No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (14 page)

The guy at my car door abruptly stopped yanking on it. He took a step back as the man nodded his head in greeting. He shook hands with the other guy, and then he walked around to the driver’s side of the car. His smile got wider, more genuine, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I rolled my window down a little more and said, “I didn’t mean to run over his hand.”

“It shouldn’t have been there in the first place, right, man?” Wow. For a guy not holding a visible weapon he sure spoke with a lot of confidence. The guy with the broken hand scowled at me and grunted something indistinguishable. “I don’t think the lady heard you, Raoul.”

“I said I was only playin’ wi’cha.”

“I’m really very sorry,” I said, not quite making eye contact. Raoul didn’t much look like he cared how sorry I was. His hand was starting to swell.

“You’d better go get that set,” the man said, still smiling. “And next time, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t scare my guests.”

The two guys took off around the corner, leaving me to make my own introductions.

“I take it you’re Nick.”

“I take it you’re Brandy.”

“I wasn’t scared, you know.” I unlocked my door and tried to climb out of the car, but unfortunately my legs had turned to Jell-O. Nick caught me by the elbow as I pitched forward. He dropped his voice to barely a whisper.

“You should be scared. The little one is Raoul Sanchez. He just got out of jail on a technicality. He was in for first-degree murder.”

“He a friend of yours?”

“Makes a better friend than enemy.”

“Funny, I’ve heard the same thing about you.”

“Yeah?” Nick raised an eyebrow. “What else have you heard about me?”

“I’ve heard that you kill people.” Oh my God. When was I going to learn to control this mouthpiece? “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

Nick eyed me appraisingly, and I blushed under his gaze. “Carla warned me you’ve been sleep deprived. It can do funny things to a person.” Suddenly, his face broke into a grin. It was magnificent and I had to bite my lip to keep from gasping. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go inside and talk.”

There was a class in session, advanced something or other judging by the black belts tied around everyone’s waists. There were nine students in the class, all women. They appeared to be between the ages of seventeen and thirty. It was a racially mixed group of blacks, whites and Asians. The instructor was a stunning Latina woman, about twenty-five years old. She looked up when Santiago and I entered the room. “Hey, Tanya,” he called softly to her. He smiled and she smiled warmly back at him, and I had a sudden, irrational urge to push her down.

We continued on to the next room, a small, tidy office. The furniture was sparse but expensive. There was a leather couch, a TV, a black marble topped desk and a plush red velvet chair. Nick offered me a seat and he took the one behind the desk. I chose the chair. He pulled open a desk drawer and removed a small wooden box. Inside was a pouch. He took out the pouch and opened it, extracted some rolling paper and spread it open on the desk.

“Do you smoke?” he asked.

“Um, no. I never—ah, is that pot?”

“No. It’s a special blend of imported tobacco.” I watched as he tapped out a small amount of loose leaves onto the paper and began to roll it with expert fingers.

“Neither do I—smoke, that is. I miss it,” he added, wistfully.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Didn’t you pay attention to those anti smoking films in high school? This stuff’ll kill you.” He picked up the cigarette and held it lovingly between his fingers. “I miss the rituals more than the actual smoking,” he explained. “So,” he said, sitting back in his chair, “what can I do for you?”

And so for what seemed like the millionth time I explained what happened to Johnny. Only this time I left nothing out.

“You have a copy of these pictures?”

“Yes.” I was exhausted, and I just wanted to curl up in a little ball in this oh so cozy chair and go to sleep.

“You think your cop friend had anything to do with Johnny’s murder?” I shook my head, no. “How about the Novack murder?” Again, an emphatic no. “Could he be involved in some other way, maybe accepting bribes to keep his mouth shut?”

I hesitated. “I don’t know,” I whispered.

Sadness washed over me and a lump formed in my throat, making it hard for me to swallow. He waited for me to collect myself, and then he asked, not unkindly, “What exactly do you need from me?”

I shifted in the chair, struggling to stay awake. “I need information, only I don’t know how to get it. Carla says you know people. She says you move in a lot of different circles. I’ve been away for four years, and even when I lived here I didn’t have access to the kinds of people you do. I want to take John’s pictures and show them around.” I shrugged. “Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky and someone will see something in them that I don’t.” Before he could ask, I added, “The police are not an option.” He seemed to understand that only too well.

“You know that once you let it be known you’re looking for this killer, there’s no turning back. It could get very dangerous for you.” I didn’t know. Actually, the thought had never crossed my mind.

“Of course I know. I’m not stupid.”

Nicholas Santiago looked at me for a long minute. The silence was uncomfortable.

“I’m a big girl, Mr. Santiago. I can take care of myself. I just need a little professional help, and I intend to pay you for your time.” I dug in my pocketbook and extracted my checkbook and a pen. Unfortunately, the only one I had was pink and sparkly, with bright pink feathers on the tip. It looked like it belonged to the Tooth Fairy.

Nick shook his head and my hopes fell with a thud. “Go home, Brandy Alexander. You’re in way over your head.” His look told me there was no room for argument.

I stood up and waited for the dizziness to pass. My disappointment was overwhelming, but I’d be damned if I was going to let him know it. I smiled and extended my hand. “Thank you for seeing me.” He reached out his hand and placed it in mine. His touch was electric and I felt body parts contracting painfully. I reluctantly disengaged myself and turned to go.

Nick came out from behind the desk and walked me back through the studio. It was empty. When I got to the door, I took a quick look around to make sure I didn’t have company waiting for me outside. He stopped me before I stepped over the foyer.

“You’re going to do this, with or without me, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “Wouldn’t you, if it were your best friend?”

Nick’s mouth twisted into a lopsided grin, and for a moment it was all I could do to keep from backing him against the wall and kissing him until his lips turned blue.

“Okay, here’s the deal, Nancy Drew.” He paused and leaned into me, tucking some stray hair behind my ear. He let his hand linger there a moment, and I felt like I’d just discovered the female equivalent of Viagra. “I’ll meet you here tomorrow night at nine. Bring the pictures. There’s this club I know. It sounds like the place your friend described to you. You are to stick with me the entire time. No wandering off, got it?”

“No problem.”
Oh boy, I get to be with Nick tomorrow night!

“And I ask the questions. In fact, I don’t want you talking to anybody.”

“Are you going to make me sit in the car?” I asked, not loving being told what to do.

He smiled and leaned in to me again. His mouth brushed against my ear and I shivered. “Remember when I said you were in way over your head?” I stared at him, my eyes like saucers. “I wasn’t just talking about scary strangers.” He placed a hand on the back of my neck and gently guided me to my car.

I found my voice and turned to him. “What made you change your mind, Nick?”

“Hell if I know,” he said quietly and he disappeared back into the studio.

To quote a wise man, “I friggin’love the Whiz.” That man was Frank Oliveiri, owner of Pat’s Steaks, a Philadelphia institution. And by “wiz” he meant that gelatinous goo, Cheez Whiz.

I stood in a long line and when it was my turn I ordered a pizza steak “wit.” That’s “Philly speak” for cheese steak with onions. I watched as the counter guy expertly wrapped the sandwich. Grease dripped out the back end and I began to salivate. It had been four years since my last Pat’s steak and I was going to enjoy every cholesterol-packed bite. But a sudden rush of nutritional conscience washed over me, and I turned to the guy at the next counter who was doling out French fries. “Excuse me.”

He glanced up, two beefy arms poised over the fryer. “Yeah, doll?”

“Are your fries cooked in lard?” The roar of the kitchen fan swallowed up my words.

“What?” he shouted back at me.

“Are your fries cooked in lard?” I said, much louder this time.

He paused for a beat, shaking his head, and then he threw back his head and guffawed so hard, tears rolled down his corpulent cheeks.

“What’s so funny?”

“I thought you said, ‘Are you friends with the Lord?’”

Well, I’ve always said that eating at Pat’s was a religious experience.

I sat outside on the patio with my legs tucked under me, savoring every greasy bite and washing it down with a Pepsi. A pigeon joined me toward the end, and I tossed it a piece of the roll. A nano-second later he was joined by fifty of his closest friends and relatives, all wanting a piece of the action. Philadelphia pigeons are a lot like native Philadelphians. They are pigeons with “addytude.” They circled their food source and began pecking at my feet. “Get away,” I called out lamely. I stood up, shaking French fries off my lap. As they converged on the fries I made my getaway.

On the way home I stopped at an Acme supermarket to pick up a few essentials. A witch greeted me at the door and handed me a shopping cart. She was decked out in a black cape and tall pointy hat. I thanked her and entered the store. The manager sailed past me wearing a George W. Bush mask and devil horns. I maneuvered my way down the aisles, still unaware that anything unusual was going on. It took until I got to the candy aisle for my amazing powers of observation to finally kick in. Stacks and stacks of glorious candy spilled off the shelves into the aisle.
Halloween. Oh boy!

I picked up several bags of Milky Ways, Kit Kats and Hershey Bars. Then I threw in some Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups for the protein. The night was shaping up better than I’d dreamed. Okay, so I’d have to share a little with those pesky Trick or Treaters, but that’s why I bought extra. I loaded up my cart, paid Freddy Krueger and headed home.

Traffic jammed up at around Penn’s Landing. I strained my eyes to look ahead and saw a cement mixer sitting in the middle of the street. It was trying to make a u-turn into the construction site, on the left. There was a gigantic hole where the old Brickman building had been, and the sign on the fencing said, “Future home of The Theatre Arts Conservatory. Hoffman and Gruber Construction.” Boy, I wouldn’t mind being either Hoffman or Gruber. They were bound to make a mint on this project.

The cement mixer struggled to turn itself around, but an old orange Volkswagen bug pulled out of line and blocked its path. The guy directing traffic went up to the driver’s window and gestured to him to back up. The Volkswagen driver, a little old white haired man, opened the door to his car and stepped out, crossing his arms across his chest. A lot of gesturing took place, first from the traffic director and then from the old man. At one point, the car in front of me decided it would be helpful to start honking. He leaned on his horn and let it rip. Then everybody started honking. The old man refused to budge.

About five minutes later, a cop on a horse appeared. The horse seemed non-plussed over the stupidity of humans. He showed his distain by lifting his tail and taking a huge dump in the middle of the street. I turned on the radio, opened the bag of Milky Ways and waited for everything to be sorted out. After about ten minutes, the old man climbed into his car, backed up and edged back into line. The cement mixer completed his u-turn and the cop on the horse rode off into the sunset. I love this city.

The answering machine blinked hello to me as I walked into the kitchen. I played back the messages as I dumped candy into a big bowl. “Bran, it’s Franny. Eddie says he’s going to a hockey game this evening, and I don’t want to be stuck here answering the door all night, so I thought I’d come by and keep you company. Call me.” Damn, I should have bought more candy. The next call was from my boss, wanting to know what I thought about doing a piece on “Hansom cabs.” She suggested maybe I could drive one around town, wouldn’t it make a cute story.

After that there was a hang up, then another message from Bobby. He sounded frustrated and borderline whiny. No polite segues, just, “I know you’re avoiding me, damn it. But this is important. Call me, or I’m coming over.”

I picked up the phone and called Franny back. We decided to make dinner and rent scary movies. I took a package out of the freezer. It was my mom’s homemade lasagna. I had no idea how long it had been there, but it must have been a while, judging by the icicles that had begun to form on the outside of the package.

Next, I called Carla to thank her for introducing me to Nick. Luckily, she wasn’t back from the salon yet. I didn’t have the energy to give her all the details she deserved. So that just left Bobby.
What to do? What to do?
I drummed my fingers on the kitchen table.
Maybe I should call mom and ask her about that lasagna.

Twenty minutes later I hung up the phone knowing more about lasagna than I thought was humanly possible. It was after 4:00 p.m. I’d just missed Oprah, but maybe I could still catch Dr. Phil. I turned on the television, eager to see Dr. Phil fix everyone’s lives in fifteen- minute increments. It turned out to be a rerun so I switched channels and watched the local news instead.

“Protesters are crying ‘homophobia’ in the City of Brotherly Love,” announced a perky, young newscaster. “More on this story when we return.” The cameras flashed to a live shot of City Hall, surrounded by Gay Rights activists. They were carrying signs with Konner Novack’s picture on it. Vince had told me the mayor was taking a lot of heat because of this case. If the police didn’t solve it soon, it could cost the mayor some valuable votes in the next election. Little did he know the cops were working overtime to make sure the case stays unsolved. I wondered if I should tell him.