No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2)

by A. J. Lape

  Lincoln dressed in dependable colors. When it was brown, it was brown from head to toe. If he wore black, he decked out like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. He viewed the world simply. Simple people were usually loyal to the bone, and being in the undercover game, I’d guess, made him cling to the realities he knew to be true. It wasn’t abnormal for him to go underground for weeks with no one knowing if he was dead or alive. My feelings were he wouldn’t bombard his brain with an inordinate amount of details.

  So who better to know you than your best friend?

  I’d memorized Paddy’s digits nights ago, and although the rooster had barely crowed on the West Coast, I dialed anyway.

  “Paddy,” he mumbled on the second ring.

  “Hey, Paddy, it’s Darcy.”

  “Hawareya, doll?” he slurred out.

  “I want to get Lincoln a birthday gift.” Dumb opener, but it’s all I had.

  “It’s his birthday?” he slurred, a little more awake.

  “No, I just wanted to get a jump on the sales. Do you know his favorite color?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Favorite book?”

  “No.”

  “Favorite sport, TV show, clothing brand?”

  “No, no, and good God no.”

  “Well, how about his favorite food?”

  He gave me a whole lot of nothing until he finally muttered, “Something dead, but there was this one time we both got tired of it floppin’ around, so he snatched it up, and bit its head off. So I guess it could be semi-dead.”

  What … the…?

  On any other day, I’d delve into that subject matter, but today wasn’t conducive to my time constraints.

  After Paddy proved he might be the worst best friend in the world, we disconnected. A quick look at the rest of Lincoln’s icons didn’t immediately strike me as out of the ordinary. He had a copy of Microsoft Office, icons for two antivirus programs, access to the Internet, and a white birthday cake image in the lower right hand corner.

  My forefinger struck the rain slicker yellow birthday candles and up popped an alphabetized list of about one hundred names. Lincoln had five sisters. If Willow was his email password, perhaps his sisters were the others? It was worth a try, and as far as I knew, I had four hours or so to peck to my finger’s delight.

  Jumping off the counter, I ran through the living room, jumped over my missing blue sock in the hallway, and bounded into Sydney’s room. Sydney’s room was fit for a demigod. Like Dylan’s, it was modern, but hers had a flair for the dramatic. The walls were painted in pink blush with fuchsia fabric headboards on both white twin beds. Clothes strung the top of a red couch, a black lace bra hung from the white fur lampshade, and magazines were scattered on the bed that I hadn’t slept in but one night.

  Sydney lay on top of the white satin sheets, flat on her back in a red babydoll nightgown that looked sultry and sexy with a racy edge. Evaluating my own ensemble, I couldn’t help but laugh. I’d never be sultry and sexy with a racy edge. There’s a good chance I had happies shoved up under my ribs just waiting to fall out.

  “Pssst,” I whispered. Just a slight rustle.

  “Sydney,” I whispered louder. Nothing but a moan. I placed my hands on her shoulders and shook. No movement whatsoever. I jostled her harder.

  Sydney rose up on her elbows, sliding her red satin mask up to her forehead. “What time is it?” she muttered. Time to break into Lincoln’s computer, that’s “what.”

  “What are Lincoln’s sisters’ names?” I asked sweetly. This could go one of two ways. Sydney would tell me to kiss-her-keister or she would mumble the answer and still tell me to kiss-her-keister.

  “Margaret, Anna, Celia, Calliope, and Evie,” she mumbled.

  “In that order?”

  “That’s the birth order,” she sighed. She pulled her mask down, fluffed her pillow, and then rolled to her stomach … muttering a few cuss words.

  Running back to the computer, I typed in all five sisters and once again came up empty-handed. I closed the lid, immediately massaging my temples. Holy cow, I thought. Lincoln loved his grandchildren, and guess who just had a birthday in the month of August? A smile lit up my face as I boldly typed in D-y-l-a-n.

  Access granted…

  Baby Jesus, let me fall down and worship at your baby crib, I laughed.

  I’d just been granted access … and was rubbing shoulders with the F—freaking—BI.

  Once I keyed in Cisco Medina, I captured the pertinent details on a scrap sheet of paper. He was abducted from a city park near Conroy Road in the city of Orlando. Letting that page idle, I activated another session of Windows Explorer, and typed in googleearth.com for an aerial view of that vicinity. Zooming in, I observed playground equipment, parked cars, trees and shrubbery, but nothing really substantial. Zooming out, I spied a laundromat, bank, gas station, apartment complex, and Albertson’s Grocery Store—nothing out of the ordinary that you wouldn’t find in suburbia anywhere.

  Flipping back to the case details, Cisco’s grandfather reported him missing at 5PM. Sunset, around that time of year, was roughly an hour later. So Cisco—in theory—still would’ve been visible to someone. He wouldn’t have been swallowed up by the dark. Trouble was, that someone very well could’ve been the person that nabbed him.

  All at once, I felt the immediate need to blow some cash. Padding back to the couch, I grabbed my purse and fingered inside my wallet, pulling out my father’s MasterCard.

  A hypothesis is an educated guess. You theorize if “A” happens, then “B” will result. If you test the theory and get a positive result—or it comes true—you have a scientific fact backed up by experimentation.

  Trouble was, I didn’t possess the know-how to make an educated guess on anything. But I knew someone that would … Kyd. Grabbing my iPhone, I punched in Kyd’s digits with my thumb.

  He picked up on the first ring. “I do, Legs,” he breathed.

  “What?” I giggled, collapsing back on the bed.

  “I’m thinking sunshine and skimpy bathing suits for the honeymoon.”

  Why did I feel like I’d be dodging that proposal for the rest of my life? He’d only said two sentences, and already I wished I could shove him in front of a moving car. But I needed him. It made me feel horrible—like a bloodsucking user—but not horrible enough to murder my plans.

  Leaning back on the pillow, I threw an arm behind my head and contemplated how to get the names of Lola’s contacts. Kyd stated yesterday that she gambled with powerful people and even played cards in their stead. The only way Kyd would gain additional information, however, was to question Hank who clearly was still in pain. I didn’t want to inflict any undue stress on the man, but I had a gut feeling it might mean something.

  “Would that be so bad?” he murmured.

  “I’m 15!” I shrieked.

  “Almost 16,” he deadpanned. True, my birthday was October 15th, but that still wasn’t considered legal in the good ole U.S. of A. Maybe that’s the way they did romance in Louisiana. Heck, Murphy was raised in Kentucky, and a few in his hometown were born with an engagement ring on their finger. But I was a Midwestern girl from Ohio. We tried to hold onto that single status at least until mid-20s, and then you grew paranoid your best days were behind you.

  Helloooooo, eHarmony…

  “You’re frustrating me,” he muttered. Funny. Dylan turned the same phrase last night.

  “Maybe you need to try another pick-up line.”

  “Name what you want, and it’s yours.” Aaah, I smiled. Sweet satisfaction.

  I went for the direct hit. “I need the names of the people Lola Medina used to, or better yet, still plays cards with. Make it happen, Kyd.”

  “Strange request,” he said, suddenly quiet.

  “To some, perhaps.”

  “Obviously, the human mind fascinates me, or I wouldn’t want to be a psychiatrist, Legs. But I have to admit you are hands-down the most fascinating individual I’ve ever run acr
oss. I could spend a lifetime rummaging around in your gray matter.”

  I blushed, feeling like something indecent had just occurred between us. I didn’t want Kyd in my gray matter, but fighting the attraction had proven difficult. It was like being a vegetarian and never wanting a flaming piece of steak. Only a moron wouldn’t recognize the juicy smell.

  Kyd promised me he’d have their names by the end of the day.

  My thumb was lying on the “end” button when Kyd got in touch with his pushy side. “Have you given any thought to coming down here for college?”

  I rolled my eyes, pulling a pillow over my head. “I’m kinda stuck in the present right now.”

  “Just hear me out,” he encouraged.

  “Kyd, I probably won’t go to college,” I spit out.

  “Ever?”

  “Ever.”

  I heard the clock ticking away in Kyd’s brain and fleetingly wondered if he was taking notes to place in his Darcy Walker File. You know, childhood trauma, low self esteem, let’s feel sorry for the girl with no mommy. “Legs, we need to work on your self-image,” he said softly.

  “My self-image is fine,” I lied.

  “Well, if it’s fine, then we can talk about college…”

  I chewed my left pinky nail, almost to the cuticle. I didn’t have many options. If I didn’t give Kyd what he wanted—or at least a version of it—he’d call non-stop and interrupt my thinking time … diabolical as it was. Problem was, a good chance existed that talking to him negated Dylan’s and my request to not hurt the other. Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, I ascribed to the concept it’s “better to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

  At least for the time being.

  “…so I’ll see you in a few?” he asked.

  What Dylan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, right?

  As far as Kyd knew, I was researching a summer project on murderers versus contract killers, versus serial killers. I thought he’d dehydrate from salivating. When the boy said he loved the brain’s complexities, I mean, he LOVED its complexities. For some reason, he acted like the sun rose and set in my brain—or lack thereof—these days. But spending time with him became a mistake of cosmic proportions. Amidst the talk of born killers, killers driven by circumstance, loyalty, or employment, I dodged my growing feelings infested with an all-consuming guilt. I’d butchered the détente with Dylan—at least, in the fact that I hadn’t explained Kyd’s and my relationship. Heck, I hadn’t explained anything. So while my chest heaved with regret, I had a great, big hormone screaming, Somebody kiss me, somebody kiss me, somebody kiss me. Thing was, I didn’t know if it was Kyd per se or the fact that my estrogen met up with his testosterone. I didn’t feel entirely ready for a boyfriend (at least my brain wasn’t), but maybe I was readyish.

  When Kyd left after a couple of hours, I pushed aside the guilt and immersed myself in what we’d discovered. Since the two murder victims in Lincoln’s briefcase were associated with Turkey Cardoza, then that meant they were mob fallout. Both more than likely were for-hire, but the person contracted obviously garnered some sort of pleasure in causing the pain.

  As a starting place, we’d searched the names on the backs of the photographs. I typed in Bonnano, Giuseppe, and Carlotto and uncovered an article that said the two largest families in Los Angeles were the Bonnanos and Carlottos. As far as I could tell, Giuseppe was not the name of an organized syndicate. This third family that Paddy referred to—the family Turkey allegedly represented—might have been sending the Bonnanos and Carlottos a message. A message that they were bigger and badder than the both of them. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me, if they’d ordered the hits vis-à-vis Turkey.

  Mobsters are a counter culture all unto themselves. Their values and behavior norms aren’t like our own. What they do appreciate, however, is a larger show of strength. Blowing someone to smithereens who meant something to you was a ballsy show of power. Without having names, I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, we weren’t dealing with your average member. The two that were dead, more than likely, were high up the food chain or even a Bonnano or Carlotto themselves.

  To prove myself right, I conducted an advanced google search on the words “murder, Carlotto, and Bonnano.” As suspected, one man from each family had died in the past year. The newspaper article stated the usual: no leads, no witnesses, just unsolved crimes that were obviously handled within the system of the mob. If my logic was right and Turkey Cardoza committed these murders, Lincoln said there were witnesses that saw him on the scene. The newspaper hadn’t interviewed those witnesses, or there’s a chance the newspaper truly didn’t want the story.

  It got murkier and murkier.

  With the FBI database at my disposal, I ended by searching on Gertrude Burr and Howie whatever-his-name-was. To my surprise, Gertrude had a file. It wasn’t extensive—containing only a few speeding tickets and a former request to file bankruptcy—but no cross-reference, whatsoever, about previous severed heads in her past. When I searched on Howie and the dead body in her pool, conversely, the strangest thing happened. Another screen popped up where you had to have special clearance within the special clearance.

  Talk about a buzzkill.

  17. KARMA

  AND THE CRAZY CONTINUES.

  Grandma Alexandra grabbed two handfuls of my hair, looking at it in horror. “Oh, Jesus,” she whispered.

  Oh, Jesus, was about right.

  Orlando was a real butthead today, and I swear, the birds panted out profanity. Feeling our skin peel away in the heat, Sydney and I’d decided to swim. Like total morons, we swam right after the pool had been shocked—in other words, when it had been doused with a bucket of chemicals that weren’t supposed to kill you. We didn’t think it would matter, but apparently, it was a no-no for blonde hair. My hair was now seaweed green which might be karma kicking my two-faced arse. Kyd was one thing, flirting with the F—freaking—BI and lovin’ every minute of it was another. Problem was, my beauty happened to be a work in progress, and I’d nuked any headway Mother Nature had thrown me out of sheer generosity.

  “For starters,” Grandma said cheerily, “let’s condition it. I condition mine weekly.”

  I couldn’t find a logical reason to object. She went to the pantry, pulled out a bottle of extra, extra virgin olive oil (hellOOO, oxymoron), cracked it open, and massaged it into my hair. Before I knew it, half the Mediterranean was draining down my face.

  Alexandra threw off such a dominant aura you found yourself doing whatever she said even if it felt stupid. By no means was she dictatorial; it’s just that she’d learned to survive as a first generation American. She did everything for her parents—even keeping their books before she was a teenager—and I’d always suspected that’s where Colton and Willow inherited their business savvy. Her early childhood experiences left her self-assured, but sometimes people like that think they have the answer to the whole enchilada. I mean, look at me. I felt so cocky about successfully tapping into her husband’s computer that I ignored the pool gods, and my hair now resembled mustard gas.

  When finished, she gently turned me toward her and confidently said, “Go outside and sit in the sun. The heat will help.”

  When I resumed my post poolside, I punched in Dylan’s speed dial. “How far out are you, D?”

  He seemed quiet. No flirting, no “Hi, sweetheart” on pick-up, just a breathing so shallow he might as well have bought the farm. Finally, he breathed a two-worded, “Almost home.”

  I’d showered, washed my hair three times, and dressed in my Gators t-shirt along with my favorite pair of cut-off jean shorts. They were too short, the white bottoms of the pockets falling lower than the inseam. In Murphy’s words, “heavy on the hoochie.”

  I twirled a strand of hair around a finger, holding it up to my eyes. “The pool turned my hair green.”

  Another equally unnerving pause. “You’re blonde, Darc,” he finally sighed.

  “Not anymore. It’s some kooky shade of yel
low. Kinda like mustard gas.”

  At last, a chuckle. “I’m sure it will be fine. So how did you entertain yourself in the four hours or so I was gone?”

  I made deals with the devil, and if he asked if that bothered me, he probably wouldn’t like the answer. Thing was, I had success today, and when you had success, it’s easy to overlook your transgressions—a practice that continued to serve my conscience well.

  When he murmured a deep “Darcy,” my iron resolve cracked like Humpty Dumpty. Something lined his voice that felt unwavering and nonnegotiable; he was trying to will me into submission. Did he know? My word, my heart started thumping like the feet on a rabbit. Dylan was silent. I was silent right back. I mentally made out a grocery list, picked at my nails, then imagined my hands blistered to the bone doing ten years in a Siberian Labor Camp.

  “We’re in the driveway now, Darc,” he said quietly. “We can talk in a bit.”

  Five minutes later, the garage door activated. Wrapping a white towel around my head, I trudged into the kitchen, giving a whole new meaning to the phrase walk-of-shame. No Dylan, however. Instead, I found Lincoln, standing with arms crossed over his chest, leaning up against the doorjamb.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph … he knew.

  “Hey, Lincoln,” I whispered. “Where’s D?”

  “Cooling down,” he said, low and deep.

  Cooling down, I thought, what did that mean?

  Lincoln ignored my request for specifics, sitting down at the kitchen table, unlacing his white sneakers. Busted, I thought. Just like that, the air sucked out of the room. “You’re acting odd,” I choked out.

  “I’m a cop, Darcy. I can smell trouble a mile away. When Paddy called and said someone was messing with my FBI clearance,” he emphasized, “I thought, who do I know that’s sharp enough to crack my password and stupid enough to break into government property?” I grimaced, but didn’t admit to anything. “Exactly,” he grumbled. “This has your fingerprint all over it.”