No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (12 page)

Sleep refused to make an appearance. Instead, fear, angst, frustration and sadness all came to visit, and they kept me up with their incessant chatter. At about one a.m. I popped an “Excedrin p.m.” It’s really stupid. I could have just gone with a sleeping pill, which has the same sleep inducers in it, but I’d feel like a drug addict, relying on meds to fall asleep. “Excedrin,” on the other hand, is a well-known
pain reliever
. And I’m sure I had a headache. Why that makes it okay in my mind, I have no idea.

T
rue to his word, Vince called me early the next morning. He’d gone home last night and stewed about what I’d told him. The more he’d thought about it, the more ticked off he’d become until, at eleven p.m. he picked up the phone and called Detective Charles Strom, the cop in charge of the Konner Novack investigation. According to Vince, Chuck wasn’t too happy about being awoken from a dead sleep by an irate district attorney. He was even less happy to hear what Vince had to say.

“He wants to see you this morning.”

“When?” I struggled to open my eyes, having just closed them what seemed like ten minutes ago. The clock said seven a.m. Wow, almost five full hours. I started to feel like I’d overslept.

“ASAP.”

“What does he want with me?”

Vince sighed heavily. “Seems there’s been some sort of snafu.”

“What do you mean, snafu?”

“He doesn’t know anything about any photographs.”

“What?” I bolted upright in bed, banging my head against the walnut backboard. “Ow.” “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I shifted the phone to my other ear and began massaging the sore spot. “What do you mean he doesn’t know anything about the pictures? He was the one who picked them up from John in the first place.”

“Ah, that’s another thing…”

I scrambled out of bed and dove into the shower, emerging fifteen minutes later, clean, if not refreshed. I had a slight hangover from the sleeping pill and Vince’s information made my head swim. Quickly, I dragged a comb through my tangled hair, pulled on a pair of jeans and a black, heavy cotton sweater and brushed my teeth. Then, I set to blow-drying my hair. It was cold outside and I didn’t want wet hair hanging down my neck. As I turned on the power full blast, I mulled over the rest of my conversation with Vince.

“Strom said he’d never met with John.”

“Then who did?” I fairly screamed.

“I don’t know,” Vince countered, quietly.

“What? You think John made the whole thing up?”

“I never said that. It’s just weird, is all.”

I really couldn’t blame Vince for his suspicions. For all he knew, the photos never existed, and at the moment I didn’t plan to prove to him otherwise. My gut instinct told me to keep quiet about having the extra set of pictures. I trusted Vince, but the first set of prints had already disappeared. Who’s to say it wouldn’t happen again. Suddenly, I was struck with another thought. “Shit,” I said aloud.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. Vince, I gotta go. I’ll call you later.” I hung up the phone and sat there, staring at it like it was a Simpsons’ Magic Eight Ball, and if I stared hard enough, answers would leap out at me. But the only word that kept coming to mind was
Bobby
.

The bastard had lied to me. Again. He said he’d spoken to the primary investigator and had looked at John’s pictures, and they were worthless to the investigation.

Suddenly, I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and I thought for a moment that I was going to heave. I quickly stuck my head between my knees and waited for the feeling to pass.
Bobby can’t be a part of some sort of cover-up. He just can’t be.
Then why the hell was it looking so much like he was? Oy, this is not good.

Once my hair was dry I trundled downstairs, grabbed a handful of cheerios and shrugged into my jacket. I opened the front door just as Mrs. Gentile opened hers. She had a broom in her hand, and by the look on her face I thought she was planning to whack me with it. “Good morning, Mrs. Gentile,” I called cheerfully, as she began to sweep non-existent dirt off her front step. I would charm her with my friendliness.

“These walls are paper thin,” she announced by way of greeting. “I hear you clonking around all hours of the night.” I opened my mouth to respond, but I thought better of it and just smiled back at her. “You should have some consideration.” She turned on her heels and disappeared back into her house.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Mrs. Gentile,” I called out to her retreating back. Then I remembered I’d left my cell phone on the bedside table. I stomped back inside, slammed the front door as hard as I could and clonked back upstairs to retrieve my phone. “
Consider this
, Mrs. Gentile.”

When I got back outside I did a quick inspection of Paul’s car, looking for tell tale signs of last night’s little joy ride. No, it all looked good. I got in the car and started the engine. It had been years since I’d been down to the police station. As a kid, I used to go there all the time with my mom, to bail out my uncle. I’d gotten to know the cops pretty well back then. And then when Bobby first joined the force, I’d meet him at the station sometimes after work. I wondered now if I would run into him this morning. The thought gave me a thrill mixed with an equal dose of dread. What if I start freaking out on him in the middle of the station? I mean, for all I knew he could be the murderer!

Yes, Brandy, in the years since you’ve been apart, Bobby decided to become a homophobic, homicidal manic.
Okay, that scenario was far fetched, even for me. But, realistically, he could end up being a cop on the take. And that thought didn’t provide much comfort either.

Although women are a large part of the force now, the station still smelled like armpits and testosterone. I stopped off at the front desk and asked where I might find Detective Strom. A young Latino cop, with a pencil thin moustache and beautiful dark brown eyes looked up at me. He had a large Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of him, which he picked up before answering.

“Is he expecting you?”

“Sort of. My name’s Brandy Alexander. I was told he wanted to see me.”

The cop picked up a phone and punched in some numbers. A moment later he said, “Back through these doors, he’s the last cubicle on the right.” He buzzed me in.

Detective Strom looked like a cartoon character. He had a large, expansive paunch, which effectively covered his belt buckle as well as the tops of his shoes. His ears could have passed for wings on a jet liner and his jowls swayed when he moved. He looked vaguely familiar and then I realized why. He was the image of Mr. Slate, Fred’s boss on The Flintstones. I suppressed a laugh, wishing John were there to share it with me.

Strom looked up. “Thanks for coming in, Ms. Alexander.”

Half an hour later, I was out on the street again, more confused than ever. Officer Strom had asked me to repeat what I’d told Vince. He pulled out a pad and pencil from his desk and began taking notes. “So, you’re sure your friend John called this precinct?”

“Yes,” I said, swallowing my frustration.

“And he didn’t tell you the name of the detective who
supposedly
visited him?”

I felt my temper surge, and I clenched my hands together to keep from popping him one. “There was no ‘supposedly’ about it. Officer Strom, John was not in the habit of lying. He said he’d called and asked for the detective in charge of the Konner Novack case. Don’t you keep a log of incoming calls?”

“Only emergency calls.” He sat back in his chair, chewing on the end of his pencil. Part of the eraser broke off and got stuck between his teeth. I turned away briefly to give him time to do something about it, but when I turned back it was still there. “Ms. Alexander, I did not receive a call from your friend. Nor did I go to his house. I was at the scene of another murder during the time that you described.”

“Well, then who did visit John, and what did they do with the photos?”

“That’s exactly what I’d like to know.” Strom pushed himself out of his chair, signaling the end of our conversation. “We’ll be in touch, Ms. Alexander.”

“Thank you,” I responded.
For a whole lot of nothin’
.

I called Vince from the car and told him what had transpired. “Either Strom’s lying about not going to John’s or there’s some crazy assed person going around impersonating him. This whole thing smells like a coverup,” I exploded.

“Hmm,” Vince responded.

“Hmm, what?”

“Nothing. It’s just…”

“Damn it, Vince, if you have something to say, say it.”

I could hear him drumming his fingers on the top of his desk, debating whether to tell me.

“Well?”

“Okay. But I mean it, Brandy, you can’t talk about this to anyone.” I promised. “About six months ago, some dead guy turns up in a dumpster, not too far from the bar where Novack spent his last evening. By the looks of this guy’s outfit, he was heavily involved in the S&M scene. I mean dog collar, studs, piercings in places I don’t even want to think about. Anyway, He’d had the shit beaten out of him, but what did him in was he was strangled.”

“Just like Novack.”

“Yeah, just like Novack.”

“So, you’re thinking you may have a serial killer on your hands?”

“Could be.”

I could tell he was holding out on me and I pressed him to continue.

“The similarities don’t end there. There was some physical evidence in that case. Some hair samples, I think. But the evidence disappeared before it could be processed.”

“Wow.” I digested that for a moment. “Vince, who was the primary on that case?”

“Y’know what? I’ve got a big mouth, and I’ve told you too much already.”

“It’s a matter of public record. I can look it up on line. Who was it?” But even as I asked, I knew what the answer would be. There was silence on the other end of the line. “Tell me!”

“Alright!
It was DiCarlo.” I squeezed my eyes shut tight, not trusting myself to say anything. “Look, it doesn’t mean anything. It could have happened on anybody’s watch.”

I leaned my head on the steering wheel and inadvertently honked the horn. A uniformed cop approached the car and tapped on the window. I rolled down the window about an inch, and he stuck his head in. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Vince began yelling into the phone. “Brandy, are you there? What’s going on?”

“I’m fine, Vince. I’ll call you back.” I turned my attention to the cop whose head was now wedged inside, his face practically in my lap. I reached over and rolled the window down another few notches so he could extract himself. Then I started the engine and pulled out of the police parking lot. The place gave me the creeps.

“Bobby, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?” It was a rhetorical question, since he was nowhere in the vicinity when I’d asked. Not that he’d give me a straight answer anyway.

It was eight fifty-five a.m. I’d been sitting across the street from the salon where Carla works, waiting for it to open up. After I’d left the police station I’d been temped to go home, yank the covers up over my head and not get up again until Fran’s wedding. But I was hungry and in desperate need of caffeine, so I pulled into a Seven-Eleven and tanked up on Tastykakes and some really bad coffee— the kind you refer to as “a cup of Joe.” I started picturing myself as a hard-boiled detective, sitting in my nineteen thirty-nine Packard, drinkin’ m’ Joe and figuring out who stole the Maltese Falcon. Oh my God, I am
so
losing it.

Out of the corner of my eye I spied some movement inside the salon. Shades were pulled up and the door swung open. Out of nowhere a group of elderly women appeared and began to crowd the doorway. Carla stuck her head out and ushered the ladies in. She was a vision to behold in black spandex pants and a hot pink Vee- neck sweater. Her hair looked like an architectural miracle, piled high and held together with big rhinestone butterfly barrettes. She spotted me as I climbed out of the car and waved hello. I crossed the street just as the last of her customers stepped through the door.

“Oh, hon,” she started, throwing comforting arms around me. “I would’ve called you, but Frankie thought you might need a little time to yourself.”

I nodded, my face smooshed against her chest. A small, gray haired woman, in her seventies approached us. She was wearing the uniform of the day, a pale yellow smock. Carla released me and turned to her. “Gladys, please put Mrs. Russo in the chair next to the window. She says she likes to see what she’s missing on the outside, while she’s in here, getting ‘beyooty-ful.’ Oh, and then take Mrs. Waldstein over to get her hair washed. Thanks, hon,” Carla added, cheerfully. Gladys didn’t look too happy, but she did as she was asked.

“What’s the story with Gladys?” I asked when she shuffled away.

“Constipation. She suffers terribly.”

“Oh.” There didn’t seem much else I could add to that conversation so I got right to the point. “Carla, I need your help. But you can’t tell Frankie.” Alarm spread across Carla’s kind face.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” I shook my head.

“No. Nothing like that. But it’s serious, and if you don’t want to get involved I’ll understand.”

“Sweetie, you’re scaring me.”

From the seat by the window Mrs. Russo called out. “Could you hurry it up there, Carla? I’m meeting my daughter for lunch.”

“In a minute, Mrs. Russo.” She gave me a palms up gesture and said, “Be right back.”

While Carla tended to Mrs. Russo I looked around the salon. An ancient sign in the window advertised that every Monday was Senior Discount Day. There were four chairs, each filled with a little old lady demanding to be coiffed. From the back room emerged two technicians, about nineteen years old apiece, wearing the same pale yellow smocks. One sported a rather large, homemade tattoo on the back of her neck, with the name Carmine, encased in tiny hearts. The other was smoking a cigarette. She cupped her hand and tipped the ashes into her palm and surreptitiously rubbed them into the leg of her jeans.