No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) (37 page)

Five minutes into the walkie-talkie, community security interrupted, and an Orlando plainclothes detective sat in the living room.
Lucky me
, I thought, because I feared Susan Taylor more than OBT. According to Lincoln, he’d called this detective to run fingerprints in the Medinas’ apartment, and he just happened to be in the area when Alcatraz lit up. Regarding the Medina case, as suspected, no prints were distinguishable. But the detective admitted the scenario suggested something unscrupulous. Well, Roger that. All the same that didn’t provide anything more than I already had.

I took a seat next to Dylan while Lincoln, Colton, and Detective Monroe Battle sat on the couch opposite us. Susan served coffee and cookies, but as I attempted a smile of appreciation (wrong move), I was rewarded with a look like I’d get the wooden spoon treatment later.

Figures. I deserved it.

Unfortunately, I didn’t care.

“You went
where
?!” the detective shrieked.

“OBT,” I answered again.

“Alone?” he verified.

“I can’t drive,” I said. “Not legally, at least.”

African American, Detective Battle stood six feet with curly black hair, bedroom eyes, and 10 extra pounds above his waist compliments of fast food drive-thrus. His mustache was peppered with gray, and I guessed his age right around fifty. In jeans and a Miami Marlins gray t-shirt, he appeared tired but not overly tired. Like Lincoln, perhaps he required little sleep simply because his job wouldn’t allow it.

“So you really jumped out the second floor of a three-story building?” he chuckled.

“Umm, yeah. We kicked out a window and went airborne,” I unfortunately giggled. “How about a woohoo for Darcy?” I inappropriately pumped both fists high in the air.

“For some reason that makes total sense,” Colton moaned in sarcasm. “I suppose I should congratulate you for not getting shanked by a mattress coil, but I have to remind myself you’re quite the dumpster diving virtuoso.”

I pulled down my hands, folding them neatly in my lap. “Actually, we dived into a flat-bottomed truck with trash in it,” I corrected sarcastically.

“I stand corrected,” he snorted, his voice dripping with even more sarcasm than mine.

Everyone rolled around in trash once in a while, right?? Frankly, diving into that dumpster last spring remained the top bullet on my resume.

“Uh-huh,” Lincoln said evenly. “Why don’t you tell me who you jumped out
with
?”

I stole a glance over to Dylan whose eyes were invisible, buried deep inside his hands. Dang … he’d already figured it out. When I mumbled an embarrassed “Um,” Dylan unexpectedly cocked me with his knee, meeting my gaze, demanding I answer.

For a moment, I couldn’t do anything.

Dylan was crazy good looking, with a face that made angels weep and a body that burned nothing but nuclear. Lately, I’d tried not to notice his attributes, but when his mile-long legs were as lethally shaped and powerful as his, you couldn’t deny the male in front of you. Yup, I wanted to hug every inch of his
godforsakenfreakingfine
body. Plus, he smelled divine when I smelled like … well, trash.

Nice legs
, I mumbled in one of our silent conversations.

He rolled his eyes.

This is some weird crap going on between us, D. We probably should address it
.

We need to address a lot of things
, he countered coldly.

I coughed on my own tongue, instantly losing all desire for the dissecting of our souls.

I’ve changed my mind,
I muttered.

Do I honestly look like someone who gives up when there’s something I want?
he snorted. “Answer the question,” he demanded audibly, “and you and I will discuss what’s between us later … in private.”

I blushed (I think), or maybe I was having a voodoo hot flash. Everyone in the room had that look like they’d just lost a few seconds of their life, wondering what had gone down that they couldn’t put a visual to.

“Kyd and Tricky,” I whispered. Kyd informed us on the ride home that he dialed 911 reporting “terrifying screams” he’d heard coming from the building. When Tricky and I didn’t present ourselves, he said he knew Tricky would go for the window. Evidently, they’d choreographed that kind of cut and run before.

“Tricky Neptune?” the detective asked. Stretching forward, he selected an oatmeal raisin cookie from the tray on the ottoman and took a big nibble off the edge. “Neptune always does it up in style.”

“I’m going to kill them,” Dylan seethed, reopening his eyes. He closed the barely one foot between us, hugging me to his shirtless side. It felt
goooood
, but I still smelled like mayonnaise.

“Sorry about the mayo,” I whispered.

Dylan leaned over and carefully picked a piece of lettuce from my hair, wiping it on a napkin. “Shut up, Darcy,” he warned.

Duly noted
.

“I don’t know this Kyd, but Neptune’s a good boy,” the detective added. “He works both ends of the law, and frankly, I let him.”

Dylan roared, “He’s 17!”

The detective shrugged, continuing to jot down notes. “Some kids show potential early on. You simply have to corral it.”

Lincoln grinned, appraising his son. “Jackal did. He worked a lot of stings for his old man.” For a brief moment, some sort of father/son thing went on. Both men were all business and currently dressed for the next day. Who in the heck did that at 2AM? Frankly, I wasn’t convinced they were entirely Homo sapiens, but my guess was they had a date with OBT.

“Well, Darcy’s not going to use her
potential
while she’s under my roof,” Colton finally said. “That’s not up for discussion.” That would require some major effort on my part—probably futile—but I nonetheless gave him a lying smile that I’d try.

“Amen to that,” Lincoln grumbled.

I’m not sure why, but suddenly I had the urge to act like a lady, all smiles and so ingratiatingly polite it sickened the testosterone in me. I crossed my legs and realized I’d flashed my panties.

Squeezing my legs together, I leaned toward Colton. “Umm, I owe you a butter knife.”

His black eyes flew wide. “A what?”

“My weapon of choice,” I shrugged. “I lost it in the fall. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that butter knives only cut butter, folks. My skirt is proof. I would’ve dug around in the truck, but we ran out of time, and I honestly couldn’t tell you the last time I had a tetanus shot.”

It took each of them a few breaths before they unscrambled what I’d just confessed. But I guess if the name of the game was to clear your conscience, it needed to be on the list of offenses.

Colton opened his mouth, closed it, but Detective Battle actually spoke first. He scratched his neck, saying, “What did you see?”

Man, I’d skin a puppy for a cookie right now, but I had a feeling they weren’t there for me. “Can I have a cookie?” I whispered to Dylan.

Dylan automatically jumped to his gentlemanly ways, picking up the choicest double chocolate-chip, slamming it into my palm.

“Thanks,” I tried not to laugh.

“Answer,” he grumbled.

I took a big bite. “The people Lola gambles with. She calls herself Lynx, and they play in a warehouse off the main strip.”

“How many people are we talking about?” Battle asked.

“Ten were in that room. Twelve with Tricky and me.”

I spouted off the license plate numbers along with the makes and models of the automobiles. Next, I described each of them as best my recollection would allow. Each person stopped to stare. I’d impressed them; unfortunately, it didn’t impress me.

“Extraordinary recall,” the detective bragged, casting a strange look at Colton. “Do you normally have that?”

“Only on things I care about.”

“Anything else?” he asked.

“I saw a light under a door as I headed toward the restroom.”

“What were they doing?” Lincoln added.

How did you say amputation-by-cleaver? When I couldn’t find a discreet way to say it, I simply blurted out, “I witnessed a middle-aged man get his finger chopped off with a cleaver.”

A string of profanity fell out of someone’s mouth … not sure whose. Detective Battle put down his notebook, his cookie falling from his hand straight to the thousand-dollar rug. His brows knit together, and he glanced to Lincoln before focusing back on me. “You what?” he asked flatly.

I sighed and repeated, “I witnessed a middle-aged man get his finger chopped off with a cleaver.”

After a few minutes of what-the-heck, I provided specifics … from the two making-out like cockroaches, down to the women on the burgundy leather couch snorting a line of blow. “They were snorting blow,” I explained.

Colton’s eyes darkened like crude oil. “Did
you
snort blow?”

“No.”

“What would you have done if they’d
suggested
you snort blow?” Lincoln interrupted.

Good question … ugh. “I guess I would’ve found a way to not do it, or at least act like I was enjoying it,” I said quietly.

Dylan pushed off the couch and exited the room, the tension escalating to warzone.

“Did any of those people see you?” Lincoln asked stiffly.

“No,” I lied. It felt right coming out of my mouth … wrong once I thought about it.

“Thank God for the little things,” Colton said sarcastically.

Detective Battle steered the conversation back on track when Colton couldn’t stop mumbling to himself about Willow, me, and how Dylan might shoot someone before he’s 18. “Back to this card game,” Battle said professionally.

“Before Tricky and I entered the card room,” I explained, “I noticed a light shining underneath one other door. It was four doors down on the right. When I casually asked what happened in that room, the quote I received was ‘out of town business.’ The business obviously required a meat cleaver.”

“Who provided the quote?” Battle asked. I described the Aston Martin man, balanced the cookie in my teeth, then slipped two fingers inside my right sandal and pulled out his business card. What resembled egg yolk and ham shavings stuck to its front. “Salad,” I giggled.

“Good Lord,” Colton prayed.

Detective Battle glanced at the card then angled his body sideways, whispering to Lincoln and Colton. Colton slowly leaned forward and knocked the breath out of me with his eyes. “You’re to stay in this house, do you
hear
me?” he bellowed.

No one said anything … we just let that threat sink in … and believe me, it was a threat of some kind. Dylan finally padded back into the room and sat down, breaking the mood, exhaling deeply. “Darcy hears you, Dad. Don’t you, Darcy?”

Oh, boy, double formalities.

I slumped back into the cushion, pulling my hat down over my eyes. “Can’t we come to a compromise? I could wear body armor or something.”

His father seethed even lower. “Notice I’m not laughing, and let me make myself clear. You will
never
write the terms on negotiations with
me
.”

Well, we’d see about that.

Dylan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, massaging his temples with his thumbs. “Maybe you should just kill me now, Darcy, because anything would be better than this. Talk to me,” he begged hoarsely. “Tell me what you’re lacking in your life that makes you flirt with death so easily. If you don’t think anyone will miss you, you’re wrong.” For a brief moment, everyone melted away in the room, and Dylan grabbed ahold of my soul and wouldn’t let go. “I’d be destroyed if you were suddenly gone from my life,” he whispered. “Do you not
want to
live
, honey? Do you not even care how we
feel
? How
I
feel?
Promise him
. Promise him that you aren’t motivated by a death wish that will claim you before we’re even 25.”

Dylan had some wicked guilt skills. Trouble was, his words weren’t delivered merely to make me feel bad. He seemed desolate, his eyes completely bleak. He meant every, single word.

My eyes bounced to all three of theirs. Lincoln looked bewildered, Colton seemed madder than a hornet, and Dylan teetered on the verge of a psychopathic breakdown. Of course, I cared how they felt, and I
was
sorry. I just didn’t know how to let it go. “Copy that,” I whispered, twining my finger in his.

Reluctantly.

“You ran across the Grizzly, Darcy,” Detective Battle explained. “You’re lucky you made it out alive and a single woman. He
looooves
young girls.” Dylan clicked his jaw, exchanging worried glances with his father. As far as I knew, he didn’t act like a bear, but he did insinuate he had something on Lola.

Taking another bite of cookie, I added, “Grizzly has something on Lola.”

“Grizzly has something on everybody,” Detective Battle muttered.

“Could he know who has Lola’s son?”

Detective Battle knocked back the last of his coffee and picked up a sugar cookie. “Perhaps, but blackmail isn’t his style. If the child is even still alive.”

That statement angered me. “He’s alive, I saw him,” I declared adamantly. “Grizzly told me Lola had gotten herself into trouble. He never mentioned her son, and that would be the first thing any normal person would mention.”

“Grizzly isn’t normal,” he contested. “What else did he say?”

“He said Lola plays for someone named X.”

“Does he
know
X?” Lincoln asked.

“He said he had suspicions.”

Detective Battle munched the last morsel and looked at his notes. “The red Porsche Turbo, right?”

“Yes,” I replied. “X is a woman, and he said if Lola didn’t take care of her personal problems he would before it bled onto him.”

“He said that?” the detective asked, eyes narrowing.

“Tricky and I both heard it,” I clarified. Almost on command, the three expelled some sort of curse.

“Who owns the building?” Lincoln asked Battle, acting as though he already knew the answer.

Battle closed up his notebook, giving Lincoln one of those we’ll-talk-alone stares. “The man on the card,” he said. “Walter Ivanhoe. Grizzly owns half of the real estate in OBT.”