No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (32 page)

Nick hesitated a beat and when he spoke again there was an uncharacteristic quality in his tone. Something that bordered on worried.

“Does DiCarlo know where you are?”

“No. Why?”

“No reason. Just be careful, darlin’. This guy is desperate, and desperate people do desperate things.”

After we hung up, I rooted through the glove compartment some more and found a book on tape, which would have passed the time quite nicely
had it been in English
, but, as luck would have it, was in Russian.
Oh jeez, as if I don’t feel inadequate enough around Nick. I mean how many languages does this guy know? Note to self: Stop pretending that speaking Pig Latin makes me bilingual and learn a real second language.

I picked up the binoculars again in time to catch Ethan wheel his stepdad back inside through the garden side entrance. Fifteen minutes later he emerged alone and headed towards the parking lot. I waited until he pulled into traffic and then hopped out of the car and made a beeline back to the building.

To keep things uncomplicated I decided to circumvent the front desk and sneak in through the service entrance. That put me directly in front of Mr. Stewart’s room. The door was made of metal, with a small, rectangular, wire mesh window that hit almost eye level to me. I stood on tiptoe and peered in.

He was propped up in a semi-sitting position on the bed, the covers drawn to just under his chin. I could see the soft rise and fall of his chest as he lie there, eyes closed, his head resting against the pillows. According to Eric, Bill Stewart was a powerful man, but there was no indication of that now. I knocked softly so as not to startle him and entered and approached the bed. His eyelids fluttered open and he stared at me blankly.

I figured I might as well plunge right in. The guy wasn’t exactly in a position to throw me out. “Mr. Stewart, my name is Brandy Alexander and I’m a reporter with WINN news. I’m very sorry to intrude on you like this but it’s imperative that I speak with you. I need to ask you some questions about your daughter and your stepson.”

Stewart opened his mouth and emitted a barrage of noise akin to a seal pup in distress. It took me a minute to realize he was saying, “Laura.” His eyes filled with tears and instantly I felt ashamed of myself.
Oh God, I’ve made him cry. I’m a terrible person.

I grabbed a tissue off the bed stand and wiped his eyes for him. “Look, Mr. Stewart, I realize you don’t know me, so you have absolutely no reason to trust me. But I think you may be in danger and I want to help you. Only you have to work with me here. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

Stewart blinked two watery eyes at me.

“Good.” I took a deep breath. “You know something about the night Laura was killed, don’t you? Something to do with Ethan.”

The muscles in his jaw began to twitch and he gave an excruciatingly slow and painful nod of his head.

I tried to sound as non-judgmental as possible
. As if there were any way to make an accusation about incest and sorocide appear like polite bedside chit chat. “Mr. Stewart, would you prefer lime Jell-O with those lamb chops or did you want to go with the sorbet? And, oh, by the way, I think your stepson boffed and offed your daughter and if you could just confirm that for me, that’d be great.”

“Um, here’s what I think, Mr. Stewart. I think Ethan was molesting Laura and when she threatened to tell people about it, he killed her.” I took the waterworks that sprang from his eyes as a “yes” and moved on.

“You confronted Ethan about this on the day you had your stroke, didn’t you?” Another head nod, accompanied by a huge, strangled sob. “And then he left you there to die.” I had no more questions. The look of anguish in his eyes said it all.

“Mr. Stewart. I don’t mean to scare you, but I’m pretty sure Ethan sees your recovery as a liability. You’ve got to make a statement to the police before he comes back to finish the job. Would you be willing to do that?”

He nodded his head again, and I swear I saw relief in that semi frozen face.

“Listen,” I said, walking towards the door, “I’m just going to get one of the hospital staff in here so they can verify what you indicated to me. And then I’ll call the police and have them come down here to help you. Okay?” I didn’t wait for an answer.

I began to pull open the door, but something stopped me. Through the wire mesh window I spied a man dressed in a white hospital attendant’s uniform slip out of the service entrance and head straight for Bill Stewart’s room. Only I got the distinct feeling he wasn’t there to aid and comfort.

My heart pounding in my ears, I backed away from the door and dove towards the bathroom, issuing a directive along the way to the paralyzed man in the bed. “Ethan’s coming. Act natural!”

I had barely wedged myself behind the bathroom door when Ethan entered the room, carefully shutting the main door behind him. He stopped at the foot of the bed, gazing with chilling impassivity at the motionless figure lying prone in front of him.

Stewart stared back at him, eyes unblinking, willing himself to see past the man standing before him to the boy he loved like his own son. A moment passed and once again the tears flowed freely, only this time they were Ethan’s.

Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he shook his head, emitting a short, embarrassed cough. Then he walked around to the side of the bed, his back to the bathroom. I closed one eye, straining to see through the crack in the door and praying he didn’t get a sudden urge to take a leak before finishing off the old man.

Ethan fumbled in his pocket for a moment and extracted a hypodermic needle.
Maybe he came back to give him a B12 shot. I hear that does wonders for your energy level. Oh shit, probably not.

Bill Stewart lay helpless in the bed, his eyes never straying from Ethan’s. Ethan began to speak again, his voice soft and apologetic, a direct contrast to the unthinkable act he was about to commit.

“I don’t want to do this, Bill. I really don’t. You’ve been good to me, but you’ve left me no choice… none of them did. I see how you look at me now, like I’m some kind of a monster. But I never forced her. It wasn’t that way between Laura and me. I gave her what she wanted, what she needed. I loved her, dad, you know I did.”

He held the needle to the light, gently flicking out the bubbles. “You’ll have to trust me though; this is really for the best. You wouldn’t want to live like this anyway. Look, don’t worry. You won’t feel a thing.”

Mr. Stewart’s jaw dropped open and he began an assault of mind-numbing sounds which I’m sure, roughly translated to “For the love of God, Alexander, do something!”

I dropped to my knees and slowly opened the bathroom door. If Stewart could just keep up his dolphin-speak long enough to distract his step son…

I belly crawled along the floor, barely breathing, inching my way towards Ethan with stealth-like precision. He was hyper focused on Stewart, quietly imploring him to shut the hell up. I was almost there. Just a few more feet and—my cell phone went off.

I froze, mid crawl, listening to the absurdly tinny sound of Green Day’s Good Riddance, an eerily fitting choice under the circumstances. I looked wildly around to see where I’d left my phone. And then I spied it, sitting on the floor in the corner of the room. It must have fallen out of my bag when I first came in.

I watched in horror as Ethan strode over and picked it up. He examined it for a beat, flipped it open and waited.

Even with his ear pressed against the receiver, my mother’s dulcet tones permeated the room.

“Hello? Brandy, is that you?
Helloooo.
”
Oh, crap.

I scrambled under the bed, which was really stupid, considering all Ethan had to do was look down to see me trapped there like a beached whale. The sudden movement must have caught his eye because the next thing I knew we were eyeball to eyeball.

He reached out and grabbed for me, catching me by my coat collar. I began to scream and he tightened his grip, yanking me forward by the lapels. His look murderous, he stood and dragged me to my feet. “You never learn, do you?” he hissed in my ear.

I whipped around, balled up my fist and punched him square in the face. Blood spurted from his perfect nose. He cursed and reeled back and I kicked him hard in the shin, catching him off balance.

Ethan toppled over, pulling me down with him. I struggled free of his grip and stumbled towards the door. He crawled to his knees and lunged for me, catching me around the middle. I screamed again and was clawing desperately at his arms, when in a flash, the door flung open and Nick appeared in the entry, a colt forty-five gripped tightly in his hand. It was trained at Ethan’s head.

Ethan snaked his arm around my neck and dragged me up alongside him, the hypodermic needle still clutched in his hand. Now he raised it and pressed it firmly against my jugular vein. If I gulped I was a goner.

“Drop the gun or she’s dead,” Ethan warned.

Drop the gun, Nick. I don’t want to be dead. Drop the gun!

“I can’t do that,” Nick said calmly.

Shit. Why not?

As if he could read my thoughts, Nick locked eyes with me, silently asking me to trust him. “Because this scumbag is going to use you as a human shield until he’s safe and then he’s going to kill you anyway, darlin’. Isn’t that right, Girard?”

Ethan didn’t bother to deny it. Nudging me forward, our heads less than an inch apart, he began a slow shuffle towards the door. Suddenly, I had trouble breathing. My skin felt clammy and black spots swam before my eyes. “Nick,” I implored, and in that instant I heard the crack of the gun as it blew a bullet past my head and imbedded itself into the front of Ethan’s skull.

“…a
nd then he pulled the trigger.”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah, just like that.”

“Wow.”

Seated on my couch, Carla curled her feet beneath her and passed around a pitcher of margaritas. We all took deep slugs including my mother, not bothering with glasses. Franny eyed the pitcher longingly and rubbed her stomach.

“Do you think you can manage to stay out of trouble long enough for me to give birth?” she asked. “It’s not fair that you almost died and I have to deal with it sober.”

“I definitely should have taken that into consideration. I’ll try to time my escapades better in the future,” I told her.

Bobby had called everyone from the police station to fill them in on what happened. I was grateful that he’d given them a heads-up. I didn’t have the energy to relive the ordeal without major liquid fortification.

“So how did Nick know you were in trouble?” Janine wanted to know, taking the pitcher out of my mom’s hands. “They’re stronger than they taste, Mrs. Alexander.”

“Nonsense,” my mother told her and promptly passed out on the floor.

My dad wandered in from the kitchen. “What happened to your mother?”

“A little too much celebrating,” I said.

“I’m
fine
,” my mom mumbled from the rug.
So that’s where I get it from.

“Sure you are, Lorraine.” My dad helped her to her feet and led her up the stairs.

I turned to Janine and held out my hands for the pitcher. “Nick just knows things,” I said. I took a large gulp and continued my saga.

Fortunately for Nick, there was a witness—one that wasn’t in love with him and could give the cops an unbiased account of what had transpired. An ancient security guard employed by the nursing home to keep gang bangers from tagging the side of the building was standing in front of the reception area when Nick came in looking for Bill Stewart’s room. They were halfway down the hall when they heard me scream. The guard was more than happy to let Nick take care of Ethan, seeing as the only weapon he was packing was a rape whistle.

When the police arrived he verified that Nick had shot Ethan in order to save my life. Ethan had died instantly. Afterwards, Nick and I didn’t have much of a chance to chat. I was too busy throwing up. Must have been all that stale candy I ate.

“So how are you holding up, there, sunshine?” John asked.

“Great,” I told him. “Couldn’t be better.” The door bell rang and I jumped a mile.

“Uh huh,” he said, opening the front door to Paul and Uncle Frankie.

“H-how’s mom?” Paul asked, after hugging the stuffing out of me.

“She’s feeling no pain at the moment. And before you ask, Paulie, I’m okay. Really.”

“She’s not,” John mouthed behind my back.

“I
saw
that.”

“
Fine
. I wasn’t trying to hide it from you. She’s not.” he said aloud. “She’s drowning her troubles in tequila. At least try the wine I brought. It’s more civilized.”

DiCarlo showed up ten minutes later and I went into the kitchen to get more glasses. He followed me in. “Craig Newman pulled out of his coma tonight,” he told me.

“You’re kidding.” A half a day sooner and it would have saved me a crap load of trouble.

“You were right about everything,” Bobby said, taking the glasses down from the cabinet. “Craig met Girard at a fundraiser. Girard befriended him and then managed to convince the poor guy to spy on Tamra. He told Craig she was in way over her head with this investigation and if Harmon got out of prison he’d go after her next. By the time Craig figured out that he’d been duped, it was too late. He’d inadvertently given Girard a copy of the key to the Rhineholt’s house and now Ethan was threatening to expose him as Tamra’s killer. And if that wasn’t enough motivation to keep his mouth shut, Girard threatened to kill you.”

Well, that explained Craig’s nightly vigils parked in front of my house.

There was something else on Bobby’s mind. I could tell by the little vein on the side of his temple. “Bobby, it’s all over,” I reassured him. “This is good news.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“So then what’s wrong?”

DiCarlo sighed. “Santiago saved your life tonight.”

“Well, jeez, you don’t have to sound so disappointed about it.”

“That’s not what I meant, Bran. It’s just that—he was there for you. I wasn’t.”