No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (27 page)

“Pimp?”

His grin got wider. “Why? Are you looking for representation?”

That left “gun trafficker” and I really didn’t want to go there.

“So,” he said, throwing a casual arm over the back seat of the truck, “how did your reunion with DiCarlo go last night?”

“My reunion?”

“You did spend the night, didn’t you? I was just wondering if he’s officially reclaimed the palace.”

My face went beet red. “If that means what I think it means I—uh—
y’know
, that’s none of your business!”

“As I recall, I was given a rather stern warning by the detective this morning. That kind of makes it my business.”

“Oh. That.” I was not prepared for this conversation. “Listen, do I go around asking you about every palace you’ve reclaimed? No, I do not.” Mostly because it would depress the hell out of me to know how many there were. “And why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No, you’re not. You just want to make fun of me.”

“Honestly, that’s not it. You just constantly surprise me, that’s all.”

“Oh. I don’t mean to.”

“I know,” he said, suddenly serious. “That’s what makes it all the more charming.”

Well, that shut me up. I mean how can you yell at a guy who thinks you’re charming?

Nick pulled up in front of an old, Catholic church and parked. Gang graffiti decorated the crumbling exterior of the building and the front doors. Four Hispanic guys, about twenty years old or so gathered in the doorway smoking crack. They looked up when Nick cut the engine. One had a six inch buck knife hanging off his belt. He raised his eyebrows and said something to the others. They laughed, showing an impressive amount of gold teeth.

Nick pulled an oblong package from the glove compartment and opened the driver’s side door. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

I panicked. “Couldn’t I come with you? I haven’t been to confession in ages!”

He cut his eyes to the guys who were now openly ogling me. “Sure, but stay close.”

“What’s in the package?” I asked, trotting alongside him.

“Something for the collection plate.” He was smiling, but his eyes never left the men blocking the doorway. He took my hand and brushed past them, giving a slight nod as they scattered to let us through. What was it about Nick that let them know without him ever raising a finger that he was the alpha male?

A priest greeted us at the door and ushered us inside. He looked to be in his late thirties, with the wide, flat nose of a boxer and soft brown eyes. “Nicholas,” he said, embracing him with easy familiarity. Smiling he added, “And who is this?”

“Sal, this is Brandy Alexander. Brandy, Father Salvador Domingo, also known as The Beast of Bourbon Street.”

“Those days are long gone, Nicky, but I can still beat your sorry butt. It’s nice to meet you,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand. There was a warm, easy going air about the guy and I liked him immediately.

“You guys go back a long way, I take it.”

“Ah, good times, eh Nick?” But the look between them was bittersweet. I filed this under “ask him later,” knowing it would probably be a fruitless effort. Nick never talked about his past.

Nick handed Father Sal the package. “This should do the trick,” he said.

The priest took it and stuck it between the folds of his robe. “Nicky, I don’t know how to thank you. “This will help so many people.” The two lapsed into Spanish after that, losing me after “gracias.” I think that was the idea.

Our crack smoking pals were gone by the time we got back to the truck. I climbed in and buckled up. “Nick,” I said slowly. I knew I was treading in deep water, but I had to ask. “Whatever was in that package you gave the priest—it wasn’t legal, was it?”

“Does it matter, Angel? The legal choice is not always the moral one.” He gave me a quick smile. “But you know that.” And there you had it.

LaShawna Mitchell lived in a one bedroom walk-up on Manola Avenue. She shared this space with her three young children, a large pit bull, and, from what I saw crawling out from under the stove, a shit load of cockroaches.

We were seated at the table in her kitchenette. The Pit Bull lounged at Nick’s feet gazing up at him adoringly. I hoped
I
didn’t look at Nick with the same love-sick expression, but I suspected I might.

With the exception of the creepy crawlers, LaShawna’s home was immaculate.

“Sorry about the roaches,” she apologized, reaching under the sink for a can of Raid. “I’ve been trying to get the damn landlord to do something about them, but he’s too cheap to hire a fumigation service.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I said, as I watched a roach sashaying across my shoe. “We didn’t even notice them.” I discreetly shook it off and pulled my feet up under my legs. Then I took out a pad and pencil and began.

According to LaShawna, Anthony lived with her and the kids until he left the state suddenly, four years ago. He knew David Dwayne Harmon from the neighborhood. They hung out together on occasion and had a casual friendship.

“Were you surprised when your brother testified against Harmon at the trial?” I asked.

“I was shocked. In this neighborhood, people don’t get involved in other people’s business. It’s too risky. I asked him why he did it and he just said he had his reasons and anyway I shouldn’t worry because he wasn’t planning on sticking around. Said he had some travel plans.”

“Did he ever indicate to you whether his testimony was true?”

“I didn’t ask. I figured what was done was done.” LaShawna lowered her eyes. “Anyway, I always suspected someone paid him to testify at that trial.”

“Why is that?” Nick interjected softly.

“Because Anthony wouldn’t have come forward on his own. Money was a powerful incentive for my brother. Right before the trial started, Anthony began bragging that he was about to come into some big bucks. I told him he was dreaming. He worked at a car wash, how was he gonna come into money. He just laughed and said he met all kinds of interesting people at his job. I told him don’t hold your breath, but damn if he didn’t walk in one day with a wad of cash the size of your head. He knew I was hurting financially and he wanted to help me out. I told him I wouldn’t take no drug money.

That’s when he told me it wasn’t like that. He’d met some rich guy through a friend of his, and he did him a favor, so now he was just reaping the rewards.”

“I don’t suppose he told you what the favor was.”

“I asked, but Anthony told me it wasn’t my business.”

“But you think it had something to do with his testimony. Did that rich guy have a name?” I asked.

LaShawna shook her head.

“You said Anthony was working at a car wash during this time. Do you happen to remember the name of it?” If I was lucky, maybe someone there would still remember him and be able to shed some light on this favor he did.

“Sure do,” LaShawna said. “It’s the Wash N Wax on the northeast corner of Germantown and Belmont.”
Which just happened to be located directly across the street from Ditto’s Car Repair where Zach Meyers worked.

“LaShawna, does the name Zach Meyers mean anything to you?”

“Yeah. He used to call here sometimes. I remember because he was one rude bastard.” LaShawna put her hand to her mouth, stifling a big yawn. “I’m sorry. I was up half the night with a sick baby.”

“You’ve been really helpful,” I said. “I’ve just got one more question. When was the last time you spoke to your brother?”

“About four months ago. He called here asking how I was and I told him not so good. I’d had my heart set on going to nursing school, but my funding fell through and I was pretty depressed about it. About an hour later Anthony called back and said he thinks he can get me the money, but he didn’t want to say any more until he knew for sure.

“That was the last I heard from him, until three weeks ago when the cops called to say they’d found his body. The report said he’d been mainlining heroin and he overdosed. But if you knew my brother, you’d know he’d never do that. He was completely phobic about needles. They only found the one set of tracks on him. I tried to tell the authorities, but nobody would listen to me. That’s why I’m talking to you. Maybe you can find out what really happened to him.”

We stood and walked back into the living room. “Wait here a minute,” LaShawna said. She disappeared into the bedroom and came out holding a framed photo in her hand. “That’s me and Anthony. It was taken four years ago at the Red Lobster. He took me there for my birthday.”

The family resemblance was strong. Boner had his arm around LaShawna and they were both smiling into the camera. “It’s a nice picture,” I told her.

She nodded, her eyes welling up. “I know what they said about Anthony out on the street and I’m not saying it wasn’t true. But he was a good brother. He took care of me.”

“Y
ou did good today, Brandy Alexander.”

We were sitting at the counter at Melrose Diner, having made a pit stop on the way back from LaShawna’s. I ordered the meatloaf and mashed potato platter. And some fried chicken fingers… and a slab of apple pie… I’m a stress eater. Nick contented himself with a cup of coffee and some buttered toast.

“It’s just so sad, Nick. Boner may not have contributed much to the rest of the world, but LaShawna really loved him. He looked out for her, and now she’s on her own with three kids to raise… are you gonna eat that toast?”

Nick laughed and slid the plate over to me. “Don’t worry about LaShawna. She’s a strong person and she’s got goals. It may take her a while to get there, but I think she’ll be okay.”

“Nick,” I said, after a moment’s pause, “I feel really bad asking for a favor after everything you’ve already done for me, but I was wondering if you’d lend me the truck.”

“It’s yours for as long as you need it. What’s up?”

“Well, LaShawna’s not the only one with goals.” I dug into my meal, grateful to be eating meatloaf that wasn’t made by my mother. “I’ve decided not to heed my boss’s excellent advice to lay off the wealthy and influential Stewart family. I’m gonna go have a chat with Laura’s mom. I figure she must be lonely what with her pedophile husband being laid up and all.”

“You sure you want to do this now? You had a pretty busy night.”

The hysteria that I had so far managed to contain now began a steady climb upward. “I don’t have a minute to waste, Nick. I have less than three weeks to find out who really killed Laura Stewart or an innocent man is going to die, well, maybe not so innocent, I mean Harmon is a real jerk, but as far as I know that’s not a capital offense.

“And then talking with LaShawna today confirmed my suspicion that Boner was paid to lie at the trial, and then he goes and tries to squeeze more money out of whoever paid him to lie, so they fix it so that he’ll never ask again, and if you throw in Tamra because we still don’t know if her death is related, well, the body count is really starting to add up… and it’s just sheer luck that they haven’t killed me yet… but the night’s still young!”

Nick shook his head, the corners of his mouth tilting slightly upwards. “I’m beginning to have a newfound respect for DiCarlo,” he said. “Do what you’ve got to do, but be careful.”

As I dropped Nick off at his place my cell phone rang. It was Taco, the drummer from our old garage band. We’d started performing again recently and I think we’ve really gotten our edge back.

Taco was calling about our latest gig. “Don’t forget we have rehearsal tonight. I’m still not sure who’s gonna sing lead on Hava Nagila.”

That did pose a problem. The only one who knew the words was Paul and he was the bar mitzvah boy.

“Um, Taco, I’m kinda busy right now. Why don’t you work it out with the rest of the guys and get back to me.”

“
Alright
. If you want it to sound crappy…”

I disconnected and the phone rang again. It was Franny. “Do I look fat?”

“Fran, you’re six months pregnant. You
are
fat—but in a good way,” I added. Too late. Franny started to cry.

When was I going to learn? The tough, practical Franny I knew and loved had gone A.W.O.L., leaving in her place this alien creature with monster hormones. I braced myself for the mother of all mood swings.

“Eddie was right,” she wailed. “I’m a cow!”

“Did he say that?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, what did he say?”

“He told me that I’m beautiful.”

“What was the man thinking? He should be shot.” I hung a left on Broad Street. Rush hour began earlier and earlier these days. It was only mid afternoon but traffic was already backed up. “Listen, Fran, I love you but I’ve gotta go. I’ll come over later and you can make fun of my wardrobe. That always cheers you up.”

“Okay. Wear that hideous pea coat, the one that smells like wet dog.”

The phone rang for a third time. “Hey Johnny, what’s up?”

“I’ll get right to the point, Sunshine,” John said. He sounded nervous. “I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”

“I’m really not going to like this, am I?”

“Not so much,” he said. “The good news is Lucinda took your photo out of the window.”

“That’s
great
news. So what’s the bad?”

“She sold it.”

“She what?” I yelled and nearly rear ended a trailer.

“Oops, sorry, Sunshine, the connection is breaking up.”

“It is not.” Jeez, he didn’t even bother to make those fake static noises with his mouth.

“I’ll call you later,” he told me.

“Don’t you hang up on me, Mister,” I yelled. And then the line went dead.

I turned off my phone and tossed it back in my bag.

According to the Department of Records The Stewarts lived on Crestview Lane in Chestnut Hill. Home to the Philadelphia aristocracy, the neighborhood oozes old money and the perks that go along with it.

I pulled onto the block and stopped in front of a beautiful, turn-of-the-century house with white stone columns. The gate was unlocked, there was no sign that said, “Intruders will be shot on sight” and no snarling Rottweiler standing guard on the front steps, so I figured that was practically an invitation to come calling.