No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (25 page)

Turns out, they were pretty good.

The SUV appeared out of nowhere and slid to a halt in front of the truck. A man flung open the door and jumped out, his shaved head gleaming in the light of the streetlamp. He wore the same drab olive green army jacket he had on when he invaded my home, and he looked about as friendly.

He began sprinting towards me and I took off running, dropping my pocketbook on the sidewalk but instinctively hanging on to the shoes. I got about five yards when he overtook me, grabbing me by the throat, pressing his meaty hands into the soft spot on my neck. “You’ve been a real pain in the ass,” he growled. “But all that’s about to change.”

Rational thought went out the window as I leaped into survival mode. I lashed out with my legs, kicking him in the shins. He groaned and tightened his grip on me, forcing me backwards, towards his car. I tried to scream, but my vocal chords were stuck on mute.

Sandmeyer loosened his grip while he struggled to open his car door. I jerked and twisted beneath him and managed to free one arm. Raising the stiletto heel that was clutched firmly in my hand, I aimed straight for his face.

“Son of a bitch,” he screamed, clutching at his eye.

I slammed hard against him, knocking him sideways. We both fell, but he was on his feet first, dragging me up by the hair. Pain shot through to the roots, causing my eyes to water. “This bastard is not going to make me cry,” I promised myself, and with a strength born of pure fury, I took the heel of the shoe again and this time shoved it straight up his crotch. He let loose with a blood curdling scream and flew backwards. I scrambled away from him, but he quickly regained his balance and lunged for me again.

And then without warning, he was airborne. I looked up in time to see Nick grab the Bulldog by his collar and wrench him into the stratosphere, landing with a thunk on the ground. Bulldog cursed and reached into his jacket, producing a small pistol from his pocket.

“Nick,” I yelled, but it was totally unnecessary.

Santiago kicked out his leg and the gun went flying. Sandmeyer took off running, but Nick tackled him, rendering him immobile. Nick tossed me his cell phone. “Do me a favor, angel, and call the police.” He eyed me for a moment, a lazy grin crossing his face. “By the way, you look great.”

I glanced down at my ensemble, which was, by now, torn in six places and smeared with street grime and punched in 911.

Nick hauled Bulldog to his feet and slapped a pair of cuffs on him. I stood too, my arm throbbing where I’d landed on it, and I winced in pain.

“It feels like my arm is broken,” I said.

An infinitesimal frown flickered across Nick’s face.

“Which one?” he asked.

“The left.”

Nick reached behind Bulldog and grabbed a hold of his left arm. A split second later, Bulldog let out an agonizing yelp as his eyeballs slid towards the back of his head. Although the temperature hovered in the mid thirties, his face was drenched in sweat.

“Are you crazy, man?” he yelled. “You broke my fuckin’ arm.”

“Did I?” Nick asked mildly.

“Did you?”
I asked, borderline hysterically.

Somewhere nearby a siren wailed. A car pulled up in front of the truck and Bobby got out. “I was driving by when I heard the call on the radio,” he told me.

“Hey,” Sandmeyer called to him. “Are you a cop?”

“Yeah.”

“This asshole cuffed me and broke my arm. I want to press charges.”

Bobby cut his eyes to Nick.

“He fell,” Nick said.

DiCarlo scanned me up and down, taking in my torn clothes and skinned knees. “He do this to you?”

I nodded mutely.

He switched his gaze back to Sandmeyer. “You fell.”

“Like fuck I did.”

Bobby moved in close to his face. “Why don’t you just shut the hell up, unless you want to try for the other arm?”

When a six foot one inch boxer stands very close to you and gives you a direction, it’s best to follow it. Unfortunately, Sandmeyer wasn’t thinking too clearly. “Fuck you too.”

A lightning punch to the gut and Sandmeyer was down for the count.

Mike Mahoe pulled up in a squad car and hopped out. “What happened to him?” he asked, nodding in Bulldog’s direction.

Bobby shrugged. “He fell.”

The “nail” that blew out my tire turned out to be a slug from a .45. Sandmeyer had doubled back in his car and waited for me to drive down the road. If Nick hadn’t come along when he did—nope, I’m not even gonna go there. I already have enough to keep me up nights.

“You’re awfully quiet, angel.”

We were sitting in Nick’s living room, sharing a bottle of Merlot and some Columbian take-out from the restaurant. The food was delicious, but somehow, after the whole attempted-kidnapping-arm-mangling-incident, I wasn’t all that hungry.

I’d driven back with Nick in his jaguar, a nineteen sixty-four XKE that is rumored to have once belonged to a Beatle. My outfit was effectively ruined, so I changed into sweats and a t-shirt, feeling this suited the mood better anyway.

I thought it would have been nice to have had a chance to ask Bulldog a few questions before the police arrived, but who knew what kind of tactics Nick might’ve employed to extract the information. I knew Nick was dangerous. Hell, I’ve heard he
kills
people. Only I’d never actually witnessed that side of him—until today.

“I’m tired,” I said, avoiding his gaze.

“It was the arm-breaking thing, wasn’t it?”

I nodded.

“Too much?”

I pinched my thumb and forefinger together.
“A little bit.”

“He hurt you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But look. It’s not even broken, see?” I extended my left arm for him to inspect.

Nick held my arm, pressing his lips against the sensitive, inner part and began placing gentle kisses along the bruised area. His touch sent chills down my spine, among other places, and soon I forgot all about Bulldog and his unfortunate accident.

“I’m not a fan of violence, darlin’,” Nick continued, settling back on the couch again. “Generally speaking, I only use it as a last resort.” He locked eyes with mine to make sure I understood exactly what he was about to say. “But there are times when, in my opinion, it’s justified. He hurt you, which is all the justification I need. You may disagree, but it won’t change the way I do business.”

It was hard to disagree in the middle of a mini orgasm. Okay, I was horribly ashamed of myself for being turned on in the face of such gorilla tactics, but there ya have it.

“Why is your shampoo lady glaring at me?”

I was sitting in the back room of Carla’s hair salon, drinking coffee, while she read me the riot act over my latest choice in roommates.

Carla was the person who had first introduced me to Nick, and while she extols his virtues, (usually accompanied by a big, dreamy sigh) she is only too aware of his darker side.

She glanced over to the corner where Bonita, a nineteen year old on loan from a prison work-release program shot me death rays with frightening accuracy.

“What is
with
her?”

Carla hunched forward. She was painting her nails fuchsia to match her sweater. She had offered to paint mine too, but the polish looked radioactive so I declined.

“She’s a friend of Marie DiCarlo’s, honey.”

I nodded sagely, but then Carla threw me for a loop.

Her voice was carefully neutral. “I overheard her talking on the phone with Marie a little while ago. It seems that Bonita saw you and Bobby leave Sargenti’s the other night and drive off in his car together.”

“Oh for Pete’s sake, Carla,” I grumbled, “it was perfectly innocent.”

Bonita picked up a broom and began sweeping the already spotless floor.

“Well, you’ve got to admit, it looks a little suspicious, hon.”

I knew Carla was saying this for Bonita’s benefit. I’d explain, Bonita would report back to Marie and all would be right in the DiCarlo household once again.

I bit back my usual sarcastic response and explained. “We ran into each other at the restaurant. He was working on my case. I had some evidence. We went to pick it up. End of story.”

By now Bonita wasn’t even pretending not to be listening in, so I addressed my next remarks directly to her. “Sorry to disappoint you, Bonita, but Bobby and I are not having an affair. We barely even speak to each other.”

At that moment my cell phone rang. I pulled it out of my coat jacket, inadvertently shifting the “speakerphone” button to the “on” position. “Hello?”

“Yo Brandy. It’s Bobby.” Oh crap.

Bonita’s head shot up so fast it was in danger of spinning off into the stratosphere. Even Carla did a double take, her beehive swiveling from Bonita to me and back again.

“I’m sorry about before. I’m just worried about you.” Of all the times for Bobby to show his sensitive side, this could win a prize for the worst possible moment.

“Tell them we’re
not
having an affair,” I yelled into the receiver.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” I hung up the phone.

Bonita resumed her death ray glare.

“Oh, bite me, Bonita.”

Well, this day just keeps getting better and better. I’d woken up this morning with a world-class headache, courtesy of the half a bottle of Merlot I drank last night.

Nick thought it might help if I talked about what had happened, but I didn’t see the point in reliving my “near-death” encounter. It wasn’t that much fun the
first
time around.

I did not want to go to bed. I knew from past experience that the second I closed my eyes the nightmares would start creeping into my brain. I ended up falling asleep on the couch, watching “Fresh Prince of Bel Air.” Nick hung in there as long as he could, but apparently, he’s not quite as enamored of old TV sit-coms as I am. Go figure.

He was gone when I woke up this morning—something to do with an appointment with rebel soldiers from Zaire.

Bobby called from the police station. “I have some good news and some bad news,” he told me.”

The good news was that Ivan “Bulldog” Sandmeyer was booked on assault and kidnapping charges and his bail was set so high he’d have to sell his mother, his grandmother and throw in a couple of second cousins to even come close to raising the money. The bad news is, somebody did.

“You mean he’s out on the street again?”
The man tried to kill me—or at the very least, he ruined a two hundred dollar pair of high heels. Doesn’t that count for anything?

“I’m trying to get more information on who posted his bail. In the meantime, you might want to rethink visiting your parents in Florida for awhile.”

I made the appropriate noises like I was really going to consider this.

“The thing I don’t get is why this guy is going after you. The cops couldn’t get anything out of him last night.”

“Um, promise you won’t get mad and I may be able to shed some light on the subject.”

Bobby blew out a long air of exasperation. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Probably not.”

He paused while he did his mental “count to ten,” only it was taking longer than usual, so I started in again.

“Look, it’s not my fault. I tried to tell you a couple of times, but I got distracted—”

“Tell me,” he growled, effectively cutting me off.

“Now.” So I did.

“Okay, let me get this straight,” he said when I was finished, and it sounded like he was laughing. “Neither of these guys actually wanted you. They were both after some magical dog who defecates computer software.”

“Well, you don’t have to put it that way.”

“How should I put it, Brandy? Even you have to admit it sounds a little squirrelly.”

“Which is half the reason I didn’t mention it until now. But I got the thumb drive checked out and there’s definitely something important on there. I just don’t know what it all means.”

“Is it worth dying over?” He said this so quietly I almost missed it. “I’ve got to get back to work.” Bobby hung up without saying goodbye.

Okay, so at least he knew everything now. When my phone rang again, I thought he was calling back to say he was sorry for hanging up on me. It turned out to be Jason Danski, my latest blind date calling to make plans for Saturday night.
Wow. Bowling sounds great, Jason, so if nobody’s managed to kill me by then, “we’re on!”

The last thing I did before heading over to Carla’s was take a look through the want ads. The art museum was advertising for a curator for their Mayan exhibit and Dunkin’ Donuts needed a counter person. I dashed off a couple of resumes and headed out the door.

My little session with Bonita left me feeling really depressed. I shouldn’t have to defend my friendship with Bobby. After all, I knew him first. Plus, it’s not like we have some hot romance going on. These days all our relationship consists of is me sticking my nose where he thinks it doesn’t belong and him yelling at me about it—which actually reminded me that there was something I wanted to look into.

The last time I spoke to Turk Davis, he told me Glen had mentioned a business type guy who had taken Glen under his wing. Glen’s old neighbor, Tom, had similarly described someone who had visited Glen on occasion. The likelihood of Glen knowing two guys who owned a suit was slim, so if I could track this man down, maybe he could shed some light on Glen’s whereabouts.

Twenty minutes later I was parked in front of Glen’s old building. Tom was just climbing out of his car when I pulled up.

“Hey, Tom,” I called out.

Tom squinted into the sunlight. “Oh, hey. How’re ya doin’? Any word on your sister?”

My sister? I quickly scanned my memory bank for the lie. Oh yeah, missing sister.
I shook my head sadly. “No, not yet. But if you have a minute, I’d like to ask you about that guy you said came around every once in a while—the one you noticed because he seemed to be a cut above Glen’s usual visitors.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Mr. Lexus.”

“Mr. Lexus?”

“That’s what I used to call him. He drove a new charcoal gray Lexus. You don’t generally see a car that nice around here, unless it’s stolen. In fact,” Tom continued, “it was parked here not too long ago. I remember because I kept hearing some damn dog barking, so I looked outside to see what all the fuss was about, and there was that car.”