Assault & Reverie and Other Stories: Tai Randolph/ Trey Seaver Mysteries

By Tina Whittle

Tai Randolph couldn't care less about fancy violins, not even multi-million-dollar ones.

 

She's at the symphony for strictly personal reasons, to celebrate her best friend Rico's current beau, a bassist making his debut with the Atlanta chamber orchestra. It's also an excuse to wear that red dress, the one her own beau—security agent Trey Seaver—has a particular fondness for, and to avail herself of the open bar at the after-party.

 

Unfortunately, things aren't proceeding according to plan. Though Trey is as fine as ever, he is uncharacteristically distracted by a clandestine assignment with AMMO, the Atlanta Metro Major Offenders task force. And then quicker than you can say Scherzo in B flat, Rico's on the phone with a big problem—a missing violinist—and a bigger problem—a missing violin. The legendary Brancaccio Stradivarius to be precise. And Rico's boyfriend is looking mighty suspicious.

Schemes and subterfuge, bloodstains and betrayal, it's just another Saturday afternoon for Tai—former gun purveyor, current PI-in-training—as she tackles her very first case as an almost-professional gumshoe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mojito Literary Press
• Release date: Mar 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9798618175753

Tina Whittle

Tina Whittle's Tai Randolph & Trey Seaver series—featuring intrepid gun shop owner Tai and her corporate security agent partner Trey—has garnered starred reviews in Kirkus, Publisher's Weekly, Booklist, and Library Journal. A two-time nominee for Georgia Author of the Year and a Derringer finalist, Tina enjoys birdwatching, sushi, and reading tarot cards. She is a proud member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime, where she has served as both a chapter officer and national board member. You can find out more about her and her work, plus read excerpts and short stories and other etceteras at her website.

Book preview

Assault & Reverie

There were no musicians on stage, only empty chairs. Nine of them. They looked ordinary to me, but according to my program, they were symphony chairs, with molded high-density foam seats and ergonomic lumbar support, just one part of the former mega-church’s multi-million-dollar renovation into a concert hall. The stained glass backdropping the stage was the only remnant of the venue’s holier-than-I past.

I ran my hand along the banister, newly paneled in steam-curved white oak. I wish I liked classical music. It seems so...classy.

Trey continued studying his program, predictably open to the map of fire exits and defibrillator stations. He didn’t listen to music, classical or otherwise. Acquired musical anhedonia, one of the more unusual artifacts of his brain injury. To Trey, music was simply a form of fancy noise, no different from the dishwasher running or traffic droning by. Despite his lack of appreciation, he’d put on his summer-weight Ermenegildo Zegna suit—the closest thing he had to informal wear that wasn’t gym clothes or special ops camouflage—and accompanied me to an afternoon of nocturnes and sonatas and études, whatever the heck those were.

I opened my program. "Reverie for Strings."

Trey looked up. What?

That’s the piece Dante has been practicing. Did you see his picture?

I flipped to the center section, where Rico’s boyfriend Dante graced a quarter page, his upright bass beside him. Serious and slim, with dark skin and round glasses and hair cropped close to his skull, Dante stood several inches shorter than his instrument. That didn’t compromise his talent one iota. A performer with the Atlanta symphony for years, he was making his debut with their smaller string ensemble at this afternoon’s invitation-only event. As such, he’d comped our tickets, which is why two classical music heathens like Trey and I had front-row balcony seats.

Trey gave the photo a cursory glance. Yes, I saw.

And then he went back to his map, but not before checking his phone. Again. He’d been preoccupied the entire day, even failing to pay my red dress its proper due. The matching three-inch heels were currently lying under the seat in front of me, but even without them, my outfit deserved his full attention.

I swatted him with the program. Hey!

He raised his head again, this time with a flash of annoyance. Yes?

What’s up with you? Your phone's gone off three times since we sat down.

I can’t really—

So it’s work then?

He considered the question. No.

AMMO?

He nodded, hesitantly. The Atlanta Metro Major Offenders task force. Trey was a volunteer in their data analysis unit, a position that made him privy to some highly interesting and even more highly classified information. If I asked what was going on, he’d either not tell me and get annoyed that I’d asked, or he would tell me and get annoyed with himself for letting secure material sneak past his tongue.

Let me guess, I said. It’s confidential.

Correct.

His phone buzzed for the fourth time. He gave the screen a quick examination, and I saw satisfaction on his face. Yes, something was definitely up. Probably something involving complicated math and felon apprehension, his professional sweet spot.

I slipped into my heels. In that case, I’m going to get another drink.

I started to stand. Trey put his hand on my knee.

Tai. They’ll close the doors before you can get back.

I feigned a look of mild horror. Oh no, I’ll be stuck at the open bar, how terrible, whatever will I do?

Trey did not move his hand. It was a firm hand. On my bare knee. He ran his thumb along the top of my patella, lightly. He kept his eyes there too, then turned his hand palm up. An invitation. And so I didn’t quibble or argue or march myself to the lobby just to prove he wasn’t the boss of me, or my knee. I lay my hand in his, and he wrapped his fingers around it. He held my hand like he held all the things that mattered to him, with a deceptively nonchalant tenacity.

I’m sorry, he said.

I slipped the shoes back off and resettled into my seat. Apology accepted. I was beginning to think this dress had lost its charm.

He did look at me then, his eyes midnight blue in the honeyed lighting. That is not a valid theory.

I smiled. I’ll take your word for it. But you’ll be required to provide supporting evidence later this evening, after the after-party.

A faint blush flared along his cheekbones, and he ducked his head, his mouth curving in an almost-smile. But then he noticed the empty seat beside me and frowned. Where’s Rico? Shouldn’t he be here by now?

Rico was notoriously late on the regular, but Trey was right—this night was not regular. Rico wouldn’t miss Dante’s debut. He’d been nervous when he’d met us in the lobby, but it had been a good nervous. A proud nervous. He’d even worn a tie, which startled me. I hadn’t seen him in one since he’d delivered the valedictory address at our graduation. Silver-mounted onyx studded his ears and eyebrow, and a freshly razored taper set off his locs. Handsome, yes. Always. But painstakingly so this night.

Yeah, he should, I said. You think he’s sitting somewhere else?

Trey turned in his seat to check the rows behind us. I don’t know.

Maybe he’s staying backstage?

I don’t know.

He would have let us know, though. I mean—

Tai.

What?

Trey pointed to my bag. Your phone.

I fished it out and put it to my ear. Rico! We were just—

Something’s happened.

What’s wrong? I stood. Are you okay?

I’m fine. Manuel, however, is missing, so Dante and the entire freaking company are a little less than okay. We’re downstairs in the—hang on a sec.

I heard Rico talking to someone as I gathered my bag and put on my shoes. Trey took one look at my face and stood too. I side-scootched my way to the end of the aisle, past socialites pulling in their knees and grimacing. I stepped on feet, heard Trey apologizing behind me, being gracious and polite even in an emergency.

He hurried to my side. What’s happened?

I covered the phone with my hand. Somebody named Manuel is missing.

Manuel García?

Who?

Trey pointed. The promotional poster was twelve feet tall and therefore so was Manuel García, the guest violinist. Boyishly handsome, he was pictured with the other star of the show—a genuine Stradivarius violin. I got an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Rico came back on the line. Manuel is definitely missing.

And the violin?

Missing too.

Oh shit.

Yeah. Manuel has it, but he’s not where he’s supposed to be, and he’s not answering his cell, and...hold on again.

I stopped at the elevator and smashed the button repeatedly. There were only two situations I could think of with a missing Stradivarius in the equation—either something very bad had happened to Manuel García or Manuel García had done something very bad.

Trey got to the heart of the matter. Has anyone contacted the authorities?

I don’t know.

His eyes sparked with irritation. Tell him to report a missing person with suspicious circumstances. Tell him to do it now.

I waved him quiet as Rico came back on the line, his voice shaking. They found Manuel, he said. Come to the back entrance—go through what used to be the Sunday school. We’re outside in the parking lot. And hurry, he’s hurt.

Hurt? How?

I don’t know. Dante called 911.

Do I need—

But Rico had already hung up. The elevator still hadn’t arrived. I cursed loudly and colorfully.

Trey touched my elbow. Tai?

They found Manuel, but he’s hurt, and this elevator is so...damn it! I kicked the wall and pointed to the stairs. You go without me. I’ll catch up.

Where?

Back fire exit. They’re outside.

Trey bolted for the stairs, shoving the door open with one arm, phone still in hand. I smashed the button one more time, cursed again. Then I yanked off my shoes, shoved them in my tote bag, and took off barefoot for the stairwell.

THE FORMER SUNDAY SCHOOL wing was stuffy and dim, a rabbit warren of crooked shelves and empty classrooms. Still waiting for its renovation, it felt like a deserted lair, stale and whiffy with dust. Not having Trey’s photographic map memory, I made three wrong turns and stubbed my toe twice before I found the back exit. It had once been an entrance, but instead of spilling directly onto the street, it opened into a private alley between the concert hall and an office building next door. I pushed through double glass doors and spotted Trey kneeling in front of a figure sprawled on the pavement.

It was Manuel. Red blotches stained the musician’s white dress shirt, and I saw more blood matting the dark brown curls at the nape of his neck. Dante was nowhere to be seen, but Rico stood close, holding an umbrella over Trey and Manuel to protect them from the misting rain.

I hurried over, the wet asphalt rough against my bare feet. The alley was empty except for the four of us and a single row of cars parked on a slant. The long narrow expanse—bottlenecked at both ends, the low concrete sky above—gave me a shiver of claustrophobia.

I stood next to Trey. You need help?

No, the bleeding is under control. He readjusted the once-clean handkerchief he’d pressed against the wound. An ambulance is on the way. Patrol too. And Garrity.

You called him?

I did. Considering the...exigencies.

Exigencies. Like a Stradivarius. That was definitely an exigency that someone from the AMMO task force would want to know about, and I was glad that someone was Garrity. Smart, focused, and bulldog tenacious, Garrity was especially talented at managing the twin minefields of rich people and reporters. And this was a situation destined to be lousy with both.

I’m assuming the scene is clear? I said.

Trey kept his attention on Manuel. Yes. I haven’t established a perimeter, but that’s not a priority at this point.

So no bad guys lurking. And since we were in an alley with limited access, little chance of them returning. Even a person on foot couldn’t sneak in, unless said person was Spiderman or carried rappelling gear.

Manuel moaned as Trey placed two fingers against his pulse point. Like any good first responder, Trey spoke with authoritative calm, assuring Manuel that he’d be all right, that an ambulance was on the way. Trey could be annoying as hell about protocols and procedures, but when chaos was on the scene, that same steadfastness served everyone well.

I ducked under the umbrella with Rico. What happened?

Rico kept his voice low. Hit from behind. Dante found him, called 911, then texted me. I stayed with Manuel while Dante went to find a doctor. And the manager.

Did Manuel see who did it?

No.

What about Dante?

"No. And neither did I, before you ask.