No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (29 page)

I turned to Nick. “I think I should contact the mayor.”

Nick fought back a laugh. “You really
don’t
listen to a thing that guy says, do you?”

I thought about it. No, I guess I don’t.

“Look, I hate to be a party pooper, but I have to go along with DiCarlo on this one.”

Nick finished his coffee and went off to take a shower. I waited until I heard the bathroom door close and then I picked up the phone and dialed four one one.

“Philadelphia. City Hall, please.”

I stated my name to the receptionist and, when asked, told him my business was of a personal nature. I was put on hold for a minute and then the mayor’s voice came on the line. He sounded formal and strained and frankly not very happy to hear from me.

“Thank you for coming to the phone, Mayor. I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Ms. Alexander, I’m a busy man, and after the stunt you pulled, I’m a whole lot busier. What is it that you want?”

Okay, not in the mood for chit chat. I totally understood how he felt, because now that I had him on the line common sense reared its ugly head, and I was sort of wishing I hadn’t called him. “Mayor, recently, certain facts about you have come to my attention, and I believe it would be mutually beneficial to get together to discuss them.” I was formulating my plan as we went along, and I just hoped an idea popped up in my brain before it was my turn to speak again.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That made two of us.

“I think you do.”

“No,” he insisted, annoyance creeping into his voice. “I don’t.”

I sighed. Blackmailing a public official is probably a federal offense so I was trying to be subtle. But this guy just wasn’t getting it. I decided to go for broke.

“So, any breakthroughs in the Curtis Maitlin murder case? I’ve heard he was into all kinds of disreputable things involving the most surprising people.”
Hint, hint, you moron.
For all I knew I was being taped and Federal agents were bearing down on my door at this very moment. I held my breath and waited for what seemed like a really long time. When he spoke again, it was with the tightly composed voice of a seasoned politician.

“Ms. Alexander, I have a very full schedule today, but if you would be so kind as to join me for a drink at my home, later this evening, I would be happy to discuss whatever it is you have on your mind. My family is away visiting relatives for a few days, so we can be assured no interruptions.”

I copied down his address and told him I’d be there at eight, and then I hung up before I said anything else that could get me ten to twenty.

“I assume you have a plan.” I jumped a mile at the sound of Nick’s voice. He was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, his arms raised, lightly touching the top of the doorframe. His wet hair was slicked back from his face, and a towel was wrapped around his waist, showcasing his incredibly toned body. He had a slighter build than Bobby, but equally powerful. His chest was smooth and his stomach muscles, tight. I sucked in my breath at the sight of him.

Quickly, I turned away and poured myself another cup of coffee. “When did you get out of the shower?”

“Don’t you mean, ‘How long have I been standing here?’ Long enough to know I can’t leave you alone for a minute.”

I glanced back at him. He seemed more amused than angry. “Okay, so I don’t always follow other people’s advice. My gut was telling me to call the mayor.”

Barely suppressing a smile he inched towards me, a wild cat stalking his prey. His towel hung precariously low on his hips. “And what’s your gut telling you right now?” Nick said, his voice deepening.

“Run.” I squeaked.

He laughed, throwing his head back, and I got a rush at the sight of him.

“I make you nervous.” It wasn’t a question.

“Sometime,” I gulped. “A little bit.”

“Why?” He backed me up against the kitchen counter, spreading his muscular arms on either side of me, bracing himself on the counter top. He stared down at me, his eyes a dark pool of melted chocolate. He began to slowly press himself against me, smiling as I tried to wiggle free.

“Well, there’s that, for starters,” I breathed, staring down at his towel, which had grown noticeably larger and was rubbing against my stomach.

Nick reached out and framed my face with his hands. He stared intently at me and then slowly pressed his soft, full lips over mine.
Oh my God!
I didn’t move a muscle, which is more than I could say for him. I let myself enjoy the feeling for a moment, but panic set in and I tried to move away again. This time he let me.

“You’ve got to stop doing that,” I said, hoarsely.

“Why?” That smile again. I wasn’t sure why, and I would be really disappointed if he did stop. But I felt like he was teasing me, and after a four-year dry spell I was in no mood to be teased. “You really don’t know how sexy you are, do you, Brandy Alexander.”

“Shut uh-up!”

My plan was simple. Make that imbecilic. I was going to meet the mayor and convince him that I had evidence that Curtis Maitlin was blackmailing him because Maitlin knew about the deal with the contracting firm, which would effectively end the mayor’s political career and probably earn him some hefty jail time. So he had Maitlin and everyone connected to him wasted. Then I would offer to keep quiet, for a price. The mayor would cave in to my demands and I’d get it all on tape. He’d be arrested and carted off to prison before he could make me his next victim, and I would win the Pulitzer Prize for my phenomenal investigative reporting. Whoo hoo!

Nick agreed that I’d already stuck my foot in too deep to step out gracefully now.

“So, is this a one-woman operation, or did you have someone in mind to back you up this evening?”

God, I hated to ask, but he was going to make me. “Actually,” I replied, “I thought I’d ask Carla if she wanted to ride shotgun, tonight. She’s always up for a little action.”

“Carla,” he repeated, a smile playing on his lips. “I’ve got to admit I’m a little disappointed. I’ve got all this neat new surveillance equipment that I’ve been anxious to try out. But if you’ve already promised Carla…”

I breathed a silent sigh of relief. “Look, you’ve done a lot for me, so I’m sure Carla will understand if I let you come with me, instead.”

“Thanks,” Nick said, solemnly. I won’t forget this.”

My eyes filled unexpectedly with tears. “Neither will I.”

Nick had appointments all day, something to do with training rebel soldiers from Algeria, in his highly specialized form of self-defense. I’m not exactly sure, since I obtained this information through my usual method of listening at the door, and Nick has very thick doors. He arranged for an associate to stick with me so that I could go home, change my clothes and do some errands. I didn’t like the idea of spending my day in the company of a stranger, but it seemed to work out well for Whitney Houston in “The Bodyguard.” She ended up with Kevin Costner, and the more I thought about Kevin Costner in The Bodyguard, the more the idea began to appeal to me.

A half an hour later the doorbell rang, and in walked the largest woman I’d ever laid eyes on. She must have been about six foot eight in both directions, with muscles bulging out of her blue denim work shirt and tree-trunk legs encased in super stretch blue jeans. Next to her I looked positively two-dimensional. Her name was Nell and she was from Sweden. Apparently Nick had never seen “The Bodyguard.”

“Nell doesn’t speak much English, but she’s very good at her job. Just don’t make any sudden moves around her.”

There were three messages on the answering machine when I got home. The first one was from my mother. She hadn’t heard from me in a few days and she hoped that I wasn’t too bored being stuck in Philadelphia, after the exciting life that I lead in Los Angeles. Call number two was from my producer, Gail. She had the “cutest” idea for a segment for when I returned from my vacation. “You know how Los Angeles is the plastic surgery capital of the world. What do you think of ‘On Air’ Rhinoplasty? The station will get a top L.A. plastic surgeon to give you a nose job in front of morning viewers. And it won’t cost you a thing!”
What’s wrong with my nose?
According to Gail the general manager loved the idea. I hate my life.

Philip Gruber was call number three.

They say that “three’s the charm” and Philip Gruber was nothing less than charming. He identified himself in a voice that was strangely pitched and a little on the whiny side, but the man was smooth. He said he hoped that he’d gotten the correct phone number and to forgive his boldness at calling, but he had heard that I was interested in doing a story on him and wondered if he could be of assistance. Wow. What a lovely way to let me know he was “on” to me.

He left his phone number and asked me to call him at my earliest convenience. I jotted it down and peeked into the living room. Nell had taken up residence on the couch and was flipping through the channels on the TV. I went back into the kitchen and sat down and tried to figure out what to do.

I really didn’t want to meet with Gruber. The truth is I am a fearless reporter over the phone and far away from the bad guys. But face-to-face I don’t do so well. My heart gets all racy, and I start to sweat and my stomach feels all bunchy, and I’m just a big fat bundle of chicken nerves. But there’s also that part of me, that optimistic, “look on the sunny side” of me that says, “What are the odds of anything bad happening?” And I figured that after what happened last night, the odds would have to be tipped in my favor. Besides, it was the middle of a workday. People would be in and out of the office, Nell would be close by and the glock she was carrying concealed in the waistband of her super stretch denims gave me that little added air of confidence. I decided to call him.

Like my old friend Bruce says, “It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission.” It’s also faster. Not that I
needed
Bobby’s permission to go see Gruber. I just didn’t have time for the inevitable lecture that would follow. I’d tell him afterwards.

I slipped into a pair of black linen slacks and a beige top and ran a comb through my hair. I grabbed my bag, my L.A. press badge, a clipboard and some pens advertising Sam’s Delicatessen. Then I handed Nell my new digital camera—it was still in the box, I don’t know how to use it, and anointed her my camera crew. A quick look in the mirror and we were good to go.

I had planned on driving the Mercedes, but Nell couldn’t fit into the bucket seats, so we took her Hummer instead. Forty-five minutes later we pulled into the parking structure of the old Jefferson Building on Walnut Street. Hoffman and Gruber Construction occupy a suite of offices on the penthouse floor. I climbed into the elevator and waited for Nell to follow. She stood outside the doors shaking her spiky blond head, no.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Too small,” she said.

“No, see, there’s plenty of room.” I squashed into the corner, allowing her a wide berth.

She didn’t budge. She was thinking hard, her face screwed up in concentration.

“Closetphobia,” she said, finally.

“Closet—Oh! You’re claustrophobic!”

Nell nodded her big head vigorously. “We take steps.”

“No,
you’ll
take steps. I’ll take the elevator.”

I reached out to push the “close” button, but Nell was faster. She grabbed a hold of my arm and yanked me out of the elevator. “We don’t separate. We both take steps.”

“But it’s twenty-six floors,” I whined.

She nodded again, smiling, the glock resting comfortably against her hip.

“
Oh, fine
,” I sighed, taking the steps two at a time in order to keep up with her.

Fifteen minutes later we reached the top. My lungs were burning and I was panting like a dog in heat while Nell barely broke a sweat. It’s not my fault I wasn’t born in Sweden where they emphasize all that physical fitness crap. I ran my fingers through my hair and walked out onto the floor of Hoffman and Gruber Construction.

The receptionist picked up the phone and a moment later Philip Gruber emerged from his office to greet me. He was not what one would describe as physically imposing, yet there was something about him that held an audience. He settled his eyes on me and a smile fell into place on his lips, and I got the sudden and very creepy feeling that I was in the Hollywood Wax Museum. The man did not seem human.

“Ms. Alexander,” he said, extending a well-dressed sleeve towards me. His hand felt cool and soft, almost doughy. Mine was still sweaty from the hike up the stairs and the beginnings of a panic attack. The second we’d made skin contact I wanted to run screaming from the room.

“Mr. Gruber.”

He glanced over to Nell who grunted in greeting.

“This is Nell,” I stopped, realizing I didn’t know her last name. “She’s my camera person,” I finished lamely. This was too dumb. He knew who I was and why I was there. But I couldn’t let go of the charade.

“Come back into the office, Ms. Alexander. Perhaps Nell would like a cold drink while we have a chat.” I glanced at Nell, who nodded her head imperceptively and settled onto the couch.

His office was light and spacious. The walls were filled with framed photos of Gruber at various charity events, Gruber accepting an award, Gruber clowning it up at the opening of a new building. Oddly, there were none of the traditional family photos.

A huge mahogany desk sat in the corner near the window, dwarfing Gruber when he sat behind it. Sitting there, he looked like a small child in need of a booster seat. I almost felt sorry for him. The feeling didn’t last long.

“Why do you find me of such interest, Ms. Alexander?”

“Well, you
have
had a startling rise to fame with all the construction contracts you’ve been awarded. One might wonder how you got so lucky.”

He gave me a brief, hard look before answering. “I’m very good at what I do, Ms. Alexander.”

I didn’t doubt it.

The smile was back and he leaned forward in his chair. “What exactly do you want to know?”

“Mr. Gruber—”