No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (28 page)

I wandered into the middle of the room, not knowing what to do with myself. Nick threw his keys on the table in the foyer and guided me over to the couch, and I sat down, grateful not to have to support my own weight.

“Can I get you something?” He stared at me, concern creasing his face.

“A toothbrush, if you have an extra one. And a bottle of scotch.”

He smiled and disappeared down the hallway. A minute later he returned, carrying a new toothbrush still in its wrapper. He directed me to the bathroom and turned on the light. The bathroom had mint green and black tile and an old- fashioned stand-alone sink. Very art deco. I closed the door and sank down onto the toilet seat lid.

On cue, the tears began to fall, slowly at first and then with increasing force. As my mind replayed the events of the evening, my body trembled so violently I almost fell off the seat. I sat there for several minutes, my arms wrapped around my knees, rocking back and forth trying to soothe myself. When I was sure I could stand up without collapsing, I bent over the sink and brushed my teeth, scrubbing away the sour taste of bile in my mouth. I washed my face and blew my nose and turned off the light. With any luck at all, Nick wouldn’t know that I’d been crying. I swung open the bathroom door. He was waiting for me on the other side.

“Oh, hi.” I said, feeling suddenly shy. Once again I was struck by the fact that in spite of our recent history, I barely knew this man. We had shared a terrifying ordeal tonight, and some fairly hot (at least by my meager standards) moments on the dance floor, but other than the fact that I was unbelievably attracted to him, what did I actually know about Nick?
And what was wrong with me that I should see a stranger’s head smashed to smithereens and still have the hormonal energy to be turned on by a pretty face?
Oh, I am sooo going to Hell over this one.

“Feeling better?”

“Uh huh. Thanks for the toothbrush.”

“Want to talk about it?”

I shook my head, no. Gathering up my pseudo courage I asked him if he would mind taking me home, or if I should call a cab.

“You’re not going anywhere, tonight, angel.”

“I’m not?” Thank God he wasn’t throwing me out! I simply couldn’t bear to be alone. I would have to move in with Mrs. Gentile.

“I don’t know what would piss off DiCarlo more, having you stay here or sending you home. But I get the feeling he’d rather you be safe, even if it means spending the night with me.” The words rolled off his tongue with the barest hint of a southern slur. Funny, I’d never noticed it before. It took me another beat to register what he’d said, and when it did, my stomach lurched joyfully.

I’m spending the night with Nick. Oh boy!

“Listen, darlin’, eventually we’re going to have to talk about what happened tonight.”

“I know,” I sighed. Just— not yet, okay?” I was curled up on one of the leather chairs, my legs tucked up under me, listening to the soft strains of an exotic CD. It was Gypsy music, very haunting. Very Nick. Earlier, he had suggested that I take a hot bath. My muscles were beginning to seize up on me, and it was becoming increasingly more difficult to move. I felt really funny about performing such an intimate— make that
naked
task in his house. He seemed to sense my discomfort and was amused by it.

“I could help you,” he offered. “You know, scrub those hard to reach places.”

“Y’know what? I probably don’t need a bath. I read somewhere that too much bathing is bad for your internal organs. It shrinks them and then they don’t function properly.”

“Brandy, trust me, you need a bath.”

I looked down at where he was staring, and for the first time I realized that parts of me were splattered with the dead man’s blood. Nick disappeared into his bedroom and returned a few minutes later, holding a pair of gray sweatpants and a long sleeved, crewneck, black cotton shirt. He put them on the bathroom sink, ran the water for me, and left, quietly closing the door behind him. I thought about locking it but that just seemed rude.

I stayed in the bathroom for a good half an hour, first soaking in the tub, then rummaging through his medicine cabinet. You can tell a lot about a person by his medicine cabinet. For instance, Nick was very neat. He had the standard pain relievers lined up on the first shelf, and there were no old bottles of cough syrup with crust forming on the cap lurking in the back. A box of Band-aids took up the next shelf and an open box of condoms. Hmm. My thoughts wandered back to the woman who had answered the phone this morning and I felt a sudden surge of hatred for this nameless creature. And I wasn’t too happy with Nick, either. I slammed the cabinet door shut with such force it popped back open, causing one of the glass shelves to dislodge and crash into the sink. Oops.

“Are you okay?” Nick called from somewhere in the other room.

“Um, yeah, I just needed a Band-aid.” Maybe he won’t notice the missing shelf.

After I cleaned up the mess and vowed in my head never to go snooping in other people’s stuff again, I resisted the urge to peek in Nick’s bedroom and strode back into the living room. I had hitched up the sweatpants as far as they could go and then rolled the waistband down until they settled comfortably on my hips. After much internal debate, I had decided to forgo underwear so that I could wash it out and have something clean to wear in the morning. As they lay dripping wet on the edge of the tub I decided it felt too weird going without panties, but it was too late to do anything about it.

It was after midnight and I was utterly exhausted, yet too full of anxiety to sleep. Bobby hadn’t called and I was beginning to get worried. I expressed this to Nick. Just then the phone rang. Nick picked it up and listened for a moment. “Speak of the devil.”

Bobby was calling to check up on me. I took the phone and assured him that I was all right. All hell was breaking loose at the station and he couldn’t get away. It turned out that the man who tried to meet me was a cop named Tom Belski, a twenty-four year veteran who was up for retirement next year. On a hunch Bobby faxed over a picture of him to Johnny at the safe house, and Johnny positive I.D.’d him as the detective who had shown up at his doorstep, masquerading as Detective Strom. I relayed this back to Nick.

“I’m leaving here in about an hour,” Bobby said. “I could come and get you and take you back to my place.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Bobby.”

“I know.” He sounded absolutely miserable. If the neighborhood grapevine got wind that I’d spent the night at his house, he’d never get his kid back.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine,” I lied. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Nick showed me to the spare room. I felt equal parts disappointment and relief that he didn’t try to sweet talk me into bedding down with him. I really hoped it wasn’t due to lack of interest but out of consideration of my feelings. The room doubled as an office. It had a computer, and file cabinets and a comfortable sofa bed. I climbed in and pulled the covers up to my chin, propping myself up against the pillows. Nick stood in the doorway, watching me. I didn’t know how to ask him about a nightlight without sounding like a complete baby, so instead I said the only other thing that was on my mind. “I’m sorry, Nick. I am so sorry.”

He pushed off the doorjamb and settled down at the end of the bed. Even in the dark I could see him smile. “For what?”

“How much time ya got?”

He laughed softly, shaking his head.

“You turned me down at first,” I reminded him. “I guess you should have stuck with your first instincts.”

“And miss all the fun?” He leaned in and tucked the blankets around me. “Goodnight, Brandy Alexander.”

A lone tear slid down my cheek and for once I was grateful for the dark.

I woke up about an hour later, sweat pouring off me, drenching my clothes. The dream was disjointed and terrifying. I lay in bed and tried to get my heart to beat normally, but I couldn’t stop the icy fear that gripped me.

A sliver of light emanated from under the door, so I climbed out of bed and crept down the hall. Nick was sitting at the piano, softly playing a beautiful, heartbreakingly melancholy tune. He was wearing loose black sweatpants and a white, sleeveless undershirt, which revealed a tattoo right below his shoulder. It looked like some kind of ancient tribal symbol etched into his caramel colored skin. He was smoking one of his thin brown exotic cigarettes, the ones he had sworn off, and he looked indescribably sad. He stopped playing and glanced up at me. “Bad dream?”

I nodded, unable to speak. He blew out a breath of smoke and extinguished the cigarette. Then he walked over to me and led me by the hand to the big leather chair. He sat down, pulling me onto his lap and wrapped his arms around me. “I know it’s not the red velvet chair, but maybe this will do for now.” I lay my head against his chest and felt my body relax in his protective embrace.

“Nick,” I said very quietly, “What does it feel like to kill someone?”

He let out a small sigh.

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“On who it is. Sometimes it’s sad. Sometimes, it’s— satisfying.”

Slowly, conscious thought began to drift away and I fell into a dreamless sleep.

I woke up alone in Nick’s bed. He must’ve moved me in the middle of the night. Did he sleep in here with me? I really wish I knew so I could be retroactively thrilled. He had a king sized bed with navy blue sheets and a blue and green tartan plaid comforter.

The dresser was dark wood, and devoid of personal knick-knacks, except for two small framed pictures. One was an old, faded photograph of a beautiful young woman with her arm draped around a little boy. He looked to be about five years old. The other photo was recent and showed Nick surrounded by a group of men in Israeli army fatigues. The bed stand was an antique and books were piled high on top of it, an eclectic mix of philosophy, self-defense, military strategies and Erotica. I felt myself blush and hopped out of bed. It was a little after nine.

I headed off for the bathroom, but the sound of an angry, raised voice coming from the kitchen stopped me. The voice belonged to Bobby. “How could you let her go, man? She could have been killed.”

Then Nick’s voice, softer, more controlled. “She was going to do this with or without me. I thought it would be better if I went along.”

“Jesus Christ.” Bobby banged his hand down on something hard. “She’s just so—so fucking stubborn sometimes.”

“Yeah, I picked up on that.”

Oh fabulous. Now they were bonding over my personality flaws.

“What are you getting out of this, Santiago? You don’t strike me as someone who would do something for nothing.”

I strained against the door to hear his response.

“What’s it to you, DiCarlo?” Nick answered smoothly. So much for male bonding.

I decided to make an appearance before Bobby challenged him to a duel. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Nick stood at the sink, filling the coffee pot with water. Bobby sat at the kitchen counter on a barstool. He’d been up all night at the station and was just going home to grab a shower and change clothes. All available cops were on duty. When one of their own is killed, it’s a very big deal. Bobby didn’t tell anyone that I was at the train station to meet Belski. He wasn’t convinced that Belski was the only cop who had been hired by the mayor, and it seemed prudent to keep his mouth shut until he had more information.

“Has anyone at the precinct mentioned that Belski may have been on the take? I mean we have proof now that he impersonated another officer and got the pictures but didn’t turn in the evidence. And it would only stand to reason that he was the one who stole the evidence in the last Maitlin murder too.”

“Brandy,” Bobby said, “you’re forgetting that we’re the only ones who know that. Everyone else thinks John is dead. It’s a little tough for a dead man to I.D. someone.”

“Well, maybe it’s time to resurrect John. And while we’re at it, I think we should have a talk with the mayor too.”

Bobby and Nick exchanged long-suffering looks.

“I saw that,” I snapped. “Look, I know that a lot of this is just conjecture on my part, but we know certain things to be true. Fact,” I said, ticking them off on my fingers as I went along, “Thurman Williams worked for Hoffman and Gruber. Fact, Williams blew up John’s boat. Fact, or common knowledge, same difference, Hoffman and Gruber Construction Company paid a lot of money to have Mayor Bradley Richardson elected so that he could turn over city contracts to them. Now suppose Curtis Maitlin somehow found out about this little financial arrangement and threatened to expose the mayor, unless he pulled the evidence on the first killing. I’m not saying that Richardson was happy about doing it, but what if Maitlin told him it was an accident, he didn’t mean to kill the guy, and Bobby, you said yourself that the guy who died had no family, nobody who seemed to notice he was gone. Maybe in Richardson’s eyes, it was one less pervert to clutter up his city. But then the second guy was killed and suddenly people are taking notice. That cop Belski was scared. Everyone associated with this case is ending up burnt toast. I think he knew he was next, and that’s why he wanted to spill his guts to me.”

I stopped, exhausted. I’d been up for close to fifteen minutes and I hadn’t had any coffee or chocolate. I wanted both. Nick poured me a cup and I sat down on the other barstool. I turned to Bobby. “It made sense before and now that we have this new information it seems even more clear. Thurman Williams may have pulled the trigger, but someone else is pulling the strings. The mayor’s our man. Or possibly Gruber.”

“Why rule out Williams?” Bobby yelled. “Maybe he had some vendetta against Maitlin and he was acting alone. You can’t go around accusing people with a bunch of speculation, because what it amounts to is you don’t know jack shit.”

Boy, he sure was irritable.

“Bobby, they must realize I’m close to putting it all together or else they wouldn’t be trying so hard to scare me off.”

Bobby closed his eyes and I could almost hear his mental “count to ten.” When he opened his eyes he said, “Why don’t you lay off this thing before they shut you up permanently?” He pushed himself off the barstool and headed for the front door. “Call your brother. He’s worried about you.” He gave a brief nod to Nick and was gone.