My hands began to shake, and I could barely keep control of the wheel. I pulled to the curb, parked in a red zone and turned off the engine. “Johnny will be so pissed if his car gets towed,” I thought idly before bursting into tears. For in that moment I knew without a doubt whose boat had just been blown to bits. I flung open the car door and threw up.
Officer Luke Taylor wrapped a steadying arm around me, as I sobbed into his handkerchief. He was about sixty years old, with steel gray hair and a chin like Tom Selleck. Handsome and dignified, but I bet he could really kick ass if the occasion called for it. He waited patiently while my tears subsided and then he nodded to the rookie cop who stood beside him.
“Ma’am,” coaxed the younger officer, “you say there were two men on the boat?”
“Yes,” I whispered, not trusting my voice. “John Marchiano and Joel Mishkin. The boat belonged—belongs to John. How could this happen? How?” I began to cry again, in earnest.
“I wish we had the answers for you,” Tom Selleck said. “We won’t know anything until there’s an investigation. My guess is a faulty fuel tank”. He shifted me to his other arm. “Is there anyone I can call for you?” he asked, kindly.
I had been answering questions for the past half hour. What was my relation to the people on the boat? Where do they live? Do they have any next of kin? I had questions of my own. Why are you standing here like a yutz asking me questions, when you should be out there, rescuing my friend? I slumped against the car in a fit of exhaustion. “I need to call my brother.”
“Paul’s voice, fuzzy and distant warmed me through my cell phone. I knew I’d woken him up, but he greeted me with his familiar comforting words.
“Yo, Brandy, what’s up, kiddo?”
Battling a new round of hysteria, I filled my lungs with air and forced the words out of my mouth. “There’s been an accident.” I could hear Paul suck in his breath as he fought to remain calm.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.”
“Wh-what about J-John?”
“I don’t know about John,” I wailed, totally losing it. “Nobody will give me any answers. I dropped John off at the Marina, and he and his friend went out on the boat. When I went back to pick him up, the boat was on fire. It exploded and, and—”
Officer Taylor took the phone from my ear and spoke quietly into the phone. “Your sister needs you. How soon can you be here?”
Officer Taylor stayed with me until Paul arrived. He had sent “the baby” as I came to think of the young cop, out for coffee and doughnuts, and we sat in the parking lot munching on Krispy Kremes. He kept my back to the ocean so that I couldn’t see the police activity, and he kept me talking. About Los Angeles, what it was like living in a “world of glamour,” a million questions I’m sure he had absolutely no interest in knowing the answers to. But he was determined to keep my mind occupied while we waited for the Calvary to arrive.
When we had exhausted the subject of Hollywood Lives, he brought out pictures of his sons, twin boys. They were handsome, like their father, around thirty years old. One was a cop, like him. The other one was an investment broker. The cop had a girlfriend, but the broker was up for grabs and “quite a catch” in case I had any girlfriends who might be interested. I thought about Janine and gave Officer Taylor her phone number to pass along to his unattached son.
A shadow passed over us and I looked up. Paul stood in front of me, and next to him was Bobby. He looked worn out and sexy as hell, and I immediately felt guilty for noticing that when John could be—no, I refused to go there. I got up and immediately felt the tears well up in my throat again. Paul took me in his arms and held me tight. Bobby stuck out his hand and introduced himself to Officer Taylor. They walked off to the side as Paul held me.
“Why is Bobby here?” I sniffed.
“I c-called to t-t-ell him what happened and he offered to drive J-John’s car back. I thought maybe he could get m-m-more information out of the cops.” He took a deep, painful breath. “Y’ know, pro-professional courtesy.” I nodded, squeezing his hand.
Bobby and Officer Taylor walked back over to where Paul and I were standing.
“Brandy, I’m sorry I can’t give you any more to go on right now. Like I told your friend here, there just isn’t anything to tell yet. The search and rescue team are still out there…” He left the rest unspoken, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know how a less sensitive man would have finished the sentence.
“Thank you for staying with me, Officer Taylor.”
“Luke,” he smiled. “Now you be sure to tell that girlfriend of yours to expect a call from my son.”
I nodded, barely able to keep myself together. “Listen, as soon as you hear anything…”
He looked at Bobby and then back to me. “I’ll be in touch.”
I drove home with my brother while Bobby took the Beemer. Paul pulled up in front of our parents’ house and parked. “You get some sleep, kiddo. I’ll call Franny and the rest of the guys.”
“What are you going to tell them?”
Paul looked pained. “That John is— that he’s, y’know—”
“We don’t know that for sure, Paul. They haven’t found a body. They’re still looking,” I screamed. I knew I was scaring him, but I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t going to accept anything as fact until the search was complete.
Paul unbuckled his seat belt and opened the car door.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m coming in. I can’t leave you here like this.”
“I’m fine,” I barked and immediately regretted it. “I’m sorry, Paul. I’m just tired.”
He studied me for a moment, realizing my need to retreat into myself. Even as a little girl, when things went wrong I’d go into denial mode, secluding myself until the storm passed.
“Promise you’ll go lie down?”
“I promise.”
“Call me later.”
“I will.”
I tried to fall asleep, but as I closed my eyes, the sight of the burning boat kept pressing its way into the forefront of my brain. Soon, the tears started again and I cried until there was nothing left but dry, heaving sobs. The phone rang and I ran for it, praying it was Officer Taylor with news of a miracle about Johnny. The machine picked up before I could locate the handset. Franny’s voice, solemn and strained echoed in my ear.
“Brandy, you’re probably sleeping—maybe not. It’s okay. You don’t have to talk now. But call me later.” There was a slight hesitation before she added, “I love you, Bran. Call me.” Franny’s not the most demonstrative person in the world; in fact, terms of endearment really embarrass her. She would sooner call someone she loves a four letter word than to admit that she has tender feelings for them. Her message really touched me. I’d call her back when I knew I could talk without breaking into tears every five seconds.
I wandered into the living room and turned on the radio. As long as I was up, I decided to make myself something to eat. It was almost six and I hadn’t eaten anything all day besides a cup of coffee and a Krispy Kreme doughnut. Johnny was right. I needed some balance in my diet. Johnny.
I made my way into the kitchen and began poking into cabinets. I found a stale package of TastyKakes chocolate cupcakes and a can of tomato soup. I opened the cupcakes and rummaged through the refrigerator for milk. No milk.
Feeling more sorry for myself than I ever have in my life, I opened the soup and poured the contents into a pot. The congealed paste really cried out for milk, but since I didn’t have any, I heated up the paste and ate it right out of the pot, not bothering to transfer it into a bowl. I was getting off on how pathetic it all was, when there was a knock at the front door.
I got up and walked through the dining room, glancing at myself in the beveled mirror that hung over the china cabinet. I barely recognized the image that stared back at me. Outside of work I’ve never been a fashion maven, but this was going too far, even for me. Two red- rimme
d slits surrounded by puffy skin passed for eyes. My hair hung in strands, a huge tomato paste glob of soup stained the front of my Bart Simpson sweatshirt, while my knee poked through a hole in my jeans. I looked exactly the way I felt, and I felt like shit. “Love Hurts” blared through the radio speakers. No duh. I approached the door.
“Who is it?” I asked, as the knocking continued.
“Bobby.” My stomach did that leaping around thing and I pulled open the door. The look on his face told me everything I didn’t want to hear. I opened the door wider and he came in without a word. “Love hurts, love scars, Love wounds and mars”
He started to say something, but no words came, and instead he just shook his head.
Suddenly, he grabbed me and pulled me close to him. I didn’t try to fight it. I needed to feel his arms around me. I pressed my face into his chest and I could feel his heart beat as we stood there, bodies locked in a tender embrace.
He backed me into the room and we swayed together in time to the music, barely moving, letting the words envelop us. The tears started to flow freely now. His arms tightened around me, and I felt his lips brush the top of my head.
We stayed that way until the song ended and then, abruptly, I pulled away from him. He watched in silence as I wiped my face with my sleeve. I noticed with grim satisfaction that I’d left a tomato soup stain on the front of his leather jacket, and I wondered what “the little woman” would say about it. Finally, I spoke up.
“You heard from Officer Taylor.” A statement, not a question.
Bobby nodded. I sat down cross-legged on the couch and waved my arm vaguely in his direction, indicating he could sit too. I did not want to have this conversation. I did not want Bobby standing in front of me, telling me things I already knew. In that moment I hated him more than I ever had before.
“They’ve suspended the search for today. It got too dark. They’re going to resume it tomorrow, but I get the feeling they think it’s a waste of time.”
“A waste of time? Try telling that to Johnny’s dad. Assholes,” I added, bitterly.
“Bran, you saw for yourself. There was nothing left. No one could have survived an explosion like that.”
“Well, even if they can’t find—”I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
“The bodies?”
“Yeah, even if they can’t, won’t they still look into what caused the explosion?” I looked up at Bobby and saw the abject misery that was etched on his face. Bobby loved Johnny, too.
“I mean, did he say how the fire started?” I asked, softened by my realization.
“It’s too soon to tell. The assumption is a faulty gas line, but it will take some time to get the official word on it.”
I nodded absently, until my nods automatically started going in the other direction, and I was shaking my head, no, no, no! “It wasn’t a faulty gas line,” I said, with sudden clarity. “Bobby, that explosion was no accident.”
Bobby slumped down onto the couch, his long legs crossed at the ankles. His heart was breaking for his missing friend and now he had a hysterical woman to contend with. Well, tough.
“Did you hear what I said? I think that fire was set intentionally. I think someone was out to get John.”
“Come on, Brandy. Who would want to kill Johnny?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, “but what I do know, you’re not going to like.”
Bobby sat up, cop face in place. “Okay, spill it.”
I took a deep breath and started at the beginning. I told him about John’s friend’s birthday party, about how John had recognized the murder victim from the pictures he’d taken and had contacted the police.
“Why didn’t he come to me?” Bobby demanded.
“You were on vacation,” I said, pointedly.
His eyes flashed with pain. Why do I keep doing that?
“Look, there was nothing you could have done. You didn’t know John was going to come up with evidence in a murder. Anyway, he called the police station and some cop came over to talk to him.”
“Did you get a name?”
I thought back to our conversation. “No. He just said it was the guy in charge of the case.”
“Then what?”
“Then the cop took Johnny’s pictures and thanked him for his help. Oh, and he warned him not to talk about it to anyone. He said it could really screw up the investigation if any information were to leak out.”
“Did you see a copy of the pictures?”
“No. This all took place before I got into town. He just told me there was a shot of the murdered guy and some guy seated next to him. They looked like they were on a date.”
“Brandy, I still don’t see how we go from John taking some pictures that may or may not have had something to do with one murder, to him being the target of another one.”
“I’m getting to that. When John picked me up at the airport he was acting all jumpy and weird. Then he told me that since he’d given his statement to the police and handed over the pictures, strange things had begun to happen.”
“Like what?”
“Like he felt like he was being followed. And he thought someone had been in his apartment. And someone almost ran him over.”
“He felt like? He thought? He almost? From this you conclude that John’s on some kind of cop hit list? Jesus, Brandy, have you completely lost your mind?”
When he put it that way, the man had a point.
“Okay,” I conceded. “But there’s something else. A few days ago I ran into Vince Giancola. He started complaining about work, per usual, and he mentioned this murder case. Then he said it’s been frustrating because there isn’t any evidence. I’m paraphrasing, but he clearly said there weren’t any leads. I started to ask him about the pictures, but John wasn’t supposed to have told anyone about them, so I kept my mouth shut.”
Bobby was quiet for a moment, his face unreadable. I watched the muscles in his jaw tighten and release. “This doesn’t make any sense,” he said finally. “Why would the police stonewall the D.A.’s office about the evidence? They usually share what they know.”
“I don’t know. And how do you explain the fact that John hands over the pictures and then all these weird things start happening?”
“What things?” Bobby exploded. “You said yourself that John wasn’t even sure anything was happening. Christ, Brandy, you haven’t changed one iota since the day I met you. You were always looking for ‘the story.’ You had more conspiracy theories than the History Channel. What happened to John was an accident. A tragic, senseless accident. But that’s all it was.”
“It figures you’d say that. Cops always watch each other’s backs. Code Blue, isn’t that what they call it?” Low blow I know, but I was royally pissed.
Bobby got to his feet. An angry blue vein popped up on the side of his neck and began to throb as he fought for control over his emotions.
“I think you’ve been watching too many reruns of NYPD Blue,” he growled low in his throat.
“No, just reading the newspapers.”
“What about the newspapers?”
“They’re full of stories about police corruption. It must be very tempting for a cop on a limited income to pick up some extra cash,” I added, pointedly.
“Is that what you really think of me?” he asked, in a tight, quiet voice.
“No,” I admitted. “I’m sorry. I’m just…” I shrugged my shoulders, too tired to finish my thought.
We stood there staring at each other, the silence building to deafening proportions. I wanted to apologize for real, to take back every agonizing innuendo, but Alexander stubbornness reigned supreme and I willed my mouth shut.
“Look,” he said, finally, blowing breath out of his mouth in a sharp burst of air. “I’ll ask around. I’ll talk to the primary in charge of the investigation, and I’ll take a look at the pictures. But I’m warning you, Brandy, stay out of this. We’re not in high school anymore. There’s more at stake than a week
’s worth of detention.”
“Thank you,” I replied, softly.
“For what?”
“For taking me seriously.”
He relaxed a little, and a glimpse of the old Bobby reappeared. “I’ve always taken you seriously.” The look that accompanied that statement could have populated a small country.
I blushed and stood up, pushing him towards the door.
“You throwing me out?”
“Looks like it.”
He arched his eyebrows, and I wondered if he knew how seductive that was. I ignored him, along with the skittering in my stomach, as best I could and opened the door.
“Call me as soon as you know anything. And, um,” I added, almost in a whisper, “I really am sorry about what I said before. I didn’t mean it.”
Bobby nodded briefly. Message received.
“Don’t forget what I told you,” he warned. “Let me handle this. I don’t want you getting involved.” He stepped through the threshold and I slammed the door shut behind him. Fat chance.
CHAPTER FIVE
He must’ve gone straight from my house to the police station, because an hour later the phone rang.
“It’s Bobby.”
“What did you find out?” I tried to concentrate on his words and not the longings his voice stirred in me. I sensed a slight hesitation before he answered.
“Dead end on the photographs. The guy the victim was with checked out. Had an airtight alibi for the time of the murder. Listen, Brandy—”
“Can I have the pictures?”
“What?”
“Can I have the pictures?” Sheesh, I thought that was plain enough.
“What do you want them for?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, honestly. “I guess because they were a part of John. Maybe I’ll give him to his friend, Daniel.” Again, I felt the slightest hesitation before he answered.
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