Reckoning and Ruin Read online

  Reckoning and Ruin

  A Tai Randolph Mystery

  Tina Whittle

  www.TinaWhittle.com

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2016 by Tina Whittle

  First E-book Edition 2016

  ISBN: 9781464205521 ebook

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

  Poisoned Pen Press

  6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103

  Scottsdale, AZ 85251

  www.poisonedpenpress.com

  [email protected]

  Contents

  Reckoning and Ruin

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Author’s Notes

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Dedication

  To my brother dearest Tim, the best “big” brother a “little” sister could have, and to Lisa, Patty, and Rich, my ever-awesome sibs-in-law (and sibs-in-heart).

  And to my other mom and dad, Yvonne and Gene, who welcomed me into their lives over three decades ago, and who continue to support me in everything I do. I am so grateful for your presence in my life, and for the love you have shared with me and mine.

  Acknowledgments

  It takes a village to write a book, and I have an excellent one. And even though I put a lot of stock in words, I know that words can never truly demonstrate how blessed I am to have such smart, talented, generous people in my circle:

  The Mojito Literary Society, made up of Annie Hogsett, Susan Newman, Katrina Murphy and Laura Valeri; my fellow Sisters in Crime, including the members of my home chapter, the Low Country Sisters in Crime (especially Donna Kortes, our dynamic president and can-do maven); my always supportive friends—Toni Deal, Sharon Hudson, Theresa Moore, Danielle Walden, and Robin White. Kira Parker, a woman of mystery in her own right; my UU Womenspirit sisters; and—of course—my excellent and forbearing family: my parents, Dinah and Archie; my parents-in-law, Yvonne and Gene; my sibling and siblings-in-law, Tim and Lisa, and Patty and Rich, plus my wonderful niece and nephews—Connor, Sydney, Drew and Hayden.

  Special thanks goes to Kathy Bradley, who guided me through the legal issues in this book, and Jonathan M. Bryant, who lent his historical expertise and listening ear to this endeavor. They are fine writers both, and I am grateful for their encouragement and wisdom. I also absolve them completely of any responsibility for the mistakes I surely made.

  Much gratitude to the fine folks at Poisoned Pen Press—especially Barbara Peters, Annette Rogers, Rob Rosenwald, Suzan Baroni, Diane DiBiase, Tiffany White, Pete Zrioka, and Beth Deveny—a writer’s dream team that serves writers and writing in exemplary fashion. I am also grateful to my fellow PPPers—the Posse—for their smarts and generosity and unwavering support, and to my agent, Paige Wheeler, for the quickness of her brain and the goodness of her heart.

  And—as always and forever—much love to my husband, James, and daughter, Kaley. I couldn’t do this thing without you.

  Chapter One

  Trey’s head snapped back. “Ow!”

  Gabriella ignored him and pressed her hand harder against the nape of his neck, her eyebrows knit in concentration. She had him sitting backwards in a kitchen chair, shirtless and annoyed, while she poked and prodded the muscles across the top of his shoulders.

  I stayed on the sofa with my Garden and Gun magazine, not saying a word. Through the terrace doors, a spring sunset flickered behind Atlanta’s Midtown skyline, gilding the black and white apartment with golden light. This was not how I’d envisioned my Saturday night—up on the thirty-fifth floor instead of down in the vibrant scrum of Buckhead. But I guessed from Gabriella’s cocktail dress and sky-scraping Louboutins, she’d had other plans too.

  She was barefoot now, her lips pursed prettily. She was Trey’s bodywork therapist, alternative medical adviser, and former lover. The first two were fine by me. The last one sucker-punched me every time I saw her place a deceptively delicate-looking hand on his bare skin.

  I licked my finger and turned another page. “Is it bad?”

  Gabriella blew one red ringlet from her forehead. “I am still evaluating.”

  She moved her hand across the plane of his upper back to his left arm, then pushed her fingers into the muscle of his shoulder. Trey closed his eyes and curled his hands into fists. If he’d been a cursing man, obscenities would have been spilling from his lips.

  He grimaced up at her. “Well?”

  She slipped back into her shoes. “Not dislocated, and not torn. But you have severely strained the acromioclavicular.”

  “Does it require a doctor?”

  “No. But you will need to treat it with care for a while.” She left him in the chair and opened the leather carry case on the counter with a snap. “How did this happen?”

  Trey shot a look my way. I buried my face in my magazine.

  Gabriella caught the look. “I see. You will need to take more care, especially with your more…energetic activities. You’re predisposed to subluxations, and every injury—”

  “Increases the risk of further injury, I know.”

  “Then behave as if you do.” She smacked two bottles on the counter. “Turmeric and boswellia capsules. Liniment and tape. Ice tonight, then moist heat.”

  “I know how to deal with this.”

  “I w
as explaining for Tai, since she is to be stuck with you this evening, not I, par la grâce de Dieu.” She turned to face me. “He can’t drive for twenty-four hours and must leave the holster at home for a week. Is he fully stocked on painkillers?”

  “Everything from aspirin to oxycodone.”

  “Good. That shoulder will hurt comme de le merde in an hour.” A rueful smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Of course, fifteen milligrams of oxy, and he will be utterly useless to you for the rest of the evening.”

  “Yeah. I figured as much.”

  She closed her case and slipped the strap over her shoulder. “But congratulations on the occasion, nonetheless. A year together is a year together, yes?”

  Across the room, Trey reached for his tee-shirt, black hair mussed, blue eyes prickly with pain and simmering anger, although I couldn’t tell if his wrath was directed at me in particular or the world in general. He and I were supposed to be celebrating that year together. Had started celebrating, in fact, before our unfortunate tangle and tumble. Now he was a tornado of irritation.

  Gabriella nodded toward the hallway, my cue to follow her. I did, shutting the door behind me as I walked her to the elevator. She carried herself like the ballet dancer she’d once been.

  “I understand your enthusiasm, ma chère, but you must be more gentle with him. The hypermobility—”

  “The what?”

  “Hypermobility. Double-jointedness, yes? Surely you have noticed?”

  My brain sifted through several very specific memories. “That explains some things.”

  “Probablement. But it also predisposes him to injuries like this, especially if he is overtraining, which from the state of his deltoids, I am guessing he is. Has the PTSD returned?”

  When she said it, the acronym sounded exotic, flowing with French trills and gliding vowels. Peety-Essdie.

  I shrugged. “It’s hard to tell.”

  “Have you consulted your brother? He has a specialty in this, yes?”

  I felt the knot tie up again. Yes, my brother Eric was a cognitive behavior psychologist, and he did indeed specialize in post-traumatic stress rehabilitation. And yes, he knew the situation exceedingly well, having once served as Trey’s occupational therapist. But I was reluctant to approach him. Asking my brother’s advice about Trey invited him to offer advice about me, and that never went well.

  “Eric recommended some books on clinical exercise physiology, which is why Trey has upped his training regimen into the Iron Man zone.”

  “Is this regimen working?”

  “Yes. No. Maybe.” I shook my head. “I can’t put my finger on it. He seems…I don’t know. Like he’s trying too hard.”

  “Have the nightmares returned?”

  “No.”

  “Is he sleeping properly?”

  “Yes.”

  “And sexually—”

  “Working just fine, thank you.”

  She examined me almost as keenly as Trey did. They’d been together for over five years when I came along, three of those years before Trey’s car accident, two of them after. And yet she seemed to hold not one hint of resentment against me. Quite the opposite, in fact, something I found terribly suspicious. But according to Trey, she’d saved his life. Since he wasn’t a man to exaggerate, I tolerated the phone calls, the herbal remedies, and the vegan soup she brought over regularly. I remained skeptical, though. And watchful.

  She tilted her head. “You are upset he is not spending as much time with you, yes?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “No, you did not, true enough.” She crossed her arms and tapped one crimson-tipped fingernail against her shoulder. “Let me guess. His schedule is becoming tighter and more regimented. More work, more training, less time to be your significant other.”

  I started to argue, but realized she was right. Our now-defunct dinner was to have been our first date-date in over a month.

  Her expression was one of commiseration. “You must be patient. Recovery from a traumatic brain injury is a complicated process.”

  “I know that, but—”

  “You and your folie du jour have made his life interesting, yes. And that is good. But interesting can be problematic at times.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly. “My what?”

  “Your hazards and exploits. Trey cannot help wanting to protect you, and this sometimes involves him beyond his capabilities. You must not let your life choices interfere with his well-being.”

  “What exactly are you trying to tell me?”

  She smiled with infuriating patience. “When I was a little girl, I visited my grandmother in Provence every spring. One day I found a butterfly struggling to free itself from its cocoon. I wanted to help it, but mémère told me, “Non. It is the struggle that makes it strong enough to fly.’”

  I stared at her. “That’s your contribution to the situation, a butterfly story?”

  Her lips compressed in a straight line. “Then here is the story without the pretty butterfly. This isn’t about you. Your wants, your needs, the way you wish things were or were not. What matters is Trey. And right now, he is stable and functioning. I am determined to make sure that does not change.”

  She got in the elevator and punched the first floor button. I grabbed the door before it could close.

  “Are you threatening me? Because that sounded like a threat.”

  Her eyes flashed. “We do not need to threaten each other because we both want the same thing.”

  “That thing being Trey?”

  “That is not what I mean!”

  “I think it’s exactly what you mean.”

  “I meant…ugh! Now is not the time for this discussion. I am late for dinner with Jean Luc.” She straightened her back, smoothed the anger from her perfect face. “If you would kindly step back, please.”

  I hesitated only one second, then pulled back my hand and let the doors close.

  Chapter Two

  Back in the apartment, I locked the door behind me, engaging the drill-proof deadbolts with more force than purely necessary. Trey eased himself to standing, wincing as he straightened.

  “Your ex is asking for it,” I said. “And she’d better be glad I…why are you giving me that look?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Because this is your fault.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “You’re the one who fell out of bed.”

  “I did not fall, I was pushed.”

  “You were not pushed, you fell and landed where there was no bed.”

  “Because you pushed me where there was no bed.”

  “Because you…” I closed my eyes, counted to three, then opened them. “Never mind. This isn’t a real argument. You’re hurt and sexually frustrated, both of which make you belligerent. I feel your pain, boyfriend, believe me. So let’s not take it out on each other.”

  He grimaced and rubbed his shoulder. I knew he’d landed badly the second he’d hit the floor with me on top of him. I’d felt the unnatural give in the shoulder, the full force of my weight coming down on that one precarious joint. I’d banged my elbow up, bruised my knee, but he’d been hurt worse. And things had been going so well up to that point.

  He stamped his way to the bathroom, tee-shirt balled in his hand. I followed, propping myself next to the sink while he rummaged in the medicine cabinet. His body was taut with muscle, but the accident and the SWAT ops and a decade of Krav Maga had taken their toll. He was no longer a cocky twenty-something, and had the scars and pinned knees and titanium-screwed spine of a hard-lived thirty-five years.

  I took the PT tape from the shelf along with the scissors. “Let me do this.”

  “I can—”

  “Just let me.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. I stood behind him and traced a line from his shoulder
blade down the curve of his upper arm. The deltoid lay on top of the joint, a finely honed slice of muscle connecting the bicep in the front and the trapezius in the back, and I followed its contours.

  “There?”

  He nodded again. The grumpy was burning out, replaced with an exhausted composure. I cut off about eight inches of tape, scissored it into a Y shape, then stretched it along the top of his shoulder. I crisscrossed that with another length of tape along the scapula. The result resembled an exotic tribal tattoo, slick ebony against his pale Irish skin.

  I cut off a final strip of tape. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I will be in the morning.”

  “No, I mean the other kind of okay.”

  Trey sucked in a breath as the last piece of tape pulled the injured muscle into place. “You need to keep the tension—”

  “At sixty percent, I know. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from a year of being with you, it’s how to use kinesiology tape.” I smoothed the final result with my thumb. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Oh.” He dipped his head forward, exposing the back of his neck for me. “I’m okay. Work has been challenging, that’s all.”

  “Work with Phoenix or work with Garrity?”

  “Both.”

  “Anything serious?”

  “The usual at Phoenix. Marisa wants me more involved in the client intake process.”

  I couldn’t actually blame Marisa; if I’d been his boss, I’d have wanted him out from behind his desk too. He was Phoenix Corporate Security’s top premises liability agent, a math-heavy endeavor involving actuarial tables and crime foreseeability studies—the part Trey loved—and showing up at client meetings to explain things—the part Trey hated. But clients were quick to sign contracts if Trey was present. Everybody wanted an Armani-clad bad ass on their team.

  I returned the tape to the cabinet. “How about things with Garrity?”

  “Good. My LINX clearance came through.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’m authorized to generate my own AMMO reports now. I still have to be supervised, of course. But I can start moving into quantitative analysis, predictive policing.”