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

by Shelly Fredman

  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.

  “Bonita, put out the cigarette and go help Gladys, please.” Bonita sauntered off and Carla turned back to me. “Prison-Work program. She’ll get the hang of it. Let’s talk in here, hon,” she added, pulling me into the privacy of the back room.

  A fresh pot of coffee sat on the counter. Carla picked up two Styrofoam cups, filled each of them three quarters of the way full, and doused hers with Half and Half. I did the same. She sat down at the table and eyeballed me. “Don’t take this wrong, Sweetie, but you look awful.” Tell me something I
don’t know. Any moment now I expected a telegram from the Early Edition News in L.A. saying, “Heard you look awful. You’re fired.”

  “Brandy, you can’t fall apart like this. It’s the last thing John would want.”

  I nodded in agreement. “You’re right. I’ll take a nap when I get home, but Carla, I need you to do something for me.”

  “Anything. You know that.”

  I took a deep breath and plunged in. “Okay. You know a lot of edgy people—I mean that as a compliment,” I added, hastily. “It shows how accepting of people you are. So, anyway, I need you to introduce me to someone.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. Look, some really weird things have come to light lately, and—” I paused dramatically and lowered my voice to barely a whisper. “I have reason to believe that John was murdered.”

  “Murdered? Why on earth would you think he was murdered?”

  “It’s a long story and I really don’t have the energy to get into it now, but trust me, I have my reasons.” I must have looked positively deranged, because Carla seemed doubtful. She didn’t say anything for a minute. She just walked over to the counter and dragged the entire pot of coffee over to the table. She poured us each a refill. At that moment, Gladys peeked her head in.

  “Mrs. Russo says she doesn’t want Nonie to set her hair. She says the last time she left the rollers in too long and it made her look like a French Poodle.”

  “Tell Mrs. Russo to kiss my ass. No, don’t,” she added, quickly. Turning to me she whispered, “Gladys doesn’t really get the concept of ‘venting’. I’ll be right back.”

  When Carla returned she had a determined look in her eye. “Listen, Brandy, I’m sure you have your reasons for believing what you do. But if all that you think is true, then you have to go to the police and tell them what you know.”

  “Carla, I can’t. I tried to go to the cops. John tried to go to the cops. I think that’s what got him killed. There’s a major cover-up going on and I have to find out what it’s all about.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know you don’t. And I wish I could explain it to you, but right now you’re better off not knowing.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “You can’t go to the cops. Then what about Bobby? I know you have issues with him, but you know you can trust him.”

  “I can’t go to Bobby. He may be in on it too.” I was sounding nuttier by the minute. Soon I’d be talking about the Lone Gunman and the Grassy Knoll. “Carla, I do know this sounds like the ravings of a sleep deprived maniac which, I’ll be the first to admit, I am. But please trust me on this. I wouldn’t ask you if I wasn’t certain that I’m right.”

  Carla gave me a long look. “Start at the beginning,” she said. “And don’t leave anything out.” Bless you, Carla.

  I filled her in as best I could on the Konner Novack murder and how John had stumbled upon some clues. She listened, mouth agape, as I described Bobby’s recent behavior, the blatant lies and the break in at Johnny’s. I ended with the missing evidence.

  “So, you can see why I can’t go to Bobby. I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

  “Honey, this is too much for one person to handle. I know you want to avenge John’s death, but you can’t do this alone.”

  “That’s why I came to you. Frankie told me once that you have a—a rather colorful family.” Colorful being a euphemism for “connected,” Philly style. “And I thought maybe you’d know someone who could help me gather the information I need. You know, take me places where I wouldn’t ordinarily fit in. Someone who really knows the streets.”

  Carla leaned forward on her elbows and studied me for a moment. She scratched her head with the tips of her highly lacquered fingernails. She rolled her eyes heavenward, as if to ask for divine guidance. She sighed. And then, she spoke. “There’s this guy I know.”

  “Yeah?” I leaned forward as well, eager for her to continue.

  “Nope,” she decided, shaking her head. “Can’t do it. Your uncle would kill me.”

  “Who? Who is he? Come on, Carla, he sounds great.”

  Carla laughed, a slow, pure rumble of pleasure. “Oh, he is.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  She leaned forward even closer and looked me directly in the eye. She spoke slowly and distinctly, as if addressing a backwards three year old. “Nicholas Santiago is trouble. Do you know how to spell TROUBLE?”

  I sat there, mesmerized by the notion of this mystery man. A man of danger. A man of trouble.

  “I’ll have to think of somebody else.”

  “No, I want him!”

  “That’s what all the girls say, hon.”

  According to Carla, Nicholas Santiago is Robin Hood, Al Capone and Che Guevera all rolled into one explosively sexy package. Part saint, large part sinner and as elusive as an honest politician he is the stuff neighborhood legends are made of.

  He owns a martial arts studio on Spring Garden, but rumors regarding other ventures abound. Some say he’s got a thriving hit man business. Others believe he runs guns to South America for obscure rebel causes. Nobody knows for sure, and Nick does nothing to dispel these notions. The cops hate him on principal. He has a finger on the pulse of the city, has friends in high places and can crawl along on his belly with the curbside dwellers. He knows things the cops don’t and can do things the cops can’t. He’d do anything for a friend. Couldn’t say what he’d do if someone crossed him. No one’s ever been brave enough to find out.

  “How do you know this guy, Carla?”

  “Through my cousin, Benny. They had some business dealings.” She shrugged. “I don’t ask and Benny don’t tell. It’s better that way.”

  Carla and I came to an agreement. We agreed not to tell Frankie, and she would set up a meeting for me. After swearing on Carla’s St. Christopher medal that I would be careful, I left the beauty salon and headed home.

  Three cups of coffee had really taken a toll on my internal organs. I flung open the door and raced up the stairs two at a time, barely making it to the bathroom before the dam burst. In my hurry to find the toilet, I’d inadvertently left the front door open. I finished up in the bathroom and was all set to go back downstairs and microwave some popcorn, when I heard a soft knocking at the front door. A moment later someone was calling my name. Holy Crap. It’s Bobby.

  My senses went into panic mode. He’d found out I knew he’d lied. He was on the take, he was the serial killer, he blew up the boat, and now he was here to kill me too. What do I do? What do I do? I was hopping around like a crazy person, pulling up my jeans the rest of the way and grabbing a comb out of the drawer. Even if he was here to kill me, I still had some pride.

  Bobby called my name again. He didn’t sound like he was going to kill me. He just sounded tired. “Okay,” I conceded. He probably wasn’t here to do me in, but I just wasn’t prepared to talk to him. Not until I had some more answers.

  I tiptoed over to the banister and peered over the railing. He had gone into the kitchen. I scurried into the bedroom, unlocked my window, heaved it open and crawled head first, out onto the trellis. I righted myself and shimmied down the rest of the way, hopped into Paul’s car and took off like a bat out of hell.

  I drove several blocks out of the neighborhood, and then I pulled over to the curb and waited for the return of rational thought. My cell phone began to ring and I dug around in my pocketbook trying to locate it.

  “Hello?”

  “Why’d you drive away?”

  I sighed, feeling more annoyed than scared. “How’d you get my cell phone number?”

  “Paul gave it to me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Why’d you sneak away from me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I wasn’t sneaking away from you.”

  “No? I guess you always leave your house by way of the second story window.”

  I didn’t really have an answer for that one so I
sat there, saying nothing.

  “Brandy, I have to talk to you. It’s important.” Just then my cell phone beeped. I was getting another call.

  “Hang on a second. I clicked over to the other line. “Hello?”

  “It’s all arranged,” Carla stated without preamble.

  “Hang on.” I beeped back to Bobby.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Brandy, please.”

  Damn, damn, damn. I was starting to cave. “I’ll talk to you, later,” I said, and clicked backed to Carla.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Philadelphia is a city teeming with slums. Not just “impoverished neighborhoods,” but honest to God war torn disaster areas complete with condemned, burned out buildings, decayed and crumbling houses and boarded up storefronts. Graffiti covers every micro inch of wall space. People live in these uninhabitable places. Kids play “Double Dutch” in the street, while addicts sit on the stoops of disintegrating structures, bargaining for heroin and shooting up. Gang members roam their turf, protecting their territory and their reputations.

  Periodically, someone will come in and decide the neighborhood is ripe for gentrification. They will buy up the real estate, refurbish the old buildings and either move in, or resell the properties at quadruple the price. The economic tide slowly sweeps in and washes away the impoverished, relocating them into another less desirable corner of the city. I passed many of these neighborhoods now as I cruised down Delaware Avenue. Although I had grown up accustomed to seeing these neighborhoods it never failed to surprise and sadden me.

  At Spring Garden I hung a left and continued on past Fifth Street. Nick Santiago’s studio was nearby. I began looking for the address. The street was deserted. Not a lot of “through” traffic on this end of town. The address Carla had given me was attached to a two story red brick building, sandwiched between a check cashing store and a bail bonds office. The windows were the mirrored kind you see in psych wards and police stations; one way observation jobs, tinted a pearl gray. Graffiti graced the store on the left and the store on the right. It reminded me of a dog lifting its tail to mark its territory. Oddly, the martial arts studio was untouched. I wondered if it was considered a neutral space or if Nick’s reputation won out over adolescent posturing.