No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (21 page)

They say, or at least Andy Warhol did, and I’m paraphrasing here, that everyone gets their fifteen minutes of fame. Well, make that
infamy
for Brandy Alexander, Visiting Anarchist. I swear people are so touchy about their elected officials. I mean it’s not like I
meant
to cause a riot. It all started out very cordially. I asked the mayor if he was a dog owner, (yes) which breed he preferred (They’re all special in their own way—very diplomatic), and what he thought of the current pooper-scooper laws. (He’ll have a committee examine the issue and get back to me on that.) He preened his way through the taped segment and kissed enough puppies to ensure his reelection clear to the next century.

When tape stopped rolling, I thanked him and then introduced him to Lynne. Okay, so maybe I should have thought this through a little before dropping a bomb on him like that, but I figured there was no time like the present, and, typically, I plunged right in.

As soon as Novack’s name was uttered, a swarm of reporters converged on the mayor like wolves to raw meat. Apparently, it was a major faux pas to mention a murder victim while the mayor was busy ass kissing his way into the hearts of dog lovin’ Philadelphians, and they couldn’t wait to see what this gauche, L.A. upstart would say next.

I looked around. “Well, aren’t you people at all curious as to why evidence has disappeared
twice
now in murder cases that seem to be connected?”
Shit, I wasn’t supposed to say that.

The press reared itself up en masse and began firing questions at Richardson, who looked like he was trying really hard not to swallow his tongue. They asked him if my allegations were true. This is where it got really tricky for the mayor. If he said yes, he would appear like he was running an incompetent, and/or corrupt police department. If he said no, and it turned out to be true, he could kiss his reelection and dreams of the governorship bye-bye. He turned to me with the waxen look of someone who had spent the day being embalmed. “These are very serious charges, young lady.”
No duh.

“I agree, Mayor. All the more reason to take immediate action. Unless what the gay community is saying is true; that you’re dragging your feet because you don’t want to alienate the Extreme Right, those who think it’s a waste of taxpayers’ money to investigate a gay man’s murder.”

At this point Marty, the line producer jumped in. “Well, that’s about all the time we have, folks.” He wrapped a companionable arm around me and whisked me down the hall, away from the mayor and his apoplectic entourage. “You couldn’t just stick to the script, could you?” No, I guess I couldn’t.

I made the six o’clock news. I’d stopped off at DiBruno Brothers down at the Italian Market, to pick up some cheese and artichoke hearts. I figured that once my boss got wind of what I’d done I’d be out of a job, so I may as well eat while I could still afford the luxury. I tore off a hunk of fresh Italian bread and slapped a piece of cheese on it. Then I walked into the living room and flopped down on the couch. I’d forgotten a fork, so I picked some artichokes out of the container with my hand and then licked the brine off my fingers. No wonder I live alone.

The phone rang just as I flipped on the t.v. to watch The Simpsons.

“Turn on Channel 10.”

“Yo, Carla, what’s up?”

“You’re on t.v. Hurry.”

Well, there I was, big as life, announcing to the entire Lehigh Valley that the mayor’s a doofus who doesn’t know what’s going on in his own back yard, and that I have managed to obtain secret information that could discredit the entire Philadelphia Police Force. Way to go, Brandy. “I guess I got a little carried away.”

“You’re telling me,” Carla agreed.

“Maybe nobody saw it. I mean who watches the news when The Simpsons are on?”

Turns out, a lot of people. Vince called after I hung up from Carla. Seems I’m the new hot topic over at City Hall. Paul called too, and Frankie. Janine wanted to know why I wore black when everybody knows my color is red, and Bobby left a message on the answer machine that was so full of expletives it sounded like he was speaking a foreign language. I think my big mouth ensured me a place on the “cop shit list” so if any bad guys visited me tonight, I’d be pretty much on my own.

Just when I figured I’d finally run out of people I knew in the Greater Philadelphia area (even Mindy Rebowitz called to offer beauty tips. She said the camera lights made me look pasty and I should consider using foundation) the phone rang again. It was Nick.

“Are you calling to congratulate me on my east coast television debut?”

“Ah, I think I missed something here. Want to fill me in?”

When I was through, he gave out a long whistle. “Trouble just follows you around, doesn’t it?”

“It’s not my fault,” I sighed. “I have excitable genes.”

“Come again?”

“My mother’s side of the family, the Italian side. Very emotional people.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” I could almost hear him smiling through the phone. “I’ve got a line on the SUV.”

“Already? Wow. How’d you do that?”

“Trade secret.”

“And what trade would that be?”

“That’s another secret. The car belongs to a guy named Thurman Williams. It seems that our man Thurman has been one busy dude. He’s served time for armed robbery and was arrested for attempted murder a few years back, but it never went to trial because the key witness disappeared.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Afraid not. There’s more. Williams was dishonorably discharged from the army, something drug related, it looks like. But guess what field he’d been trained in before he got discharged.”

“Demolition?”

“Bingo.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to visualize the bastard who’d almost succeeded in turning my best friend into burger bits.

“I have one more thing,” Nick continued. “He’s working construction now for a local company.”

“Who in their right mind would actually employ this guy?” I shrieked.

“It says here he works for Hoffman and Gruber Construction.”

“Why do I know that name?”

“They’ve built half the city. They’ve got projects in various stages of development all around town.”

“Hey, aren’t they building the new sports arena?”

“Yeah. Plus, they were just awarded a massive renovation project that’s due to start the beginning of the year.”

“Well, you’d think these people would do a better job screening potential employees.” I could just picture this guy’s resume. “
Extensive experience in murder and mayhem. Good with people and making them dead.”

Nick put me on hold while he answered his other line. While he was gone I tried to establish a link between Maitlin and this Williams guy, but I kept coming up empty. Nick came back on the line. “Sorry, angel, I have to take this call.”

“Okay. Listen, thanks for all your help. I just have to figure out how it all goes together. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Maybe not yet, but give it some time.” Boy, how little he knows me.

Gail phoned. Predictably, the general manager was less than thrilled with my impromptu performance and threatened to pull my contract if only they could find someone else who was willing to humiliate herself on a daily basis, for a ridiculously small paycheck. My network is notoriously cheap.

I felt lonely and depressed. Not even the Hershey bar I’d hidden in case of emergency was able to cheer me up. I called Franny, but Eddie said she was at Carla’s getting her moustache waxed. He must really love her to be privy to that kind of information and still be willing to go through with the wedding. Paul was at the club. I thought about driving over there, but I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. Frankie offered to take me with him to a hockey game, only he was going with three other guys, and I’d have to sit on someone’s lap on the car ride over. And Janine was off getting her aura cleansed. I briefly wondered what Mindy Rebowitz was doing.

When the doorbell rang at eight thirty, my stomach muscles contracted and I began to break out in a sweat. Everyone I knew was busy, so that left Hatchet Man. Maybe he’d come back to finish the job. I peered cautiously out the spy hole. Bobby peered back at me, his face a road map to hell. Mad didn’t even begin to describe it.

“Brandy, open the door.”

“No.”

“I mean it, Alexander. Open the Goddamn door.”

“No. You’re scaring me.”

He changed tactics, his voice growing quietly controlled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just want to talk, okay?”

“You’re not going to yell at me?”

He thought about it. “I can’t guarantee that.”

“Then go away.” I’d had enough trauma for one day and I didn’t need any more, no matter how attractively packaged it was.

Bobby sighed loudly. He shifted his stance and I caught a glimpse of his gun, hidden under his jacket.
God, I hope he’s coming off shift. I’d hate to think he wore it just for me.
“I won’t yell,” he said.

I unlatched the chain and twisted the deadbolt open. He sauntered in, looking like an Irish Italian God, all heat and muscle and long lean body. He tossed his jacket onto the couch and unhooked his holster, placing it on top of the television set. Then he sat down heavily on the couch, and stuck his legs up on the coffee table.

“Comfy?”

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the cushions. “Gimme a minute. I’m getting there.”

While he took his minute I began thinking about what it would be like to be married to Bobby. He’d come home after a hard day of shooting criminals, and I’d be waiting at the door in a shirtwaist dress, the kind June Cleaver used to wear, and a Martini in my hand. He’d kiss me chastely on the cheek and listen intently while I told him all about the trouble I’d had with the vacuum cleaner, and by the way, “The Beaver” was suspended again for sticking marbles up his nose.

“That’s my boy,” he’d grin, proudly.

“What?” I asked, aloud.

Bobby opened his eyes. “I said do you stay up nights thinking of ways to make me crazy?”

“Yes, Bobby. It’s all about you.” As if I gave him any thought at all. Sheesh. What an egomaniac. I nudged his feet off the coffee table. “You’re gonna leave scuff marks.”

He gave me a slow grin. “You’re getting to sound more like your mother every day.”

“Take that back or die, DiCarlo.”

He eyed the gun resting on top of the television and took it back.

“How’s John?” I asked, joining him on the couch.

“Fine. Bored. He’s stashed at a house in the country. He says it smells like feet and he swears dinner tonight was baked road kill. By the way, when did John become a vegetarian?”

Bobby kept his promise not to yell at me—for about fifteen minutes. But then a “teaser” came on television advertising “News at Ten,” and guess who was the lead story? Just my luck, no 7.0 earthquake in Japan that wiped out an entire village, to take the heat off me.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Brandy?” Bobby was sitting up now, hands clenched on his thighs, his jaw muscles working overtime.

“You said you wouldn’t yell at me.”

“Yeah, well that was before, when I’d just heard what you’d done. Now that I’ve seen it for myself —what the hell were you thinking? Advertising the fact that you know there’s something squirrelly going on in the department, and accusing the mayor of God only knows what. Did ya think this was a
good
thing? ‘Cause I gotta tell ya, from my point of view, it’s
not
helpful!”

I decided to ignore the insults and take a reasonable approach. “Bobby, can’t we just agree to disagree on this?”

“Are you, insane? You accused the mayor, on national television of being some kind of monster who goes around covering up crimes against gay citizens. Then you make the entire police force out to be this corrupt, evil organization—”

“Not the entire police force,” I said, quietly. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out that way. I just got really upset when I met Konner Novack’s sister. Somebody had to speak up for her.”

The phone rang and I ran to get it, grateful for the diversion. It was a man’s voice; at least I think it was a man’s. He sounded like he was speaking through a distortion device. “If you want to know what happens to people who can’t keep their noses out of other people’s lives, just look out your front door.” He hung up quickly, and I stood there, stunned, the phone dangling from my hand.

Bobby followed me into the kitchen. He took one look at my ashen face and grabbed the receiver from my hand. He listened a beat and then put it back on its cradle.

“Who was on the phone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what did he say?”

I started for the front door. “He said to look out my front door.”

“Don’t.” Bobby swatted my hand away as I reached for the doorknob. He grabbed his gun off the television set and motioned me out of the way. Cautiously, he opened the door a tad, and then a bit more. “Christ,” he muttered and slammed the door shut again.

“What is it?” I pushed passed him and tried to open the door, but he grabbed me around the waist and swung me around. “Get out of my way, Bobby,” I screamed.

“Brandy—”

“Move.”

He stepped aside and I opened the door. On the steps was the head of a goat, its neck tendons severed and dripping blood. Its eyes were wide open, exuding pain. And buried between the eyes, splitting its face in half was a hatchet. Bile shot up my throat and I forced it back down. I shut the door again but could not seem to let go of the doorknob.

Bobby gently pried my hand loose and guided me over to the couch. Then he shoved my head between my legs to keep me from passing out. “Tell me exactly what he said to you,” he told me. So I did.

“Bobby, do you think you could, um, clean it up for me?”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but we’ve got to call the cops in on this.”

“Why? They’re probably the ones who left it there in the first place.”

He opened his mouth to argue the point, but I guess he didn’t have the heart to follow through. “Go upstairs,” he said, instead.