No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (27 page)

“Um, may I speak with Nick, please?”

“He’s in the shower. Who’s calling?”

My throat got all lumpy and I couldn’t answer her if I tried, so I hung up again. I sat at my kitchen table, shredding a paper napkin and trying to figure out why I was feeling so mad I wanted to rip the heads off of live chickens. Ten minutes later the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Brandy Alexander.”
Nick.
His voice was teasing, and very “just woke up after a night of hot sex” husky. I don’t know who I hated more, him for sounding that way or her for making him sound that way.

“Oh, hi Nick. What’s up?”
Very cool
. I could hear him whisper something to her in the background and it pissed the hell out of me. So I repeated in my best “bitch” voice, “What’s up?”

He came back on the line. “I don’t know. You called me.”

“I did not.”
He has no proof.

“Oh. Your name turned up on Caller I.D. My mistake.”

Unhhh! Now I look like a bitch and a liar.
I decided to ignore the whole thing. “Well, since I’ve got you on the line…”

I told him about the mysterious phone call and my plan to rendezvous at the train station at eight o’clock.

“And you want me to come with you.”

“Well…”

More whispering in the background, this time female. He said something back to her and they both laughed.

“Y’know, Nick, it sounds like you’re busy. I’ll catch you when you’re not so preoccupied.” And for the third time that morning I hung up.

He must’ve hit redial because the phone rang right away. I contemplated not answering, but he already knew I was home.

“What?”

“We weren’t finished with our conversation. What time do you want me there tonight?” he asked, pleasantly.
Oh he thinks he’s so cool.

“It’s nice of you to offer, but I think I’ll field this one myself.”
God I could be childish.

“Okay.”

Okay?
“I can take care of myself, you know,” I added belligerently, as if he’d given me an argument.

“You’re very capable,” he agreed.

“So, I’ll be going then—alone—to meet some stranger
. Could
be a rapist.
Could
be a murderer…”

“What time do you want me to pick you up?”

“Seven thirty.”

I had absolutely no right to feel this way, but I hoped they’d had a big fight after we hung up the phone. She’d beg him to stay and make passionate love with her all night, but Nick would say, “No, bitch. Brandy needs me. I’m outta here.” Where was I getting this stuff? Nick doesn’t talk anything like that. I decided I had way too much time on my hands and went off to do something productive.

I typed in Schoolmates.com on Janine’s computer, and Philip Gruber’s name and the name of the college and year in which he graduated. Janine was off to her mother’s for her weekly “Laundry and Lecture,” but she told me to take as much time as I needed. There was something weird about Philip Gruber but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Judging from the list of charities he donated to, he certainly played the role of nerdy philanthropist to the hilt. But I got the feeling there was another Philip Gruber lurking behind the bespeckled nice guy image. Call me crazy but anybody who collected animal heads to glue on his wall can’t be as mild mannered as this guy was making himself out to be. I hoped that his old college buddies might be able to shed some light on him.

Two hours later I had a much clearer picture of Philip “The Jackal” Gruber than before. I introduced myself as Brandy Alexander, features editor for the Philadelphia based Magazine “Newsworthy!” and I told them I was doing an article on one of their college friends, Philip Gruber.

According to his classmates, the guy
had
no friends, with the possible exception of the man who eventually was to become his partner, Michael Hoffman. The general consensus was that Gruber would sell his grandmother’s dentures if he thought he could turn a buck. He was nicknamed “The Jackal” after a particularly nasty incident, in which he was suspected of taking money to trip up another runner in a high stakes relay race so that the favored runner could win. The guy who fell broke his leg in three places and had to forfeit his athletic scholarship. Well, no one accused Gruber of not being enterprising.

On a whim I then looked up his ex wife, Marlo, in the phone book. According to the article I’d read on Gruber, Marlo owned an art gallery in Center City. She answered the phone herself and I made my fake introductions. I have always found that the key to successful lying was in believing the lie myself. I was really starting to like my pretend job with Newsworthy!

Marlo Gruber’s cheery “phone answering” voice died as soon as I mentioned her ex husband’s name. I could feel a physical shift in her demeanor as she told me in no uncertain terms that she was not willing to discuss the man. I would have chalked it up to the usual post divorce bitterness, except that she didn’t sound bitter. She sounded scared shitless. What was with this guy, anyway?

I finished up at Janines’and headed home to get dressed for my rendezvous with the mystery man. What does one wear to a clandestine meeting with a stranger? Nick would be there too, which definitely upped the ante. Okay, we were meeting outside a train station. How out of place would I look dressed in a slinky black gown and four- inch stiletto heels if I even owned that kind of wardrobe, which I don’t. But I wanted to look nice for Nick. I settled on a fresh pair of jeans and my new black underwear. At least
I’d
know I looked nice.

By seven twenty-five I was set to go. My freshly washed hair smelled like vanilla and fell tangle-free to my shoulders. The new bra was slightly push-up, which gave the illusion that I actually had breasts to speak of. My jeans were tight and my top was low. I debated about shoes, but in the end I opted for my old shit-kicker boots, just in case things turned nasty and I had to kick the shit out of somebody. This was totally uncharted territory and I wanted to be prepared for any eventuality. I knew it was kinda sick to turn this into a “date with Nick” of sorts, when some poor schlub was counting on me to save his life. But who knew when I’d have another opportunity to spend time with Santiago, and I’m a big believer in multi tasking.

At exactly seven thirty the doorbell rang. Suddenly the seriousness of what I was about to embark on hit me.
“Oh my God, this isn’t a game. This is a real life murder investigation, with informants and dead people and everything.”
I opened the door and freaked.

“Nick!” I screamed, my neurotic impulses bearing down on me, “I can’t do this. Who do I think I am, Woodward and Bernstein? I investigate Flower Shows and Doggie Beauty pageants for a living. I’m strictly small potatoes. What made me think I could pull off meeting some stranger who says his life is in my hands? He’s wrong. I can’t be trusted. I’m so sorry I dragged you out here tonight. I can’t go. You look very nice, by the way.”

He was wearing a pair of faded Levi’s and an old herringbone jacket, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his ever- present silver wristband. I could tell he was trying hard to keep from laughing. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pocket and the front of the jacket fell away, revealing what appeared to be the business end of a .38.

“Is that a gun under there?” I asked.

“It’s illegal to carry concealed.”

I waited for him to go on, but that was it as far as he was concerned. I stepped aside and let him into the house. It felt weird to have dangerous, scary, beautiful Nick standing in my mommy’s living room. He smiled at me, encouragingly. When he spoke his words were non judgmental and soothing.

“If you don’t want to do this, I’m not going to push you. I just want you to think about how you’ll feel if you don’t go.” He had me there.

We found parking out on the street several blocks from the station. Since we were a few minutes early we went over the plan again. I would walk up to the corner alone, Nick following behind at a discreet distance. It would be crowded at the front of the building, so Nick would blend in nicely with the commuters. He wouldn’t be more than a few feet away; even if I couldn’t see him I had to trust that he was there. If I felt any discomfort at all, I was to raise my hand like I was hailing a cab and Nick would appear at my side. It was a simple plan and, as it turned out, quite unnecessary.

My heart lodged firmly in my mouth, I walked stiff legged to the appointed corner. Casually I looked about, noting the people around me. Most of them appeared to be business folk, coming home after an exhausting day at work. Some carried luggage. A few had shopping bags.

After a few minutes I noticed a man about Nick’s height walking towards me. He did a cursory glance around before his eyes settled on me. The man wore a gray sweatshirt and jogging pants. A Phillies’ baseball cap obscured his face. Someone jostled him and he jumped back slightly. When he realized it was an accident, he nodded and quickened his pace. He was within handshaking distance when a crackling sound stung the air, and in that instant his head exploded like a Halloween pumpkin that had been dropped from a second story window.

Hysterical screaming echoed all around me, and in a blink I was sent sprawling as a heavy weight tackled me from behind. My head hit the concrete and I had just enough time to register Nick’s face hovering above me before I blacked out. I remember thinking he looked terribly handsome.

People were running, screaming, crying. Sirens wailed in the distance. And pieces of a man’s broken and bloodied head lay inches from my own. I tried to get up but felt Nick’s strong hand gently push me back down. His dark eyes roved over me and for the second time in a little over a week I was checked for signs of concussion. Finally, he allowed me to sit up. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Okay? A man’s head just exploded in my face. I have bits of someone else’s cerebellum stuck in my hair. Of course I’m not okay!

“I’m fine.” I crawled to my knees and threw my guts up.

The police were beginning to arrive on the scene. Nick scooped me up and forced his way through the crowd. There were too many people and not enough cops, so we managed to slip through the cracks. I drifted in and out of consciousness as he carried me beyond the police barriers and back to his car.

A familiar voice penetrated the fog in my brain.
Bobby?
“Put her down, Santiago.” A gun, waved directly in Nick’s face, accompanied the command.

“She can’t stand up on her own,” Nick explained calmly. “She’s in shock.”

“What are you doing here?” Bobby’s voice was controlled, but barely.

“That guy who was shot, he was meeting Brandy tonight. He said he had information for her about the mayor.” Nick paused. “She didn’t tell you about this, did she?”

Oh God, why bring that up now?
I struggled to climb out of Nick’s arms, but he wouldn’t put me down. “Let me explain,” I said weakly.

“We don’t have time. Look, DiCarlo, the police are going to want to question her. You can do that on your own, after we get her out of here. Do you really want her exposed to God only knows what danger now? That bullet could have been meant for her, for all we know, and every second that we stand here chatting only puts her in more danger. I can protect her. You know I can.”

“You did a hell of a job protecting her tonight.”

I felt Nick’s arms tighten automatically around me.

“My head hurts.”

“Get her out of here,” Bobby hissed through gritted teeth. “But I swear to God if she’s harmed in any way—”

Nick reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. He balanced me on his knee and handed Bobby a business card. “Here’s my private phone number and home address. Call or come by as soon as you’re finished here.”

Bobby took the card and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he leaned over me and pushed my bangs aside and placed a kiss on my forehead. There was hurt in his eyes and I knew I’d put it there. Why hadn’t I told him about tonight? Well, I’d have plenty of time to think about it, because after this evening I wasn’t planning on being able to sleep again for the rest of my life.

N
ick pulled up in front of a beautiful, ivy-covered, brick apartment building overlooking Rittenhouse Square. It was four stories tall, with large beveled glass windows and a marble entryway. The place was quietly elegant and smelled of old money. Somehow it suited him.

He parked right out front in the loading zone and ran around the side of the car to let me out. I’d spent the entire ride back to his place curled up in a fetal position in the passenger’s seat. He had a blanket in the trunk, which he’d wrapped around me, but I just couldn’t seem to get warm.

Nick kept up a steady stream of comforting words, occasionally reaching out to touch me. A concussion was not out of the realm of possibility and he fought to keep me awake. It was quite a struggle. My head was throbbing and my body ached. But mostly I just wanted some relief from the agonizing image that kept floating across my mind. When a man’s head shatters right before your eyes, it tends to stay with you.

I tried to walk on my own, but my knees kept giving way. Nick picked me up and carried me to the elevator.

“I’m sorry I’m so much trouble,” I mumbled into his shoulder. It was uncharacteristic of me to act like such a wimp, and I really hated myself for it. Nick pressed the elevator button for the fourth floor. The doors opened and he stepped in, and I felt the floor drop beneath us as it began to ascend. The elevator doors opened again, and he carried me down a long hallway, stopping at the door at the end.

“Are you able to stand up?” he asked. I nodded and he let me down slowly, propping me against the wall while he dug in his pocket for his key.

The door opened onto a small foyer, which led into the living room. It was a large room with hardwood floors and cathedral ceilings. It was furnished with an overstuffed beige leather couch and two matching chairs. There were wall-to-wall bookshelves, filled to overflowing with books, but the most impressive piece of furniture, by far, was the magnificent old baby grand piano that stood in the corner by the window.