No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (14 page)

“He’s a long way from home.”

“Guess there’s more money in breaking and entering, although it did strike me as odd that he’d come all the way up here to make the hit. Especially if he’s working the neighborhood on a regular basis.”

It struck me as odd too.

“So have you heard from your friend lately?”

“No, and it really worries me. I heard he’s been spotted in the area.” I was overcome by a sudden sadness. Toodie didn’t deserve to feel this alone and scared. “Any word on Glen Davis?”

“Not yet. Hopefully something will turn up soon. Hey, on an up note, Raoul has forgiven you for the mishap with his hand. In fact, he wondered if you’d go out with him.”

“Are you serious?” Frantically, I wracked my brains for plausible excuses to turn him down.
It’s against my religion…I’m a vegan and I make it a policy not to date carnivores… I’m really a man…

“Don’t worry, angel. I took care of it for you.”
Whew.
“I told him you were my woman.”
Oh my God!
This man is so unabashedly sexy he could recite names out of the phone book and make it sound like the Kama Sutra. Hearing him call me his “woman” nearly sent me into orgasmic overdrive.

“You told him I was your woman?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you
want
to go out with him? I could call him back, say we broke up—”

“No, no. That’s okay. I—uh—appreciate you uh, covering for me.”

“Any time, darlin’. Speaking of which, I may be going out of town again at the end of the week. Can I trust you not to get into mischief while I’m away?”

“Define mischief.”

Nick laughed softly. “Maybe I’d better wait on this trip. Something tells me hanging around could prove a lot more interesting.”

I felt inordinately relieved that Nick wasn’t going away. It’s not that I didn’t believe the press on him. Bobby had him investigated, and although he could never pin anything directly on him, it was obvious that Nicholas Santiago made things happen. Sometimes very bad things. Oh, it was usually for a good cause, and only to people who weren’t so nice to begin with, but Bobby says no matter how you justify it, it’s still breaking the law. Only, I didn’t see what was so wrong with that.

Then there were his mysterious enterprises, his alliances with shady characters, his dubious relations with renegade foreign countries, his women. And if all that weren’t enough to have me running in the other direction, there was his powerful, almost drug-like ability to seduce me with a look, a word, a whisper. Nick told me once that I should never mistake him for a nice guy, because I would only end up disappointed. But all I know is I trust him completely. And in the end, that’s all I really need to know.

My body ached all over from the events of the day, so I went upstairs to run a bath. It took half an hour for the tub to fill up, but the water was hot and I climbed in and soaked my scab-encrusted wounds. Two minutes later the doorbell rang.
My life sucks!
I thought about ignoring it, but what if it was a neighbor, coming to tell me my house was on fire and I had to leave right away or get burned to a crisp. Okay, I’d probably know by now if the house were on fire. But it could be important.

“Hang on a minute,” I yelled from the tub. I climbed out and threw on some sweats and a flannel shirt. My hair was matted from the tub and had copious amounts of dried blood stuck to the strands around my face. I looked like I felt and I felt like caca.

Mike Mahoe stood outside on the porch, his face lit up by the electrical circus emanating from Mrs. Gentile’s lawn. It looked like the Aurora Borealis out there. I opened the door and let him in. He eyed me up and down and shook his head.

“They told me at the station you were at it again, but I didn’t believe it.”

“Is that all you came to tell me, because I’ve had a really busy day.” I turned and went into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. Under the circumstances, I didn’t feel the need to offer one to Mike.

“Alright, I’m sorry for giving you a hard time. I’ve got some news about that Harrison guy.”

“Yeah, what?”

Mike helped himself to some Hershey’s kisses that were sitting on the counter. He’s new and didn’t know the rules about me and my candy, so when he turned around I just moved the bowl out of sight.

“I paid a visit to him at the hospital today. He’s still in pretty bad shape so they’re going to keep him a few more days. But here’s the interesting thing. Harrison says whoever did it snuck up from behind him and tried to grab his wallet out of his back pocket, but when he fought back, the guy beat him senseless and then got scared off by a noise and took off. He says he never even saw his attacker’s face.”

“I guess it could’ve happened that way.”

“Nuh uh. According to an eyewitness who happened to be passing by, Harrison was out by his car when some guy in a hooded jacket came up to him and started talking to him. He couldn’t see the guy’s face. Couldn’t even guess what color he was. But right before he hit him, he heard the guy say something like, ‘This is for Conley.’ And then Harrison went down and the guy kept on beatin’ on him. But he never once tried grabbing for his wallet.”

“Did anyone question Keith about the discrepancy in the two reports?”

“All he says is the witness was too far away to know what was going on and it happened just the way he said it did.”

Mike couldn’t stay. He was on a dinner break and had to get back to the station. I made him a peanut butter and honey sandwich for the road.

“Thanks for coming by, Mike. I appreciate you letting me know.”

“Sure thing.”

I walked him to the door and opened it.

“Hey, I know this is none of my business, but—” He hesitated and I could tell he was really uncomfortable.

“It’s okay. What?”

“Well, is there anything going on between you and Bobby DiCarlo, because I’d like to get to know you better, but I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.”

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. And then I counted another ten for good measure. When I opened my eyes Mike was staring at me.

“I don’t know who or what gave you the impression that there’s something going on between DiCarlo and me, but I can assure you there isn’t. He’s a married man, to start with, and—come to think of it—we can end it right there.”

Mike gave me a very sheepish look, which, on a six foot three-inch Hawaiian was actually kind of endearing.

“Sorry. It’s just that he’s so protective of you, I thought—”

“We go back a long way, Mike. Old habits die hard.”

Mike left and I tried to get back into the tub, but the water had gone stone cold by now. I put on Nick At Nite and tried to relax, but my mind kept drifting back to something Mike had mentioned. What was it the guy said to Keith just before he beat him up? “This one’s for Conley.” Who the hell is Conley?

In the middle of the night I bolted upright in bed. The guy didn’t say Conley. He said
Connie!
Keith’s wife must have paid someone to beat the living crap out of her philandering husband. She certainly had good reason to, and she didn’t seem overly surprised or concerned about the news. Now it all made sense. He didn’t want to rat out his own wife—maybe it was too embarrassing to admit she’d put a hit on him—so he made up that story about being mugged. I’m right. I know it. This realization got me all hyped up and I couldn’t fall back to sleep, so I went downstairs, flipped on the computer and Googled Keith Harrison.

There were a couple of items here and there, nothing noteworthy, and then I typed in Connie Harrison and hit the jackpot. It seems that Connie is the daughter of Real Estate mogul Tyler Benson, a big deal developer on the east coast. She married Keith four years ago in a lavish ceremony on the ultra upscale Main Line, where she grew up. Although the Harrisons live quite comfortably, it is definitely a step down from her former surroundings.

I wondered if Connie confided in her dad about Keith’s indiscretions and maybe Mr. Benson decided to avenge his little girl’s honor by having her husband rubbed out. He certainly has the means to do it. Not to mention the motivation. On impulse, I clicked on “print” and made a copy of a picture of Keith. Then I made a note to call Mike in the morning and pass along my theory.

Sunday morning brought on an inexplicable urge to go to church. Maybe it was the constant threats on my personal safety that prompted me to make sure I was all square with God, should anything happen to me.

I decided to walk to Saint Dom’s, which is just around the corner from my house. It had snowed last night and a thin sheet of ice clung to the sidewalk. I went back inside and pulled on my shitkickers—the only waterproof shoes I own, and grabbed a handful of Special K out of the box for breakfast. (I’m watching my weight.) I also snagged the last Oreo, because one can’t live on diet food alone.

When I got back outside, Mrs. Gentile was there, sweeping the snow off her side of the porch onto mine. I decided to do the Christian thing and turn the other cheek.

“Good morning, Mrs. Gentile. How are you today?”

She scrunched up her unibrow—you could really see the brain waves working—and finally settled on a reply. “I’ve got rats.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I never had rats until you moved back to the neighborhood.”

I cast my eyes skyward.
Is this some kind of a test to see if I’m heaven-worthy?

“Maybe it’s all that pukey smelling soup you leave laying around on the stove.”
Guess I’m going to Hell.

“You watch your mouth, Miss Freshie.”
Miss Freshie? She’s old and bitter. Be more tolerant.

“I’m sorry. I could come by later, set a few traps for you,” I offered.

“We’ll see,” she said and went back to sweeping the snow onto my side of the porch. Unhhh!

I got to church late and slipped into one of the back pews. It was hot and damp in there, and I didn’t mean to, but I fell asleep. I woke up just as they passed around the collection plate. I began fumbling around in my pocketbook for some money, but being out of work has put a real crimp in my wallet, and all I could come up with was one sorry looking torn up dollar bill. I gave an apologetic smile and quickly added it to the plate.

As we were exiting, I noticed a tall, slender woman with long dark hair, holding the hand of a gorgeous, dark haired two-year old. She was talking to the priest, who was finding her absolutely captivating. Shit. Marie. I tried to sneak past her, but she was blocking the doorway with her height and her beauty and her—her—I don’t know what all, but she looked great and I didn’t especially want to see her. I turned around just a tad too late. She gave me a look one usually reserves for serial rapists and went back to working her charms on Father Vincenzio. After that I felt pretty depressed, so I stopped off at a Starbucks for a peppermint mocha and some chocolate grahams and charged it to my Visa card.

When I got home I saw that the answer machine was blinking.

“Brandy, it’s your mother. Daddy and I thought it would be wonderful if you could come down to Florida for Christmas. We would love to have Paul come too, of course, but he has a real job and can’t get away. We’ll send you the ticket. We love you honey. Bye bye.”

There was a lot of noise on the other end as my mother struggled to place the phone back in its cradle, and I could hear my dad talking to her on the other end of the line.

“Lorraine, why’d you bring up the job? You know she feels bad enough.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lou. Oh, I can’t hang this damn thing up.” Click.

I called my brother. “Paul, am I being helpful to you at work? Be honest.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Never mind.” I hung up. I probably didn’t really want to know.

Next, I called John. I was anxious to find out what was on the drive and thought he could come over and help me with it. He picked up after four rings. “So, how did your blind date turn out?”

“I’m still on it.” Oh, guess it turned out okay.

“I’ll call you later.”

“Much later.”

The last call was to Mike Mahoe. I left a message for him to call me.

The minute I put the phone back on its hook, it rang. It was Franny and she seemed to be her old, read: “before pregnancy” self again.

“You want to meet me for lunch? My treat.”

“Fran, you don’t have to treat me like some charity case. I’ll get a real job eventually.”

Franny paused, thinking. “Have you been talking to your mom? You always get so touchy after a conversation with her.”

“No,” I lied. I hate being so predictable.

“Okay, so I’ll pick you up at noon. We’ll go to Henry’s Bar and Grill. I feel like having steak.”

I was wrong. Franny wasn’t her old self. She was actually buoyant.

“What put you in such a good mood, Fran?”

“Hang on a sec.” There was the sound of a door closing and then Franny got back on the line. “When we got back yesterday afternoon, I traded in the mini van for a T-Bird.”

Way to go, Franny!

“So what did Eddie say?”

“He doesn’t exactly know yet.”

I had some errands to run, so we agreed to meet at the restaurant. It had been days since I’d last heard from Toodie and I couldn’t help but feel I was letting him down. I thought I’d swing by Glen’s old neighborhood and try to catch his neighbor at home. Maybe he could shed some light on Glen’s whereabouts. While I was up in that neck of the woods, I would also take down the missing dog flyers. As far as I was concerned, anyone who really wanted his dog back would have called the number by now. Besides, what kind of conscientious dog owner would allow their dog to swallow a thumb drive? He could’ve choked to death! Before I left the house, I retrieved a foot long electrical cord that was hanging out of Adrian’s mouth, replaced it with a couple of doggie biscuits and told him I’d be back soon.

By the time I reached Glen’s neighborhood the sky had turned a threatening gun metal gray. I really didn’t want to be there, but I’d run out of leads. New tenants had already moved into Glen’s old apartment. The screen door had been fixed and there was an old hibachi sitting right outside on the step. Someone was cooking a hotdog.