No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) (11 page)

Waiting until Dylan jumped in the shower, I quickly slid into black shorts, a painted on tuxedo t-shirt, and black flip-flops with sequins adorning the top. Knowing I needed to give accountability for my whereabouts, I sought out Lincoln while he shaved. He motioned me inside the bathroom as he finished up a phone call with his partner, Patrick O’Leary.

The earbuds of my iPod were threaded in one ear, listening to Godsmack’s
Voodoo.
Lincoln held the title of the world’s most suspicious man. True to nature, he pulled the white cord from one ear and listened for about five seconds, then yanked it out with a snort. “What’s this
shiii
—stuff?” he corrected himself.

“Godsmack’s
Voodoo
,” I smiled, taking it from his hand.

“Godsmack?” he frowned.

“Voodoo,” I grinned bigger.

“Of course, it is,” he grumbled. “Darcy, this is Paddy. Paddy,” he paused, “Darcy.”

“Hey, Paddy,” I said.

Paddy answered in an Irish brogue. “Hawareya, doll?”

Paddy slurred his three-worded “How are you” into a three-syllabled sound. Nice to meet him, but seriously, I didn’t have time for chitchat even if it appeared rude.

“Good,” I said, “and you?”

“Grand. I’ve heard some wonderful things about ya.” Well, he might think differently if he knew the bull-crap I’d been bathing in.

“Finish up,” Lincoln told him. Scooting around Lincoln, I fell onto the toilet, trying my best to remain calm. Wasn’t working. My legs bounced up and down, my heart beat irregularly, and before long, I’d developed an eye twitch that felt terminal. Lincoln pressed his razor to his cheek and carefully swung the blade downwards, mimicking the movement until one side of his face smoothed. Rinsing the blade, he duplicated the process on the other cheek.

“Our girl told me Turkey’s proposin’ a large land deal,” Paddy said. “In other words, this third family wants to buy their books of business or a portion of it, at least. And if the deal isn’t legitimate, we’re lookin’ at a turf war beyond turf wars.”

“Hmmm,” Lincoln responded.

“Yeah,” Paddy snorted, “hmmm is about right.”

I didn’t have time for “hmmms” because time tick-tocked away. Except something was scheduled to go down tonight, and my imagination polluted my thoughts of what that could be. Were they referring to that midnight meeting? With the man making unreasonable demands? And
hellooooo
, what about the body in the video whose head just happened to pop off?

“You saw the video, right?” Paddy asked.

Talk about timing … I couldn’t breathe. Move. Do anything other than swallow my own dang tongue. “Yes,” Lincoln muttered, surprisingly unaffected. “Just because he stole the video doesn’t mean he now has the right to make demands.”

Let me summarize … so the guy making demands snitched on the goings-on of a psychopath? A psychopath who liked to film his own psychotic exploits? Stupid and dangerous, but idiots like him kept people like me entertained.

Lincoln suddenly jumped subjects, bracing one hand on the sink with a faraway look in his eyes. “What in the world is a viscount, Paddy?”

Oh, boy. Talking about his daughter’s boyfriend was one subject I needed to get out of like yesterday. “Ah, I don’t know, Linc,” Paddy sighed. “Whaddya think, Darcy?”

Heck, if I knew. I wouldn’t recognize a viscount any more than I’d recognize a balanced meal. I offered him a shrug—my face saying Henry Ainsworth embodied the dumbest viscount of all viscounts.

After a few more sentences where they contemplated whether Henry was a closet serial killer, I finally spit out that I’d ditched Dylan like a bad date. Both wanted to know if guns were in the Knobleckers’ home, did they do drugs, were they ex-convicts, pedophiles, or sociopaths. When I joked that they were in the witness protection program for assassinating Viscount Henry Ainsworth of the British Highlands, both belted out a laugh and kissed me on my way.

Not before Lincoln gave me a wicked grin, acknowledging it wouldn’t go over well with his grandson.
What the heck
, I’d told him,
I’m a verb
. Plus, in the back of my mind screamed the fact that I’d called a grieving mother, promising the impossible.

My conscience dealt with a lot … not delivering, I couldn’t stomach.

Five minutes later, Zander and I stood stoically in front of the Knobleckers’ door.

Seven cars lined the drive: two Cadillac Escalades, a Dodge Viper, some sort of souped-up European contraption, a red Corvette, a black Maserati, and last but not least, a silver Maybach. Several professional athletes lived in this community, and Kyd made friends fast. He was personable, fun loving, and always ready for a nighttime pick-up game. Thing of it was, that’s when Kyd did his best work. Turn the lights down low, and Kyd, the womanizer, came to the forefront.

I rang the doorbell, wondering if God himself would answer the door in his robe. You know how life’s made up of the haves and have-nots? Serendipity’s made up of the haves and have-mores. Herbert Knoblecker won the Powerball when it hit $250M in Louisiana five years ago, and his home indisputably ranked as one of the largest have-mores in the neighborhood.

Giving my underarms a quick sniff, the socially awkward part of me halfway turned to bolt when the door opened with a sharp-dressed Kyd.

All I could think was,
Down, libido, down
.

“Wow,” he whistled. “You look scrumptious.”

“Yeah, my brother thinks so, too,” Zander grumbled.

I elbowed him in the ribs. This wasn’t the time for him to protect what he assumed was Dylan’s domain. We were on the job—anything was acceptable when you were on the job. You could beat yourself up over it later.

Kyd’s hair lay slightly damp and clung to the sides of his face, framing cheekbones that could cut you. With a brisk headshake, he finger-combed it in place over a face that would never be ordinary. For some unknown reason, I gulped down a burning desire. Kyd, no doubt, was a good-looking guy. Let me amend that: a very,
very
good-looking guy (he deserved two adverbs). Maybe I needed to rethink that no-kissing-of-the-family clause because my lips suddenly begged for something to do.

“What are you thinking?” he murmured. “Your face blanked out for a moment.”

“Just thinking about my bylaws,” I mumbled.

Kyd chuckled. “I love the way you think. It’s just so—”

“Warped,” I finished in an embarrassed giggle.

“No, Legs,” he said softly. “You’re one of a kind.”

No, that was him
, I thought. Kyd had adorned himself in blue and khaki plaid shorts to the knees and a navy t-shirt. On his feet, however, were $100 flip-flops.

Lord have mercy, mine were the Walmart special.

Placing his hand on the small of my back, he steered the three of us toward the party. We followed him through a maze of antiques, traditional brown leather furniture, and expensive light fixtures. Everything shone brilliant and glittery and would probably take my father’s weekly salary simply to replace a light bulb.

When we made it to the kitchen, we stepped around several ladies dressed in black who were lighting up chafing dishes filled with dirty rice, red beans, bourbon chicken, gumbo, and jambalaya while throwing fresh seafood in ice buckets.

Kyd opened the sliding glass doors.

First thought? Gasp.

Second? Run for the freaking hills.

About 40 people fraternized and sipped beverages, smiling 1000-watt, beautiful people smiles. In the left corner, a jazz ensemble picked out a ragtime funk that included a trumpet, clarinet, and trombone. A bow-tied pianist hunkered over the keyboard while a drummer and guitarist rounded out the rhythm section. A soloist growled through his song, making eye contact with anyone that would gaze his way. It looked like the French Quarter 2.0, and by the smells of the cuisine, everyone was destined to leave five pounds heavier. Red, crab-shaped lights outlined the porch while fire-breathing tiki torches lit up the black-bottomed pool. The ambiance felt fun, festive, and stimulating to all five senses … perfect for a party.

Even more perfect for a bloated stomach.

Zander made a beeline for three girls his age.

“Look who’s here, Daddy,” Kyd bragged, as he led me to his father.

Wearing three pounds of gold necklaces and a pinky ring that weighed five, Herbie’s loafers squeaked like a rusty door hinge as he waddled toward us. Tonight felt like freaking Africa, and his off-white linen shirt was peppered with perspiration while his matching shorts stuck between hairy thighs.

I took a long, hard look at Herbie. Maybe I liked him so much because he reminded me of
me
. He came from humble beginnings, and God knew I understood the term of being humbled. You always searched for the opportunity to prove that you belonged and weren’t an oxygen poacher from the movers and shakers. Kyd and his sister had assimilated well as the nouveau riche; Herbie, however, still made mistakes. And Herbie would definitely benefit from that speech “Less is more.” Right now, he looked like a cross between a nervous pimp and sweaty rapper.

He set down a can of Red Cream soda and greeted me with a warm handshake. “Herbert Knoblecker. Soft k.” I’d known Herbie for years, but he always insisted on informing the world he understood phonetic spelling and that the first “k” was silent. I had a friend—acquaintance really, because she personified evil—who introduced herself in the same fashion. With Herbie, it was endearing; with her, she seemed downright witchified.

“Hey, Herbie,” I smiled.

“Ya taller than me now.” A midget practically stood taller than Herbie. He’d tapped out at 5’2” and close to 200 pounds. He yanked me over in an aggressive hug.

“Daddy’s affectionate with people he likes,” Kyd apologized.

“I like him, too,” I laughed.

Herbie released me with a frown, boring a question into my eyes. “Where are the Taylors?”

“On their way.” Probably digging my grave, I omitted.

“Ye sure? I called Colton this afternoon, and he promised they was comin’. He said he couldn’t wait for the jass.”

My guess was he wanted to
kick
my “jass,” but that was just me.

Leading us to the poolside bar, Herbie offered me a Coke. Our server was South American, tiny, and markedly dark.

“Gracias,” I smiled, saluting my drink toward her, bringing the glass to my lips.

“Habla español?” she grinned.

“Si,” I answered. “My Nanny taught me. She’s loco and likes magia bajo la luna.”

She poured Kyd a soft drink while he moaned, “I’m in love.”

“Magic under the moon?” she verified.

“Voodoo,” I clarified. “She’s trying to give me boobs.”

Kyd spit his Coke out in a horizontal geyser, soaking the front of his father’s shirt.

Herbie wasn’t even fazed. “I fashion myself a witch, too,” he grumbled. “I’ve got a fungus I’ve been trying to get rid of on my—”

Kyd nearly yanked my arm out of my socket, hauling us away before I discovered the location of Herbie’s fungus. My eyes darted to the sliding glass doors. The Taylors’ ETA was thirty minutes past let’s-kill-Darcy ago, and my heart grew tight and constricted with each passing second. I could feel it in my bones that somebody wasn’t happy.

It didn’t take three guesses to figure out whom.

Who I recognized as Leroy “Big J” Jefferson, bellowed for Kyd to join him. Big J played professional basketball for the Orlando Magic and stood around seven feet tall of African American testosterone. Bald as a cue ball, he came clad in a shirt so geometrically colorful he looked like a Colombian druglord.

A crawfish boil booth was stationed about fifteen feet over from the bar. Big J had parked himself next to it with a smile on his face that looked as indecent as something you’d find on the Vegas Strip … guess he liked seafood. A dark-skinned female chef dropped squirmy crawfish into a boiling pot, delivering death-by-ladle to the crawfish not smart enough to stay out of the net. After they died, she dumped a load on Big J’s plate next to corn-on-the-cob and boiled potatoes. Big J bit off the crawdad’s head and sucked it dry until its pink casing crumbled in his hand.

The fact that I didn’t barf was nothing short of miraculous.

Kyd raised one brow. “Come with?” he asked, momentarily wondering if I was too finicky. Honest to God, I didn’t shy away from new experiences, but I’d rather puncture a lung than for a crawfish feeler to latch onto my tonsils.

Plus, I needed to talk to Herbie … preferably alone.

“I’ll keep Herbie company,” I smiled.

Kyd turned toward Big J, resting his hand alongside my cheek. “Don’t go away, Legs. Give me one minute.”

I gave him a lot of teeth.

The wind kicked up a notch, drying the perspiration that had pooled at the base of my neck. I looked “amaze” when I left the house—okay, acceptable—but outdoor parties in Florida were inviting catastrophe. The humidity had grabbed ahold of my hair, and it stood about an inch off my scalp, hookerfied.

Zander said he was quote-unquote all over the action next door. The boy hadn’t asked anyone anything—and frankly had gone phantom—so I made that first on my list of questions for Herbie. “What happened across the street at Gertrude Burr’s house?”