For The Least Of These (20 page)

I have to say that I was thrilled when Brandy gave up on rock star extraordinaire Rick Hartwood. After twenty years, I was sick to death of hearing how wonderful he was. When that day finally arrived, I was thrilled with the part I had played in bringing Brandy to her senses. Of course, my thrill was followed by disappointment: Brandy refused to let me make a bonfire and use Rick’s CDs as fuel. It seems that she still loves his music even if she doesn’t love Rick. That’s because Adam Considine wrote all the songs, and now Brandy is in love with Adam. But that’s good news. Adam is a nice guy.

You might be wondering why Brandy fell out of love with Rick and in love with Adam.
Well, that’s kind of a long story, and I don’t want to waste your time or mine going into that whole ordeal. Besides, if you know Brandy I’m sure she’s already told you the entire story. So I’ll just touch on the highlights. Brandy gave up on Rick after I convinced her that he was a womanizing jerk. And just how did I do that, you might ask? It was quite easy. All I had to do was pretend to sleep with Rick, and Brandy was completely cured. I didn’t really sleep with Rick; I just spent a lot of time with him so Brandy would think he was seducing me. I have even convinced Brandy that I had feelings for Rick, although that’s about as believable as a pop group winning a Grammy by lip-synching. Wait a minute – that actually happened, didn’t it? Oh well, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in Heaven that I’d ever fall in love with Rick Hartwood. In the meantime, Adam was his charming self, and Brandy couldn’t help but fall for him. Unfortunately, it seems that Adam was only interested in saving Brandy (as in leading her to Jesus), but that soon proved to be a hopeless case. So when Brandy professed her love to Adam, he said, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn,” and took off for parts unknown. Brandy then vowed to dedicate the rest of her life – or at least the next twenty years – to making Adam love her. Okay, maybe Adam didn’t say, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” but the rest is true.

That’s enough about that weekend, so let me stop right here and introduce myself.
My name is Alicia Meyers and my best friend is the aforementioned Brandy Moretti. Brandy thinks that I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs or something, but I am really just remarkably witty with a few unconventional quirks thrown in for good measure. Occasionally, I get adages or words mixed up, but many times I do this on purpose. It’s a great way to get attention, and men always think it is cute. Oh, and with my dark hair and beautiful blue eyes, I’m also quite lovely, even if I am a smidgen overweight. In addition to my charms, I’m a pretty good story teller, and I have my own story to tell. My story takes place after the infamous weekend in Biloxi. Brandy has already spent two months obsessing over Adam. She has a new car and a new job. Well, actually, the car is a used Toyota. And the new job is really just a promotion. She moved from her old job as some kind of Coordinator to the position of Graphic Artist – now she draws graphs or something like that. She hasn’t seen or heard from Adam during this time, and we have no idea where he is. But just in case she finds him, Brandy has been reading the Bible he gave her and she’s started going to church every once in a while. She seems a little different, but you can never tell with Brandy.

Tonight, however, she’s the same old Brandy.
It’s Saturday night and we are at our usual hangout, The Three Sheets Bar. We like to go to Three Sheets and do karaoke. Honestly, we probably should have stayed home on this particular night. A category four hurricane is just skirting the coast of Jamaica, and many believe that Hurricane Ivan is destined for Pensacola. It is entirely possible – Pensacola and I have endured a few hurricanes in my lifetime. But I learned long ago that you can’t outrun a hurricane, and many times they don’t cooperate with meteorologist and go where they are supposed to. My parents’ house is situated between Pensacola Bay and Perdido Bay, but they are still several miles from either body of water. The chances of our home flooding are negligible. Of course, Brandy lives much closer to Perdido Bay – within a mile. In a few more weeks, she will be moving into an apartment on the East side of town, but for now she is still living in a fairly dangerous area. She has assured me, however, that Terry (her platonic roommate, as she persistently insists) is taking care of all hurricane preparations for the house: boarding up windows, collecting stores of water and food, and removing any possible projectiles from the yard and surrounding area. Besides, if the hurricane comes to Pensacola, Brandy will wind up going to my house or her parents’ house – she won’t stay with Terry in his house. There also isn’t much that could be done at night anyway, and with a hurricane that far away, it could go anywhere or do anything. So whatever the weather is next week, we are going to have fun tonight.

Brandy is drinking a margarita and I am sipping on a strawberry daiquiri.
I usually drink piña coladas, but tonight I feel adventurous.

While we wait for our turn to belt out “The Wind Beneath My Wings”, we are playing pool with a couple of sailors from NAS.
Three Sheets has three pool tables and a couple of dart boards. It’s not a very big place, but it is comfortable. We never have to worry about mashers at Three Sheets. Whatever mashers are.

Wayne Bush is a tall thin good-looking redhead.
He is a Chief out at the Navy base, and he comes to Three Sheets most every weekend. Brandy and I met him about six weeks ago. He is thirty-seven years old, but his freckled baby face says he is a lot younger. Originally from New Brockton, Alabama, Wayne lived in Corpus Christi, Texas for three years and has been in Pensacola for the past six months. He is happy to be back so close to home. I guess New Brockton is closer to Pensacola than it is to Corpus Christi. Wayne isn’t much of a pool player, but Brandy and I let him win every once in a while.

Curt Snow is accompanying Wayne tonight
– as well as all the other times we’ve seen Wayne. Curt is much shorter than Wayne and he has thinning black hair and shifty brown eyes. I don’t like Curt very much but since he is Wayne’s friend, I put up with him. Curt is also a Chief. He is fortyish and slightly overweight. That’s not why I don’t like him – since you know from my previous description that I’m a tad bit overweight myself. I don’t like him because he acts superior to Wayne. He speaks condescendingly to Wayne and orders him around. Curt is from Hartford, Connecticut, but he has been in Pensacola for almost five years. Curt is a decent pool player, and he doesn’t like playing with women. He thinks that women are lousy pool players. I asked him where he got that impression after the first time he and I played. I had beat him and he wasn’t in the mood to tell me anything except, “I’m having a bad night.” The next five times I beat him didn’t leave him in the mood to talk either. Perhaps if I ever let him win he will tell me. Like that’s ever going to happen.

Wayne and Curt are playing as a team against Brandy and me.
Wayne has just called, “Nine ball in the corner pocket.” I know he’ll never make it – it’s a scratch shot. Brandy will be up next, so I sit down to wait for my turn.

A sudden ruckus at the bar’s entrance attracts my attention.
A tall drink of water (I stole that line from an old Western) has just come in and it looks like he is creating quite a stir by bumping a woman and causing her to lose her balance and fall down. The guy has to be about six-five or taller and he looks a little bit like a young Mel Gibson pumped up on steroids. I try not to stare, but he is the most interesting thing that has walked into Three Sheets in the last five years. I immediately nickname him “McKinley” (for the mountain).

McKinley reaches down and offers a hand to the woman that has stumbled onto the floor.
She doesn’t want him to help her at first, but after she gets a good look at his face, she seizes his hand with gusto. From where I am sitting, I can’t hear what he says to her after picking her up. Whatever it is doesn’t seem to please her. She becomes a whirlwind and blows out the front door in a flurry. McKinley stares after her for a moment, and then he enters the main area of Three Sheets. After taking a couple of long strides, he is standing in between our pool table and the dart boards. He is now within ten feet of me, and I can see that his resemblance to Mel Gibson is less dramatic than I had first imagined. His hair is slightly darker than Mel’s, his eyes are a little less blue, and his clothes are more characteristic of Walker, Texas Ranger: a blue denim long sleeved shirt, black jeans, and a black cowboy hat.

Brandy is sinking ball after ball on the pool table, so McKinley has my full attention.
He glances around the room and appears to be searching for someone. Then he reaches inside the pocket of his shirt and pulls out a piece of paper. I am too far away to see what is on the paper, so I stand up and nonchalantly move in McKinley’s direction. Not that I’m nosy – I just have a natural curiosity about things.

As I round the corner of the pool table, Brandy is about to sink the eight ball into the side pocket and win the game.
I have no doubt that she’ll get the ball in, so I don’t even bother to cheer her on or watch the shot. Besides, I don’t want to call too much attention to myself before I can get a look at McKinley’s paper. I come up right behind him, but he is so tall that I can’t look over his shoulder. My middle name is subtle, so I insinuate myself between McKinley and the dart boards – or on the opposite side from our pool table. Then I act as though I forgot to tell Brandy something and turn quickly around – bumping into McKinley’s arm and causing him to drop the piece of paper.

“Oh, my goodness,” I say with feigned surprise and regret.
“I didn’t see you there. Here, let me pick that up for you.” McKinley isn’t just big; he’s also slow, so I grab the paper off the floor before he can even react. But it isn’t just a piece of paper. It’s a photograph of Brandy. Not a very good one either. It is in black and white and it looks like a still from a badly filmed movie. McKinley holds out his hand for me to return the picture. Instead I demand, “Where did you get this picture of Brandy?”

As soon as I say it, I know I shouldn’t have
– for a number of reasons. First of all, I have no idea why he has a picture of Brandy. Maybe she gave it to him. I haven’t met every man Brandy knows – although I am fairly certain that Brandy would have mentioned a giant Mel Gibson to me. Second, if Brandy didn’t give it to him, why does he have it? Maybe he’s a hit man and someone has paid him to bring Brandy down. Of course that theory is ridiculous. Anyone acquainted with Brandy would know that she is prone to catastrophes of her own making and one day she will succeed in bringing herself down. No need to waste money on the inevitable. Finally – and possibly worst of all – whatever his intentions, he is now aware that I know Brandy. But as Brandy’s best friend, he will never make me talk.

McKinley stares grimly into my eyes.
“Can I have my picture back?” he asks. Then he adds, “Now, where is Brandy Moretti?”

I figure that Brandy is showboating and strutting around over her latest win, so I have to keep McKinley’s attention away from that pool table.
Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t transmit this message fast enough, and my traitorous eyes dart in that direction. McKinley isn’t as slow as I’d thought. He turns quickly towards the direction I am looking. But Brandy isn’t there. I glance around the room and Brandy isn’t anywhere. I quickly formulate a plan. I hand McKinley the photo back and say calmly, “Brandy isn’t here. She stayed home tonight because of the impending storm.”

Alas, I forget to let Curt in on the plan.
Curt walks up and says, “Where the hell did Brandy go? She owes me a rematch.”

McKinley looks pretty annoyed and he is looking in my direction.
I feel a little intimidated, but Wayne saves the day. Apparently, he has been listening to the conversation McKinley and I were having. “Excuse me, Mister. Just exactly what do you want with Brandy? We are her friends, and we don’t know you.”

McKinley still looks perturbed, but he decides to come clean.
“My name is Jackson DeVries. I’m a criminal investigations detective with the Harrison County Sheriff’s Department.”

“Harrison County? This is Escambia County,” I tell Mr. DeVries (I am going to miss calling him McKinley).

“Harrison County is in Mississippi, ma’am,” at this point, he flashes his badge.
“I’m here to investigate a crime that occurred just outside the Biloxi city limits. I’m trying to locate Ms. Moretti to ask her some questions.”

“Brandy hasn’t been to Biloxi or anywhere else in Mississippi for over two months.
And she didn’t commit a crime when she was there.”

“I never said she committed a crime.
I just need to talk to her.”

“Well, she’s not here.
I don’t have a clue where she is.”

“And you expect me to believe you? Just a few minutes ago you said she was at home.
How do I know you are telling the truth now?”

“Look, Detective,” Wayne says.
He proceeds to take control of the situation with a commanding voice – a stark change from his usual submissive behavior. “You don’t have to speak to Miss Meyers in that tone. You waltz in here demanding to know where our friend is without even identifying yourself as a law officer until we began questioning you. I’m pretty sure you don’t have any jurisdiction here in Pensacola – so you’re just some man asking questions. Questions we don’t have to answer.”

DeVries is on the verge of losing his cool, but then he suddenly softens a bit.
“Okay, we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over. Brandy Moretti is not a suspect in any crime. I just think she might be able to help me locate a person of interest in this case.”