“Depends.”
Wrong answer. I shook my head. “I just thought it was weird, that’s all.”
He gave me a look that said he knew there was more to it than that, but I was in no mood to give anything away. I decided to throw a little guilt his way and see what he did with it.
“I just think that if the police can’t use the photos, they should be given to John’s friend, Daniel. John would’ve wanted him to have them.” It had the desired effect. Vince promised to talk to the investigator and get back to me. He finished his coffee and signaled the waiter for a refill. I held out my cup as well, forgetting that I’d cut myself off from the high-octane stuff.
“Man, this case has been a bitch and a half,” Vince grumbled.
“How so?”
“The mayor’s getting squeezed from all sides. The ‘Conservative Right’—the folks who probably finance his campaign are up in arms that these freaks are allowed to walk the city streets. I’m sure most of them think Novack got just what he deserved. Now, the Gay Rights activists are screaming bloody murder, no pun intended, saying the mayor isn’t doing anything to protect ‘alternative lifestyle’ citizens.” He laughed, mirthlessly.
“And what do you think?”
“I don’t think anyone deserves what happened to that poor bastard.”
“So, what’s the mayor going to do? How does he manage to placate two such diverse groups?”
“The mayor is praying the voters bump their collective heads and develop group amnesia. He just wants this stinking mess to go away.” I couldn’t see that happening. Philadelphians are tenacious buggers. “I gotta tell ya,” Vince continued, “this is wreaking havoc with his re- election plans, and who knows what it could do for his bid for governor.”
Vince offered to walk me to my car, but I told him it wasn’t necessary. I wanted to do a little window-shopping before I went home. We stood outside the restaurant together, his arm draped amiably over my shoulder. It had turned cold, and a wind was beginning to kick up. My coat was unbuttoned, and I could feel the night air work its way inside. Vince took his arm from around my shoulder and buttoned the top of my jacket. A protective, brotherly gesture.
“Thanks,” I smiled.
“Any time, kiddo.”
“Vince, tell me the truth, was this like a date tonight? I mean, when you called, were you asking me out?”
Vince snorted loudly, shaking his head. “Christ, you’re a pistol.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Okay, I guess I did kinda have it in mind to ask you out. Well,” he added with an embarrassed laugh, “you looked really hot when I saw you the other day, and—Ah, Bran, you know I’ve had a crush on you since the third grade. I figured, what the hell.”
“Well, now that you know what a glamour queen I really am…”and let my appearance finish the sentence.
“I’d ask you again in a New York minute.”
“Thanks, Vince.” I kissed him on the cheek and we hugged, a big gumbotz embrace.
“Don’t forget to call me.”
I walked back to Paul’s car feeling optimistic about my dinner with Vince. He would find out about the pictures, and I’d finally be able to lay that question to rest. I was thinking so hard about our conversation that I must have walked right past the car. I started to backtrack but stopped when I realized that I was practically back to where I’d started and there was no sign of it.
Frantically, I raced back towards to the restaurant, searching up and down the street for the Mercedes. I rounded the corner and relief flooded through my body as I spotted it. A split second later I let out a blood-curdling scream as I realized it was driving down the block without me. The goddamn car was being towed!
I sprinted off in pursuit of the tow truck, waving my arms around like a pinwheel to try to get the driver’s attention. “Hey,” I shouted, “Stop!” My voice carried about as far as the length of my outstretched arm. The tow truck kept on barreling down the street, out of sight. This can’t be happening! What am I going to do? Paul is going to kill me. Worse, he’ll be disappointed in me. How could I let this happen?
I sat on the curb and whipped out my cell phone. After three rings, it picked up.
“Uncle Frankie, it’s Brandy. I need a little help.”
It took Frankie twenty minutes to locate me. I sat on the curb, a cold, forlorn mass of guilt. Paul had trusted me with his car and I screwed up, big time. I don’t even know why I’d been towed. Well, maybe I’d been sticking out a “smidge” more than I’d thought. Frankie pulled up alongside the curb and crooked his finger at me. I hopped into the cab of his silver Ford F150 and we took off for the impound lot.
“Thanks for coming to get me, Uncle Frankie.”
“Any time, Midget Brat.” Midget Brat. That’s what he used to call me when I was little. It was only fitting that he use the term now. At the moment I felt like about five years old.
I looked over at my uncle as he drove along, one massive bicep draped along the back of the seat cushion. Uncle Frankie manages a boxing gym down on South Street, and he works out daily. He’s in amazing shape. Frankie could have been a professional boxer, but too many years of hard partying curtailed any dreams he may have had in that direction. Now, he spends most afternoons working with kids on the edge, giving them hope for their futures, a place to go, someone to listen to them.
I met Bobby at my uncle’s gym. He was sixteen and had just moved from Chicago, into the neighborhood. God, he was angry in those days, and he had good reason to be. His mom had just been killed by a drunk driver. No one knew where his dad was. He’d deserted the family when Bobby was four, so Bobby was shipped off to Philadelphia to live with an aunt he barely knew.
I remember the first time I laid eyes on him. I’d gone to visit my uncle, after school. He’d promised me a boxing lesson, but at the time he was still drinking and had forgotten that I was coming. I was really mad, and I sat outside on the dumpster, banging my boots against the metal sides. Bobby came out back to see what the racket was, and suddenly I was staring at the most beautiful creature God ever dropped onto the planet.
He was 5’ 9” (he hadn’t had his growth spurt yet) with wavy dark hair and the deepest blue eyes I’d ever seen. They were so dark they looked almost purple. He was wearing the neighborhood special, jeans and a “wife beater” tee shirt, which accentuated his muscular arms. A cigarette dangled from his lips. He seethed with rage and sadness and adolescent sexuality. That boy was hot. My face grew red as he gazed steadily up at me. I stared back down at this magnificent Fallen Angel, not knowing what to say. I finally went with “false bravado.”
“What’re you lookin’ at?” I sneered, my tone registering a ten on the brat scale.
“What’re you lookin’ at?” he shot back, his eyes never leaving mine. I felt myself being sucked into the deep end of the pool. Suddenly, his face broke into a slow grin, and in one fluid motion he hoisted himself up onto the dumpster lid and sat down beside me. At once the muscles in my lower abdomen contracted, and I felt my entire body flush with a rising heat. The heat settled right between my legs and stayed there.
“My name’s Bobby,” he said. And I vowed to tell him mine just as soon as I remembered it.
Lucky for me Frankie knew the people who ran the impound lot. The place was closed when we got there, but he managed to contact someone who pulled a few strings, and a couple of hundred dollars later Paul’s car was out of hock. Now, if I could just get it home in one piece he’d never have to know about his car’s little adventure.
It was after 9:00 p.m. by the time I got home. I yanked off my shoes and left them in the front foyer. Then I flopped down on the couch, grabbed the remote and began to channel surf. “Bewitched” was on Nick At Nite, an early episode with the original Darren. Oh, goody.
I snuggled deep into the cushions, my legs curled under a blanket. “God, it feels good to relax,” I thought, at which point I remembered I had to call John’s da
d. Groaning, I half dragged myself off the couch and headed for the kitchen.
The answering machine was beeping like crazy, demanding attention like a visual whine. I ran back the tape and started to press “play” but then stopped myself. I’d already stalled long enough. John’s dad deserved a phone call.
I picked my mother’s phone book off the Formica counter top and flipped to the M’s. Taking a deep, cleansing breath I picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. One, two, three rings. Okay, not home. I slammed down the receiver as fast as I could, in case John’s dad decided he was home after all. I knew it was the chicken’s way out, but I was just so happy to have this small reprieve. I had no words of comfort for this man. Sighing, I pressed “play” on the answer machine.
“Hi sweetheart. It’s Daddy. Just checking in with you.”
“Ask her does she want me to come home,” my mother yelled in the background.
“Who needs to ask her?” my dad shouted back. “They can hear you in Iowa.”
“Iowa? What’s Iowa got to do with anything? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Sarcasm is not a recognized response in my mother’s world. Any attempt at such wordplay just earns the perpetrator the rebuke, “Don’t be ridiculous.” As sarcasm runs rampant in my veins, she says that to me a lot.
“Brandy,” my mother spoke directly into the phone, now. “Daddy and I are worried about you. Call us.”
“We love you, honey.” That, from my dad, who had once again assumed the position of second banana and had been relegated to background noises.
“We love you, honey,” my mother repeated. Bye bye. Call us.”
Call number two was a hang-up, followed by a familiar male voice, a voice on the edge of exhaustion.
“Brandy, it’s Bobby.” He hesitated, and I could hear the rush of breath leave his lips. “I’d like to talk to you, so could you give me a call? My number’s 505-2753. Uh, thanks,” he added, uncertainly.
I must have played his message ten times over, just to hear the sound of his voice. Guess I have some “residual issues” as my friend Michelle would say. With shaking hands I punched in Bobby’s number and waited for him to pick up the phone. My heart skipped a beat when his voice came on the line.
“Hey. We’re not in right now, so please leave a message.”
Well, of all the nerve! We’re not in right now. Me and the little Mrs. aren’t in right now. Mr. and Mrs. FUCKHEAD aren’t IN right now! I slammed down the phone without leaving a message.
I returned to the couch and “Bewitched.” Apparently, Endora had turned Darren into a donkey. I tried to immerse myself in Darren’s troubles, but my mind was definitely elsewhere. Why did I get so mad? It’s not like I don’t know Bobby’s married, but I suppose hearing him refer to himself as part of a “couple” drove home the reality of the situation. He dumped me and now he’s part of a happy twosome.
I don’t even care about getting married right now. Maybe ever. But it would be nice to have the option. I’ve had six dates in the past four years. Two of those dates included sex but I’d done it with the same guy twice, so there was actually just one lover and I didn’t even like him. I only did it to be polite.
My mind wandered back to my life in Los Angeles. I’ve been happy there, the past four years. Happy enough, anyway. I live six miles from the beach, I have a rent- controlled apartment and I’ve made some good friends. Why, then, do I feel a perpetual loneliness? I popped a couple of Hershey’s kisses and waited for euphoria to set in.
Sleep refused to make an appearance. Instead, fear, angst, frustration and sadness all came to visit, and they kept me up with their incessant chatter. At about one a.m. I popped an “Excedrin p.m.” It’s really stupid. I could have just gone with a sleeping pill, which has the same sleep inducers in it, but I’d feel like a drug addict, relying on meds to fall asleep. “Excedrin,” on the other hand, is a well-known pain reliever. And I’m sure I had a headache. Why that makes it okay in my mind, I have no idea.
CHAPTER SEVEN
True to his word, Vince called me early the next morning. He’d gone home last night and stewed about what I’d told him. The more he’d thought about it, the more ticked off he’d become until, at eleven p.m. he picked up the phone and called Detective Charles Strom, the cop in charge of the Konner Novack investigation. According to Vince, Chuck wasn’t too happy about being awoken from a dead sleep by an irate district attorney. He was even less happy to hear what Vince had to say.
“He wants to see you this morning.”
“When?” I struggled to open my eyes, having just closed them what seemed like ten minutes ago. The clock said seven a.m. Wow, almost five full hours. I started to feel like I’d overslept.
“ASAP.”
“What does he want with me?”
Vince sighed heavily. “Seems there’s been some sort of snafu.”
“What do you mean, snafu?”
“He doesn’t know anything about any photographs.”
“What?” I bolted upright in bed, banging my head against the walnut backboard. “Ow.” “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I shifted the phone to my other ear and began massaging the sore spot. “What do you mean he doesn’t know anything about the pictures? He was the one who picked them up from John in the first place.”
“Ah, that’s another thing…”
I scrambled out of bed and dove into the shower, emerging fifteen minutes later, clean, if not refreshed. I had a slight hangover from the sleeping pill and Vince’s information made my head swim. Quickly, I dragged a comb through my tangled hair, pulled on a pair of jeans and a black, heavy cotton sweater and brushed my teeth. Then, I set to blow-drying my hair. It was cold outside and I didn’t want wet hair hanging down my neck. As I turned on the power full blast, I mulled over the rest of my conversation with Vince.
“Strom said he’d never met with John.”
“Then who did?” I fairly screamed.
“I don’t know,” Vince countered, quietly.
“What? You think John made the whole thing up?”
“I never said that. It’s just weird, is all.”
I really couldn’t blame Vince for his suspicions. For all he knew, the photos never existed, and at the moment I didn’t plan to prove to him otherwise. My gut instinct told me to keep quiet about having the extra set of pictures. I trusted Vince, but the first set of prints had already disappeared. Who’s to say it wouldn’t happen again. Suddenly, I was struck with another thought. “Shit,” I said aloud.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. Vince, I gotta go. I’ll call you later.” I hung up the phone and sat there, staring at it like it was a Simpsons’ Magic Eight Ball, and if I stared hard enough, answers would leap out at me. But the only word that kept coming to mind was Bobby.
The bastard had lied to me. Again. He said he’d spoken to the primary investigator and had looked at John’s pictures, and they were worthless to the investigation.
Suddenly, I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and I thought for a moment that I was going to heave. I quickly stuck my head between my knees and waited for the feeling to pass. Bobby can’t be a part of some sort of cover-up. He just can’t be. Then why the hell was it looking so much like he was? Oy, this is not good.
Once my hair was dry I trundled downstairs, grabbed a handful of cheerios and shrugged into my jacket. I opened the front door just as Mrs. Gentile opened hers. She had a broom in her hand, and by the look on her face I thought she was planning to whack me with it. “Good morning, Mrs. Gentile,” I called cheerfully, as she began to sweep non-existent dirt off her front step. I would charm her with my friendliness.
“These walls are paper thin,” she announced by way of greeting. “I hear you clonking around all hours of the night.” I opened my mouth to respond, but I thought better of it and just smiled back at her. “You should have some consideration.” She turned on her heels and disappeared back into her house.
�
��I’ll keep that in mind, Mrs. Gentile,” I called out to her retreating back. Then I remembered I’d left my cell phone on the bedside table. I stomped back inside, slammed the front door as hard as I could and clonked back upstairs to retrieve my phone. “Consider this, Mrs. Gentile.”
When I got back outside I did a quick inspection of Paul’s car, looking for tell tale signs of last night’s little joy ride. No, it all looked good. I got in the car and started the engine. It had been years since I’d been down to the police station. As a kid, I used to go there all the time with my mom, to bail out my uncle. I’d gotten to know the cops pretty well back then. And then when Bobby first joined the force, I’d meet him at the station sometimes after work. I wondered now if I would run into him this morning. The thought gave me a thrill mixed with an equal dose of dread. What if I start freaking out on him in the middle of the station? I mean, for all I knew he could be the murderer!
Yes, Brandy, in the years since you’ve been apart, Bobby decided to become a homophobic, homicidal manic. Okay, that scenario was far fetched, even for me. But, realistically, he could end up being a cop on the take. And that thought didn’t provide much comfort either.
Although women are a large part of the force now, the station still smelled like armpits and testosterone. I stopped off at the front desk and asked where I might find Detective Strom. A young Latino cop, with a pencil thin moustache and beautiful dark brown eyes looked up at me. He had a large Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of him, which he picked up before answering.
“Is he expecting you?”
“Sort of. My name’s Brandy Alexander. I was told he wanted to see me.”
The cop picked up a phone and punched in some numbers. A moment later he said, “Back through these doors, he’s the last cubicle on the right.” He buzzed me in.
Detective Strom looked like a cartoon character. He had a large, expansive paunch, which effectively covered his belt buckle as well as the tops of his shoes. His ears could have passed for wings on a jet liner and his jowls swayed when he moved. He looked vaguely familiar and then I realized why. He was the image of Mr. Slate, Fred’s boss on The Flintstones. I suppressed a laugh, wishing John were there to share it with me.
No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) Page 9