No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (10 page)

“Thank you, officer,” I said, rubbing the circulation back into my wrists.

“Ms. Alexander, if we catch you within thirty feet of this place again, you’re going to jail. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear.” I didn’t wait for an escort out.

I guess because DiCarlo ordered me to go straight home, I decided to stop at Paul’s club on the way back from Jersey. I’d been promising to help him with the seating arrangements for his bar mitzvah party, but I’d been a little tied up what with trying to stay alive and all. Paul is co-owner of a nightclub in Center City. The party was going to be held there.

I found him perched at the bar, his head bent over the guest list. He looked up when I came in, relief flooding his face. “B-Brandy, I’ve been t-t-trying to c-call you. Where have you b-been?”

“I must’ve put my phone on vibrate and didn’t hear it ring. Paul, calm down and tell me what’s wrong.”

My brother took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Carla said one of her customers down at the beauty shop told her you’d k-killed yourself. She heard it on the eleven o’clock news.”

“Carla’s customer exaggerated. I wasn’t dead. Only sleeping.”

“That’s not f-funny. I was w-worried sick about you. I mean I knew it couldn’t be true, but where would Carla’s customer get a story like that?”

“Paul, it was a co-worker of mine. I found the body. That’s all. See? I’m fine.” I peered over his shoulder, scanning the list. “Oh, you don’t want to put Janine next to Phil Genardi.”

“Why not? Hey, and don’t change the subject.”

I grabbed some honey-roasted peanuts off the top of the bar and popped a few into my mouth. “Janine and Phil dated two years ago. Let’s just say it didn’t work out, which is why he walks with a bit of a limp now.”

Paul eyed me up and down, settling on my face. “You don’t look so good.”

“If that’s supposed to be a compliment, it needs work.”

He cut me a look and climbed down from the bar stool, leading me over to a booth. When my brother bought the place two years ago, he had it restored to its original condition, complete with red leather booths and mahogany tabletops. The club is his pride and joy. “Sit down,” Paul said, letting go of my hand. I angled into the seat and he slid in next to me, gearing up for a lecture.

“Listen, Bran, I think you should to talk to a professional about not being able to sleep. Did you call Taco’s cousin, like I said?” Taco is a friend from the neighborhood who plays in Paul’s band. His cousin Sarah is a psychology major at Temple. She’s a Junior, which would make her—oh—nineteen?

“I’ve got her dorm extension pinned up on my bulletin board.” His look told me he was not amused. “Ah, c’mon, Paulie, cut me a break. Once Mom is here, I’ll be swimming in parental concern. Say, Paul,” I added, deftly changing the subject, “has DiCarlo mentioned anything about bringing a date to the bar mitzvah?” I picked up the guest list and did a quick check.

“No, why? And
quit
changing the subject!”

“No reason,” I said. “Y’know, Paul, I don’t think it’s a good idea for your guests to bring dates. I mean this is your special day. Why would you want to share it with a bunch of strangers? And what if they steal something? Your whole day is
ruined
.”

Paul snorted. “Yeah, that’s a real concern. I hear Aunt Betty’s bringing a seventy year-old klepto from Fishtown. He could run off with the chopped liver sculpture while we’re dancing the Hora.”

I made a face. “Suit yourself, bro. I’m only thinking of you.”

“And I appreciate it,” he said, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “Now, do you want to tell me what’s really going on in that head of yours, or should we continue to pretend you’re fine?”

“Pretending’s good,” I said, avoiding eye contact.

“Bran,” Paul gave my hair a gentle tug. “You’re going to have to talk to someone eventually.”

“Not necessarily,” I argued. “Did you know there are some monks in Tibet who haven’t spoken a word in over thirty years? They live perfectly contented lives without talking about every little feeling. We could learn a few things from those monks, Paul.”

Paul heaved a big sigh. People tend to do that a lot around me.

It was after seven when I left Paul’s, having decided that, for the sake of Phil and his one good leg, people should just choose their own seating. There was no parking on my street, because Mrs. Gentile’s 1980 Coup D’Ville took up half the block. I don’t even know why she keeps it around. She hasn’t driven it since 1987, when her license was revoked (My mother has tried for years to find out why, but it’s the best-kept secret since who shot J.R.). She has her grandson come over every Thursday, to move it from one side of the road to the other and back again for street cleaning.

I finally settled for the spot in front of the fire hydrant and was just about to climb out, when a car pulled up next to me and double-parked, effectively cutting off my exit. Bobby DiCarlo reached across the seat of his vintage Mustang and swung open the passenger door.

“Get in,” he said.

I squeezed out of the driver’s side of the Le Sabre, careful not to scrape the Mustang. He was mad enough already without me screwing up the original paint job on his car. I slid into the front seat, taking in the warmth and the smell of his aftershave, mixed with something else—wait—apple juice!

I turned around and saw Bobby’s daughter, Sophia, asleep in her car seat, a juice cup clutched firmly in her hand. Apple juice was trickling out of the pour spout and slowly making its way onto the leather upholstery. If Bobby noticed, he didn’t seem to care. Boy, fatherhood sure changes a guy.

“So,” I said. “What brings you here?”

“Didn’t I tell you to go straight home?”

“Listen,” I said, figuring his question was rhetorical, “thanks for talking those cops out of busting me. I was just there to return the key to the neighbor, when—”

He cut me off with a grunt.

“Honest!”

“Alexander, it’s me you’re talkin’ to. I know you better than anyone does.”

“You used to,” I countered. “That was a long time ago. I’ve changed.”

“Yeah, I can see that. You’re much better at following orders now.”

“Orders?” I yelled, forgetting all about the sleeping child.

“Shh!”

“Don’t shh me, DiCarlo.”

“Fine. Next time I’ll just let them haul your butt off to jail.”

He had a point there. The thing is, the more wrong I am, the more defiant I become. It’s a real problem with me. I took a deep, cleansing breath. “Okay, Bobby, look. I appreciate you bailing me out. I really do. And I know you’re just looking out for my best interest. But I can’t let this drop. Tamra was my friend. Maybe we weren’t all that close, but nobody else is fighting for her, so that just leaves me. I’m right about this. I know I am.”

I started to climb out of his car, but he yanked me back in, hoisting me over the stick shift until I was practically sitting in his lap.

“You make me crazy,” he hissed. Grabbing my face in his hands, he leaned into me and planted his lips squarely on mine. It was totally unexpected and completely thrilling. I let myself enjoy it for a brief moment, and then as I opened my mouth to protest, he slipped his tongue in, so I had no choice but to kiss him back. It was everything I remembered and more.

Suddenly the car became unbearably hot, so I unbuttoned my jacket and shrugged out of it, my mouth never leaving Bobby’s. He pulled me closer and slid his hands under my shirt, inching their way north.
“I should stop him,”
the sensible part of my brain said, while the other part, the one in charge of my libido screamed,
“If you stop him I’ll kill you.”
His hands were almost at my breasts and I felt my stomach muscles contract in anticipation. Just a little bit farther and—

“Hi,” a small voice piped up from the back seat.

I yanked my shirt down and peered over the top of the seat, where Sophia greeted me with eyes wide open. She stuck out a small hand and offered me a sip from her juice cup.

“Um, no, thank you.”

I turned back to Bobby. “Do you know what we just did?” I whispered frantically. “We just made out in front of your two-year old.
That’s sick
. We are
sick
people!”

DiCarlo grinned. “If my kid could put together a complete sentence, I’m sure she would say it’s nice to see her old man enjoying himself for a change. I’ve waited a long time to do that,” he added quietly.

“Was it worth the wait?”

“You tell me.”

“I’ve gotta go,” I said, my entire being still vibrating from his touch. I leaned over and yanked open the car door, but he pulled me back and kissed me again. Ten minutes later I opened the door for the third and final time.

“I guess you’ll be burning up the phone lines tonight, telling your girlfriends all about this,” he said, a look of smug satisfaction on his gorgeous face.

“Oh, grow up, DiCarlo!” I practically tripped over myself, running into the house to call Franny.

“…and then out of nowhere he just grabs me, and then next thing I know, we’re making out like a couple of horny teenagers in the front seat of his car. Oh, now don’t give me that look. Like it’s never happened to you?”

Adrian sat at attention by the foot of my kitchen chair, drooling over my every word—well, more likely, waiting for something to fall from my dinner plate onto the floor. Truthfully, he wouldn’t have been my first choice to confide in, but Franny wasn’t home and I
had
to tell
someone
.

I left the dishes in the sink and took my laptop over to the coffee table. I’d think about this new development between Bobby and me later on in bed, when I had more time to devote to it.

I typed in David Dwayne Harmon on Google and twenty-eight matches came up, among them, the oldest living alligator wrestler and a Rapper from New Hope. I added Death Row to the search and hit pay dirt.

It was all there, from his arrest four years ago for the rape and murder of a wealthy co-ed named Laura Stewart, to his conviction and the inevitable appeals that followed. Thanks to the miracle of computer technology, I was able to piece together a fairly complete picture.

On the night of the murder, Laura, an honors student of impeccable character went slumming with some friends at a bar in West Philly. According to eyewitnesses, Harmon, the bouncer at Marisco’s Cantina, struck up a conversation with Laura and pursued her throughout the evening. Laura was polite to Harmon, but she was clearly uncomfortable. She and her friends left shortly after ten p.m. Her landlord found her early the next morning, when he entered her apartment to fix the heater. Cause of death was determined to be trauma to the head, caused by a blunt instrument. Laura Stewart was survived by her parents, Rita and Bill and an older brother, Ethan.

It was the sexual nature of Harmon’s comments to Laura that red-flagged him and led to his eventual arrest. His semen and blood were found on the victim and there were signs of a struggle. Harmon had a history of arrests, including aggravated assault and breaking and entering. He was on parole when Marisco’s hired him—an apparent oversight on the part of the manager. Bet he’s kicking himself now.

David Dwayne Harmon was on death row; scheduled to be executed next month. But what did that have to do with Tamra? She clearly had an interest in the case, otherwise, why all the questions to Vince? Maybe Harmon wanted to make a deathbed confession and picked Tamra to record his last words. Then again, according to the latest articles, he still maintains that he’s innocent. Could Tamra somehow have become involved in trying to free the guy? I wondered if Harmon had any relatives in the area that might know the answer to this. I made a note to look them up when I got to work.

The phone rang and I ran to the kitchen to get it. It was my mom. She was calling from a Best Western, just outside of Charleston. Ever since she switched to the unlimited calling plan on her wireless network, she calls hourly, just to feel like she’s getting her money’s worth.

“Brandy, I got the most disturbing phone call from Doris Gentile.”

“Mrs. Gentile has your cell phone number? When did you two become such great pals?”

“I gave it to her in case of an emergency. It’s a good thing I did too. It seems she was taking out the trash this evening and she couldn’t help but notice Robert DiCarlo’s car double parked in front of the house.”

Uh oh.
“Really?”
Stay calm
. “How did she know it was Bobby? There must be dozens of 1968 red convertible mustangs cruising the neighborhood. It could have been anyone’s.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Brandy. She said she saw you get out of your car and climb into Bobby’s and when you finally dragged yourself out of there your shirt was all undone. Honestly, Brandy Renee, I don’t know what you were thinking!”

Oh crap. How am I going to get out of this one? And why should I have to? I’m twenty-eight years old, for God’s sake. I shouldn’t have to explain my every action to my mother. I’m just going to have to tell her to back off.
“Mom,” I said.

“Yes?” It was amazing how much disapproval the woman could pack into one small syllable.

“Have you spoken to Paul lately? He’s having second thoughts about the bar mitzvah. In fact, he mentioned something about canceling the affair and becoming a priest.” Sorry, Paulie, but it’s every man for himself.

I hung up with my mom and sat back down in the living room, turning my attention back to Tamra. Could her husband have killed her? He certainly had access to Tamra and a motive, seeing as he thought she was cheating on him. But he did leave that sweet message for her on her cell phone… unless he’d left it after he’d already killed her, to throw off the cops and make it look like he didn’t know she was dead.
Yes, Brandy, biology professors are notoriously wily.
Just to be on the safe side I Googled him too.

Eric called as I perused a deadly dull paper on the life cycle of the amoeba, by Jeff Rhineholt, which led me to believe that if he did in fact murder his wife, he had probably bored her to death by reading her this paper. “Turn on the television,” Eric said. “Channel 3.”