No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery)

by Shelly Fredman

  I lunged for him, landing square on his back. He twisted violently as I latched onto his wrist and tried to wrestle the gun out of his hand. He wouldn’t let go, so I grabbed him by the hair. “Marie, get Harrison’s gun,” I screamed. “It’s over there on the floor.”

  Marie rushed forward, but instead of picking up the pistol, she scooped Sophia up with her good arm and bolted out the warehouse door. Boy, that woman is so not a team player.

  By this time, Glen was spinning around like a rodeo bull, trying to buck me off him. I hung on as best I could, but I didn’t have the advantage of the super-strength that comes with being a meth freak. He dug his nails into my arms, drawing blood. I let go of his hair and aimed instead for his face, clawing viciously at his eyes.

  Enraged, he shoved the barrel of the gun under my breastbone. I held my breath and hurled myself sideways. Glen lost his grip and dropped the revolver. As it clattered to the floor, he reached up for me, locking his bony hands around my neck, choking the life out of me. I drew my arms up and quickly clamped down on his, breaking the hold, the way I’d seen on an old episode of Baretta. We hit the ground hard, and I landed on top of him.

  A shot rang out, accompanied by a searing pain in my side. I tried to roll off him, but Glen’s arms were rigid around me. When his grip suddenly loosened and unfolded from my waist I knew the struggle was over but had no idea why—and frankly, thanks to the dime-sized hole in my side, I didn’t particularly care.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “The bullet went clean through me without hitting any vital organs,” I stated with pride, as if somehow I’d had something to do with it. Glen hadn’t been so lucky. When we fell, we landed on the gun, causing it to discharge. It hit both of us, lodging in his aorta. He died instantly.

  I dispensed this information to Fran and Janine from my hospital bed. The doctors had insisted I stay overnight to make sure no infections set in. Franny wanted to stay with me, but the hospital staff wouldn’t let her. They were afraid of her picking up an infection—ironic, isn’t it? And what with her being pregnant and all…

  “Per usual, I miss all the fun,” she said, doing her best imitation of Eeyore.

  “Don’t worry, Franny, when I get home I’ll make you a nice bowl of Jell-o. It’ll be just like being here.”

  The events of the evening were hazy. After I was shot, I’d passed out from the intense pain in my gut. Upon waking, my first rational thought was, “I’m lying in the arms of a dead man. Eewww!” My next, less rational thought was, “I’ve got to clean up this mess. What will people think?”

  I didn’t have time to dwell on either one. There was a sudden explosion of light and sound as a caravan of police cars pulled up just outside the warehouse.

  Nick was the first one through the door. His normally neutral expression gave way to controlled concern, until I lifted my head from Glen’s prone body. Nick quickly assessed the room, noting with grim satisfaction that the two new men in my life were dead.

  “You’re really rough on your dates, aren’t you, sport?” he said, kneeling down beside me.

  I tried to laugh, but the effort it took was monumental.

  Nick lifted my hand from the bullet wound and placed it in his own. Blood stained his fingers, but it he didn’t seem to take notice.

  Bobby appeared on the other side of me, along with two uniformed officers and a couple of paramedics. I recognized the one from that time in my basement. “Hey,” I said. “Good to see you again.”

  “She’s in shock,” he explained, covering me with a blanket, “but the wound doesn’t appear life-threatening.”

  Nick relinquished my hand and disappeared outside to speak to the hordes of reporters who had appeared like vultures, at the first whiff of human sacrifice. With any luck, some day I’d be one of them.

  I looked up at Bobby. “Did Marie call you?”

  “No.” His tone was tense.

  “Then how—”

  Bobby reached over and swept my bangs out of my eyes, something he’d done a thousand times when we used to be together. “I stopped by DiVinci’s about twenty minutes after you left there, this afternoon. Lindsay told me you’d been in with a guy who fit Harrison’s description. The bartender said you left with him. The truck wasn’t in the parking lot and I was afraid you’d taken off with Harrison, so I got in touch with Santiago and we located you through the truck’s GPS.”

  “See, I knew you’d learn to get along with Nick. All you needed was a common project.”

  His smile was wan. He’d been sick with worry, and it was about to get worse.

  Over in the corner, the forensics team busied themselves with Harrison’s body. I tried not to think about it or the fact that it so easily could have been me. “Bobby, there’s something I need to tell you about what happened here, today. I wasn’t alone. Marie—”

  He cut me off, barely contained anger etched on his face. “I know all about Marie. She jeopardized my daughter’s life and she left you here to die.” His deep blue eyes watered and he turned away. It was the last thing I remember before being lifted onto the stretcher and carried out the door.

  Visitors spilled out into the hospital corridor. Predictably, the police showed up and the FBI, once they got wind of the thumb drive. When I was feeling better we’d be having a nice long chat, they assured me. For now they seemed content with restoring national security.

  Barry Kaminski sent a tasteful bouquet of seasonal flowers along with a request for an exclusive. He sweetened the deal by alluding to a reporter’s job that was about to open up on his network. I’m totally bribable and couldn’t wait to meet with him.

  Carla swung by Nick’s to pick up Rocky and Adrian, and Uncle Frankie brought me a cheese steak, figuring I’d be hungry after my “ordeal.” Feeding me cholesterol-packed food is his way of saying “I love you,” which suited me just fine. Paul showed up wearing a Ramone’s T-shirt—it was ‘80’s night at the club, and John trailed in after him, carrying a bag from Victoria’s Secret.

  “Thought you might need this,” he said, holding up a lacy, pink nightie. It had a plunging neckline and was, for all intents and purposes, see-through. It looked like something you’d find on the cover of a Victorian bodice-ripper. “Don’t get mad at me, Sunshine,” he said when I made a face. “It was your mother’s idea. She thought you might run across an available doctor and you’d want to look nice.”

  I turned to Paul. “Mom knows already?”

  “Sh-she knew b-before I did. Th-that woman is a-m-mazing.”

  “I’m okay, Paulie,” I said quietly.

  He leaned over and kissed me on my cheek. “You bet.”

  A nurse came in and handed me my pain meds and something to help me sleep. Then he cleared everybody out. Janine told me she’d be back later to stay the night with me. The nurse, a ruggedly handsome guy in his mid thirties said he’d look forward to seeing her again. Unbelievable.

  I turned over in the darkened room and tried to go to sleep, but I couldn’t stop those terrifying images from parading around in my brain. I knew from past experience that I’d be living with them for a long time.

  “It’s all over,” I kept telling myself. “I’m fine.” And then the tears that I fought to keep inside while everyone was here tumbled out of me. I cried for Ilene and Andi and Turk, and even for Glen and Keith, but most of all I cried for me.

  I hadn’t quite finished my little pity party, when I heard a sound at the door. Swiping a hand over my face, I sat up too quickly and groaned. Apparently, the pain meds needed a little time to kick in.

  Nick was standing at the entrance. “Hey,” he said.

  My heart stopped beating when I saw him. Good thing I’m in a place where that sort of thing happens all the time. “Hey,” I answered, shyly. Except for the brief interlude in the warehouse, I hadn’t spoken to him since we shared his bed. I was off to a running start.

  “I brought you something.” Nick slid along the wall in the dark until he found what
he was looking for. A moment later, the room was softly illuminated. He’d brought me a nightlight. It was an indescribably thoughtful gesture.

  He sat down at my side while I tried, unsuccessfully, to keep from bawling again.

  “It must be the medication,” I gulped. “I’m never like this.”

  “Never,” he agreed. “You’re a rock.” He handed me some tissue and I wiped the gunk off my nose.

  Nick told me the Feds had busted the Ellenbergs and closed down the casino. “Oh, and Bulldog was picked up again, this time on a weapons charge. The Ellenbergs are a little too busy to bail him out right now, so he decided to turn state’s evidence in return for a shorter jail sentence.”

  I shook my head, amazed. “How do you know all this?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve got friends in low places.”

  The sleeping pill finally kicked in and I sank back into the pillows. Nick stood up and pressed his lips lightly against mine. “Take care, angel,” he said. It sounded suspiciously like the brush off and suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

  “Um, yeah, you too,” I choked out.

  He reached the door and turned to face me again. I could barely make out his features in the low light.

  “Remember when you asked me if I ever got scared?” he said.

  “I remember. You said nothing scares you.” The corners of his mouth twitched imperceptibly. “I was scared tonight.”

  Mike Mahoe stood just outside Bobby’s office, his broad shoulders slumped in a show of contrition. I was still mad at him for his reaction to my fight with Marie. He’d enjoyed it entirely too much.

  “I heard you were here,” Mike began.

  “Hm hmm.” I wasn’t going to make this easy for him.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his heavy leather cop jacket. “Well, I just wanted to say I’m glad you’re okay—and I’m sorry about—you know—the thing with Father Vincenzio,” he added in a rush. I guess near-death experiences have some advantages. People go out of their way to be nice to you.

  “Thanks, Mike,” I said, offering him up a smile.

  Bobby sat on the edge of his desk, tossing wads of paper in the wastebasket. I was in the beat up metal chair, waiting for him to miss, so that I could have my turn at “World Domination.”

  I had driven myself to the police station in Paul’s Mercedes, having returned the truck to Nick. Now that I was safe, he was going on that business trip he’d been putting off. It was a relief to think he was in some primitive location, without access to a phone. That way, I wouldn’t be hanging around mine, waiting for him to call.

  After a rather lengthy interview, I was free to go. Bobby caught me on the way out and dragged me into his office. He shut the door and pulled a couple of sheets of paper out of his desk drawer, showing them to me.

  “Separation agreement,” he explained. “And this one gives me temporary sole custody of my little girl.” A visible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. One hundred and thirty pounds, if I were to make a guess.

  “So what happens to Marie now?” The woman had left me for dead, but I still couldn’t bring myself to hate her.

  “She knows she’s sick. I’m through with our marriage, and if she wants back in Sophia’s life, she’s going to have to commit to some serious therapy. By the way, thanks for not pressing charges against her for stalking you.”

  I sank the final shot to take over Poland and stood up. I had to get home to get ready for my blind date with Jason Danski. Actually, I’d forgotten all about him until he called, that morning. It just seemed easier to meet him than to explain why I was out of the mood.

  Mike walked me to the elevator. I wanted to go see Toodie, but Mike said they’d released him a few hours ago. A uniformed officer came down the hall, towing a stocky, bald headed guy in cuffs. One of his arms was in a cast. Ivan “Bulldog” Sandmeyer. My stomach lurched when I saw him, but fear soon gave way to intense loathing as I thought about how he had destroyed my parents’ couch in his quest for the thumb drive. That couch had been a part of my life for twenty-eight years. I’d logged thousands of hours watching television on that couch, was nursed through chicken pox and had gotten my first hickey, all on those familiar green velvet cushions.

  Before Mike could stop me, I marched up to Sandmeyer, stopping two inches in front of his face. “You owe me a childhood memory.” I reared back and delivered a solid kick to his shin.

  Sandmeyer howled. “Son of a bitch!”

  The officer made a move for me, but Mike shook his head, a silent warning to back off. “Come on, tiger,” he grinned, throwing a meaty arm around my shoulders. “I think your work here is done.”

  Carla was right about Jason. He was pleasant, easy on the eye, had a respectable job and, as far as I could tell, hadn’t murdered anyone recently.

  Janine had called during dinner to see if I needed to invoke the “I’ve-got-a-sick friend-it-was-nice-meeting-you” plan.

  I excused myself and went to the ladies’ room. “He seems like a good one,” I told her. I’m going to give him a chance.”

  On the way back from the restaurant we stopped at Best Buy. Jason, a self-proclaimed “electronics geek” wanted to check out the new high definition and plasma screen TV’s.

  We stood surrounded by dozens of televisions of various sizes, all tuned to the same channel.

  “Oh, I love this show,” Jason said, zeroing in on a 56 inch monster monitor.

  Apparently, the rest of Northeast Philadelphia did too. A large crowd had gathered to watch the final minutes of The Nosy Neighbor. Not wanting to be a spoilsport, I chimed in with, “This show is hilarious. I mean where do they find these people?”

  “And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” a disembodied voice intoned. “This week’s number one video, sent in by nosy neighbor Doris Gentile of South Philadelphia.”

  “Oh my God, Jason, she’s my neighbor!”

  But Jason wasn’t listening. His eyes were glued to the television as a young woman filled the life-sized screen. She was standing in the front yard of a house, bent over a hose, shampooing her hair in the freezing cold. She wore only a man’s trench coat, which, unbeknownst to her, had fallen open in the front, revealing her womanly wares. This being network TV, they were covered, discreetly, by two fuzzy balls of light. Sadly, her face was not.

  Jason appeared even more embarrassed than I did. In the next moment, as I stood amidst snickering onlookers, he reached into his pocket, feigned a phone call, fake-answered it, and told me he hoped I didn’t mind, but he had to leave immediately to visit a sick friend. Truthfully, I didn’t mind so much that he was ditching me (I would have ditched me too), but he didn’t even offer me a ride home.

  I took a cab back to my place, made myself a large pot of hot chocolate and settled down on the patio lounge chair I’d borrowed from Fran and Eddie. (I really had to get a new couch.) Adrian sprawled at my feet while Rocky slurped the dregs of the cocoa that were cooling in the pot on the stove.

  I turned on Three’s Company, but the comical hi-jinks of Chrissy, Jack and Janet just weren’t doing it for me. The truth is, I was lonely. I couldn’t call anyone. Everybody thought I was on a date, and I didn’t want to disabuse them of that notion just yet. I briefly considered knocking on Mrs. Gentile’s door to tell her how much I enjoyed her home video, or inviting Bobby over, to give her something to talk about. That idea appealed to me a lot more, but in our mutually vulnerable states, I knew it wouldn’t be the smartest move. The doorbell rang, saving me from a major bout of stupidity.

  “Maybe it’s a Jehovah’s Witness,” I thought hopefully, heading for the door. “They’re always up for a nice, long chat.” I stood on tiptoe so I could look out the peephole. “Who is it?” I called out.

  A ridiculously phony British accent replied, “It’s the butler.”

  Joyously, I ripped open the door.

  “Hi Roomie.”

  About the Author

  A former Philadelphian, Fredm
an now resides in Santa Monica, California where she splits her "real life" between writing, teaching elementary school, consuming mass quantities of chocolate and enjoying the many characters that manifest themselves in her head (in the non-clinical sense).