Which meant they still had an hour to spare.
“Bisby hit you up before I got a chance to tell you. I got a call from Brandi with an ‘i’. She wants to talk to us about Mel.”
“So you’re saying you hadn’t seen Mel at all in the week prior to his death?” ‘Los asked, pen poised over his notebook.
Brandi sniffled into a tissue. “Yeah, not since last Saturday.”
Lucky wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but the woman in front of her definitely wasn’t it.
Brandi—AKA Nell Weaver—was dressed in an oversized t-shirt emblazoned with the word Namaste across the front and a pair of leggings. Given they were sitting in her tiny apartment in Queens and not at Zanzi-Bar, it was pretty standard clothing, but it wasn’t her outfit that threw Lucky for a loop. The hair that had been described as flaming red was, apparently, just a wig, and the real stuff underneath was dark brown and cut into a no-nonsense bob that brushed her slim shoulders. Her face was bare of makeup, her luminous skin and pleasant features enough to elevate her to “beautiful” status without any bells or whistles. But the real kicker was her total lack of artifice.
Christie the bartender had called her stuck-up, and implied that opinion was shared by their co-workers. Lucky had expected to walk in on a street-smart, tough-talking opportunist with carefully crafted answers designed to ensure that her ass was fully covered.
There was none of that.
In the cozy little living room, seated on a couch with a floral print that looked like it had been passed down by her Nana, was a sweet, grieving young woman who had been doing her level-best not to weep as she talked about her dead lover.
“At first, it was on him that we hadn’t spent a lot of time together. He had a lot of stuff going on. The pawn shop was super busy, and he wasn’t feeling so hot. I was actually getting a little worried about his health. Then, once the wife started calling me, I knew I had to pull back altogether.”
Lucky cocked her head and studied Brandi closely. “You’re saying that Phyllis Walsh contacted you?”
“Phyllis?” Brandi replied, looking confused. “No, no. Sorry, I’m not sleeping well and my brain has been super fuzzy. I meant Deirdre.”
It took a hot second for Lucky to place it, but then the name rang a warning bell.
“Xavier’s Walsh’s wife?” ‘Los said, clearly coming to the same conclusion she had.
“Yeah.”
Lucky tried to keep her expression passive but she could feel the pulse in her neck accelerate.
“So, just to clarify, you were having an affair with both Mel and his son?” ‘Los asked, his tone the epitome of calm, cool and collected.
He was fishing, but damned if she wasn’t at the same hole, hook baited.
Brandi’s cheeks flushed. “Um…yeah. You didn’t know that?” She swiped at her nose with the soggy tissue clutched in her hand. “Geez, I just figured you knew already.”
Her cheeks went pink and she shrugged. “I know it sounds bad, but none of them think we’re exclusive. It’s not some sort of predatory thing on either side, most of the time. I see a lot of men. They come to me for all different reasons. Some want...a physical connection, some want comfort, and some want validation. To feel like a man, you know? In exchange, they compensate me. Everyone knows the score.” She shrugged, seemingly defensive for the first time since she’d invited them in. “Anyway, Mel brought Xavier in to watch us girls dance one night a couple months ago. Xavier contacted me a few days later, and I agreed to see him.”
“Was Mel aware of this?” Lucky asked.
“No. At least, not that I know of,” Brandi replied. “Discretion is everything in my line of work.”
“But Xavier knew you and Mel saw one another outside the club?” Lucky pressed.
“He did,” the other woman confirmed with a nod. “And, for a while, it was all good. But then things got a little weird. He was getting clingy. Wanted me to stop seeing other guys. Asked me to stop seeing his dad.”
“And that conversation happened when?”
She tucked her feet under her bottom and settled more deeply against the cushions, brow furrowed in thought.
“Two and a half weeks ago, I’d say. I was ready to break it off with him even before Deirdre’s call.”
“Did Xavier know you wanted to end it?” ‘Los asked.
“No. Until the phone call, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, and figured I could buy myself some time to decide what I wanted to do. Xavier was…generous. More so than Mel. I figured I could probably get away with seeing other guys, so long as Mel wasn’t one of them. On the other hand, I liked Mel’s company more.”
A fond smile ghosted over her full lips before disappearing.
“He was funny. He was no Prince Charming or whatever, but we laughed a lot when we were together.” Her eyes pooled with tears and she blinked them away before they fell. “Then, Deirdre called, screaming and yelling, calling me a whore and a homewrecker. The usual stuff. She said to leave her family alone, or I’d regret it. I don’t have time for that kind of crazy in my life, so I broke it off with both of them via text message last week.”
“Do you still have those texts?” Lucky asked.
“I don’t delete anything,” Brandi said, leaning toward the scarred, oak end table to retrieve her phone.
She thumbed through her messages and then held the screen out for their inspection.
“Do you mind if we take a picture of those?” ‘Los asked, already reaching in his pocket for his own cell phone.
“Go for it. Anything you think will help…” She trailed off as ‘Los took the image and then continued. “You don’t think Xavier had anything to do with this, do you?” she asked, looking stricken at the thought. “He’s an asshole and all, but he was never rough with me or anything. He didn’t strike me as someone who could—” She broke off and sucked in a shuddering breath. “I would feel terrible if this had something to do with me.”
“It’s too early to say what happened to Mel, Ms. Weaver,” ‘Los replied. “We’re still fact-finding, and we really appreciate you allowing us to speak with you today. It helped a lot. Please continue to keep all the correspondence you have on your phone intact, in case we need it during the course of our investigation. We have another interview we need to get to but if we have more questions…?”
“Yes, of course,” she said quickly. “I’m available any time. I don’t plan to go back to work for at least another week or so. I need to process all this.”
By the time they got back into the car a few minutes later, Lucky’s brain was in overdrive.
“And just like that, Xavier’s got a double motive. His share of the life insurance and jilted lover syndrome. That’s pretty substantial stuff,” ‘Los marveled, shooting her a dubious look. “I feel like I should be more convinced he did it,” he added as he cranked the a/c.
“Me too.” She gnawed on her lower lip and buckled her seatbelt. “But I had the same sense as Brandi about the guy. An entitled prick with a shitty personality, and yeah, I can see him cheating. But dismembering his father?” She frowned, something about this whole thing sticking in her craw despite her distaste for Xavier Walsh. “I just don’t see it.”
Or maybe she’d just had her mind set on the idea that Mel had been the victim of a serial killer, and she was letting her own bias color her opinion.
Whatever the case, their path was clear. The circumstantial evidence was leading them in Xavier’s direction and, until or unless something changed, they needed to follow it. She told Carlos as much.
“Agree,” ‘Los said. “So let’s circle back to him once we talk to our potential witness. In the meantime, we should probably make a call to Sal Mancini and see if we can set up another chat with Xavier, and then with his wife.”
“Will do,” she said, digging out Sal’s business card. “And who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky and this guy will give us a description that fits Xavier Walsh to a T.”
H
ow nice would that be if it all just fell into place? She could get Mel the justice he deserved and focus her attention on the Moncrief murder. As soon as that was solved, she’d take that time off and dedicate every waking moment to finding Brad’s killer…before her father was too gone to actually know justice had been served.
Just one time, God, let it be that easy.
19
“Fucking Mancini. Does he really think he’s going to be able to hold us off for long?” ‘Los muttered, pacing between their desks.
His palpable frustration echoed her own. The Walsh family lawyer had ultimately agreed to allow them to speak with his clients again, but hadn’t committed to a time, or even a date, aside from “in the next couple of days, once I can clear my schedule enough to bring them down.”
And the interview with their supposed witness had turned out to be just as frustrating. He’d given them nothing more than the vague description that matched the man they’d seen in the snippet of video they’d watched a thousand times. ‘Los had been endlessly patient with him, but in the end, he wasn’t able to offer enough detail to bother calling in a sketch artist.
More time wasted.
“Well, I hate to break this to you, but I didn’t fare much better,” she said before quickly filling him in on her call to the Catholic Church about Bishop Moncrief’s records. They’d given her the runaround and there would be gobs of red tape involved. It might take days to even find out if Moncrief had been accused of any crimes that might have been the catalyst for his murder.
By nine PM, she was left with the distinct impression that both of these cases were going to be a grind, and they were going to have to resort to hardball on all fronts if they wanted to get anything done.
Too bad hardball and diplomacy didn’t mix.
“Ready to call it a day?” ‘Los asked.
The dark circles under his eyes and his tense jaw let her know he was long past ready, but she knew he wouldn’t quit until she did.
“Sounds good. We’ll hit it fresh again in the morning.”
“I’m going to swing by McDougal’s. I need to blow off a little steam. Stop for one?” he asked, brows raised.
She hesitated, mulling over the offer. The pub was a popular cop-stop both of them passed on their way home. She avoided the place, except on the few occasions she’d caved to her partner’s wheedling. It wasn’t that anyone had started shit with her there—‘Los was like a live-action gargoyle, watching over her protectively and making sure everyone knew that messing with her was the same as messing with him—but every time she’d gone, there’d been at least a few of her colleagues giving her the side-eye. It didn’t make for a relaxing, kick-back environment.
Still, the thought of going home and facing Abby was even less appealing, and, as wired and on edge as she felt, it wasn’t like she’d be able to fall asleep any time soon. Maybe a drink would be just the ticket.
“Sure. I’ll meet you there.”
He drew back in surprise and then grinned. “Well, all right, now it’s a party.”
After closing up shop, they headed out, and then met up at the entrance of McDougal’s Pub a short while later. Lucky breathed a sigh of relief as they stepped inside and a blast of cool air wafted over her.
"Damn, that feels good," ‘Los groaned behind her. "We gotta get some sort of petition going about the thermostat at the shop. I can't take the heat anymore."
She stood to the side, allowing him to pass as she surveyed the room for familiar faces, mostly hoping she wouldn't see many.
Flynn's partner, Stevens, was in the corner talking to a young blonde that had just started the week before in evidence.
"I guess Stevens is shooting his shot with the new girl," ‘Los said. They both gave the pair a quick wave before heading toward the bar.
The place was exactly how Lucky remembered it from the year before. Run down to the point of almost shitty, but still clean enough to just miss the mark. There were over a dozen beers on tap and a chalkboard filled with civil servant specials.
Carlos yanked out a high-top barstool for her and sat in the one next to it.
"Hey, Marcy. This is my partner, Lucky. Luck, this is Marcy. I don’t think she was working here yet last time you came, but she's a peach and a great bartender, to boot."
The pretty brunette swiped a white cloth over the wood in front of them and leaned in with an easy grin.
"Nice to meet you, Lucky. What can I get you guys tonight?"
She glanced at the taps in front of her and shrugged at her partner. “Pick a beer, I’m easy.”
She'd likely only have the one, anyway. She’d never been a big drinker. Excelling had been her priority when she'd been in college and, by the time she finished law school and had earned some time for play, it wasn’t long before Brad died. For a short while, there, she spun out of control, drinking until she blacked out more than once over the course of a few weeks. When she woke up with a stranger in her bed and zero recollection of what had happened, she’d called it quits. Her fear of what she might be capable of during those times that she couldn’t remember was almost as terrible as the grief. Over the past couple years, she’d loosened the reins a little, but never to the point of getting drunk. That made her a cheap date, and a single beer would likely lend her some much-needed mellow.
"Give us two of the summer ales,” ‘Los said.
The bartender bustled away to get their drinks as her partner turned to face her.
“So what went down at the nursing home today? George having trouble, still?”
Since she’d left Stonybrook, things had been so hectic, she hadn’t had much time to dwell on her visit, but the question hit her like a sucker punch. Maybe stopping for a drink had been a bad idea, after all.
“I think that’s going to be the way it is from now on, to be honest,” she admitted finally. She began picking through a bowl of mixed nuts, more for something to do with her hands than because she was hungry. “His memory is deteriorating rapidly and he sort of sinks into himself more and more. It’s tough.”
“I’m so sorry. That must be hell for all three of you,” ‘Los said, his expression grim.
Marcy saved her from having to reply as she set their beers in front of them.
“You guys want menus?”
They’d gotten Thai takeout a couple hours earlier and both declined.
“Give me a holler if you need anything else,” the bartender said before turning her attention to a newcomer at the other end of the bar.
"Well, looky here, do my eyes deceive me?" a low voice muttered from behind them.
Lucky tightened her grip on the frosty pint glass and steeled herself as she turned.
"Flynn," she said with a stiff smile, nodding by way of greeting.
The ruddy-faced patrolman was in street clothes, now, his eyes slightly bloodshot as he weaved on his feet.
"Attention, boys and girls!” he said with a harsh laugh before holding up his own half-empty glass. “Looks like we have royalty in our midst. Ms. Lucky Strickland has graced us with her presence."
A dozen heads turned and the noise level dropped to a chorus of low murmurs. He gestured toward her, beer sloshing over the side of his glass onto the tacky floor.
"What's protocol here, Figueroa?" he asked, turning his attention to her partner. "Do we bow? Or maybe get on one knee?" His bushy brows rose in question as he attempted some version of both, bending at the knee and at the waist like he was about to be knighted. "Is this good?"
"Stand up,” ‘Los muttered.
Lucky had already turned back to face the bar but the tension rolling off her partner as he got to his feet had her turning back around.
"I said, stand up, you miserable little prick." ‘Los towered over Flynn, his face a tight mask of fury. His dark eyes glittered like chips of black ice, and his jaw was clenched tight. The last of the low din of chatter stopped dead and the place went as silent as a church, save for the drone of the jukebox playing a c
ountry song about a guy named Earl.
"’Los, it's fine," she said, keenly aware of all the stares and wishing like hell she'd gone with her first instinct and said no to this little outing. She reached for ‘Los's forearm and gave it a tug. "I'm going to head out anyway."
"You’re not going anywhere. This asshole is going to go," he said, never taking his gaze off Flynn, who let out a snort and straightened.
"Holy shit," he marveled, red eyes going wide. "I finally get it. All this time, I kept wondering how a nice guy like you puts up with a stuck up bitch like her, but now it all makes sense. You're fucking her."
The words barely left his mouth before ‘Los's fist shot out so fast, it was a blur. If it wasn't for the pint shattering on the floor and Flynn's stocky form stumbling backward and crashing against a nearby table, she might not have believed it had even happened.
She leapt to her feet as her partner descended on Flynn, quaking with unchecked rage.
"Say it again, you wormy piece of shit. Say it one more fucking time and I'll separate your empty head from your neck," he snarled. He bent low to grip a fistful of Flynn's shirt and Lucky rushed toward them, pushing herself between the two men.
"’Los!" she shouted, shoving at his shoulder until he finally looked at her. Gone was the gentle, genial guy she'd worked with side-by-side, day in and day out. In his place stood someone else entirely. Someone she only saw in short glimpses, on rare occasions.
Someone dangerous.
"You know this is exactly what he wants. Don't give him the satisfaction."
For a second, she was sure she hadn't gotten through, but then the glazed look in ‘Los’s eyes faded and his chest heaved as he let out a shaky breath.
"Yeah. Yeah, okay."
"Nice sucker punch, ya prick.” Flynn pried Carlos’s hand off his shirt and then scuttled back a few feet like a crab. "Jesus, she's really gotten to you. You used to be a cool guy," he muttered, swiping the back of his arm over his bottom lip, smearing blood across his chin. He looked wildly around, noting all eyes on him, now, and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. "Nothing to see here," he said, pressing his knuckles to his already swelling mouth with a harsh laugh. "Just a princess and her knight in shining armor, is all." He pasted on a shit-eating grin and walked by the two of them, shoulder-checking ‘Los as he went. “I’m putting a fresh beer on your tab, asshole.”
Lucky Break (Lucky Strickland) Page 13