeroom. My chest felt tight, empty. I shut the door behind me, shoved a stack of targets off the table, and sat. I dialed Trey’s number. It went straight to voice mail, which I expected. He was delivering his paper on resiliency systems, so I knew he wouldn’t answer. But it was good to hear his voice regardless, his patient, professional voice. When the tone sounded, my own voice felt smoother and calmer.
“So I yelled at Richard instead of going into the woods, and then I yelled at Brenda and maybe threatened her with bodily harm if she touched my car. And now the ATF guy is evaluating the A&D book as I speak. I should have listened to you about organizing it, but that’s a big ‘oh well’ now so…cross your fingers, okay?”
The light from was the casement window was thin, but it was enough to illuminate the mishmashed wreckage I’d stuffed out of the ATF’s sight. I heard the chair scrape back in the other room. I ended the call, stood, straightened my jacket. Time to face the music.
As I entered the room, the agent looked up. “Ms. Randolph, I have to tell you. I’m impressed by the accuracy and thoroughness of your information. The organization, however—”
I sat in front of him quickly. “I can explain.”
“—is most impressive of all. Logical, coherent, efficient. The color-coding was a nice touch, but the cross index was especially helpful.”
I stared at him, utterly baffled. I looked where he was pointing and saw…a cross index. And color-coded tabs. My A&D book was virtually unrecognizable—hole-punched, subdivided, a paragon of order and tidiness.
I swallowed hard. “Thank you, sir. I truly—truly—don’t know what to say.”