by A. J. Lape
Kyd genuinely sounded flabbergasted. “Who?”
“Your girlfriend?” Dylan stated as a question.
Flies had begun to buzz, landing on the dead man’s brown hair and face. I swallowed down some bile—convincing my lunch to stay put—but as soon as I swatted one fly, two replaced it.
Tricky and I were two peas in a pod, thinking and doing the same things. While Dylan and Kyd remained oblivious to anyone except the other, Tricky unexpectedly dropped down into a crouch next to me.
“Is it dead or what?” he whispered.
“Or what,” I answered.
I went on autopilot, knowing full well I should’ve lost bladder control or at the very least be screaming bloody murder. Luckily, I found my happy place and was able to cope when normal people would’ve been paralyzed with fright. I’m not sure what that said about me—that I was sometimes more comfortable with the dead than the living—but I decided to embrace it and consider it a gift.
Damp and covered in sand, the head looked like a science experiment, already presenting itself in varying stages of decay. The stench rang potent, and the remaining flesh was either falling off or bluish-gray. This man had died in fright because the expression on his lifeless face indicated one of surprise and extreme pain. His hair was brown, eyelashes were thick, and one blue eye sunk deep in its socket; the other was glazed over into nothingness. Sandy pus lined the pocket of the collapsed eyeball and bloodied capillaries spider-webbed the whites of his eyes. His contorted lips were ajar, showing perfectly porcelain teeth, and in the corner of his mouth was a scrap of paper rolled up like a cigarette.
My God, this was sick. I mean, what was the purpose? Tricky and I met eyes—simultaneously glanced at the paper—then back at one another once more. Our wheels turned, and our wanting to read that paper was like asking an aardvark if he liked ants. As if to ask silent permission, when I gave him a nod, Tricky fingered a twig next to him and lightly shoved it between the man’s teeth, tipping the letter to the sand. Before we could do anything else, I was instantly jarred from the trance by Kyd’s motoring big mouth.
“Listen, Taylor,” Kyd sneered, loud and obnoxiously. “One day soon you’re going to have to let her go.”
“Let her go?!” Dylan snorted. “What I do is absolutely none of your business, and the last person I’d ‘let her go’ to is you.”
Kyd snorted back. “I know she’s your best friend, but I’ve got her back.”
Dylan’s voice lowered an octave. “First of all, no one will ever have Darcy’s back like I do, and it’s what you’re doing behind it that worries me. I don’t trust you, Kyd. You use people, you change girlfriends like you change clothes, and you’re not going to work that shtick on Darcy.”
Kyd laughed. “What if she wants me to work it on her?”
Okay, he was cute, but I didn’t think I wanted his shtick.
“She doesn’t!” Dylan barked. “And screw you for the connotation.”
Dylan grunted and cursed in the primal sounds of cavemen. Dylan had a mouth on him and belted out a line of expletives that would peel the polish right off my toes. My mind thankfully bleeped out most profanity. I’m not sure why. God knew I sinned everywhere else.
Thing was, Kyd was a brother, and I had rules with brothers … sort of. Reaching behind me, I sunk my fingers in the sand, searched around, and found another stick, handing it to Tricky like you’d assist a brain surgeon. He put the two together like chopsticks and unfolded the paper, hoping we could get it read before Dylan and Kyd tired of their pissing match.
“I don’t date brothers,” I answered in Kyd’s direction. “Of course, I’d like to deepen our relationship, but for now,” I paused, “that’s it.”
“So it’s not a no?” Kyd clarified.
Dang it. Kyd had a one-track mind. I finally glanced up, gazing in Kyd’s blue-green eyes, firmly replying, “No!” Then it dawned on me, I didn’t know what the “no” was actually for … a “refusal” or a “maybe” in the future.
Dylan went ballistic—perhaps he interpreted it as a maybe—roughly shoving Kyd backwards up against the net. To him, our relationship was a no-fly zone, and Kyd stood in violation of federal laws. I opened my mouth, not having a clue what would come out next. Did I eventually want to date someone? Sure. Would it be Kyd? Um, he was taken.
After some careful maneuvering, Tricky pried open the note while I continued to keep Dylan occupied.
“It’s like this, Kyd,” I joked. “I’ll probably do whatever Dylan asks me to, and before I push up daisies, that might mean I’ll be chained to a radiator in his basement … where no one will ever see me, and I’ll die of boredom.”
My word, Dylan didn’t even issue a denial. He might technically be one of the good guys, but a part of him was nothing but the devil himself. I heard rumblings about the shamma lamma, ding-dong (all that boy-girl stuff I didn’t understand), and Kyd briefly had that oh-crap look. Unfortunately, it immediately transformed into differing degrees of cockiness where he thought he could down Dylan’s wild bull.
The fastard was on his own.
I nervously scrubbed the sand from my arms and legs and prayed. I prayed, people. I prayed for this head and for peace on Earth and the merriest of all Christmases. Finally, Tricky unfolded the note, without getting our fingerprints on it at all. Blowing some sand from the wording, imagine my surprise when it listed Gertrude Burr’s name, address, and underneath, the surname, “Medina.”
A breath stuck in my throat.
Talk about luck.
This was luck … and then some.
I’d told Troy I had something Saturday morning—that qualified as a “no show” in my book. Add Gertrude’s name? That was a gold mine of epic proportions. I just didn’t understand the specifics, yet.
Tricky and I had one of those unspoken moments where we debated “what was right versus what would quench our curiosity.”
Neither of us cared what was right. In the flutter of an eye, I made the quick decision to phone Gertrude Burr first. CPR wouldn’t be the answer in a situation like this—it was obviously too late for anything—so I figured we weren’t in danger of committing manslaughter by our lack of attention to a medical emergency.
Before guilt could take root, I pulled my iPhone out of the pocket of my shorts and dialed.
Gertrude Burr wore a white skirt and a pink, sleeveless sweater. A Prada designer bag on one shoulder, she was using the side of her silver Porsche Carrera as a crutch. Taller than average, her black hair swept back from her face in a sophisticated ponytail with platinum jewelry cascading from both arms and ears. Other than her penchant for married men, she represented your typical high society philanthropist. Right now, however, she looked sweaty and bug-eyed—a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown or swallowing a bottle of pills. She’d already eaten off four nails and had moved on to number five.
“Do you know who it is?” I asked her.
The color completely drained from her face. Thankfully, when I’d phoned earlier, her first instinct was to dart over and take care of business herself. I feared Serendipity Security would accompany her, but so far, so good.
“It’s Howie,” she whispered behind her shaking hand.
“An old boyfriend?” I asked softly. Gertrude burst out crying, snot flying from her nose like a gushing fountain of pain.
That answered that.
Words can either heal or be catastrophic. Thank heavens Tricky was born to talk to females because suddenly, I was an emotional idiot. Tricky patted himself down, my guess, looking for a handkerchief, but where he planned on finding one in a red Speedo remained a question for the gods. He settled for putting his arm around her quaking shoulders. “I’m so, so sorry,” he apologized smoothly. “Your pain must be unbearable.”
Gertrude sounded like she’d been sawed in half.
My conscience took a shot of bourbon. I’d made her cry, and by God, I wasn’t done with her yet. I kicked my bare feet around in the sand, sho
ving down the guilt, debating what I needed to do next. I had two things on my mind: the author of the note and the names of the PI firms searching for Cisco Medina. Gertrude, as traumatized as she was, held the answers to both. Before I could say anything, Dylan appeared behind me like a rabbit out of a hat. I didn’t have to see him; I felt the hairs on the back of my neck singe.
“What in God’s name…” bleep … mother bleeping … bleep. “Mother Mary,” he prayed, crossing his chest, breathing deep to calm himself. “Is that a head?”
Well, it sure as heck wasn’t the Easter Bunny.
He latched ahold of my elbow. “What are you doing, Darcy? Please tell me you aren’t doing anything,” he murmured, trying not to raise his voice, with very little success.
I turned, giving him a tsk-tsk frown, right as Kyd (and his dropped mouth) thundered up behind him in a catatonic stupor. If they hadn’t been arguing, they would’ve known exactly what had gone down. “I’m not doing anything with the head,” I said self-righteously. “I saw it and tried to spare you the gory details … you’re welcome.”
I made a kissy mwah sound in his direction. Dylan narrowed his eyes, giving me a look like he’d smack some sense in me later. “Is that the truth or the version you want me to know?” he growled.
Good question. “What do you want it to be?” I grimaced.
Another smack-some-sense-in-me-later look.
Flies still danced around Howie. Dylan gulped hard. When spectators began to get curious, Mr. Do-the-Right-Thing immediately popped the trunk on his father’s nearby Bentley, retrieved a towel, and gently laid it over the remains. It made a modicum of improvement, but not a lot, and thankfully, whoever was moderately interested went on their merry way.
Dylan then took a few moments to ponder what had happened, swallowing again. “This doesn’t upset you?” he asked incredulously. Stranger things had happened, I’m sure; although, I couldn’t think of any at the moment. When I just shrugged, he snorted disapprovingly. “For once, it would be nice if you cried, had normal reactions, and wanted me to comfort you, sweetheart. My God, is that too much to ask?”
So I wasn’t the general populace, big deal … I thought he knew that. “What do you want me to do, D? Fall at your feet and beg you to make it all better?”
“I swear, you have balls,” Dylan snorted under his breath. “I honest to God think you have balls.”
I laughed … my word, that was funny, but even I knew this wasn’t the time to laugh.
“Darcy!” he yelled, embarrassed for me.
Gertrude was like a tree about to snap in the wind. She wailed a big sob, making it evident that she was moments from a straitjacket. Tricky tightened his grip as Dylan sighed deeply, realizing our one-on-one conversation piled on the pain for someone who’d already been wounded deeply.
When I gave him a sheepish shrug—like Welcome to Darcyville—he studied me with intermittent fascination, as though I was a yet unnamed species. Ending with a frown, he immediately located his BlackBerry to call the authorities.
Looking like he’d been to Hell and back, Dylan took two deep breaths and then reached for my hand. I’m not sure if he felt I needed it, or if he did, and my job was to play along. His large hand engulfed mine, and once I squeezed back, he pulled me under his arm and located his concerned-citizen voice. I didn’t waste time trying to talk him out of it; that would’ve been futile. What I needed to do was gather information from Gertrude before the cops came and ruined everything.
I decided to go for broke, knowing my logic made zero sense, but hoping it garnered something substantial anyway.
I quickly asked Gertrude, “Is that note in Howie’s handwriting?”
“I can’t tell,” she whispered, “but maybe.” For the sake of argument, let’s just say she’s right. That meant he’d been attempting to see her and needed the address. Even if it wasn’t his handwriting, he obviously didn’t put it in his mouth after decapitation. I mean, duh. Who would want to do that and then send him to Gertrude like a birthday present?
“Do you know why he would want to see you?” I asked. “Or why someone would want you, specifically, to find his head?” She shook her head no. “What about the man in your pool, Gertrude? Could this be related?”
Another, “Maybe.”
It hit me like a boulder that I was speaking about a head to an ex-girlfriend—who probably had residual feelings—and I acted like it was the weather report. I had the irrational urge to launch into nervous giggles. I didn’t know if the situation was funny, or if I’d finally coming to terms with the fact that my mind wasn’t normal.
Dylan murmured, “Yes, ma’am” into the phone three times and ended with our exact location.
Time had run out.
I blurted, “Do you think Howie has anything to do with the Cisco Medina case?”
Gertrude lost some of the tears, a bitter hostility punctuating her words. “Cisco Medina?” she repeated exasperated. “Livingston & Associates have helped the case, and I recommended them to that Herschel man. As a matter of fact, Howie worked for them. This has nothing to do with anything other than Howie and his lifestyle.”
“His lifestyle?” I asked confused.
“Pooky will find out the answers,” she sniffed, suddenly in her own world. “He always does.”
“Pooky?” I said. That irrational urge to laugh came back with a vengeance.
“My pooky bear boyfriend,” she cried harder. “He hates Howie.”
Well, did Pooky have a reason to want Howie dead? I thought. I pushed her to clarify, but Gertrude had gone off the deep end, weeping and groaning to herself.
I couldn’t help it, but a sigh tumbled out. I didn’t want to see a head today, but I had to admit a feeling growing in the pit of my stomach that this wouldn’t end well. Cisco, Gertrude, the man in her pool, and a now bodiless-Howie were related in some way … a relation I planned to expose. But could I actually do it? Situations like this broke down to one of two things: skill or just dumb luck. I wasn’t sure I had either, but I did have the dumb part down.
12. WOULDA, COULDA, SHOULDA
A PRIEST WOULDN’T TOUCH MY LATEST dream with a ten-foot crucifix.
It was early Tuesday morning, and my nightmare was so horrifying, I needed a dose of Dylan to calm my nerves.
His bedroom sat at the west end of the house. As the rest of the house, it was timeless sophistication, but like its occupant, it held an air of modern masculinity. Every designer element from the pewter fixtures to the snowflake, gray paint reflected young, virulent male.
Once inside, your eyes shifted to the floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting a moonlit view of the lake. When the night sky was clear, you could lie on his bed and gaze at the stars. Sirius, located in the constellation of Canis Major, is the brightest star in the Milky Way. From Dylan’s room, you could almost reach out and touch it. Perhaps on some metaphorical level, I needed its brightness to shine on me.
Something that would provide answers…
Flush against the wall stood a gigantic platform bed adorned in a black satin comforter and sheets. A large flatscreen TV was mounted in front of it, and a desk fit for a king sat in the right corner. On the opposite wall existed a bathroom that had black granite countertops and a walk-in-shower with a faint smell of chlorine and shower gel. Over in the far corner, a black leather recliner occupied the space that appeared to be Zander’s bed for the evening. He snored rhythmically, curled on his side, one arm grazing the floor. The nook also included a mini-library, housing the books of a deep thinker.
Dylan journaled. Leather bound notebooks lined the shelves from as far back as grade school. No doubt, the subject matter grew deeper, but it wasn’t unlike him to pull one out and pore over it for hours. They weren’t under lock and key—which was carte blanche to a snoop—but I had no desire to invade his thoughts. I’d always figured there’d come a day when the time was right. I’d just never felt it knocking at my door.
I couldn’t make th
ese things out clearly at 2AM—the only thing for certain was a snoring Zander. The reason? I’d lost my glasses. My nose had been on the trail for fifteen minutes, and I hadn’t unearthed anything but a letdown.
Stealthily puttering inside, I knelt down by his pillow. Dylan lay flat on his back with his hands propped behind his head, the black satin sheet spilling around his waist. This qualified as Shangri-La, and here I sat within groping range and should probably cop a feel for female-kind. Unfortunately, the angel on my shoulder “Eeeked” it was morally wrong. Plus, Grandpa Winston said, If you look on a naked boy, you’ll be struck blind. Well, that momentary blindness might be worth it because Dylan had a washboard stomach, and Darcy wanted to wash some clothes.
“D,” I giggled, lightly touching his abs, “just lie there, and enjoy yourself, baby. I’m going to do a little laundry.”
Dylan took one deep breath, rolled to his side, and tunneled the fingers of his left hand through my hair. “Sweetheart, are you okay?” he murmured softly.
Nope. Insomnia was a pain when Howie screamed for you to sew his head back on. Plus, Dylan had just busted up my moment of immoral domesticity … the bugger. “I can’t sleep,” I told him, “and was hoping I could sleep with you.”
Dylan lightly laughed, stretching over to check the time on his alarm clock, leaving his palm curled along the side of my face. “Darc, we can’t do that. My father will crucify me.”
“I can’t settle down,” I whined. “Can I just lie here on the floor?”
Dylan sat up and swung his legs around when I realized my hand now rested on his muscular thigh. Down hand, I told it. Be a good hand and get on down.
Wearing what I assumed were dark shorts or boxer briefs, my goody two-shoes angel went red-faced and jumped up and down for me to find my manners. Frankly, I’m not sure why it even mattered. I was one step from legally blind and barely had on much more than underwear myself. I sported a white cotton camisole with matching boy shorts. Feminine enough, but then again, I didn’t understand feminine anyway.