The Dangerous Edge of Things: A Tai Randolph Mystery (Tai Randolph Series Book 1)
Tai Randolph thinks inheriting a Confederate-themed gun shop is her biggest headache — until she finds a murdered corpse in her brother’s driveway. Even worse, her supposedly respectable brother begins behaving in decidedly non-innocent ways, like fleeing to the Bahamas and leaving her with both a homicide in her lap and the pointed suspicions of the Atlanta PD directed her way. Suddenly, she has to worry about clearing her own name, not just that of her wayward sibling. Complicating her search for answers is Trey Seaver, field agent for Phoenix, an exclusive corporate security firm hired to investigate the crime. Trey is fearless, focused, and — much to Tai’s dismay — utterly impervious to bribes, threats and clever deceptions. Still in recovery from the car accident that left him cognitively and emotionally damaged, Trey has constructed a world of certainty and routine. He has powerful people to answer to, and the last thing he wants is an unpredictable stranger “detecting” on Phoenix turf. Tai’s inquiry leads her from the cold-eyed glamour of Atlanta’s adult entertainment scene to the gilded treachery of Tuxedo Road. Potential suspects abound, including violent stalkers, vengeful sisters, and a paparazzo with a taste for meth. But it takes another murder — and threats to her own life — to make Tai realize that to solve this crime, she has to trust the most dangerous man she’s ever met.
chai. No sugar. You’ll like.” He accepted. “Thank you.” The Beau Elan cafe pulsed with the same “uniquely familiar” vibe that permeates most coffeehouses. Hardwood floors, bistro chairs, folkish artwork. There was a fake moose head on the purple wall to show they had a sense of humor. Whatever. They had tea. Trey was content. We sat at a bank of computers running alone a picture window. From what I could see, the complex looked predictably comfortable—multiple three- and four-story units
catty-cornered along a curving driveway, each one washed in a different pastel, faux-aged and earthy. Like Bourbon Street crossed with Disneyland. Trey peered over my shoulder. “Why are you researching the Beaumonts?” I’d pulled up a Home and Garden feature about their house on Tuxedo Road, a nine-million-dollar property that looked like what Louis XIV would have built if he’d been a plantation owner. The mansion had eight bedrooms and a kitchen the size of a gymnasium where a beaming Charley
“Yes.” He stood up abruptly. I scooped up my folders and stood too, clipping my new ID rather clumsily to my sweater. It read LIAISON in neat block script. “Does it mean I finally get to question suspects?” “No.” He cocked his head and frowned at me. Tucking his files under one arm, he reached out with both hands and straightened my ID badge one millimeter. His knuckle grazed my chin. I kept my mouth shut. And I didn’t say what I was thinking, that regardless of his rule, if suspects
bullshit!” I shook my head. “Trey is not some invalid—” “Who are you to be telling me what he’s like? I’ve known him for ten years, you’ve known him, what? A week?” For some reason, this infuriated me. “You’re just mad because you don’t know him anymore, and you’re wondering if maybe you never did.” Garrity stared at me. His voice was calm. “Trey was in a coma for five days, on a respirator for most of them. Catheter, feeding tube, the whole nine yards. People came, and then they left. Real
too. Why shouldn’t I suspect you?” He had a point. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” “It’s not an accusation, just a logical analysis.” “I suppose you didn’t check your e-mail to see if she’d sent you something?” “Until I get the key logger quarantined, I can’t use the computer for anything.” He stopped pacing and went to his deck, where he stared at his computer for a long time, his hands on his hips. Then he straightened up and disappeared into the bedroom. I heard a drawer open and shut,