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

by Shelly Fredman

  “Are we speaking metaphorically or the neighborhood in New York?”

  Nick’s laugh was bittersweet. “Both. Actually, I was born in New Orleans. My mother was French and Cherokee. My father was Columbian. They met in Louisiana. I lived there until I was twelve.” Abruptly, he changed the subject. “I feel like dancing.”

  “Now?”

  “Sure, why not? We scored big tonight. Let’s celebrate.”

  “You mean, here?” I asked, not quite drunk enough to feel totally comfortable with the S&M crowd.

  “Not here,” he said, pulling me out of the booth. “I know this place. Come on.”

  I let him lead me through the club, past the bouncer and out the door to the car. The clock on the dashboard said eleven thirty.

  “I should be home, switching channels between Leno and Letterman to see who has the better guests on,” I thought, fleetingly. But the second Bloody Mary had reached my bloodstream by now and was nestled in the spot where good sense usually resided. In my defense, I did make a halfhearted attempt to protest.

  “I don’t know, Nick. It’s kind of late.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?” he challenged. “After all, we are on a date.”

  I whipped my head up, giving him the classic “deer caught in the headlights” look.

  “Well, isn’t that what you told DiCarlo?”

  “How did you know I was talking to him?” I blushed.

  “Deductive reasoning. You want to make the guy jealous, tell him you’re out with another guy. I’m not about to make a liar out of you. You owe me a date.”

  We drove to a little Latin club down on Wingahocking. I had fallen asleep in the car on the way over and when I woke up, I found myself curled up against Nick’s shoulder. He had draped an arm around me to keep me from toppling over.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, acutely embarrassed. “I guess I’m a more tired than I thought.”

  Quickly, I pulled myself up and began running my fingers through my hair in an attempt to look more presentable. Nick pulled into the parking lot and handed the keys to the valet.

  “Nick, this place looks really fancy. I’m not dressed for it.” I waved my hand around at the other patrons, to prove my point. Many of the women were decked out in flouncy, colorful dresses, some wore short, tight numbers with stiletto heels, all exuded sex appeal. The effects from the drinks were wearing off and I felt miserably out of place.

  “You look fine.” He picked a rose out of a vase of flowers, broke the stem in two and carefully placed the flower behind my ear. “There, now you’re perfect.”

  People knew him at the club. The hostess came by with a bottle of very good cognac and set two glasses down in front of us. The smiles they exchanged were so intimate I almost told them to “get a room.”

  “Thanks, Anita,” he said warmly.

  “Thanks,” I added, with a look that said, “Disappear or die.”

  I didn’t want to drink any more, but the booze definitely helped to drown the butterflies that kept flapping against my stomach.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked me.

  “No.” I was starving, but I didn’t think I could eat in front of him. I mean what if I got food stuck in my teeth or something? “But you go ahead and order if you’re hungry.”

  He sipped at the cognac and settled back in his chair. I took a sip too, and a couple more after that for good measure.

  “Tell me about you and the cop,” he said, lazily.

  I felt my cheeks go red. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “I think there is, and I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes, especially a cop’s.”

  “Bobby’s married,” I blurted out.

  “There’s all kinds of married.” Nick shrugged and took another sip of his drink.

  Wow. He wants to know about Bobby and me. Could Nick be interested in me? A big fat NO sprung to mind. After all, he had the long legged Vanessa to keep him warm at night. He probably just didn’t want to do anything to piss off the law. I guess in his line of work that was prudent. Whatever his work was anyway, which I had no idea.

  The music pulsated in the background, permeating the air we breathed. Nick stared at me and I flushed under his gaze. Damn, isn’t there some kind of pill you can take for congenital blushing? I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Wordlessly, he stood and stretched his arm out to me.

  “I’m not a very good dancer,” I apologized.

  “Neither am I,” he said, as he took me in his arms. Liar.

  I was melting in a sea of exquisiteness. Nick had one arm wrapped around my waist, the other one pinned to my side, our hands intertwined. I loosely hung my other arm around his shoulder, and he tightened his grip on me so that our bodies mashed against each other. My head reached the top of his chest, and I turned and buried my face in the open space of his collar. Oh, God, he smelled fantastic. That was no cologne, I realized. It was his natural scent.

  I groaned softly into the hollow of his neck. I couldn’t help myself. It was like I’d been living in a sensory deprivation tank my entire life, waiting for this one moment in time. Never had I felt this turned on, this electric, this completely and overwhelmingly hormonal. I thought I was going to faint, and I would have, had Nick not had such a tight grip on me.

  As the beat slowed, he slipped a leg between mine, pressing his thigh against me. We moved slowly around the dance floor, Nick subtly applying more pressure in between my legs, rubbing his thigh gently back and forth. He was driving me crazy and he knew it.

  I squeezed my legs together; a completely involuntary reaction, and let out a small moan as a shock wave rippled through my body. Oh please don’t let him know what just happened. I will absolutely die if he knows. He tensed his thigh muscle and it happened again. I tried to pull back from him but he wouldn’t let me. Turning his head he whispered in my ear. “You’re a sensual woman, angel. Why hide it?”

  Oh my God! My nipples did a little salute against my sweater as I wrenched myself from his grasp. He followed me off the dance floor and back to our seat. I grabbed my jacket and put it on, hoping to draw attention away from my boobs, which were now, thanks to him, sticking out in front like mini tent poles.

  “Y’know, it’s getting late and I have to get home. Thanks for the dance. It was fun.”

  “Fun.” He cocked his head and drained his cognac, never taking his eyes off of me.

  “What are you staring at?” I snapped, taking a self- conscious sweep of my breasts to make sure they were behaving themselves.

  “You are refreshing company,” he said simply. There wasn’t a hint of teasing in his voice. He took my elbow and guided me out the door.

  Johnny wasn’t there when I got home. He’d left a note on the kitchen table.

  “Thanks for the hospitality. I owe you a hostess gift.”

  There was a message from Bobby, as well. “Call me.”

  Underneath that, John had scribbled another message. “He beat it out of me, Sunshine. Don’t be mad.”

  And underneath that, in DiCarlo’s scrawl, “What the hell were you thinking?” Oy.

  Nick had followed me home. I’d told him it wasn’t necessary, but he said he always walks his dates to the door. I drove faster than I should have, considering I was three sheets to the wind and had forgotten my glasses, (my night vision is terrible) but he made me nervous in ways I couldn’t describe, so I thought I’d better create some physical distance between us. I mean this guy was so far out of my league we weren’t even playing in the same ballpark.

  I parked right in front of the house and hopped out of the car. Nick pulled in behind me, so I gave a little finger wave, signaling he was free to go. Ignoring me, he climbed out of the jaguar and leaned up against the door, folding his arms across his chest. I couldn’t very well leave him standing there, so I walked over to him to say goodnight. The air had turned cold, and I jammed my hands inside my pockets for warmth.

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” There was
a hint of amusement in his voice.

  “Um, sort of.”

  He laughed and pulled me in close to him, and for a brief, panicky moment I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead, he turned the jacket collar up around my neck and tucked my scarf inside the collar. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as his knuckles grazed my skin. Wow. This was getting ridiculous. I was going to have to give my libido a serious talking to in the morning.

  I took a step back, and as I pulled my hands out of my pockets a slip of paper fluttered to the ground. I picked it up and studied it for a moment. It was the license plate number of the SUV I’d seen the day John picked me up from the airport. I handed it to Nick.

  “I don’t know if I copied this correctly, and I’m not even sure this is the same guy John saw down the shore, but it may be something.”

  “I’ll check it out,” Nick said. “And I should have some information on Maitlin within the next few days.”

  “Thanks. Listen, Nick, we never discussed payment, and I just want you to know that I fully intend to reimburse you for your time.”

  “I fully expect you will.” He flashed me a smile that could melt rocks and I felt a slow spread of heat emanate from my belly down to my crotch. “In the mean time, don’t answer the door to any more midnight callers. In fact, why don’t you just lay low until I can get back to you?”

  “Um, I don’t think I can do that.”

  “I figured as much, but I thought it was worth a shot. Just watch your back.” Nick pushed himself off the car and opened the door.

  “Uh, Nick?” I was never one for leaving well enough alone, and curiosity was eating away at me, so I plunged right in. “What did you mean when you said you fully expected I’d reimburse you? I just want to make sure we’re on the same page here.”

  “I meant just what I said, angel.”

  “Um, well, that doesn’t really clarify it for me. I mean you seem like a really good guy and all, but—”

  Nick raised a hand to my cheek and rubbed it softly with his thumb.

  “Don’t ever mistake me for a good guy, angel. You’ll only end up surprised and disappointed.” He leaned in and kissed me lightly on the mouth, and while my heart got busy remembering how to beat again, he climbed into his car and drove off.

  Am I becoming a major slut or what? I mean I haven’t felt this much hormonal action in four solid years, and suddenly my poor, sex starved body is lusting over every male within spitting distance. Soon I’ll be hitting up Sam Giancola for a rousing game of hide the salami. Now I know what Sleeping Beauty must’ve felt like when she awoke from her hundred-year nap. She must’ve been horny as hell.

  My boss called me at midnight, L.A. time, which made it 3:00a.m.in Philly. Funny, how sleep deprivation seems to get in the way of a good mood.

  “Gail,” I croaked. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “Well of course I do. I’m not an idiot. There’s a three- hour time difference, so that makes it nine p.m. in Philly. Don’t tell me you’re in bed already.”

  I didn’t see the point in highlighting the fact that she was in fact an idiot, so I just asked her what she wanted.

  It turned out that “Huggable Hounds,” the annual canine beauty contest was being held at noon at the Philadelphia Convention Center. Our general manager thought that since it was being covered by our sister station, I could go down there and do a “cute piece” on dogs and their owners, maybe interview the Philadelphia mayor, who was the honorary Master of Ceremonies for the event.

  “Gail, didn’t you tell him I’m on vacation?”

  “Well, yeah,” she wheedled, “but you know with budget cuts and all, it’s hard to turn him down. Besides, you are right there, so he thought you wouldn’t mind.”

  “I do mind. I can’t believe you didn’t stick up for me. I—did you say I’d be interviewing the mayor?” Okay, so I can be bought with the promise of a little prestige. So sue me.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Huggable Hounds show was scheduled to start at ten a.m., but I got there early to meet the crew and talk to the line producer. The way Gail had described it I was supposed to hug a few hounds, interview owners about life on the canine beauty contest fast track, and then do some dorky bit with His Honor while he bonded with Pomeranians. I couldn’t believe the mayor had even agreed to this, but apparently his P.R. department felt his image needed a little sprucing up, and what better way to appear loveable than to be surrounded by man’s best friend. Not everyone was buying the “warm fuzzies” routine, however.

  When I pulled into the parking lot of the convention center, I noticed a group of protesters from the watchdog (no pun intended) organization, Equality for Gays, milling around just outside the gate. They were carrying signs that read, “We’re Gay and We Vote” and “The Conservative Right is Wrong!” A few were holding banners with pictures of Konner Novack and the John Doe from the other unsolved case, with the slogan “Their family values them and so do we.”

  I parked the car and walked over to a young woman in her twenties, who was holding up a sign that said, “Justice for Konner Novack.” I sucked in my breath. The family resemblance was uncanny.

  “He was my twin brother,” she told me. Her name was Lynne and she had been there since six, hoping to catch the mayor on his way in. “This administration despises the gay community,” she told me. “They couldn’t care less what happens to people like my brother. I want the mayor to be held accountable.”

  Her grief and frustration were heartbreaking. This was the story I should be bringing to the public, not some fluff piece designed to garner the ‘Poodle Lovers’ vote for an ineffective mayor. Lynne Novak deserved to be heard. Maybe I could be her voice and light a fire under the mayor’s office. “Lynne,” I said, linking arms with her, “Ditch the sign and come with me.”

  They say, or at least Andy Warhol did, and I’m paraphrasing here, that everyone gets their fifteen minutes of fame. Well, make that infamy for Brandy Alexander, Visiting Anarchist. I swear people are so touchy about their elected officials. I mean it’s not like I meant to cause a riot. It all started out very cordially. I asked the mayor if he was a dog owner, (yes) which breed he preferred (They’re all special in their own way—very diplomatic), and what he thought of the current pooper-scooper laws. (He’ll have a committee examine the issue and get back to me on that.) He preened his way through the taped segment and kissed enough puppies to ensure his reelection clear to the next century.

  When tape stopped rolling, I thanked him and then introduced him to Lynne. Okay, so maybe I should have thought this through a little before dropping a bomb on him like that, but I figured there was no time like the present, and, typically, I plunged right in.

  As soon as Novack’s name was uttered, a swarm of reporters converged on the mayor like wolves to raw meat. Apparently, it was a major faux pas to mention a murder victim while the mayor was busy ass kissing his way into the hearts of dog lovin’ Philadelphians, and they couldn’t wait to see what this gauche, L.A. upstart would say next.

  I looked around. “Well, aren’t you people at all curious as to why evidence has disappeared twice now in murder cases that seem to be connected?” Shit, I wasn’t supposed to say that.

  The press reared itself up en masse and began firing questions at Richardson, who looked like he was trying really hard not to swallow his tongue. They asked him if my allegations were true. This is where it got really tricky for the mayor. If he said yes, he would appear like he was running an incompetent, and/or corrupt police department. If he said no, and it turned out to be true, he could kiss his reelection and dreams of the governorship bye-bye. He turned to me with the waxen look of someone who had spent the day being embalmed. “These are very serious charges, young lady.” No duh.

  “I agree, Mayor. All the more reason to take immediate action. Unless what the gay community is saying is true; that you’re dragging your feet because you don’t want to alienate the Extreme Right, thos
e who think it’s a waste of taxpayers’ money to investigate a gay man’s murder.”

  At this point Marty, the line producer jumped in. “Well, that’s about all the time we have, folks.” He wrapped a companionable arm around me and whisked me down the hall, away from the mayor and his apoplectic entourage. “You couldn’t just stick to the script, could you?” No, I guess I couldn’t.

  I made the six o’clock news. I’d stopped off at DiBruno Brothers down at the Italian Market, to pick up some cheese and artichoke hearts. I figured that once my boss got wind of what I’d done I’d be out of a job, so I may as well eat while I could still afford the luxury. I tore off a hunk of fresh Italian bread and slapped a piece of cheese on it. Then I walked into the living room and flopped down on the couch. I’d forgotten a fork, so I picked some artichokes out of the container with my hand and then licked the brine off my fingers. No wonder I live alone.

  The phone rang just as I flipped on the t.v. to watch The Simpsons.

  “Turn on Channel 10.”

  “Yo, Carla, what’s up?”

  “You’re on t.v. Hurry.”

  Well, there I was, big as life, announcing to the entire Lehigh Valley that the mayor’s a doofus who doesn’t know what’s going on in his own back yard, and that I have managed to obtain secret information that could discredit the entire Philadelphia Police Force. Way to go, Brandy. “I guess I got a little carried away.”

  “You’re telling me,” Carla agreed.

  “Maybe nobody saw it. I mean who watches the news when The Simpsons are on?”

  Turns out, a lot of people. Vince called after I hung up from Carla. Seems I’m the new hot topic over at City Hall. Paul called too, and Frankie. Janine wanted to know why I wore black when everybody knows my color is red, and Bobby left a message on the answer machine that was so full of expletives it sounded like he was speaking a foreign language. I think my big mouth ensured me a place on the “cop shit list” so if any bad guys visited me tonight, I’d be pretty much on my own.

  Just when I figured I’d finally run out of people I knew in the Greater Philadelphia area (even Mindy Rebowitz called to offer beauty tips. She said the camera lights made me look pasty and I should consider using foundation) the phone rang again. It was Nick.