No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) (19 page)

Since Saturday evening, it had been a nightly routine for Lincoln and his partner, Paddy O’Leary, to pore over the case of Ronald “Turkey” Cardoza. Why they thought I was trustworthy was unfathomable, but they didn’t seem to mind that I’d crashed their nightly business meeting. Minutes earlier, I’d sworn off Turkey altogether, but Lincoln seemed so ensconced in his life, it piqued my interest again … ugh, I am a messed-up person.

I played it cool, acting only partly interested—or even asleep—but secretly I tried to piece it together myself. Turkey had been in and out of juvenile detention starting at age nine. His petty thievery and vandalism grew into money laundering and cooking books for the mob. Somewhere along the way, Turkey established legitimate businesses: a chain of laundromats, used car lots, two restaurants, but rumblings placed his person at the scene of three murders. One would think that someone who brokered deals between two competing mob families would be above being the triggerman, though.

There’s always the option that Turkey had a facet of his personality that simply liked to kill. Lincoln felt Turkey crawled up from the lowest level of Hell but unfortunately couldn’t place him definitively at the crime scenes other than by word of mouth. Therefore, there wasn’t enough proof to stick. My feelings with the Cisco Medina case were exactly the same. Something was twisted in Cisco’s world that now included Gertrude and a headless Howie—but I didn’t have a name yet of the person hiding behind the curtain.

Lincoln had been on the telephone for fifteen minutes listening to Paddy’s fast-talking Irish ways. Half the time, Lincoln left him on speaker while he shined his shoes or made a sandwich. Instead of sandwiches, we ordered Chinese take-out and were eating on our respective couches. I didn’t know you could get Chinese take-out at this late hour, but maybe that’s merely when they cleared their freezers of all the dead cats.

Sliding my glasses on my nose—I found them in the kitchen trashcan—I shoveled Kung Pao chicken in my mouth, concentrating on Paddy’s words.

“But how in the world,” he said frustrated, “is the guy always on camera where the crime
isn’t
when we have witnesses that swear he blew somebody’s brains out across town?”

Lincoln took a generous bite of Mongolian Beef. “Just another braid in an unwanted emotional entanglement. Our only prayer is that he gets lazy.”

As he ambled to the kitchen to grab a drink, that left me alone with Paddy. Paddy expelled a few Irish epithets I didn’t understand. “And the biggest jaw-dropper of all,” he grumbled, “is that Turkey’s six kids are all good. Private schools, church on Sunday, not even a detention slip from best we can tell. Shouldn’t some of that crime have passed down, Linc? I mean, really. It’s almost like they’re squeaky clean.”

That got me to thinking. Does where you come from really matter in life? My ultimate opinion was “no.” My father put the bookie life behind him, so it could be done, but it depended on how deep your influences were and whom you considered your lifeline. Not to mention, which part of your personality you wanted to win in the end.

I snuggled deeper under my white fleece blanket, chewing some rice. I asked Paddy, “Did you ever think that there might be two wild Turkeys?”

Paddy didn’t respond, and you could almost hear the
dun dun du-dunnn
.

I didn’t know what time it was … only that it was late—or early—however, you wanted to term insomnia. Lincoln slept soundly across from me, but my brain wouldn’t blackout. Pulling Colton’s laptop out of its leather satchel, I tapped it “on,” hoping Troy was still all hey-let’s-work-together or at least wanting to flirt. My fingers rapped on top of the keyboard as I waited for Jester’s account to load. My hands were still empty of information—at least damning information—but I’d typed a message this afternoon to see what he knew about the PI firms. A quick scan of the yellow pages gave me nothing, which caused me to doubt Herbie’s recall even more.

What would I do if Troy hadn’t returned my email? Better yet, what would I do if he
had
? I waited for a heavenly epiphany to show the next course of action, but Heaven wasn’t speaking. My guess was it kicked me off the walk-thru tour.

As my email program loaded, my eyes hung on the inbox like a commode-hugging drunk.

Then I saw it ... and dropped a jaw!

DATE:
August 13, 03:00AM

TO:
Jester from Jesterville

FROM:
Troyoncrime, The Orlando Sentinel

RE:
Private Investigators

Hi Jester,

Fix It, Inc. is the name. Anything on Lola???

Troy Brown

Better Known As: the Man of your Dreams

The man of my dreams
, I snorted. Flirting aside, the information threw me. Herbie had said, Find It, not Fix it, but I should’ve figured as much. That came from a man who thought Cisco currently had dinner with the aliens. The time stamp marked the message at 3:00AM. Troy was obviously a fellow insomniac, so I decided to type up a response. I wasn’t risking anything—perhaps the familiar feeling of failure—but unfortunately, my feet walked that tightrope and fell into the abyss regularly.

DATE:
August 13, 03:05AM

TO:
Troyoncrime, The Orlando Sentinel

FROM:
Jester from Jesterville

RE:
Private Investigators

Dear Man of My Dreams,

I promise to deliver on Lola. Where is Fit It located?

Jester

The Woman Who’s Been Waiting a Long Time

I struck the enter key then prayed he was in the buying mood.

DATE:
August 13, 03:08AM

TO:
Jester from Jesterville

FROM:
Troyoncrime, The Orlando Sentinel

RE:
Private Investigators

Dear Woman Who’s Been Waiting a Long Time,

Fix It, Inc. is the company name of a group of private investigators. Elmer Herschel set up the trust, so he would know more. According to my source at the police station, this group is ex-military and rumored to be mercenaries-for-hire. All I know is the police department hasn’t worked with them since the beginning.

Troy Brown

Better Known As: The Man Worth the Wait

Peculiar. Wouldn’t the police routinely share information? Mercenaries or not? My guess was Troy had already heard about the tragedy of Howie, but if I played my hand too soon, then he might send it on to press. Going to press early—without irrefutable evidence—could make the guilty jump the country.

DATE:
August 13, 03:13AM

TO:
Troyoncrime, The Orlando Sentinel

FROM:
Jester from Jesterville

RE:
Private Investigators

Dear Man Worth the Wait,

What about Livingston & Associates? They’re supposed to be working the case, too.

Jester

The Woman Worth Waiting For

I nearly hurled when I keyboarded that byline, but if the boy wanted to flirt, then far be it from me to rebuff his advances. My inbox beeped.

DATE:
August 13, 03:18AM

TO:
Jester from Jesterville

FROM:
Troyoncrime, The Orlando Sentinel

RE:
Private Investigators

Dear Woman Worth Waiting For,

Never heard of them. I’ll check them out.

Troy Brown

Better Known as the Man Dying for a Face-to-Face

(Who am I kidding ... I need a big break.)

Finally, a language I understood.

DATE:
August 13, 03:23AM

TO:
Troyoncrime, The Orlando Sentinel

FROM:
Jester from Jesterville

RE:
Private Investigators

Dear Better Known as the Man Dying for a Face-to-Face,

Find out where that company is headquartered.

Jester

Your Big Break

I’m not sure why I typed that. Call it a supernatural gimme, or call it the ebb and flow of my early morning grasp of reality. Either way, it was a sad state of affairs when Darcy Walker was someone’s lifeline. I slurped the last of my coffee and considered my options. Door number one: do nothing, and then always wonder. Door number two: do something with the small amount of information I’d acquired. Door number three: flip a coin. Leave it to the universe.

13. WAKE-UP CALL

W
AKING ME REQUIRES YELLING THROUGH
a bullhorn, but for some reason, I can always hear a text. Dylan had provided that rise-and-shine service for years. Here in Florida, however, I didn’t need additional assistance. The bloody sun rose to attention before 7AM.

Freaking sun, I despised it. Made me think it hated the people near the equator.

I heard grease splattering, a mixer growling, and the smell of eggs and bacon in the kitchen. The saliva in my mouth multiplied like guppies, but why hadn’t my normal alarm yanked me out of bed for his favorite meal of the day? Why??

He was gone
…

After I drowned my sorrows in 3000 calories of farm animals, I got dressed for what Susan Taylor informed me was “Shopping Surgery,” the unspoken truth being, “Darcy Reassignment Surgery.” Evidently, she’d promised my father she’d help me purchase school clothing. I gave her one of those girly smiles that said,
I just can’t wait
, then zombie-walked into the bathroom, feeling it grow harder and harder to breathe.

Once showered, I dressed in my I-don’t-care look that consisted of a wet ponytail and my glasses. To give the semblance that I cared a little, I rolled on bubblegum lip gloss. As I stuffed a red jawbreaker in my cheek, I dialed Murphy to say “Hey” and pulled on some jean shorts, coaxing a white tank over my head that had the phrase “Blonde Happens” in the center. Reaching inside Sydney’s closet, I stepped inside a pair of black leather flip-flops and shoved Dylan’s Ranger ball cap on my head.

Hours ago, he, Colton, and Lincoln loaded into the Bentley to travel to the University of Florida to watch an open football practice. Dylan was the best athlete I’d ever seen. He lettered in all three sports and was named a First Team All-American in football our sophomore year. Football had always been his dream job, and traveling to U of F told me his dream might ultimately sever the “til death do we part” thing between us.

“You didn’t want to go?” Sydney purred as we settled inside her mother’s Benz SUV.

“I didn’t know,” I surprisingly admitted, and why exactly
was
that? Granted, he saw red when Kyd dropped by, but when I woke him in the middle of the night, he seemed extra touchy-feely. I should’ve made sure we were kosher then, but I tended to be of the “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” camp.

Evidently, it broke into a million little freaking pieces.

Sydney legitimately seemed as confused as me, cocking her head to one side, thinking so hard it made my head hurt. I quickly added, “I’d be in the way.”

She rasped huskily,
“Those are probably the last words that would ever come out of my little brother’s mouth.”

I leaned my head against the window as we backed out of the driveway. For some reason, I had a feeling of dark foreboding that I couldn’t shake. Like the day wouldn’t end well. “It’s probably for the best,” I added quickly. “He needs to do things without me.”