No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (8 page)

“Bobby.” My stomach did that leaping around thing and I pulled open the door. The look on his face told me everything I didn’t want to hear. I opened the door wider and he came in without a word.
“Love hurts, love scars, Love wounds and mars”

He started to say something, but no words came, and instead he just shook his head.

Suddenly, he grabbed me and pulled me close to him. I didn’t try to fight it. I needed to feel his arms around me. I pressed my face into his chest and I could feel his heart beat as we stood there, bodies locked in a tender embrace.

He backed me into the room and we swayed together in time to the music, barely moving, letting the words envelop us. The tears started to flow freely now. His arms tightened around me, and I felt his lips brush the top of my head.

We stayed that way until the song ended and then, abruptly, I pulled away from him. He watched in silence as I wiped my face with my sleeve. I noticed with grim satisfaction that I’d left a tomato soup stain on the front of his leather jacket, and I wondered what “the little woman” would say about it. Finally, I spoke up.

“You heard from Officer Taylor.” A statement, not a question.

Bobby nodded. I sat down cross-legged on the couch and waved my arm vaguely in his direction, indicating he could sit too. I did not want to have this conversation. I did not want Bobby standing in front of me, telling me things I already knew. In that moment I hated him more than I ever had before.

“They’ve suspended the search for today. It got too dark. They’re going to resume it tomorrow, but I get the feeling they think it’s a waste of time.”

“A waste of time? Try telling that to Johnny’s dad. Assholes,” I added, bitterly.

“Bran, you saw for yourself. There was nothing left. No one could have survived an explosion like that.”

“Well, even if they can’t find—”I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“The bodies?”

“Yeah, even if they can’t, won’t they still look into what caused the explosion?” I looked up at Bobby and saw the abject misery that was etched on his face. Bobby loved Johnny, too.

“I mean, did he say how the fire started?” I asked, softened by my realization.

“It’s too soon to tell. The assumption is a faulty gas line, but it will take some time to get the official word on it.”

I nodded absently, until my nods automatically started going in the other direction, and I was shaking my head, no, no, no! “It wasn’t a faulty gas line,” I said, with sudden clarity. “Bobby, that explosion was no accident.”

Bobby slumped down onto the couch, his long legs crossed at the ankles. His heart was breaking for his missing friend and now he had a hysterical woman to contend with. Well, tough.

“Did you hear what I said? I think that fire was set intentionally. I think someone was out to get John.”

“Come on, Brandy. Who would want to kill Johnny?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, “but what I do know, you’re not going to like.”

Bobby sat up, cop face in place. “Okay, spill it.”

I took a deep breath and started at the beginning. I told him about John’s friend’s birthday party, about how John had recognized the murder victim from the pictures he’d taken and had contacted the police.

“Why didn’t he come to me?” Bobby demanded.

“You were on
vacation,
” I said, pointedly.

His eyes flashed with pain.
Why do I keep doing that?

“Look, there was nothing you could have done. You didn’t know John was going to come up with evidence in a murder. Anyway, he called the police station and some cop came over to talk to him.”

“Did you get a name?”

I thought back to our conversation. “No. He just said it was the guy in charge of the case.”

“Then what?”

“Then the cop took Johnny’s pictures and thanked him for his help. Oh, and he warned him not to talk about it to anyone. He said it could really screw up the investigation if any information were to leak out.”

“Did you see a copy of the pictures?”

“No. This all took place before I got into town. He just told me there was a shot of the murdered guy and some guy seated next to him. They looked like they were on a date.”

“Brandy, I still don’t see how we go from John taking some pictures that may or may not have had something to do with one murder, to him being the target of another one.”

“I’m getting to that. When John picked me up at the airport he was acting all jumpy and weird. Then he told me that since he’d given his statement to the police and handed over the pictures, strange things had begun to happen.”

“Like what?”

“Like he felt like he was being followed. And he thought someone had been in his apartment. And someone almost ran him over.”

“He
felt
like? He
thought?
He
almost?
From this you conclude that John’s on some kind of cop hit list? Jesus, Brandy, have you completely lost your mind?”

When he put it that way, the man had a point.

“Okay,” I conceded. “But there’s something else. A few days ago I ran into Vince Giancola. He started complaining about work, per usual, and he mentioned this murder case. Then he said it’s been frustrating because there isn’t any evidence. I’m paraphrasing, but he clearly said there weren’t any leads. I started to ask him about the pictures, but John wasn’t supposed to have told anyone about them, so I kept my mouth shut.”

Bobby was quiet for a moment, his face unreadable. I watched the muscles in his jaw tighten and release. “This doesn’t make any sense,” he said finally. “Why would the police stonewall the D.A.’s office about the evidence? They usually share what they know.”

“I don’t know. And how do you explain the fact that John hands over the pictures and then all these weird things start happening?”

“What things?” Bobby exploded. “You said yourself that John wasn’t even sure anything was happening. Christ, Brandy, you haven’t changed one iota since the day I met you. You were always looking for
‘the story.’
You had more conspiracy theories than the History Channel. What happened to John was an accident. A tragic, senseless accident. But that’s all it was.”

“It figures you’d say that. Cops always watch each other’s backs. Code Blue, isn’t that what they call it?” Low blow I know, but I was royally pissed.

Bobby got to his feet. An angry blue vein popped up on the side of his neck and began to throb as he fought for control over his emotions.

“I think you’ve been watching too many reruns of NYPD Blue,” he growled low in his throat.

“No, just reading the newspapers.”

“What about the newspapers?”

“They’re full of stories about police corruption. It must be very tempting for a cop on a limited income to pick up some extra cash,” I added, pointedly.

“Is that what you really think of me?” he asked, in a tight, quiet voice.

“No,” I admitted. “I’m sorry. I’m just…” I shrugged my shoulders, too tired to finish my thought.

We stood there staring at each other, the silence building to deafening proportions. I wanted to apologize for real, to take back every agonizing innuendo, but Alexander stubbornness reigned supreme and I willed my mouth shut.

“Look,” he said, finally, blowing breath out of his mouth in a sharp burst of air. “I’ll ask around. I’ll talk to the primary in charge of the investigation, and I’ll take a look at the pictures. But I’m warning you, Brandy, stay out of this. We’re not in high school anymore. There’s more at stake than a week’s worth of detention.”

“Thank you,” I replied, softly.

“For what?”

“For taking me seriously.”

He relaxed a little, and a glimpse of the old Bobby reappeared. “I’ve always taken you seriously.” The look that accompanied that statement could have populated a small country.

I blushed and stood up, pushing him towards the door.

“You throwing me out?”

“Looks like it.”

He arched his eyebrows, and I wondered if he knew how seductive that was. I ignored him, along with the skittering in my stomach, as best I could and opened the door.

“Call me as soon as you know anything. And, um,” I added, almost in a whisper, “I really am sorry about what I said before. I didn’t mean it.”

Bobby nodded briefly. Message received.

“Don’t forget what I told you,” he warned. “Let me handle this. I don’t want you getting involved.” He stepped through the threshold and I slammed the door shut behind him.
Fat chance
.

H
e must’ve gone straight from my house to the police station, because an hour later the phone rang.

“It’s Bobby.”

“What did you find out?” I tried to concentrate on his words and not the longings his voice stirred in me. I sensed a slight hesitation before he answered.

“Dead end on the photographs. The guy the victim was with checked out. Had an airtight alibi for the time of the murder. Listen, Brandy—”

“Can I have the pictures?”

“What?”

“Can I have the pictures?” Sheesh, I thought that was plain enough.

“What do you want them for?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, honestly. “I guess because they were a part of John. Maybe I’ll give him to his friend, Daniel.” Again, I felt the slightest hesitation before he answered.

“Sure, but it could be awhile before they release them.”

“I thought they were worthless.”

“Yeah, well, you know how cop stuff works. I’ll get them to you as soon as I can.”

“Thanks,”
you lying bastard,
I added, under my breath.

“So now that we know that there was nothing incriminating in the photographs, maybe you’re ready to put this whole crazy idea of John being murdered to rest?” It was a question, but it seemed more like an order.

“Sure, Bobby. And thanks for getting back to me so quickly on this.”

“Listen, if John’s dad decides to uh, have a memorial service or anything—”

“I’ll let you know. Thanks again for your help today.” I hung up the phone and sat staring at it for a while. It had been four years since the last time Robert DiCarlo had lied to me. He stunk at it then, and he stunk at it now. The real question was, “Why was he lying?”

It was eleven p.m. and I had long given up the idea of getting any rest. Maybe I didn’t need sleep. Maybe I was some sort of Sleepless Wonder you find on display at Ripley’s Believe it or Not, on Hollywood Boulevard. School children could come visit me and point. I was really losing it. Bobby’s visit had left me feeling confused, angry and frustrated. His phone call only served to exacerbate those feelings.

An overwhelming sadness settled in my heart and refused to budge. I knew I should call Johnny’s dad, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I vowed to call him first thing in the morning. Who knows, maybe overnight Johnny would reappear, refreshed and invigorated after his five-mile swim back to shore. Then I wouldn’t have to call his father.
Goddamn it, Johnny, how could this happen?

My mother called me at eight, asking me the same thing. She’d seen it on the news along with footage of the burning boat.

“Mom, I don’t have any answers for you. I just don’t know.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. That boy was like a brother to you—speaking of which, is Paulie there with you?”

“No, Mom. He’s at the club.” Life goes on.

“Do you really think you should be alone?”

“I’m
fine
,” I said, barely containing the exasperation in my voice. She’s just trying to be helpful, I reminded myself.

“Do you want me to fly home? Your father would be okay alone for a few days.”

“No!” I said, a little too vehemently. “It’s just that, you know—”

“I know,” said my mother. “You like to weather these storms alone.”

“Listen, Mom,” but she was already off in another direction.

“You’ll never guess who I saw at the airport this afternoon, while I was picking up your Great Aunt Rose.”

“Who?” I asked, knowing she’d make me guess anyway.

“Go on, see if you can guess. You’ll never guess.”

Oh Jeez. “Jack Baumgarten.”

“Who?”

You know, Jack Baumgarten, our old neighbor.”

“Brandy, don’t be ridiculous. The man has been dead for twelve years.”

“Oh. I give up. Who?”

“Bobby DiCarlo’s wife and their precious little girl.” My heart stopped.

“Brandy?”

“Yes?”

“Good, you’re still there. Anyway, I called out to her—what’s her name again? Something Puerto Rican, I can never remember, but she didn’t stop to talk. She had luggage so I guess she was in a hurry to catch a plane. Between you and me,” she added in a whisper, just to make sure Bobby’s wife, “what’s her name” didn’t hear, “she’s not the friendliest.”

My mother’s musings were starting to give me a headache. I clicked the receiver, twice. “Mom, it’s ‘call waiting’. I’m expecting an important call from L.A.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Sorry, Mom, I’ve got to take this. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I threw kissy noises her way and hung up the phone.

It was only after I’d replaced the receiver that I remembered that my parents don’t have call waiting and she probably knew that. Oh well, I had bigger things to worry about. Like what was Bobby’s wife doing in Florida? Does she have relatives there? Was she on her way home? Is that where they went on vacation, and why didn’t she come home with Bobby? Did she get on the phone with him and say, “Guess who I saw at the airport today? That girl you used to date’s pushy mother. She said hello to me. Of all the nerve!” Yeah, I’m sure that’s just what happened, because everyone’s life always revolves around me. Note to self: Work on being less egocentric.

“Janine, it’s Brandy. Can you talk?” In the background I heard the steady clatter of dishes.

“No problem. Hey, Chrissy, take this plate over to the guy in the mohair sweater, will ya? And watch it, he bites.” Turning back to the phone she said, “Bran, I’m sick about Johnny. And Fran’s really worried about you. Have you called her?”

“Not yet. I want to, but I just can’t yet.”