No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2)

by A. J. Lape

  “I want a booty. Should I put voodoo cream on my behind?”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” I swallowed. After we talked about her plans for the day, I hung up and briefly wondered if she’d be sitting on hooters by morning. I thumbed in the speed dial for home. Talk about the blind leading the blind … this was the boobless leading the buttless.

  “Strike the booty?” she asked.

  I shoved a piece of egg in my mouth and mumbled, “Just fire up your habaneros, M. Let’s give the booty a few more years.”

  That got me to thinking. I didn’t want to give Cisco a few more anythings. A few more anythings would make his picture on the back of a milk carton have whiskers. After we ate in silence, I cleared off the table, running both our dishes and glasses underneath the faucet, stacking them one-by-one in the dishwasher.

  Dylan hopped up on the granite countertop in front of me, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind my ear. He appeared relaxed this morning. Bedhead beautiful, dimples deep, looking like a million bucks when my breath was zombie-in-the-making.

  Hopefully not a premonition of things to come.

  “What’s up with the most beautiful girl in the world?” he murmured gently.

  Oh, where to begin? Could I drum up the required skills to act upon the information I had? In the grand scheme of things, I had no choice. My insecurities paled in comparison to what the potential outcome could be.

  I dove right in, forgoing the preamble. “I need to tell you something,” I whispered, bracing both hands on his knees. The expression on his face didn’t waver or appear surprised. Instead, he offered an exhaling smile of relief, acting as if he’d been waiting for it.

  “What’s the punch line?” Lincoln grumbled.

  Dylan threaded his fingers deeper into mine as we hunkered down on the white leather sofa. After I explained my dilemma, he didn’t even take the time to gather his own thoughts. He grabbed my hand, pulled his father out of bed, and led us back to his still snoring grandfather. Honest to God, this felt like the firing squad. But, then again, the firing squad would be easier. One pull of the trigger, and it would be over.

  Dylan murmured, “There is none, Grandpa.”

  Lincoln paused, giving me a look of chastisement. I should’ve expected as much. “So you think Lola is either X or one of a combination of Gertrude and this Polly?”

  I gave him a nod. “I do. Gertrude is involved up to her botoxed eyeballs. Howie’s note said, ‘Medina.’ Howie knew something and was trying to tell her or accuse her of something, and we already know he’d been working the case. Maybe he found out the truth and was killed for the truth.”

  Lincoln pondered that for a second, pinching the space between his eyes. “I don’t like Grizzly,” he finally muttered, “and not one thing Detective Battle told me about him was honorable.”

  “Just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean he’s the mastermind here,” I blurted out in contest. Dylan tightened his hand with a miniscule jerk, demanding submission. “Why would you think that?” I continued with more tact.

  Lincoln removed his glasses, rubbing both eyes with his fingertips. Lincoln and Colton both stood in the den in their boxer briefs. Lincoln perched on the edge of the couch cushion, Colton standing next to him with his chest and legs as rigid as a fighting Gladiator’s. I honestly don’t think either was aware they were half clothed in front of a female guest. First of all, they considered me family, so they were either processing too much information or didn’t give a rat’s rear end about social conventions at this point. My guess would be the latter.

  “You’re sure about that?” Colton answered for him, raising both brows in a challenge. “You did say Gertrude had a pooky bear of a boyfriend. Bears can be grizzly.”

  Anyhoo…

  I’m sort of angry that little fact slipped by me. Could Grizzly have been the man at Gertrude’s house the day the coroner pulled a body from her pool? I suppose so—their builds were the same—and so were their confident mannerisms. But Battle claimed that Grizzly liked “young girls.” Gertrude might be attractive, but she sure as heck didn’t tip the scales at teenager. Point being, after a closer look at the bank, she looked too plastic—possibly more so than Minda Sue Knoblecker. And, believe me, that was saying something.

  No one uttered another word, and by the swoosh of emotion that rolled through the room, judgment day was near. My eyes slid over to Dylan’s, but his were already sealed up tight.

  His father boomed, “Need I remind you that you are my ward on vacation?!”

  Yup, roast-Darcy time. “I stayed in my bed, Colton,” I mumbled.

  “That’s a loose interpretation of the law, Darcy. Your father trusts me.”

  Well, yeah. Whatever. No kidding. If it got me Cisco Medina alive, then it was worth the extra risk.

  I offered him a genuine smile of apology; his frown said it wasn’t accepted. When he expelled a disgruntled noise toward his son, Dylan sat there as the beleaguered best friend, accepting blame for not being able to predict my every move. Heck, I couldn’t predict my every move, but being my best friend pretty much made him cannon fodder.

  I glanced to Colton, tenderly squeezing Dylan’s hand. “It’s not his fault, Colton. Please, don’t be angry or punish him for what I did.”

  Colton opened his mouth twice, appraising Dylan’s condition. His gaze next fell on Lincoln, hoping for a solution to the problem. Seriously, there was no easy fix … I’d been searching for two weeks.

  Colton paced in a tight circle, head down, hands crossed behind his lower back. Crap, it reminded me of when a lion stalked its prey, basically grounding it when it grew tired of the game.

  Lincoln continued to rub both eyes, causing me to doubt he’d ever see clearly again. “Felix Xavier, huh?”

  I sighed. “Yes. Why?”

  Colton interrupted him, eyes narrowed. “His last name begins with an X, Darcy. This whole situation reeks all the way around.”

  I felt like cussing … telling them all to incinerate in the land of hot lava.

  Here I thought I’d done pretty well managing the information, and I’d overlooked what could be conclusive evidence. That might insinuate a level of corruption that would take me longer than a couple of days to untangle. I guess there’s a possibility Felix Xavier bought the Turbo. That means he could’ve billed the trust and got paid for no work. But why hire Lola to represent X? Why take her little boy? Even if it were simple blackmail—to ensure she brought in earnings each week—that still didn’t wrap up the situation with Elmer Hershel. Elmer had a girlfriend with money, and he implied to Hector that Polly didn’t hold that title.

  “I, umm, never thought of that,” I mumbled.

  “Could it be that you’ve been tackling too many things all on your own?” Colton grumbled. I think he meant that statement rhetorically, but I answered anyway.

  “Yes,” I said, “but Detective Battle reported that X was the legitimate license plates of Isaac Washington, and the registration didn’t change when Albert Jones bought it and resold. The coincidence is all just a fluke.”

  Colton set his jaw firmer. “Yes, but it’s too peculiar to accept as fact, especially when kidnapping, not to mention embezzlement of funds, is on the table. This other company—Livingston & Associates—you said they went out of business. Did they file? Do you have a contact for them?”

  I shook my head in the negative and felt less confident in my abilities than I did at the beginning of this conversation. Lincoln must’ve seen my confidence deflate. He blew out a breath. “This is why we work in teams, Darcy,” he said. Well, no kidding, but we both knew they wouldn’t have placed me on the roster even if I’d begged on bended knee. “Do you understand what the next move is?” he continued. “After I call Battle and introduce myself to Felix Xavier?”

  I knew exactly what the next step entailed, and I swallowed down the urge to barf. “I’ll set up a date with Elmer,” I muttered.

  A brave person would face it head on; a scaredy c
at would calculate the odds of accidental death. A super-spy, wannabe like me would consider this their big break.

  The sun beat down at 101 degrees Fahrenheit, making breathing a distant memory. Then again, nothing took your breath away like Murphy Walker when he’d rather kill you and eat the remains. For me, it was a familiar sensation. Dylan, however, looked like he’d fallen naked into a pit of scorpions.

  We were holed up in Colton’s office, listening to my father on the speakerphone. Murphy was oblivious to his public disrobing, but Dylan reached over and hit the speaker mid-argument. Apparently, he wanted his family to know exactly what they were dealing with; and in practical terms, it kept me from rehashing his words anyway. Thing was, neither Colton nor Lincoln seemed especially intimidated. Both were studying a file on Colton’s desk, not even listening. For the first time, it became clear to me both had a stupid streak.

  Dylan and I were curled into one another on the black leather couch. Zander’d barreled in minutes ago and had been kicked out. Then he stormed in seconds later only to be booted out again. Finally, on attempt number three, Colton shoved him onto the floor, telling him to “Shut his frigging mouth.”

  The language had gone ghetto.

  “You are not going to go under-fricking-cover!” Murphy screamed. “I’m going to kick somebody’s yellow-bellied, mother lovin’, dog humping butt all the way from the Heartland of it All. They’re not going to be able to sit down, kneel down, or kiss anyone else’s butt but their own by the time they untwist the damage that my fist is going to do.”

  Let me introduce Kentucky cursing at its finest—interpreted only by a mutual hillbilly. He spouted off things about gizzards and squirrels and gizzards that like squirrels and what he considered the worst thing of all … cockroach, gizzard-lovin’ squirrels. I mentally made a note to seek a definition but was pretty sure he’d coined it mid-phrase.

  “Give me a name,” he seethed.

  “I get a company car,” I giggled. “I’ll probably even get my own insurance plan.”

  Dylan put a finger to my lips. “No joking,” he whispered.

  Murphy never heard anyone’s words other than the competing voices in his own brain. He shouted, “Shut up, Darcy! I’m going to freak somebody’s hump so far up their spine it’s going to be a toothpick!”

  That statement frankly made no sense.

  “Ouch,” Zander shivered. Dylan launched his heel into his brother’s back.

  We’d just gotten off the telephone with Detective Battle, brainstorming on the perfect dance club. Dylan suggested Cowboys which had that mechanical bull he’d been itching to ride. Primarily, it catered to the early 20s crowd, but older “wannabe teen has-beens” occasionally showed their faces. Since Dylan and I weren’t eighteen, Detective Battle would supply fake IDs in case we were carded. Now, it was up to me to find my inner vixen and seduce Elmer into meeting me behind the mystery Moose’s back. I needed to find my inner idiot—that wouldn’t be hard. My inner she-devil? I had more of a chance of harvesting cheese from the moon.

  Murphy belted out, “Your Goddanged…”

  “Omigosh,” I whispered, “don’t say the curse word of all curse words, Dad. Even I know you shouldn’t take God’s name in vain.”

  It was the big, number three on the list of ten.

  Murphy gasped, “You just said omigosh! Were you praying, kid? I said dang! And believe me, I’m praying,” he emphasized, “when I gosh-danged, dog-humpin’ say it!”

  Murphy was his own brand of Holy Roller. He prayed out loud, all day long, not caring who heard him. Unfortunately, he ruled with an iron fist with a propensity to eat his young. The way I saw it, I’d better count my blessings. Number one, I was going undercover. Big thrill. Number two, Cisco might be home by morning. Even bigger thrill. Number three, if I pulled this off, Murphy wouldn’t physically eat me. Biggest thrill of all. That meant Darcy Walker would live to die another day.

  “So that’s a yes?” I giggled again.

  Murphy always talked in terms of electronics when he felt people needed a rewiring. He bellowed, “Hit the pause button, kid, and shut your mouth. Now, give me the name!”

  Dylan was uncharacteristically quiet, looking as if he was in the beginning stages of organ failure. While I wiped away a bead of sweat rolling down his temple, he mouthed, “Answer your father.”

  When my lips didn’t do anything more than part, Lincoln padded over and touched me on the shoulder, nodding that I should comply. But Murphy was a lit powder keg.

  “Dad, you need to be rational about this,” I said. “A little boy is missing. I don’t want to provide a name if you’re going to dismiss this opportunity without thinking it through. The cop I’m working with is a pro. You’ll trust him.”

  Murphy’s voice bottomed out to an intimidating base. “Let me set something straight, kid. I’m a pro at what I do. I’d rather kick somebody’s ass than kiss it. So give me a name, and I’ll make sure he witnesses my professional abilities.”

  For some reason, giving him a name felt like a behemoth blunder, but my choices were limited. I briefly met Dylan’s eyes as he closed his, mumbling a prayer of desperation.

  “Lincoln Taylor,” I reluctantly spit out. Nothing but bone-chilling silence followed as Lincoln took the phone out of my shaking palm.

  28. LOCKED, LOADED, & GUNNING FOR BEAR

  TIME HUNG HEAVILY, AND I had a miracle to pull off. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel particularly supernatural. Trouble was, this gig had an expiration date of less than 36 hours, and Murphy had eaten up the past two.

  He’d grounded me—no shocker there—and I’d lost access to all of my Apple products for the foreseeable future as soon as I returned home. Plus, Murphy demanded that I give him ten percent of every one of my paychecks for the next 25 years. Things could be worse. All I knew was the day started out stellar then snowballed into a crap-load of crap as soon as Murphy got involved.

  The usual.

  As I tried to regain a semblance of who I was hours ago, Dylan maneuvered us back to sit on the corner of his father’s desk, pulling me between his legs. Dylan always let me break free from our hugs first, and it wasn’t abnormal for the embrace to last anywhere from five seconds to five minutes. Calling Elmer was the next part of the plan, but my finger couldn’t do the walking, and frankly, the hug was caressing me like warm water, sluicing down my skin.

  “Make the call, sweetheart,” he whispered in my ear. “I’ll be right beside you.”

  When hysterical laughter burst from my body, Dylan pried my cell phone out of my hand and scrolled through my contact list, still holding me to his side.

  “Herschel, right?” he asked. I gave him a kill-me-now look. He thumbed his way down the docket and hit the call button, launching the speakerphone. My mind fumbled through the possibilities. Would he even remember me? Could I seduce him into going? Did I even understand seduction? It consisted of batting your eyelashes and breathy giggling, right?

  Elmer answered on the third ring. “Elmer,” he muttered gruffly.

  “Hi, Elmer. It’s—” Dylan reminded me what his grandfather said with icy, merciless eyes and a possessive tug on my lower back. Not your real name, Lincoln had warned. Not a problem. I’d never given him my real name in the first place.

  “It’s, umm … Buffy.”

  Dylan snickered, catching a laugh in his throat.

  Elmer said, “What can I do you for, Buffy?”

  “I was hoping you remembered me. I accidentally found myself in your office the other day.”

  His breathing grew thick and heavy, like some warthog burrowing in the dirt. “The girl with the long legs that I’d like to do things to?”

  Dylan hissed through his teeth. Dear God, I thought, please don’t provide a definition.

  “Does the offer still stand to take me dancing?” I quickly asked.

  “I, uh, might have to maneuver some things around, but I couldn’t turn down an attractive, little dumpling like you. You want me,
doncha?” First off, the word dumpling wouldn’t make anyone feel attractive, and secondly, I’d rather have an abscessed tooth. But the verb in me had a job to do.

  Dylan pulled me even closer, coaxing me to answer. “Midnight tomorrow? Cowboys?” I asked.

  Elmer’s breathing did triple time. “Yeah, midnight works for me. Dress nice. I like my women leggy, showing tons of skin.”

  “No, Paddy!” Lincoln roared. “We can’t let her do that!”

  I couldn’t pretend to possess selective hearing because when Lincoln bellowed, it sounded like an attack by coyote-munching mountain lions.

  I didn’t know the time … only that it ticked past midnight, Thursday morning. I’d swum by the moonlight, and when I opted against a shower, a quick sniff of my armpits reminded me I still smelled like yesterday. Lincoln and I had been the dynamic duo for the past thirty minutes in a dark house illuminated only by our insomnia and two floor lamps. Crime scene and surveillance photographs were strung out on the ottoman in front of us, along with meat and potato leftovers for him, homemade cookies the size of the solar system for me. In between my normal eavesdropping, I heard the word—plain as day—Giuseppe. Giuseppe, I reminded myself, happened to be one of the names on the backs of the photographs in Lincoln’s “Cardoza” file. The photographs that were so heinous, whoever committed the murders ranked as one of the biggest sociopaths to ever breathe air.

  Lincoln had reached his limit with this case—add my shenanigans—and he’d probably apply for early retirement. Smelling cigar smoke earlier, I located tiny flecks of gray and white ash peppering the floor underneath his feet. Lincoln didn’t smoke (i.e., the official story). Let’s just say if he picked up the habit as a stress reliever—hypothetically speaking, of course—Alexandra would force-feed an industrial-strength cleaning agent and hold him down until he choked. When his back was turned, I cleaned it up, not mentioning a word. I owed him.