No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) (32 page)

“What if they had to get out of the place quickly?” he refuted.

“Perhaps, but it doesn’t feel right. The place would have some residual mess. According to the paper, the Medinas left over a month ago. Why would they come back here for one day just to dye someone’s hair? And the biggest clincher of all, why dye it blond anyway? That’s some seriously messed up stuff, D, and frankly, it’s like they’re being set up.”

Dylan herded me out of the apartment like it was on fire.

We were in rush hour, and traffic had slowed to a crawl. Debating how to get his grandfather involved, unfortunately there was no choice except to admit I did a little bit of B&E minus the B-part. Hopefully, I got points for that somewhere in eternity. As usual, Dylan wanted to fall on the grenade for me and claim he willingly participated, but I didn’t feel comfortable with him manufacturing a lie. No one would’ve believed it anyway. No doubt, this solo effort was aging me, but as much as I loved Dylan, I missed my normal partner-in-crime, Vinnie Vecchione. Vinnie wouldn’t care to do what I had planned next … nor would he care that it might eat up eight of his nine lives.

21. FREUDIAN SLIPS

T
HERE WERE SINS … AND
then there were
sins
. In Dante’s Divine Comedy, the mortal sins—or bad ones—were comprised of seven different types: lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride. I’m sure at one time or another I’d committed all of them, but I banked on the fact that slothfulness wouldn’t trip me up today.

Once Dylan and I unloaded the groceries we purchased on the ride home, I snuck into the library to call Herbie. Colton’s library was immense, complete with a red onyx, Italian stone desk, custom-made to order. I shook my head at the wealth. Murphy purchased his desk at one of those naked furniture places and stained it himself among a Hillbilly cursing fit. No way in the world could he afford a rare rock that you put a leather chair behind.

As I smoothed down the white draperies, I reminded myself Lincoln said to plug away at what didn’t feel right. The two PI firms made me want to “cry foul.” One was insolvent; the other conveniently contained a typo in the news copy and remained nameless. Sounded fishy to me.

“It’s Darcy,” I said when he picked up.

“Herbert Knoblecker. Soft k,” he greeted gruffly. Huh, I had no idea he did that on the phone, too.

“Herbie, tell me about Fix It.”

“Did you go see Eleanor?” Not yet. Kinda hard when you didn’t have your own set of wheels.

“No,” I answered. “I hoped you could give me a contact name at the two firms the trust is financing.”

Herbie belched. “I know the contacts for one of the PI firms. I happened to be in the bank on the day the account got set up, and they were there. One guy was Felix. Felix Xavier, I think. The other man called himself Will. The woman,” he paused, “was Scarlet. That one I know fer sure. She had black as coal hair with candy-apple red lips. Men have plans fer lips like that. Ye don’t forget a Scarlet, ya know what I mean?”

“That’s what they tell me.” Herbie gave me more information than the first time, and the newspaper claimed that Elmer set up the trust. Elmer seemed denser than your average dunce cap, but logic said if he set up the trust, then he also hired the investigators and was their contact. “Gertrude told me that she recommended Livingston & Associates to Elmer Hershel who set up the trust. Do you know much about him?”

“Who’s Elmer Herschel?”

Good God. An answer I suspected. When I heard Dylan yelling my name, I hung up and stepped outside, returning the gesture. At the most, it bought me a few minutes; at the least, he’d bust down the door. I tapped in Troy’s number, leaving the three names that possibly comprised the Fix It organization.

Next, I scrolled through my contact list and thumbed in Kyd’s digits. He remained my only connection to Lola, and perhaps, like Herbie, possessed something more of value. The note I lifted from the Medinas’ residence burned a hole in my pocket. Sliding the note out, I reread that Lola had a Saturday meeting of some sort at 8PM. The plan germinating in my head said I needed to bust up that engagement, and the only way to find out the specifics was to push Kyd until he broke.

“Call the godfather,” I laughed when he didn’t answer.

My cell phone belted out Milli Vanilli as I reached for a random leather-bound book on the bookshelf. When Kyd answered with nothing more than heavy breathing, I ignored it and immediately explained I needed information—information required under the brotherhood rules he had to provide.

It went through one ear and right out the other. “Tell me what you’re wearing, Legs.”

You know what, I didn’t have time for small talk. Plus, I heard Mary whining in the background—so flirting with me was a major dirtbag move. “Lola does something at 8PM on Saturday, Kyd. What is it?”

The flirting came to a screeching halt. “Why in the world do you care what Lola Medina’s doing?”

“Please, Kyd,” I begged. “I have my reasons.”

Kyd gave a few more beats of the silent treatment followed by a massive groan. “Ah, Legs, I can’t turn you down when you say please. Hank always complained about a regular poker game at that time, and it continues into the early morning hours. He said it was the beginning of the end.”

“Take me,” I said.

“You’re kidding.” I wish I were.

I heard his blood pressure rise through the receiver. “It’s the weekend, Darcy. Do you know how hard it’s going to be to ditch Mary?” Not as hard as it would be to ditch Dylan. He sighed, “You’re sure you can make this happen from your end?”

Good question. I was going to die trying. “Just meet me at the club at midnight.”

“Why do I feel like this trip has sin at its core?” he groaned.

Probably because it originated with me.

One steak, baked potato, and a few obligatory bites of salad later, I decided to relax by the pool for some sun therapy. Lincoln lay on his back next to me, his right hand holding his heart, the other massaging his forehead. Dylan had just informed him of my latest caper, he’d termed it. Lincoln was uncharacteristically reserved and kept answering with an, “Uh-huh.”

Uh-huhs, in my meek interpretation, were bad.

“Darcy, promise me you won’t go back to that apartment again,” he said emotionless.

He cocked an eyebrow up in question, on an otherwise stoic face. “Why?” was in his eyes, but Lincoln knew he’d be wasting his breath. This was me being me … dragging the rest of the world down with me.

“I promise,” I said.

He rubbed a hand down his jaw, but I realized with his next statement this was far from over. In fact, I received a glare that said,
Conversation imminent
. “I’ll have someone check it out,” he murmured, “and then you can give an official statement about what you witnessed at The Gap and a timeline with this story. I’m serious though, kid, my patience is wearing thin. It’s not good when my patience wears thin because that only leaves me with a couple of options.”

I contemplated confessing the “date” I’d made with Kyd, but my tongue wouldn’t cooperate.

When I offered a guilty-as-sin nod, his BlackBerry chimed, interrupting with a text. Lincoln fished it out of his pocket with a sigh, took a double take at the number, gasped “Oh God,” and thundered back toward the house. Like he was going to put out a fire even larger than the one I’d created.

From out of nowhere, tears came like the summer rain.

My shoulders shook. Bent forward. Twisted and contorted oddly. This was me to the extreme. I snorted back the embarrassment but unfortunately was stuck on shuffle, repeating it once more. I was in over my head and didn’t know what to do except flail around in the water. Kyd would take me “somewhere.” Apparently, he knew the “somewhere” or would figure out the “somewhere” along the way.

But what would I do when I was
at
the “somewhere?”

Just a tiiiiiiiiiinnnny detail that I needed to nail down.

Most people couldn’t see their sins, or they refused to see them. Life had taught me early on that the spirit and the flesh were two totally separate entities. Sometimes the spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. So, in other words, just because you could
see
your wrongs, it didn’t mean you were capable of
changing
your wrongs. We were on a constant collision course with both facets of our personalities. Oftentimes, I found myself standing back as a third party watching the struggle, not having a clue who would win in the end.

That was today’s method of business … I functioned as an observer in my own life.

Blowing my nose on the black and white striped beach towel, I tried my best not to dissolve into a blithering fool. Dylan perched his toes on the side of the pool, his white trunks blowing with the wind, his muscles powerful as he readied to dive in.

“It’s going to be okay,” he winked.

One of the things I loved about Dylan was his inability to hold a grudge—not with me, at least. Here’s to hoping he stayed stupid a little while longer. Things would only be okay if we found Cisco, and I quit tempting Fate with a plane ride back home.

After he hugged the tears away, Dylan swam a dozen laps and toweled off right as Yankeezilla opened the outside pool entrance. The last thing I needed was her blowhard mouth. As usual, she was swank and über-hip, wearing a floral strapless sundress I recognized as one Willow had in her closet. On Willow, it looked sophisticated and sexy. On Yankee, it left nothing to the imagination. Her mammary glands were spilling out like the udders on a freaking cow.

Dylan met her lascivious gaze, giving her a smiling wave as he shook out his thick, black hair and sauntered inside. His smile looked innocent, but I would’ve preferred a go-to-heck-and-die face. “Wow,” she whistled, when he closed the french doors, “nice abs.” Yankee plopped down in the chair next to me as Sydney slid into the one Lincoln had left vacant. Sydney showcased a hot, little black bikini that looked painted on. Curves galore. I wore a silver swimsuit that, unfortunately, fit a little baggy upstairs.

“No doubt about it,” I mumbled, sticking out my chest.

“Is that some sort of Freudian slip?” Yankee spat. Heck,
was
it a Freudian slip? I didn’t know how to answer, so I didn’t. “Not answering is Freudian slip number two,” she added sarcastically.

As far as I was concerned, Yankee could cram her Freudian slips up her crammer. “Go away,” I muttered.

Yankee held her chin high, ignoring the request. “Are you my competition? I’d think if you were my competition, your relationship would be a little more
clearly defined
.”

The girl had a point, but let’s look at this rationally. Dylan had better hair than me. Even if I
was
interested—which I wasn’t (
I think
)—no one wanted to be with someone who had better hair than them. That left my dating options to bald-headed men and halfway, hairless dogs. Still, I found it disconcerting that all I’d been thinking of lately were dirty adjectives when he came to mind.

“So if Darcy knows nothing,” Yankee smirked, “what do
you
know, Sydney?”

Sydney slowly sprayed her arms and legs with an aerosol sun-tanning lotion—procrastinating a reply—like Yankee was an annoying, little gnat she waited to swat away. Wow, how rude, but Sydney was a master at maintaining the upper hand.

“My brother’s private life is private,” Sydney purred, “but I’ll let him know of your interest.”

Yankee unveiled a chilly smile, unaffected. “I’ll hang out nonetheless. That kiss,” she giggled, “tasted out of this world.”

Tasted
, I groaned. Couldn’t she have picked another verb?

Sydney shoved the can underneath her chair not taking the time to even meet Yankee’s gaze. “
You
,” she clarified, “kissed
him
. My brother was simply caught off-guard.”

Yankee giggled louder. “Oh, he reciprocated.”

Had
he reciprocated…?

By the looks of things, he had. At least, he had for 24 point something seconds, and if that defined ‘caught off-guard?’ Well, let’s just say I didn’t want to be around for anything that was scripted.

Sydney shrugged off the comment. “Suit yourself. Girls constantly woo Dylan, and no one has successfully landed him. Watching him shut you down just might perk up my day.”

“Maybe he hasn’t been wooed enough by
me
,” Yankee smirked.

Sydney narrowed her eyes, snorting. “No one knows my little brother as well as I do, and he’s definitely not interested in your woo.”

I threw a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. Yankee angrily jerked her head to me for corroboration of the story. I gave her a blank stare. This got me to thinking. If Dylan
did
want to date her, I’d have major problems with it. If she treated Dylan’s sister this way, how would she treat the best friend? I didn’t claim to be the teacher’s pet in charm school—so I sat in no position to judge—but Yankee’s behavior made Sydney look like a saint. Sydney defined brazen, but she was rarely confrontational for confrontation’s sake.