No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2)

by A. J. Lape

  Lincoln located his glasses and shoved them onto his nose. Next, he turned on his email account and nonchalantly typed in the password “Willow.” Wasn’t profound, but I guess it was predictable. He missed his daughter, and without saying it, my feelings were he slept on the couch opposite mine to be one step closer than everyone else when she came through the door.

  He scrolled through several unread emails, clicking on one with a subject of Cisco Medina. He skimmed over it, and then read it aloud.

  TO: Lincoln Taylor

  FROM: LAPD

  RE: Cisco Medina

  DATE: August 13, 02:22PM

  Hey, Linc.

  Orange County and the FBI launched a nationwide whodunit, but in the past few months, they’ve come up with nothing. My source at the Bureau tells me the guys on the case are a little leery of the mother’s account of the days leading up to the abduction. Yes, she was spotted on video at Walmart, which ruled her out as a suspect, but she’s throwing off a guilty vibe. They think she knows something she’s not divulging but didn’t want to feed that to the press.

  “In other words,” I summarized. “No one can come up with a who that done it.”

  Lincoln pinched the space between his eyes, shifting his gaze to the clock on the wall. Willow should’ve been here at dinnertime—she wasn’t. “That pretty much sums it up,” he murmured, “but I had your information passed onto the Bureau and the cop working the case. Evidently, the number of mistakes and miscommunications involved in this one are mind-boggling.”

  “How so?”

  “For one, the grandparents’ English is so bad, by the time an interpreter was called in, the daughter showed up, and they clammed up altogether.” I must’ve looked confused. “That’s not necessarily odd in cases like this, Darcy. When a child isn’t located right away, sometimes people get paranoid—even good people. And dependent upon how a lawyer advises you, sometimes law enforcement is left alone investigating people that don’t truly have a connection to the case.”

  “But they’ve both been cleared, right?”

  “Yes, of physically nabbing him themselves,” he clarified. “In most abduction cases, it’s the other parent, but these two check out. Lola and Hank both saw him regularly, and on the day in question, he simply went to the park as he did every day. Nothing was physically out of the ordinary, which unfortunately, appears to be the situation most of the time.”

  That synced up with what Kyd told me today, and the email about Lola sending off funky vibes also corroborated what Troy suggested days earlier.

  Not to self: Find out the funk, and you just might find that little boy.

  “What other miscommunications?”

  Lincoln powered-down his laptop and shoved it underneath the ottoman. “Apparently, the first detective working the case retired last month, and his replacements aren’t quite up to snuff. People are playing catch-up with grandparents that are no longer in town.”

  Lincoln leaned forward fishing his BlackBerry out of his left pocket, thumbing in a number for whom I knew was Willow. Watching the desperation in his eyes was a flashback to the pain of seeing it in my father’s when my mother wasn’t around anymore. That stuff never went away, and time rarely salved away the feeling. He shook off a wince when I assumed he received her voicemail.

  “Will, it’s Dad. Give me a call.” He paused and choked out, “I miss you.”

  A precipice of pain morphed over him as he terminated the call, pitching his phone into the seat beside him. This was where the normal reached for your hand and cried with you, but dang it, I felt like that little Dutch boy with my finger in the dam. Somebody needed to get a grip on the chaos before it got even worse. I couldn’t help Lincoln with Willow, and although I’d sworn off Turkey Cardoza (sorta), if that could relieve some of his stress, then I was all-in.

  I linked my arm in his, resting my head on his shoulder. “Thanks,” I told him. “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind. Is everything okay with you?”

  He turned his cheek toward me, his face calling me out on the argument I’d so far refused to discuss. “Is everything okay with you?” he echoed back.

  We blew out a mutual sigh. Not by a long shot.

  There’s a reason your parents say to not read or watch scary things before you go to bed. You can’t sleep, or if you can, you play those images on a loop in your dreams and wind up crashing in their room.

  Lincoln was sound asleep with his brief case wide open on his lap. Made of high-impact silver aluminum, it’s the type you handcuffed to your wrist with a preset password. CIA league … or at best, James Bond. If you had a lapse in memory, the only way to click it open would be using a force just slight of a mini-Uzi.

  Squatting down on the rug, I quietly laid it on the ottoman and riffled though several colored photographs inside a “Cardoza” file. The pics resembled a natural disaster. Debris lay in every direction, piled on top of one another at weird angles—splattered on the walls, the floor, the ceiling—but you couldn’t make out the exact nature of the original structure until your mind registered the debris was human.

  I prayed 10,000 prayers in the span of a few seconds.

  This wasn’t a campfire horror story. It was graphic and disturbing.

  You know, awesome.

  The file contained two sets of photographs according to a date-stamp on the edges, and this man or woman—I couldn’t tell—had literally been blown to bits. This didn’t look to be your typical mob kill, in-the-head/in-the-heart, because whoever perpetrated unloaded a submachine gun or stuck a bomb in the vic’s mouth and detonated it, off-site. Chunks of flesh and bone hung from the white walls, and blood streaked from floor to ceiling in what appeared to be a warehouse or building under construction. A nail gun lay in the middle of the mess, next to an empty paint can that had flesh alongside its handle. A wedding ring, with part of a finger still inside, sat next to a Nike sneaker.

  The photographs from a few weeks earlier suggested a male. The bone structure seemed larger and the jeans and shirt were undeniably styled for men. In this case, the method of killing was different. He’d been bludgeoned, having died long before the killer decided to stop with the blows. What remained of his face looked black and blue with a cheekbone protruding through the left side. I stared at it for several minutes but eventually looked away, my stomach cramping into knots. For some reason, it was worse than the body parts. This person had felt each delivered blow and probably begged for their life.

  These types of criminals don’t rob convenience stores. We’re talking sick, sadistic, loony bin bound—or better yet—destined-for-Hell type of killers. On the back of each photo was a serial number of some sort and a sticky note in Lincoln’s handwriting that said, “Bonnano, Giuseppe, or Carlotto.” I lifted the ink pen from the end table and inked the information onto my left palm. When finished, I placed the photographs back inside the silver brief case, snapping the lid shut.

  I tried to breathe. Find normal. Shove away the insanity. Falling onto the couch, I tugged the cover up to my chin, realizing the thick fleece blanket was white like the blood-soaked walls. Kicking it onto the floor, I realized the chill was fierce, but getting another blanket meant I’d have to navigate the dark. The dark normally didn’t scare me; tonight it clawed at my sanity. I settled for curling into a fetal position and closed my eyes.

  16. THE GUESSING GAME

  AFFECTION’S DEFINED AS A STRONG fondness, a feeling of respect and deep devotion. Humans need it, animals crave it, and civilizations flourish when they have it as a core value. You didn’t know how much you needed affection, though, until the warm part of your life suddenly ran Russian cold.

  Closing up the newspaper, I downed the last drop of black coffee, needing a little bit of affection myself. Morning rituals in my home were simple. You poured a cup of coffee, grunted a goodbye, then hit the ground stumbling and definitely not running. All of the Taylors … excluding Sydney … woke up happy to meet the world. Like me, Sydney was a vam
pire. Her best work was done under the dark of night.

  It was midmorning, and the morning ritual here looked like an assembly line of love. Before the Taylor men went anywhere, they “loved up” the people they were in love with as if they were the most precious resource on the planet. They weren’t afraid of public displays of affection, and the object of that PDA acted like the luckiest person in the cosmos.

  Some days I found it sweet; today, I wished I could pepper spray all of them.

  Lincoln hopped into the kitchen, pulling on his sneakers, then cupped Alexandra’s face in one hand, kissing her lips. Colton followed thirty seconds later repeating the same mannerism with his wife. Dylan strolled in, and suddenly I felt feverish and my vision doubled. Got dizzy. Wanted to hurl. My God, I wanted to be on the receiving end. But then again, I wanted to shove my foot up his boom boom, hoo-hah masterpiece and break it off. He had on a red golf shirt and khaki shorts with his hair parted on the left, causing his cheekbones and eyes to pop out in a wow. He gave half a grin, but I just sat there, speechless.

  Leaning up against the countertop, watching us like the peanut gallery, were his mother and grandmother. Both were dressed for tennis. Obviously, word in the camp traveled fast of our verbal free-for-all. Grandma’s eyes were wide and peeled for round two. Susan, however, took a slow sip of her coffee, eyes studying her son closely. My guess was she instigated an apology or subliminally willed one into his mouth.

  He pulled me out of the seat by my forearm, his face with that indentured-servant thing going on. “I love you,” he murmured.

  My breath caught in my throat—The L-word was one heck of an opener.

  I think I whispered “Always,” but maybe I told him to “KISS MY A-S-S” in all capital letters.

  We stared at one another for a moment, my chest squeezing with the bad memories. Dylan captured my face in his hands, tilting my head back so I couldn’t look away. I was struck with the intimacy of the moment and the feeling that he wanted to kiss me. My heart thumped against my ribcage. Do it. Don’t do it. Do it, I thought. Surely, to God he wouldn’t, would he?

  But this was Dylan … he’d do whatever he pleased.

  Finally, he murmured, “What’s on your agenda for the day?”

  Today’s mantra: mystery, suspense, fun, scared out of your mind, throw some imaginary kissing in there, OMG I’m afraid stuff ... repeat, repeat, repeat.

  “I’m going to relax by the pool,” I answered quickly. But, to qualify the mantra, I planned to snoop and tap into Lincoln’s computer. I needed more information on Cisco; plus, I needed the full names of the dead in Lincoln’s photographs. Bonnano, Giuseppe, and Carlotto were still inked onto my palm, but I wasn’t sure what that meant. They could’ve been the victims, but then again, they might’ve been the perpetrator.

  “Play with me, sweetheart,” he grinned. Dylan had dressed for golf … normally, I’d hit the links with him, but today’s schedule was jam-packed with sin.

  I’m busy, I said in my head.

  Out loud, I said nothing.

  My lack of words floored him. Abso-frigging-lutely floored him. His shoulders dropped a fraction, but then he drew me to his side, crooking his arm around my waist. “Listen,” he murmured, “if you’d prefer to relax around here, then have a wonderful day, but I’d like to apologize, sweetheart.” I slid a glance over to the females in the family and neither looked like they had the urge to scramble away. As a matter of fact, they simultaneously nodded I needed to hear him out. “You fell asleep before we said goodnight, and you never crawled into my room for a late night chat. And frankly,” he winced, briefly shutting his eyes, “I didn’t sleep that well. Actually, I didn’t sleep at all. I need to make things right with my favorite girl.”

  No kidding. We had a fight, and it was a doozy. Nonetheless, a part of me wasn’t truly sure what it was because, at one point, I wanted to roll around with him on the floor … you know, panting … like dogs.

  My voice was a thready whisper. “You were angry with me, and if I would’ve known you were going to go all Rocky Balboa on me, I would’ve laced up my gloves.”

  The hurt in my chest ballooned all over again.

  Dylan turned me to face him, tenderly murmuring, “I know. My behavior was barbaric, and I allowed my emotions to turn me into someone that I didn’t even recognize. Please,” he begged, “hug me.”

  To say I was perplexed sounded trite. All I could manage was a stare, because I didn’t know what to say, and I wasn’t sure my arms understood what had gone down, either.

  When I still did the Statue of Liberty routine, he painted on another heart-stopping grin, his amber eyes sparkling. “Do you want me to grovel?” In no uncertain terms, would I pass up the chance to watch Dylan Taylor grovel.

  “Groveling might be nice,” I sort of smiled.

  Dylan dropped to one knee, tenderly stroking my fingertips until my hands were completely swallowed by his. The hurt in his voice rang palpable. “I’m sorry, Darc. I love you, and I’m never going to get tired of telling you that. Nor will I ever leave you for anyone else. Please, forgive me.” A light slam of the door let me know we were officially alone. Dylan gave me his patented I’d-take-a-bullet for you face, but the quiver in his chin suggested his vulnerability might be greater than mine.

  My voice trembled as I whispered, “I missed you last night.”

  Dylan slowly nodded, apparently reliving a painful memory. “I know, Darc. My heart is bruised, too. Three times, I tiptoed in to check on you, but you’d already fallen asleep. As much as I missed you, I didn’t want to disrupt your peace. You’re even more beautiful when you sleep, sweetheart. It nearly took my breath away.”

  If I thought about it, I currently looked like crap. My clothes were rumpled, my hair was hookerfied, one sock was MIA, and my breath smelled like a stale cup of whatever was living in that espresso machine. My energy level tapped out as a two on a scale of one-to-ten.

  That didn’t imply beautiful, it said I-need-a-do-over.

  “Three times?” I asked.

  “Three times,” he winked, his way of telling me things would be okay.

  “I figured that was Lincoln,” I said, pulling him back up.

  “Lincoln snored next to you. He’s waiting on Willow, Darc. She was scheduled to be here days ago, and I now understand how it hurts to wait for someone that never comes.”

  Ah, jeezle. I was seconds from dissolving into a driveling idiot. Besides how Dylan conducted himself as a person, I was addicted to his words. Problem was, his brutal honesty at times was hard to stomach. I’d been content with sweeping situations (like Kyd) under the rug, including Dylan not saying goodbye yesterday morning. Dylan never swept anything under the rug. If he didn’t cover it immediately, you could bank on the fact he’d eventually dig it up and beat the crap out of it.

  “It’s okay,” I told him.

  He drew both my hands to his lips, his voice resolute. “No, sweetheart. It will never be okay for me to make you cry. You had questions. I should’ve made sure you had answers. Let’s make a deal to never go to bed angry or confused, with anything on our minds that we need to talk over. Deal?”

  My guilty conscience poked me in the ribs—he’d had questions, too. Still, I grabbed his pinky finger and wound it through mine—that served as answer enough.

  After we made plans to ride the mechanical bull at Cowboys tonight, we had a marathon hugging session, resting our foreheads together. I couldn’t help but pick up on the fact that sentences begged to be released from his vocal chords. His arms and body were relaxed, but I sensed his soul was anything but. My chest thundered in anticipation, but I watched him swallow down an emotion I wished he’d share. He released me with a tight squeeze and jogged to the door.

  Here I was, at ten-something in the morning, totally alone. A golf game was minutes from happening and tennis scheduled out the day for the women of the family. Sydney wouldn’t be up for hours, and a look out the door had Zander shuttling to the cou
rse with the other guys.

  Once the coast was clear, I shoved my lucky hat on my head, snatched Lincoln’s laptop, and perched it on the kitchen counter, plugging it in an outlet. While it fired up, I opened the refrigerator and grabbed ham, pulled pork, cheese, mustard, and pickles, finishing with crusty bread to make a Cuban sandwich. Stacking everything inside the bread, I drizzled on butter and placed it in the sandwich press, counted to 120, and burned my left hand. After I said part of the s-h-i-t word, I apologized to the universe because God knew I had more sin on the horizon.

  Tossing it on a paper plate, I took a seat on a barstool and cracked open a Coke, trying to think like a kidnapper. The lady at The Gap didn’t strike me as psychopathic, so conceivably Cisco hadn’t been physically abused. And since I was proof-positive he remained alive, that left it to the personal: (A), this woman wanted a child or (B), the grandparents truly were messed up in this as the newspaper suggested. If it were B, the confusing part, once again, was why would grandparents steal a child they were already legal guardians over? They sure as heck wouldn’t get any kind of ransom from the parents—so if they weren’t the kidnappers, that only left fear.

  But what could they fear?

  Biting off a big chunk of sandwich, I stared at the screen, knowing my posing as Lincoln Taylor carried some major jail time. As I thread the earbuds of my iPod in my ears, I piped out Crazy Train by Ozzy Osbourne and decided the payoff would be worth it. Singing in a tone-deaf splendor, I hit the icon labeled NCIC and struck in “Willow” when prompted for a password. Nothing. Erasing the word, I next typed in “Colton.” Once again, nada. That left the nickname of his son and 9mm gun, “Jackal.” Pecking out those six letters also rendered a big fat zilch in the success department.

  “Think, Darcy, think,” I said out loud.