No Such Thing as a Free Ride

by Shelly Fredman

  Other Books in the Brandy Alexander Mystery Series

  No Such Thing As a Secret

  No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date

  No Such Thing As a Free Lunch

  No Such Thing As a Free Ride

  A Brandy Alexander Mystery

  Shelly Fredman

  Acknowledgments:

  I would like to express my love and appreciation to the following people:

  Corey Fetzer, Dudley Fetzer and Kris Zuercher for their infinite patience, emotional support and creative input; Bill Fordes and Jerry Fest for allowing me to call upon their expertise in matters pertaining to this story and for refocusing me when I saw a squirrel; Audrey Matisa for her generosity in sharing her time and talent and for working so hard to help make my dream a reality; Julie Dolcemaschio for helping me wade through sticky plot points and for being my Saturday morning breakfast buddy; and Franny Fredman for remaining my biggest fan.

  Special thanks to:

  Tim Litostansky for his fantastic cover design, and to Natasha Adamski, Jill Dearden, Joanna Banks-Morgan, Suzanne Dunham and Jude Brandt (We miss you, Jude) for setting up fan sites and spreading the word about the Brandy Alexander Series.

  To Janet Kirer and Anna Harp, I so appreciate all your hard work; Bruce Gram, Marty Schatz and Renee Greidinger, thank you for your unfailing support and friendship. A special shout-out to the wonderful people in our Brandy Alexander Yahoo group. I am so happy to count you among my friends. Thank you all for being Brandy’s cheerleader out in the reading community!

  To: Judy and Andrew West, the heart and soul of Aquinas & Krone Publishing, I am eternally in your debt.

  AND: to author Judith Kristen, your friendship has been a godsend, and your eternal optimism an inspiration. BEATLES FOREVER, Jude!

  For Jerry Fest

  The unexamined life is not worth living.—Socrates

  Get over yourself—Brandy Alexander

  Prologue

  My name is Brandy Alexander and I have just flunked Psychology 101. Not the college course, the life course. More specifically, my life course. I’d been seeing a therapist once a week for a little over two months (seems I have “issues” stemming from some scary stuff that’s happened to me lately) but it didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

  Now, I’m willing to admit I may have been a tad resistant to the whole idea of talking to a stranger about my deepest fears. Okay, maybe more than a tad. But still, it kind of hurt my feelings when Dr. Sullivan asked me not to come back.

  Oh, she was nice about it and all. I mean she didn’t exactly ban me from the building. She just suggested that perhaps I wasn’t quite ready to commit to digging deep into the bowels of my psyche. Wow, I was just hoping to learn how to sleep without a nightlight.

  “But everyone will be so disappointed in me,” I told her, thinking of my best friends, Johnny Marchiano and the DiAngelo twins, Fran and Janine. (Just because a couple of people have tried to kill me on three separate occasions within the past few months, they thought I needed professional counseling. Sheesh, what worry warts.) “Can’t you give me some sort of graduation certificate or at least a note saying I’m not as crazy as they think I am?”

  “Brandy,” Dr. Sullivan said, as I stared down at her Birkenstock sandals and “ethnic” jewelry, the wearing of which, I’m convinced, are pre-requisites to becoming a certified head shrinker, “therapy isn’t for everyone. Granted,” she added, “it is for most people,” the implication being that somehow I wasn’t normal, which was why I thought I was there in the first place.

  Dr. Sullivan smiled. “Your anxiety is understandable given the things you’ve been involved with lately. Having gotten to know you these past few months, I have every faith that you will continue to put yourself in jeopardy without giving it a second thought, if it means helping someone who needs you. I suggest you put therapy on hold and invest in a really good self defense course.” She stood, signaling both the end of the session and my foray into self enlightenment. To tell you the truth, I was relieved.

  Chapter One

  Contrary to popular belief, the fastest way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach or even his genitalia. The way to truly earn a guy’s devotion is to buy him a hot new car.

  I was standing on the curb outside my brother Paul’s South Philly apartment, holding the keys to a fully restored 1972, black Alpha Romeo Spider. I’d bought it off a guy named Ditto who, miraculously, had agreed to an installment plan, as I’m a little short on cash. Ditto even offered to throw in a couple of dates “to sweeten the deal,” but I told him he was far too generous as it was and I respectfully declined.

  Paul stood beside me now, blindfolded and cranky in the June heat, little beads of sweat dripping off his nose and onto his mustache. My brother’s got an ’80’s retro look going. He thinks his mustache looks cool. I think he has a man-crush on Magnum P.I.

  “Okay, Paulie, you can take off the blindfold.”

  Paul whistled. “Nice set of wheels, Sis.”

  “It’s for you.”

  “What? W-w-what?” Paul is adorable, smart and sweet, but even without the remains of a childhood stutter he’s not always the most scintillating conversationalist.

  “I got it for you,” I explained. “Look, I owe you a bar mitzvah present and I did sort of total your Mercedes. Just take it, okay?” I told him, handing him the keys.

  “B-but, you can’t afford this,” he said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “And besides, what are you going to drive? You said every time you get behind the wheel of Mom’s old Le Sabre it makes you crave Barry Manilow music.”

  “Nick loaned me his truck while he’s away.” On Paul’s skeptical look I shrugged. “It’s a free ride.”

  Paul dove deep into big brother mode. “There’s no such thing as a free ride, Bran. Nicholas Santiago is dangerous. Sooner or later it’s gonna cost you.”

  I would’ve said, “It already has—my heart,” but that was waaay too corny. Instead, I said, “You’ve been talking to DiCarlo, haven’t you?”

  Robert Anthony DiCarlo, Irish-Italian stud and former boyfriend was currently employed as a plainclothes homicide detective with the Philadelphia Police Department. We didn’t see eye to eye on the subject of Nick Santiago, sinner, saint and all around chick magnet.

  Paul did an exasperated sigh. “So how’s therapy going?” he asked.

  “Great! I passed with flying colors. Doctor Sullivan says I’m her best patient ever! I am the poster girl for sane living.”

  “You quit going, right?”

  “Something like that,” I said. “Listen, I’ve got to run. I’m late for class.”

  Last week I’d signed up for boxing lessons at my Uncle Frankie’s gym. I’d told everyone it was in preparation for my upcoming bout with a wallaby at a petting zoo out in Pottstown. (I’m a puff piece reporter for a local news station, and this was one of the many truly ridiculous stunts I perform to entertain viewers between “traffic on the Betsy Ross” and “weather on the nines.”)

  The truth is I’d really taken to heart what Dr. Sullivan said when she gave me my walking papers. I have a slight tendency to act on impulse, which has gotten me in a little over my head with some pretty creepy characters. So far I’ve managed to survive on luck and instinct, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to add something tangible, like a roundhouse to my repertoire.

  My cell phone rang just as I pulled into a staff-only parking spot at the South Street Gym. Being the manager’s niece has some perks. I climbed out of the granny-mobile (my pet name for the Le Sabre) and checked caller I.D. It was Franny.

  I love Fran to pieces, but frankly, she’s been a little scary lately. Fran is eight and a half months
pregnant, and her hormonal mood swings could be the subject for the next Stephen King novel. I put on my “happy voice” and said hello.

  “Eddie wants to name the baby, Caesar,” she said in a tone that told me she didn’t exactly embrace the idea.

  “And?”

  “And I’m not naming my kid after a salad dressing. Besides, I just know I’m having a girl. A mother knows these things.”

  I gave myself points for not gagging and grunted something non-committal.

  “Oh, before I forget,” she continued, “my mom wants to talk to you about the baby shower. She figured since you’re my best friend you’d want to help her organize it.”

  The baby shower. Damn, I’d forgotten. An entire afternoon devoted to playing dopey games like “Find the Dirty Diaper” and “Guess the Baby Mush.”

  “Um, yeah, about that. I’d love to, Franny. I really would. Only wouldn’t it be better if she asked Janine instead? Your mom has never exactly been my biggest fan.”

  All through high school Mrs. DiAngelo referred to me as “the bad influence,” until, after one particularly unfortunate incident involving the vice principal and a water balloon, when she upgraded me to “that damn Alexander kid.”

  “If you don’t want to, Bran, just say so.”

  Oh, jeez. This never would have been an issue with the old Franny. The old Franny would have made fun of any attempts to organize such a traditional, sexist party. But impending motherhood does funny things to the female brain. And not in a good way.

  “I’ll call your mom tonight, hon. Man, I am totally looking forward to this.”

  And on that happy note we hung up. I hiked my gym bag over my shoulder and entered the building.

  *****

  Uncle Frankie is twelve years my senior and up until I discovered, at the tender of fourteen, the charms of Bobby DiCarlo, I considered him to be the handsomest man on the planet. At forty Frankie still manages to turn heads, which is why the South Street Boxing Gym is popular with the ladies.

  I have always felt that my uncle (who had a few missteps along the way to becoming a productive member of society) and I were kindred spirits. The guy just “gets” me.

  I found him at the back of the gym, standing in the doorway that leads to the rear parking lot. The lot was cordoned off. A two-inch thick blue mat covered a twenty by twenty area of the asphalt, where a martial arts class was in progress.

  A group of teenage girls dressed in various forms of workout attire watched as the instructor, his back to me, demonstrated moves.

  One girl, small and blond with multiple piercings hung back against the gate, taking in the instruction with complete focus. She was dressed all in black—not the best choice for a sultry summer afternoon, but who am I to judge people on their fashion sense? My entire off-camera wardrobe consists of jeans and tee shirts.

  I walked toward Frankie and waved. He waved back at me and cut across the room to greet me.

  “Yo, midget brat,” he said, settling his arm across my shoulders. “C’mere for a minute. I want you to meet somebody.”

  The instructor glanced our way as we approached. I recognized him and my jaw dropped. Tall, dark and muscular, with Chanel 6006 sunglasses resting on top of his head, Alphonso Jackson looked every inch the bad-ass operator he was.

  I’d first met Alphonso a few months ago. He rides shotgun for Santiago, and he’s bailed me out of a jam or two at Nick’s request. Alphonso really likes me. I can tell by the way he pretends I’m a pain in his behind.

  He sauntered over to us and grinned, settling his shades over his eyes. “You’d better run while you can, bro,” he advised Frankie. “She may not look it, but this one is trouble.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Frankie laughed. “She’s my niece.”

  “Ooh, my condolences.”

  “Uh, fellas, if you can’t say something nice…” I interjected, “can you at least wait until I’ve left the room?”

  I was surprised to find Alphonso teaching a class at the gym, especially since Nick owns a martial arts studio on Spring Garden. Turns out my uncle and Alphonso have been friends for years. They met at what my mom used to refer to as a social club (when Paul and I were within earshot) but in actuality was The Clink.

  “Your uncle asked me to do him a favor,” Alphonso told me. “He’s one of those civic minded do-gooders.”

  Well, at least one of them learned the error of his ways. The jury’s still out on Alphonso.

  Although the gym is technically for boxing, Frankie’s “significant other,” Carla, talked him into offering a free self defense class geared toward local teenage girls. She said she thought it was important for them to know how to take care of themselves and, judging by the hormonal gymnastics of local teenage boys, it seemed like a good idea.

  I went off to spar with a kid from the neighborhood named Jimmy the Rat, an unfortunate moniker he picked up last year after he dropped a doughnut down the sewer, fished it out and ate it. I wasn’t really crazy about sparring with Jimmy, but there aren’t many boxers out there who’re short enough for me to pair up with. I’m five feet two if tip toes count.

  Alphonso was just finishing up his class when I got through. I was sweaty, slightly smelly and my hair, mouse brown and poker straight on a good day looked like I’d tangled with an electrical outlet and lost. He took the opportunity to comment on how nice I looked. I just prayed he didn’t snap a picture on his cell phone to send to Nick, wherever the hell that was.

  Nick took off for parts unknown, about three months ago, under mysterious circumstances. As virtually everything about Nick is a mystery, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. What did surprise me is how much it hurt. How much it still did.

  The girl in black was just leaving. I looked over at her and smiled. She slid her eyes downward and took off, a grimy backpack hanging from her shoulder. As she turned, I caught a glimpse of a tattoo nestled under her left ear. I think it was some sort of bird. It was hard to tell, as it looked like it had been drawn by a singularly untalented six-year old.

  Frankie came up next to me and caught me staring at her.

  “She’s been to every class,” he said, “but she never gets any closer than the gate. I tried to talk to her once and she told me to ‘fuck off.’ Nice, huh?”

  I laughed. “Well, what did you say to her?”

  My uncle shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Something really offensive like, the class is free and you’re welcome to join in.”

  “Maybe she was just having a bad day.” I stared at her retreating back. By the looks of her, I bet she’d had a lot of them.

  Alphonso walked me to my car. “How come you’re not using Nick’s truck?” he asked.

  “I told you when you dropped it off, I don’t need it. I’ve got a perfectly good set of wheels right here.” I patted the hood for emphasis and the side view mirror fell off. Crap.

  I caught the mirror before it hit the asphalt and stuffed it into my pocketbook. “So, how is Nick, anyway? Where’d you say he was again?”

  “I didn’t.” Alphonso grinned.

  I sighed and he cut me a look that bordered on pity.

  “You’re jonesin’ for him, Alexander.”

  “I am not!” Oh god, I so am!

  Alphonso peered at me over the tops of his sun glasses and shook his head. “Whatever you say, chica.”

  Unhh!

  *****

  Having worked out at the gym for an hour—okay, technically, it was only forty minutes, the last twenty were spent faking an ankle injury to get out of doing “reps”—I decided I deserved a treat, so I stopped at the Acme on the way home and picked up a couple of pints of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie. I guess I could’ve bought just one, but they were on sale, and I figured it would have been fiscally irresponsible of me not to take advantage of a bargain. As an American, I feel it’s my duty to stimulate the economy.

  I got home just in time to grab the only available parking space on my s
treet. My house is the last one on a block of rowhomes built in the ‘50’s. I live in a mostly Italian neighborhood where kids grow up being able to spell the word “macaroni” before they can utter “mama.”

  My mother was born and raised in South Philly in a Roman Catholic household.

  My Jewish father grew up a few blocks away. They met one Yom Kippur when my dad sneaked out of my Bubbie Heiki’s house to stuff his face at a local bakery. My mom was there buying dessert for her family’s dinner that evening and they met over the cannoli counter. The rest, as they say, is history.

  My octogenarian neighbor, Mrs. Gentile, was waiting for me on the porch as I got out of the car with the ice cream. She had just finished hanging a moth-eaten five foot wide American flag from her front door. Smaller flags graced either side of her azalea bush. That was going to pose a problem for my dog, Adrian, who liked to pee there when Mrs. Gentile wasn’t looking.

  Philadelphians are big on ornamental holiday displays. Valentine’s Day is greeted with the same fanfare as Christmas or Halloween. My neighbor considers it a mortal sin (or at the very least an affront to the neighborhood) not to participate in the festivities. I felt a fight coming on, as I had not yet decorated my side of the porch with the requisite Fourth of July adornments.

  “Hey. Girlie.” It’s a little game we play. Mrs. Gentile acts like she’s forgotten my name and I pretend I don’t want to push her down the porch steps.

  I sighed deeply and smiled. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Gentile.” I held out the ice cream to illustrate the terrible rush I was in to get it into the house before it melted, only Mrs. Gentile thought I was offering it to her and she made a grab for it. I wasn’t quick enough and she latched on for dear life.