No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) (38 page)

I’d never been in the company of angels, but a heavenly chorus belted out a rock song and did a conga line over my head. I’d met the Ivanhoe—or should I say
the
Walter Ivanhoe
—Hector had been struck speechless over. A smile tempted to show, but a glance at Dylan—whose face was racked with grief and disbelief—made me opt for an appropriate, albeit fake, fear.

I wasn’t afraid; oddly, I felt aroused.

After the verbal smackdown, I showered in Bath & Body Works White Citrus, changed into turquoise blue leggings, my “Zombie Princess” t-shirt, and pulled my hair up into a wet braid. I sported my I-don’t-care look. Trouble was, I cared a lot.

Even this contemporary space of a bathroom signaled perfection. A copper vessel sink sat atop a marble countertop, with fixtures that could probably buy a small country in Asia. Everything matched, from the spigots down to the doorknobs. The only thing out of place was …
me
. Glancing in the mirror, I thought,
My God, what have I just done
?

A man had lost his finger … and why? Did they finish the job? Let him go? And how had I compartmentalized this so well? I should be beside myself, or worse yet, moments from a tranquilizer.

Shell-shocked. This must be what shell-shocked looked like.

The Taylor house painted the perfect picture of Rockwellian peace tonight. It was pitch black, nothing disturbed anywhere, except for the shadow of a floor lamp in the living room. Tiptoeing down the hall, I expected to find Lincoln working but instead found an android-like Dylan. No eye contact, no unnecessary movements, pretty much stone-faced and stone cold.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. What did I expect? Whistling Dixie?

Dylan pulled two quilts out of the hall closet, giving the fluffiest one to me, collapsing with the other onto Lincoln’s spot on the neighboring couch. He was too quiet. Words were scarce if any at all. Our gazes met, his searching to understand, mine searching to explain. Dylan waited for something profound and insightful to spew from my mouth, something to piece together my behavior in terms he could understand … but it didn’t.

With an exhausted sigh, he gazed at me as if he were seeing me for the first time. My behavior had been bizarre of late, but it wasn’t as though I was a stranger to trouble. I’d dodged bullets in the spring and my school’s detention several times by piping up the wattage of my smile. I’d even talked Murphy out of grounding me by faking some tears. I had a talent for talking my way out of jams, and Dylan had front row seats for many occasions. But I had to admit I’d never snuck out of a home and traveled to a venue that had been compared to the biblical hellhole of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Tonight was a night of firsts.

As I watched him nod off, my heart ached for him to understand. Upon first glance, he appeared to be sleeping like a baby, but when I dared to investigate further, I observed a vertical worry-line between his eyes. No, Dylan didn’t fall asleep thinking of me as his favorite girl in the world. I’m not positive how he’d term me anymore—a vertical worry-line, perhaps. I whispered a heartfelt “Sorry” in his direction, but he didn’t hear. Once again, his words rang ominous. Was I victim of an unexplainable urge to shorten my days before the age of 25? Kyd had suggested the same. Switching off the TV, I left my teeth to decay and snuggled the blanket up under my chin, while the truth reverberated in my chest.

I wished I was capable of letting it go … but I wasn’t.

25. RESTLESS LEGS SYNDROME

T
WO DAYS LATER,
D
YLAN STILL
hadn’t let me leave his sight. I’d always believed we had the language of twins, but he took my Siamese twins separated at birth angle a little too seriously. The time ticked at half past midnight, Tuesday morning. We lay on his bed; my eyes watching a
Ghost Hunters
rerun; his at half-mast begging for sleep. He nodded off every thirty seconds, so I removed my head from his shoulder and rolled onto my elbow to stare at him.

“Do you still love me?” I sighed.

“From sea to shining sea, sweetheart,” he murmured with a moan. At least, he was back to calling me sweetheart. For how long? I didn’t know, but prudence told me to take what I could get.

Lincoln had been on the telephone for over an hour talking to Paddy. Paddy phoned in a mood, and at last count, Lincoln had left him to pontificate three times into dead air, and Paddy hadn’t even noticed. I’d padded into Dylan’s room to watch TV, but he kept falling asleep. That’s what happened when you got up with the chickens, people. Verification that early risers were stupid.

Trouble was, I happened to be in serious need of some action. Call me my own brand of opportunist, but before Detective Battle left the other night, I straight up asked him what he knew about Howie’s head. His jaw dropped all the way to the ground, and he practically tripped over it. When I explained I’d found the head, he actually looked afraid of me. I laughed out loud. Not a good move because then I sounded evil. Long and short of it, he didn’t give me jack about the head. He was lying, too; the untruth written all over his dilated eyes.

Snuggling closer to Dylan, I ran my fingers through the thick hair at his nape. With my other hand, I fumbled around on his nightstand, retrieved my iPhone, and dialed Troy. One last cautionary look at Dylan, and he was dunzo. He’d fallen into his heavy breathing phase.

“Hey, Troy,” I said, speaking lowly when he answered. “Do you have anything?”

Troy took a slurpy swig of a drink, sounding tired. “I wanted to call but feared it was too late. Bank of America’s definitely still accepting donations, and Fix It, Incorporated is in actuality FX, Incorporated … written capital FX. A man in Miami known as Felix Xavier runs the joint. The FX previously printed as Fix It merely represents his initials. These guys have a stellar reputation, Jester, and when I called, they said the trail ran cold months ago.”

To say I felt shocked was an understatement. “They aren’t actively working the case?”

“Not like they used to. They bill if they’re chasing a lead, but they haven’t charged the trust for two months.”

“So Herbie’s money is just sitting there,” I whispered to myself.

The borders in the puzzle were in place—Lola, Elmer, the Medinas, and FX, Incorporated, but who was the figure in the middle? Who was X?

How in the world did all of these things connect?

For one thing, Elmer said Polly Teasdale worked at a bank. I didn’t know if Polly was the brains behind the operation, or if she and Elmer worked in conjunction. Polly didn’t strike me as the mastermind type, which would make her X, but looks could be deceiving. If Elmer set up the trust, could Polly be funneling the funds out? Either way, I got the feeling Elmer was a scapegoat.

“Something’s going on at that bank, Troy.”

“Do you really think so?” I felt so.

“Yes, I do,” I answered. “What do you know about a Polly Teasdale?”

“Never heard of her.”

“Well, she’s best buds with Elmer Herschel, and she works at a bank in town. It wouldn’t surprise me if it’s the one where the trust resides.” That’s all I gave him since I didn’t want to spell out my feelings that Herbie had been swindled until my suspicions were confirmed.

“What do you know about a man called Grizzly?” I asked.

Troy went speechless, screeched like he sat in the front seat of a rollercoaster, then knocked an object over on his desk in a
thwap
. “Bad news, Jester.”

Figures. It was a crying shame I was going to contact him again.

After we disconnected, I switched off the TV and wandered into the living room where Lincoln scrutinized new surveillance photographs of Mr. Thanksgiving Dinner himself … Turkey Cardoza.

He sipped on what my discriminating nose told me was coffee just this side of the tar pit. It smelled sharp, thick, and deadly to the intestines all at the same time. Sometime earlier, he’d chewed a couple of packs of gum and carelessly dropped the silver-foiled wrappers on the tile. Evidently, his anxiety had pulled a double shift.

“Any word on Turkey?” I asked, squatting down to pick up the wrappers.

Stretching both arms high, he left them to rest behind his head. In old black sweats and a white t-shirt that had three holes under the arm, he looked like a hobo. With one eye trained on the door for Willow, he removed his glasses and patted the seat next to him.

Lincoln’s anger dehydrated first, followed by Alexandra’s at a close second. Colton’s forgiveness was halfway there, and Susan still disciplined me with every breath. Zander hovered at euphoria while Sydney didn’t seem to mind that I broke up Rock & Republic’s shoe duo. As a matter of fact, she said those shoes weren’t even hers.

Dylan remained Dylan … disturbingly incapable of judging me.

“Paddy and I’ve been batting around your theory that there might be two Turkey’s,” he murmured. “We’re running his photographs through a facial recognition program to see if we can catch any subtle differences. If we’re lucky, Turkey will lead us to someone else.”

“I thought he was the point guy,” I said confused, plopping down beside him.

“One guy doesn’t wield that much power, Darcy. Not someone that society would deem moderately successful, at best. We’re looking for a bigger bank account.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know yet. Intuition tells me Turkey is up to something that my source isn’t aware of. I’m beginning to wonder about the third family that he’s representing.”

Ditto on the wondering…

Detective Battle contacted Lincoln on Monday, and evidently, the conversation got pretty hairy. Grizzly’s building had basically been scrubbed clean because when a group of detectives went in to investigate, they found nothing but a spotless facility. What did they expect, the pinky finger wrapped up next to a box of Godiva chocolates? Sometimes I wondered about people, I really did. Battle also claimed that the red Porsche Turbo belonged to a man named Isaac Washington. Trouble was, Isaac Washington’s license hadn’t expired even though he had. He died less than a year ago, and his nephew sold it for cash to Albert Jones. When Detective Battle contacted Albert Jones, he confessed he resold the car in a street deal—to a man—before he had a chance to re-license it. In short, an unknown man drove a dead man’s car that still had legitimate license plates. “X” hadn’t been assigned as a vanity plate for who currently drove the car. It happened to come with the ride.

“Did you ever think X might be Grizzly?” I asked him. “Maybe Elmer’s a front. Maybe he’s there to make the infamous X look legitimate. The man that originally owned the car is currently six feet under, and Albert Jones said he resold it to another man. Walter Ivanhoe could be that man.”

Lincoln grinned, making both of his dimples scrunch up happily. “Good girl, Darcy. It did cross my mind. He would be playing twice, which would certainly up his odds of winning.”

“Will they pull the Turbo over for questioning?”

“Battle will, if he can find it. Our guess is—”

“Lola’s driving it,” I completed.

Lincoln chuckled, placing his arm over my shoulder. “The teacher is pleased with his student.”

Once again, Lincoln longingly looked at the door. It reminded me of when I opened my last report card. You hoped it would be an occasion to celebrate, but experience told you the futile hoping sometimes caused more pain than the reality. The hoping only verified that your prayers had been ignored.

“Is Willow due home today?” I asked quietly.

He expelled a resigned yet optimistic sigh. “I pray so. She actually returned my call today, so that’s a step in the right direction.” He took a few moments to let that statement clear from his mind. “May I ask you a question?”

Lincoln had this gift. It was like mental sodium pentothal or truth serum. One look, and you’d confess the crap you’d been doing or your deepest darkest feelings on anything. My gut alerted me his question would be extremely personal. “Anything,” I answered.

“How do you and your father do it?” he murmured. “Murphy’s personality is not unlike parts of mine. How does he manage to be your friend while still fathering you?”

Gee, I’d never really thought of our relationship in those terms. “He doesn’t expect a lot from me,” I shrugged. Lincoln narrowed his eyes, almost defensive. “Don’t get me wrong. He expects me to try my best,” I explained, “but he knows that it’s difficult at times. Let’s face it, Lincoln, I’ve got some things working against me, and it hurts him. He’s just happy with what he gets. He lectures, but at the end of the day, he’s a great listener and gets over things easily. Perhaps,” I whispered, “Willow has some things that make it hard for her.”

The way he handled his daughter might be the only thing Lincoln had ever debated in his life. Most things were black and white with him; Willow was a rainbow.

“Do you ever let her in on your life?” I asked.

“Rarely.”

“Maybe if you did, then she’d feel inclined to share, too. I told Murphy once that I thought Dylan had a really cute butt.”

Sweet, God Almighty … I actually said that.

He raised a brow, choking on a laugh. “How’d that go?”