No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (5 page)

Adrian wagged his water fountain tail and rolled over onto his back. I sat down between them and rubbed his tummy. Every bone in my body ached, so when the phone rang a few moments later, I let the machine pick it up. It was A-1 Security, confirming my appointment for the next afternoon.

Heeding Dr. Sanchez’s warning about concussions, to have someone wake me every hour, I set my alarm and lay down on the couch. My head buzzed with anxiety and soon I was floating in and out of restless dreams about car wrecks and a giant man-eating sea turtle that ate Mr. Wiggles. Where
that
came from I have
no
idea.

I awoke to the sound of a barking dog and a ringing bell. I reached over to turn off the alarm, but the bell kept on ringing. In the semi-darkness I could make out Adrian’s furry little body scratching at the door. I turned on the light next to the couch and stumbled over to the door, craning my neck to check the spy hole.

Bobby peered back at me, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. His dark hair, dampened by a light drizzle, hung in soft curls around his face. God he was gorgeous. I remained quiet and took a minute to gaze at him.

“Come on, Alexander, are you going to let me in or what? I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

I opened the heavy front door and unlocked the storm door. Bobby pulled it open and sauntered into the living room. He peeled off his jacket, tossed it on the couch and sat down. Adrian hopped up next to him.

“You weren’t sleeping were you?” he asked. “Because when you have a concussion you’re not supposed to fall asleep if you’re alone.”

“Of course I wasn’t sleeping. I’m not stupid. Hey, how did you know about —”

Bobby grinned. “Cop grapevine. I ran into Mike Mahoe. He’d heard about it from a cop at the scene.” Mike is a big, good-natured transplanted Hawaiian who looks more at home surfing the waves of Maui than walking a beat in Philly. “So you weren’t sleeping. My mistake.”

“You don’t believe me,” I said hotly. God I hate it when he doesn’t believe my lies.

“You fell asleep on the TV remote, sweetheart. The buttons left an impression on your cheek.”

My hand flew up to my cheek, massaging away the indentations. “That’s why they pay you the big bucks, Detective. Hey, don’t you have a missing cat to check out somewhere?”

“Nope. Everyone in the city is behaving tonight. Sophia’s asleep and Mrs. Bonaduce is babysitting, so I’m all yours. If you want to go back to sleep be my guest. I’ll wake you in an hour.”

“I
wasn’t
sleeping.”

When I woke up an hour later, Bobby was in the kitchen, cooking what smelled suspiciously like real food (as opposed to my usual dinners, which can be found at the checkout stand of the local Seven/Eleven, and while both are delicious, the latter has the nutritional value of plastic).

I snagged a carrot out of the pot he was using as a salad bowl and sat down at the table. Bobby was busy mushing something pink and lumpy around in a bowl. He added some breadcrumbs and scooped them into patties.

“You could use some cooking utensils,” he said, expertly flipping the patties into a hot, oiled frying pan.

“I’ll get right on it. What’s for dinner?”

“Salmon croquettes. It was the only thing in your cupboard that didn’t have an expiration date that’s older than we are. How’re you feeling?” He kept his voice light, but I knew he was concerned.

“Good. Much better. Thanks for making dinner. When did you learn to cook?”

Rocky climbed up on the table and swiped a carrot out of the pot. Before I could stop her, she shot out of the room, the carrot dangling from her mouth like a cigarillo.

“I’ve got a two year old whose favorite show is
The Iron Chef
,” Bobby laughed. “We spend quality father-daughter time together learning how to make meals made entirely of sticky mung beans. Hey, do me a favor?” He stuck a well-muscled arm out in my direction. “Could you hike up the sleeve?”

“Sure.” I walked over to the stove and began rolling his shirtsleeve up his arm. His skin was warm to the touch, his bicep bulging beneath my hand, and I flushed as a current of electricity shot straight down my arm and veered off south of the border. I guess I kept my hand on his arm a little too long, because Bobby stared down at me, a slow, seductive smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

“Y’know, we could skip dinner, if you have something else in mind you’d rather do.”

I yanked my hand away. “
Shut up.
I was just checking to see if your new tattoo was infected. You can never be too careful about these things.”

Bobby stayed until after dinner. It was nice to have company, especially company that packs a .38 and is willing to use it to protect me. For all my yelling about being able to take care of myself, it was a relief to not have to for once. He offered to spend the night, but, tempting as the offer was, I told him it wasn’t necessary. I was not ready to let Robert Anthony DiCarlo just waltz back into my life. Not yet.

I woke up on the couch on Saturday morning, having fallen asleep watching reruns of Miami Vice. That Sonny Crocket sure was a hottie. My usual bout of anxiety was forming in the pit of my stomach, so I decided to stuff it down beneath a hardy breakfast.

The only thing in the house to eat was a cold, leftover salmon croquet and some dog kibble, so I pulled on some jeans and my dad’s old pea coat, filled Adrian’s bowl, chopped up the croquet for Rocky and headed for Melrose Diner.

I was driving my dad’s 1987 burgundy Buick Le Sabre. The car had only slightly more pickup than one of the pretzel wagons around town, but it beat walking. When my parents moved to Florida, they threw it in with the deal on the house. I figured I could sell it and buy a houseplant with the profit.

I passed Snake’s garage on the way there and since it was open, I swung a u-turn into the lot. Paul’s car was up on the lift. I was a little worried that Paul would drive past and see it hanging up there, so I thought I’d ask Snake to throw a sheet over the Mercedes when it wasn’t being worked on.

Snake was in the back office, eating a Dunkin’ Doughnut and drinking out of a large Styrofoam cup. He raised his tattooed head when he saw me and belched loudly by way of greeting. My stomach growled, and I scanned the room to see if there were any more doughnuts floating around. I finally spotted the empty, crumpled up bag in the trashcan next to his desk. Swallowing my disappointment I asked how the car was coming along.

“This don’t make no sense, doll.” He shook his head and lit a cigarette. I tried not to think about the possible ramifications of lit cigarettes and open tanks of gasoline and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Snake stubbed out his cigarette as quickly as he’d lit it. “Paulie brought this car in not two months ago for a tune up. I worked on it personally. The brakes were fine, I’d swear by it.”

“So now they’re not. Can you fix them?”

Snake cut me a look. It screamed, “I can’t believe you’re so stupid.”

“The brakes wouldn’t just all of a sudden give out like that. Not without help.”

I was a little slow on the uptake, what with being faint from hunger and all, but then his words registered in my brain and my stomach did a one-eighty. “You mean —” I squeaked.

“Looks to me like your brake line was cut.”

S
omeone’s out to get Paul!
I thought hopefully. After all, it was
his
car’s brakes that had been tampered with. Even as I reasoned this out, I knew it wasn’t true—or very nice. And the truth is I’d rather take a bullet than let anything happen to my brother. But my defense mechanisms are really strong and I just couldn’t wrap my brain around the idea that somebody was trying to kill me—again.

I left Snake’s and drove around for an hour, alternating between deep sweats and icy chills, my inner thermostat carrying the brunt of my fear. Maybe Snake was mistaken.
Maybe Snake was the one who had cut my brake line in a misguided attempt to boost business.
Didn’t Heather say she’d seen him when she was out taking an early morning walk with Mr. Wiggles? Okay, that scenario was unlikely.

I would have called the police, but Snake wasn’t even a hundred percent sure the brakes had been tampered with.

“Don’t brake lines just wear out sometimes?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he conceded. “It happens. See this steel rod?” He pointed at the underbelly of the car. “This isn’t a clean break. It’s possible that the rod broke from rubbing against the body of the frame.” Before I could take a breath of relief, Snake reiterated, “If I hadn’t just checked this car out, I’d say it could’ve happened that way. But I’m telling ya, the brakes were in mint condition when the car left my shop.”

Hey, maybe Snake’s a little sensitive about his mechanical abilities and he’s afraid Paul will blame him for not doing a thorough job on the repairs. But if Snake’s theory is right and someone really did screw with the brakes, I was in deep doo-doo.

I needed to talk this over with someone, but who? John would be the logical choice, since he’d almost been killed in the accident too. The thought made me sick and I gave an involuntary shudder. Bobby? Fran? They both think I’m in dire need of counseling. Since there’s no real proof, they’d just chalk it up to another paranoid delusion and cart me off to Hall-Mercer for psychiatric evaluation.

I made a left and found myself in the neighborhood of Rittenhouse Square. In the next minute I was sitting in front of a four story, ivy covered brick apartment building, staring up at one of the windows on the top floor. Primal instinct had brought me there. Common sense told me to leave. The occupant was out of town and besides, I’d already far exceeded my lifetime quota of favors. I put the car in drive and headed home.

Heather was just getting into her car when I rounded the corner onto my block. I pulled up in back of her and parked. She had Mr. Wiggles with her. He was sniffing the ground like he really had to go. I jumped out of the car and called out to her.

“Oh, hi Brandy. I’m taking Mr. Wiggles for a walk in the park. Do you and your dog want to come along?”

My dog hates Mr. Wiggles. He can’t stand his holier than thou attitude.

“Uh, no thanks, Heather. I’m a little busy right now. Listen—”

“We should get our dogs together for a playdate sometime. Wouldn’t that be a blast?”

“Yeah, totally,” I agreed.

Mr. Wiggles ventured up to my shoe and gave a long sniff. Then he lifted his leg. I nudged his fat little pug nose with the tip of my boot. “My foot is not a urinal,” I growled, moving away.

Heather giggled. “He really likes you, Brandy.”

“Yeah, I really like him too. Listen, Heather,” I said again, this time with a slight edge of impatience, which of course was lost on Heather. “Remember you said you saw my mechanic early yesterday morning?”

“Yeah, did you talk to him? Do you think he’d go out with me?”

“The thing is I’m not sure we’re talking about the same person. Could you describe what the guy looked like?”

“Well, I didn’t have my contacts on, so don’t ask me to pick him out of a lineup, but he was a white guy, around five-eleven, curly brown hair, muscular build,” she finished.

Great. That narrowed it down to about fifty billion people, none of whom even remotely fit Snake’s description.
“Heather, what made you think he was my mechanic?”

“Well, he was wearing a coverall and he was just climbing out from under your car when I was coming out of the house.”

My stomach rolled. “Didn’t you think that was a little suspicious?” I asked. “I mean we’re talking practically the middle of the night.”

Heather shrugged. “No. Should I have?”

It’s a good thing Heather still lives with her parents. She’d never survive on her own.

“Did you happen to notice if he was carrying anything? Did he say anything to you?”

“He seemed shy. I guess that’s what attracted me to him. When I said hello he bent his head and just kept walking. He did have something in his hand, but I couldn’t tell what it was. He walked up the street a little ways and got into a dark colored sedan and drove off.”

“Would you recognize the car if you saw it again?” I asked.

Heather shook her head. “Like I said, I wasn’t wearing my contacts. I think it was black. It was hard to tell in the dark. Bran,” she said, suddenly, her eyes getting wide. “Are you working on some kind of an investigation?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Something like that. I’ll see you later, Heather.” I turned and walked into the house.

Oh goody. Something new to worry about. Heather had seen and could possibly identify the guy who cut my brake line. He doesn’t know she’s half blind without her contacts. He could end up going after her… on the other hand, what if it was just one big coincidence? Maybe he was just some guy retrieving a ball that had rolled under my car, before going off to his early morning job as—okay, she said he was wearing overalls—a farmer. No, wait, she said, “coveralls,” not “overalls.”

“Paranoid Brandy” battled it out in my mind with “Denial Brandy.” In the end, “Paranoid Brandy” won. I picked up the phone and punched in some numbers.

“Detective DiCarlo.”

“Hi. I wanted to see if you were in your office today.”

There was an instantaneous shift in Bobby’s voice from professional law enforcement officer to sexy guy on the prowl.”

“Yo, sweetheart, what’s up?”

I ignored the term of endearment and got right to it. “I need to run something by you. Are you going to be there for a while?”

His voice shifted back to intuitive cop. “Should I be worried?”

I hesitated a beat too long.

“Shit.”

“You’ve got to promise me you won’t overreact,” I told Bobby. “But you can’t just blow me off, either. I mean it could really be something… or it could be nothing. I don’t know.” We were sitting in his cubicle down at the station. Bobby slouched at his desk, a beat up gunmetal gray rectangle with photographs of Sophia adorning the top.

He focused his blue eyes on me, the little pulse on the side of his temple telling me he was running out of patience. “If you’re through giving me instructions on how to react, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”