No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (26 page)

“Was the guy in the car?”

“No. Sorry. Like I said, I never took any real notice of him.”

I thanked Tom and got back in the Mercedes.

Okay, so the guy drives a Lexus. Where did I just see something about a Lexus? And then it hit me like a hundred and sixty pound bag of lying lawyer. Keith Harrison drives a Lexus. Or if he doesn’t, he at least has the owners’ manual tucked into his office junk drawer.

I pulled out my cell and punched in 411for MasterCarb on Broad Street.

When Turk came on the line, I got straight to the point. “Turk, this is really important. When Glen talked to you about that guy he was going to work for, did he mention what the guy did for a living?”

“Oh man, it’s you again? You’re like this—this little screw that keeps twisting into my brain.”

“I swear I’ll never bother you again, if you could just think back for a minute.”

There was a long pause, and I could hear Turk’s labored breath on the other end of the line. “Yeah, come to think of it,” he said finally. “He did mention something. Said the guy was a lawyer. I remember thinking that’s good, because some day Glen was going to need one.”

What if Keith turned out to be the guy Glen was working for? How far fetched is that? Well, I was about to find out. I got back in the car and headed on over to Keith’s house.

There it was, sitting in front of the house like a clue on a silver platter. A brand new charcoal gray SC2006. I’d parked half way down the block and dragged out the binoculars, in case Keith was hanging out his bedroom window, hoping I’d show up with his thumb drive. Once I’d confirmed what I needed to know, I made a beeline out of there, looking back over my shoulder every step of the way.

“Bobby, it’s Brandy.”

There was a slight intake of air before he answered. “Hi. What’s up?”

“Am I calling at a bad time?” I didn’t want to call him on his cell phone, in case he was in the middle of a fight with Marie, or worse, making love to her in a sudden fit of remorse over their estrangement. So I tried calling him at the station and turns out he was there.

“Nah. It’s fine. I was just in talking to my captain. He says he thinks I’m a little stressed.”

“And why would he think that?”

“Ah, he may have heard a rumor that I punched some scumbag suspect while he was handcuffed, but you know how it is with rumors. By tomorrow it’ll all be forgotten.”

I didn’t want to point out that if his stress level climbed any higher it would be in the Mount Everest range. Instead, I added to it.

“I need to see Toodie.”

The Plexiglas window that separated Toodie from polite society could not disguise the genuine happiness in his face when he saw me.

“Yo Brandy. I knew you’d come. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything,” he added, “but there’s a vending machine right down the hall. It’s got fruit and candy bars. I passed it on my way in.”

“I’m good, Toodie, but thanks.” I turned away so that he couldn’t see my eyes fill up.

I don’t know what it is about the guy that makes me want to slay dragons for him. I guess it’s the same feeling mama cats have when they go up against the neighborhood canines to protect their young. He’s an innocent, and I couldn’t help but want to take care of him.

“Are you eating all right? Getting enough rest?” He looked okay, except for the deep circles under his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m cool. It gets a little lonely in here sometimes. I’m a people person, ya know.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get by sooner.”

“That’s okay. I know you’re busy. Bobby DiCarlo came by. He said you’re working real hard to get me out of here.”

“He did?”
Wow.
“Listen, Toodie, that’s one of the reasons I’m here. I’ve got something to show you and I want you to think real carefully before you answer.”

I opened my pocketbook and extracted a folded up paper, smoothing it out on the Plexiglas barrier. It was the picture of Keith Harrison I’d printed off the Internet. “Take a good look. Have you ever seen this guy before?”

Toodie scrunched up his face in concentration. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I’ve seen him.”

“Where do you know him from?” I held my breath.

“From jail.”

“What do you mean?” I’d checked Keith out. He has no record.

“I saw him once when he came to visit my cell mate, Uzi Capistrano. I think Uzi might have worked for the guy or something.”

“Where’s Uzi now?”

“Dead. He O.D.’ed about a month after he was released.”

“Is that how you met Glen? Through Uzi?”

“Yeah. Uzi told me to look him up when I got out, but he was dead by then. He and Glen lived together for a while. Hey, I’ll bet that’s how Glen hooked up with Ilene.”

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“I’d left a bike over at Ilene’s—a really sweet Harley. You should’ve seen it. It was gorgeous—black, with fuchsia and an engine that—”

“Uh, Toodie, stay with me now. How did Ilene meet Glen?”

“Oh yeah, well, Ilene agreed to let Uzi pick up the bike and take it back to his place. Glen must’ve gone with him when he went to get it.”

It was a plausible explanation that would justify why Toodie didn’t know Ilene and Glen knew each other.

Toodie shrugged his big, gangly shoulders. “I don’t know, Brandy. Everybody I know seems to end up dead.”

I really hoped he was being nostalgic and not prophetic.

My time was up so I told him I’d come visit him again. He was in the middle of telling me how much he missed our Friday Night Scrabble tournaments, when something that had been crashing around in my brain suddenly surfaced.

“One more thing, Toodie. Did Ilene have a dog?”

I stopped in to see Bobby on the way out. He was sitting at his desk, launching paper airplanes into a wastebasket. A flow chart was tacked up on the wall in back of him with the names Ilene and Andi and dates and times and circles and arrows in different colored markers. I scanned the board, not bothering to hide my curiosity. Bobby moved in front of it, not bothering to hide his annoyance. The predictability of our actions made us both laugh. I sat down in the chair opposite him.

“Why didn’t you tell me you visited Toodie?”

Bobby shrugged. “I didn’t want you to get any ideas.”

“What ideas?”

“That I’m a nice guy.”

I smiled. “You are a nice guy. It meant a lot to him.”

I filled Bobby in on our conversation, highlighting Keith’s connection to Glen and the possibility that
my
Adrian could, in fact, have once belonged to Ilene.

“Toodie said she was always rescuing strays—don’t say it,” I added on his look. “We’re talking about Ilene, here.”

Bobby grinned. “I didn’t say a word.”

“Anyway,” I continued, “the neighbor said he’d heard a dog barking the day Keith had been over there. What if it was Ilene’s dog—assuming she had one. Toodie found Adrian about a half a block away from Glen’s apartment. It’s possible that the dog had run off, but he didn’t get very far before Toodie found him.”

“You’re forgetting one thing,” Bobby noted. “We still only have Toodie’s word that there’s a connection between Glen and Ilene. We don’t have any real proof that they even knew each other. And even if Glen did know her, that doesn’t preclude Toodie’s involvement in her murder. They could have been in it together.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“Yeah, alright. So I’ve developed a soft spot for the guy too. But that doesn’t mean he’s not crazy. And crazy people do crazy things.”

Speaking of which, I decided I’d better clue him in about Bonita.

“Yeah, it came up around the dinner table last night. Listen, I’m really sorry about all of this.” He lowered his voice and added, “I’ve been talking to a lawyer.”

“Bobby,” I stopped him. “Maybe I’m not the best person for you to be confiding in right now.”

He nodded in agreement and then laughed softly. “Hey, you’ve been here for twenty minutes and we haven’t had a fight yet. I think that’s a personal record for us, these days.”

“See? Miracles can happen.” I stood and walked out the door.

The Barnes and Noble Café, located on the second floor of the store at Eighteenth and Walnut served as my office for the afternoon. I settled into a cushy seat next to the window, with an espresso and some dark chocolate grahams and watched a light rain tap against the glass. Sitting there I felt safe, a concept that was foreign to me these days, and I took a few minutes to enjoy the feeling.

Spread out before me was my own version of a flow chart, with names and dates, circles and arrows and little hearts and flowers edging the paper, because I’m an avowed doodler. I finished off the first chocolate graham and sat back to review my work.

“Okay,” I conceded, “most of my conclusions are based on conjecture rather than hardcore facts, but it’s damn good conjecture.”

It was a reasonable assumption that Glen Davis and Keith Harrison knew each other. That Glen probably worked for Keith in some capacity. That Keith owed money to the Diamond Casino and that he and Ivan Sandmeyer were both after a computer thumb drive that held information that was valuable to the casino.

It had been inconceivable to me that the separate incidents that have consumed my life for the past few weeks could be related, and now it was equally inconceivable that I hadn’t made the connections sooner.

What I couldn’t figure out is where Ilene fit in the mix. Bobby said there isn’t even any real proof that Glen and Ilene knew each other, so he was hard pressed to place Ilene at Glen’s house at the time of the murder.

My coffee was gone and so were the little chocolate grahams. It was four thirty and dusk was fast approaching. I didn’t want to be caught wandering the city streets after dark; it was scary enough in broad daylight, so I gathered up my pocketbook and left the cheery glow of the bookstore.

The streets were packed with holiday shoppers and people just getting off from work. I took comfort in the crowd, figuring that if anyone felt inclined to kidnap, kill or otherwise manhandle me, they’d have to do it in front of an audience. Luckily, no one seemed all that interested in me, and I got back to the car unscathed by anything except my own imagination.

I’d put my phone on mute while I was in the bookstore. When I turned it back on, there was a voicemail waiting for me from Uncle Frankie.

“Yo, Midget Brat. How about you come by for some homemade pasta tonight. And don’t worry; Carla isn’t going near the stove. I’m cooking. Call me.”

Sounds good. I swung the car around and headed for Perini’s Bakery to pick up some chocolate cannoli, Uncle Frankie’s favorite.

I found a great parking spot on Christian, where a car had gotten the boot and was just being hauled away when I pulled up. I slid into the spot and got out of the car.

The bakery was crammed with customers, the line spilling out the door. I stood out on the sidewalk, tucking in behind a big guy in a Santa Claus suit. An icy wind had kicked up and set my teeth to chattering.

My cell rang again and I stuffed a frozen hand into my bag to find it. “Hello?”

The voice was friendly, cheerful even. “Hi. Did you like my little present?”

“I’m sorry?” Traffic was heavy and I could barely make out the words.

“I said, ‘did you like my little present, bitch?’”
Oh shit. Here we go again.

My heartbeat kicked into high gear as I fought down the bile rising in my throat.

“The doll is just a little preview of what I’m going to do to you when I get you alone. I’m getting hard just thinking about it.”

“Shut up you fucking freak!”

Santa whipped his head around to see who the potty-mouth was. Guess I was going on the Naughty List. That is, if I survived until Christmas.

I had to stay calm, and I did, for about half a second. And then came the old sucker punch.

“You look cold.”

Oh my God. He can see me.
I shot a brief hard look at the people in line.

“Where are you?” I willed my voice to keep steady.

“Close by. You should’ve kept your Goddamn nose out of my business. You’ve made my life miserable and I’m gonna pay you back in spades.”

I had to keep him talking. If I could keep him on the line long enough to get someone to call the cops, maybe they’d be able to catch him. I gave Santa a surreptitious poke in the back and he turned around.

“Call the police,” I mouthed.

“What?”

“The Police, the police!”

He turned to the guy in front of him and stuck his index finger next to his temple, twirling it around in the universal sign for crazy.

I sighed. “Glen, could you hold on for a minute? I’m getting another call.” Okay, so maybe I wasn’t thinking too clearly. I just figured if I could put him on hold, I could call the cops myself. But Glen was on a roll.

“I’m used to slicing people now. I’m getting good at it. It’s gonna be fun ripping into you.”

“You’re a real one-note guy, aren’t ya Glen?” That was me being brave, but my knees had other ideas. They were buckling beneath me at an alarming rate.

“I can’t wait to feel your flesh against the knife. In fact, I’m so close I could reach right out and touch you.”

I didn’t get to hear all the other neat plans Glen had for me, for at that precise moment I fainted.

Santa Claus scraped me off the sidewalk. He offered to call an ambulance, but it’s embarrassing enough to pass out on a city street without being carted away on a stretcher. I was getting pretty good at recognizing the signs of a concussion, blurred vision being one of them. Only one of my eyes was blurry, and my pupils weren’t
all that
dilated, so I didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Still, Santa, who turned out to be Joe Morgen of the Gas Company, suggested I call someone to give me a ride home. He would have volunteered himself, to make up for the “crazy” reference, but he had to get to a Christmas party.

I picked up my cell phone off the ground and opened it, but that was as far as I got before I slammed it shut again, disgusted with myself. If I hadn’t keeled over, I could’ve contacted the police and maybe they would’ve nabbed Davis. He must be half way across town by now. At least I hope he is. The thought of him watching me made my skin crawl.