“Anything new?” I asked Jarod when I reached our table.
“I think they’re already leaving.”
Chapter Thirteen
“No, no, no,” I muttered, but Jarod was right. Daryl and Lisa had barely touched their drinks, yet they were getting up. I hadn’t anticipated the date would be so short, but with a girl that eager, who could blame him from escorting her to somewhere more private.
“It’ll take at least ten minutes before Kathy gets here.” We’d thought it would be plenty of time when we sent her the message. “We need to stall them.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.” Our marks were already at the door, so I took Jarod by his hand and pulled him up to get him to move. “Let’s go.”
We hurried after the pair, but needn’t have bothered. Daryl and Lisa had paused right outside the bar and were busy making out against the wall. The way he was grinding himself against her, I’d be amazed if they made it indoors before their clothes came off.
We looked away, embarrassed, and retreated toward my nearby car. “Maybe they’ll keep at it long enough for Kathy to show up,” I said hopefully, wondering all the same, if we should just get in the car and drive home. We could try this again another night. It wasn’t like Darryl would be staying home at evenings.
But before I could dig out my car key, Jarod perked up. “I think she’s already here.”
He pointed at a woman approaching down the sidewalk from the opposite direction. She was a fairly small woman too—Daryl clearly had a type—with a severe page haircut in her black hair. She was dressed for a hot date in a barely-there skirt, low-plunging top, and heels so high she would break her ankles if she wasn’t careful.
She didn’t notice the kissing couple at first, they were hidden in the shadows, and when she did she didn’t recognize them and merely swerved to the edge of the sidewalk to give them privacy. A moment later she was at the door to the bar.
“Halt her,” I said to Jarod.
“How?”
“Just call her name.” I gave him a small shove and he tumbled forward. To my amazement, he actually managed to act.
“Kathy, hey!” He walked to her and I followed, trying to look casual—or, you know, non-suspicious.
Kathy paused and frowned when she recognized Jarod. “What are you doing here, Jarod?” she asked in a fed-up voice. “I told you, we’re not getting back together. I don’t date losers.” She shot a glance at his bruised face and sneered. My temper flared. Jarod’s shoulders slumped.
“No, I…” I stepped to stand next to him. “I’m on a date,” he managed to finish. I wrapped my arm around his like I owned him, but he barely noticed, too busy staring miserably at Kathy.
She gave me a slow once-over. “Isn’t she a bit too … old … for you?”
Ouch.
“Women his age aren’t intelligent enough for him,” I countered, and to my pleasure she flushed.
Our exchange had finally made the kissing couple realize they weren’t alone—or maybe they’d needed to breathe—and they turned to watch. Daryl straightened when he recognized Kathy and I gritted my teeth, absolutely sure that he would lead his date away from here as fast as he could while Kathy’s back was turned. But I didn’t count on his stupidity.
“Hey, Kathy,” he called her, sounding almost delighted. And maybe he was. The more the merrier, or something.
“What?” she spat, swerving to him—and staggered backwards when she recognized him and realized the woman was with him.
“Daryl? What…? Who…?” She was utterly speechless. “Weren’t we supposed to have a date?” I almost felt sorry for her, she was so dejected.
“We were?”
“You sent me a message. Or did you send it to me by accident? Was it meant for her?” Her humiliation was fast turning to anger.
“I must have,” Darryl said puzzled, not even trying to come up with an explanation for why he was here, kissing another woman no less—like that his phone was stolen, which would actually have been true, amazingly enough. Hadn’t he even noticed it was gone? It was currently burning a hole into my handbag. I’d taken it with me in the off chance that we’d be able to give it back to him unnoticed.
Lisa leaned against him and gave Kathy a slow once-over. “Honey, who is she?” she demanded to know in a whiny voice I particularly disliked.
Kathy directed her ire at Lisa. “I’m his girlfriend, you bitch.”
Lisa sneered. “I don’t think so.”
Nothing more was needed to ignite a row between the women. Words like “skank” and “whore” were used, and some others best not repeated. Daryl could only watch bewildered as the women got louder and louder in their anger.
It looked like our job here was done. I might go to hell for this, but I didn’t particularly care at the moment. Kathy and Darryl had both hurt Jarod and deserved this.
I tugged Jarod’s arm, claiming his attention. “Come on, let’s go home.”
He wasn’t willing to leave yet, his puppy-eyes trained on the scene. “But what if Kathy needs me?”
“She might. But you don’t need her.”
Besides, it looked like Kathy was doing just fine. She was standing right in Lisa’s face, spewing profanities at her a good girl shouldn’t know. Lisa reacted by shoving Kathy in the chest, tearing the front of her top in the process.
That was it; the gloves came off. Kathy grabbed Lisa’s hair and pulled, and Lisa did the same in return, and a moment later they were both hissing and screaming.
Rooted on the spot, I watched the women fight in fascinated horror. I couldn’t believe it had escalated so far so fast. Jarod had an anxious look on his face, but Daryl was more pro-active. He tried to separate the women by grabbing them by their shoulders—and that was when Jarod found his chivalric side.
“Don’t you touch her!” he shouted.
He lunged at Daryl and tried to pull him away from Kathy—an exercise in futility, if anything was. Side by side, the difference in their sizes was almost comical. Daryl barely glanced at Jarod when he shoved him away, making him fall backwards on the street.
I saw red.
“Why don’t you pick a fight with someone your own size!” I screamed, and threw myself at him.
I was nowhere near his size either—or strength—and a heartbeat later I flew sideways when Daryl shook his arm. I fell on my knees on the sidewalk. My right knee hit something sharp, a piece of broken glass maybe, cutting deep, but I scrambled back to my feet, ignoring the pain. And instead of giving up, like any sensible person would, I went at him again.
He had managed to wedge himself between the screaming women, who were oblivious to the world outside their rage. Why they thought Daryl was worth fighting over I had no idea, but I saw my opportunity.
“This is for hurting Jarod,” I shouted and barreled against Daryl with my best football tackle.
I’ve never been athletic, and I’ve definitely never played football. But Trevor had taught me the basics because he believed tackling was a skill I might need against attackers. This qualified as an attack, even if I was the one attacking.
The red haze of fury clouding my judgement, I failed to take into consideration that Daryl was a pro at being tackled. Plus, he was considerably heavier than me. I hit him in the lower mid-section, which should have winded him at least, but he barely staggered. I only managed to stun myself.
“What the fuck?”
He grabbed me from the front of my dress and lifted me up, up, up, until my feet came off the ground. The flimsy material of my LBD was no match for gravity pulling me back down, and I heard it beginning to tear. I’d stunned myself worse than I thought, because I wasn’t scared—I was furious. Ignoring my uncomfortable position, I kicked at whatever was in my reach, but it had no effect other than hurting my cut knee.
And then I was free, gasping for breath, and Daryl was crumpled at my feet, unconscious. The women instantly forgot their row and kneeled by him, trying to re
vive him, and then they started to scream at my savior.
“Silence,” Moreira barked, and to my amazement it worked. He turned to me. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, a bit shaken.” My dress was torn and my knee was bleeding. I checked for Jarod, who was standing a few feet away, staring at the scene in horrified awe, but unharmed.
“Your plan went down really well,” Moreira drawled, shaking his head.
“In our defense, we weren’t supposed to be here when the shit hit the fan.” It made him laugh. “That was quite a punch,” I added admiringly. Daryl was already recovering, but he seemed happy to stay where he was.
“Yes it was. And no, I won’t teach it to you.” I’d actually been about to ask that, so I slumped, disappointed. “Come, let’s get you out of here before the cops come,” he said, offering me his hand.
I could hear the sirens approaching and my gut fluttered in worry. It was really tempting to just take his hand and flee, but I shook my head.
“I’m a cop’s daughter. I have to face the consequences of my actions.”
He contemplated me for a heartbeat and then nodded. “I’ll see you around, then.” And he walked down the street, toward where his date was waiting, and they disappeared around the corner.
Chapter Fourteen
I was standing next to Jarod, well away from the women and Daryl, who was still lying down, when the cops arrived. They were seasoned pros who didn’t need to shout and order us about just in case we were dangerous. But they didn’t look too happy when Kathy and Lisa resumed their screaming, this time accusing me of attacking them.
Since my torn clothes and bleeding knee, and Jarod’s bruised face made us look like victims, the cops didn’t look convinced. One of them came over to Jarod and me and led us a few yards away from the screaming women so we could hear each other better.
“Okay, what happened?”
I tried to come up with as plausible an explanation as possible that wouldn’t incriminate Jarod and me. “We came out of the bar and that guy and that blonde were kissing outside it. Then the black-haired woman arrived and started accusing him of being unfaithful and the girls got into fight. And then the guy got mixed in the fight and Jarod here thought he was going to hit the women so he went to help, but he wasn’t a match to him, so I went in too. He shoved me and grabbed me. And then this guy came from nowhere and punched him and I was free.”
“And where is that guy?”
“I have no idea.” And that was the truth.
He turned to Jarod. “Is that what happened?”
I feared Jarod wouldn’t be able to keep the truth in, but he was still a bit dazed, so he just nodded.
“They’re so small and he’s so big…”
The cop frowned, clearly seeing the scene through Jarod’s eyes. “Are you under the influence?”
“No.”
“Let’s get that wound of yours patched up. Then we’ll hear the others.” I glanced at my knee and saw blood running towards my ankle in rivulets. It still didn’t hurt, so I must be in shock, or high on adrenaline.
The cop led us to the patrol car and gave me a pad from the first aid kit to put on my knee. I was fixing it with tape when the other cop led the girls and Daryl there too.
“We’ll just need your contact information,” he was saying to them, clearly intending to let this go lightly. But he’d barely finished his sentence when Kathy spotted Jarod and me. With a furious screech, she lunged at us.
Five minutes later we were all under arrest.
There are few things as humiliating as being arrested—properly arrested with handcuffs and all—for brawling in public—I had to defend myself, didn’t I?—but I can think of one: being arrested and then having your brother come to the rescue.
The cops turned out to be from the 70th Precinct too—a surprise, since it wasn’t the closest station to our location—and when they heard my name, they immediately asked if I was related to Trevor. Since we looked too much alike to be anything but siblings, I thought it best to admit, and when they called in more patrol cars to transport us, they called Trevor too. He arrived before the additional cars did.
He did not look happy.
He ignored me and went to talk with the cops who had arrested us. They exchanged a few words I couldn’t hear, shook their heads and laughed a bit. Then Trevor patted one of them on the shoulder, grinned, and came to us.
By then he wasn’t smiling anymore.
He turned Jarod and me around without a word and opened our cuffs. “Let’s move,” he said, placing his hands between our shoulder blades and guiding us towards his car.
“But my car—”
“Move!”
We moved.
We got into his car and he pulled into traffic. The frown on his face was so deep I hesitated to talk, but I had to. “I think I need to go to the ER.” The scratch on my knee must have been deeper than I thought, because blood was already soaking through the pad. He didn’t say anything, but turned from the next crossing towards Brooklyn University Hospital.
“What the hell, Tracy?” he finally exclaimed. “Of all things, getting arrested?”
“It wasn’t my fault,” I said automatically.
“It never is.”
My family said that often.
“Okay, maybe it was slightly my fault,” I amended, but when he remained silent I had to confess. “Okay, it was totally my fault.”
“Let’s hear it, then.”
I sighed, but before I could say anything, Jarod spoke from the back seat. “It was my fault.”
My brother sneered. “That’s very gentlemanly of you, but if you knew my sister longer, you’d know she’s always to blame.”
That stung.
“Yes, but Tracy wouldn’t have been there if it weren’t for me,” Jarod tried, but I lifted my hand.
“Thanks, Jarod, but I’ll have to take the blame for this.” I gave Trevor the short version.
“So you set this Kathy up?”
“Pretty much, but in my defense we didn’t anticipate such a violent reaction.” Then I reconsidered: “Although maybe we should have.”
“Why?”
“She bashed Jarod’s computers with a baseball bat when he wasn’t paying enough attention to her.”
My brother closed his eyes as if in pain. “Do you still have the phone?”
I dug it out from my bag and gave it to him without a word.
“And the mysterious passerby?”
“Jonny Moreira.”
Trevor growled. He’d pretty much sworn to shoot Moreira on sight for abducting me. “What was he doing there?”
“He was on a date.”
“Of course he was,” he drawled. “Suzy?”
“They broke up. She wasn’t useful anymore.”
Trevor sneered in answer.
“You should’ve seen the woman,” Jarod said, sounding awed.
Trevor gave me a questioning look, so I tried to give the best description I could. “Imagine Tessa if she were in touch with her sensual side.”
“Now there’s an image I need to get out of my mind.” He pulled over outside the ER. “I’ll fetch you a wheelchair.”
“I’m fine.” But by then my injured knee had stiffened and I had great trouble getting out of the car. Trevor got me the chair and wheeled me into the ER.
The evening was young, and Monday was a quieter night anyway, so I was shown to an examination room immediately. I didn’t have long to wait, but when the doctor showed up I wished it had been longer.
As if conjured by my earlier mention of her, my sister Theresa, Tessa for short, entered the room.
When your date night—or the simulacrum of one—lands you in the ER, covered in blood, it’s generally nice to have family around. When the said family member is a qualified ER doctor, even better.
However, when she’s closer to six-foot tall with the body of a supermodel—an actual supermodel, that’s how she funded her med-school—and pixie-
cut auburn hair—genuine color, unlike mine—and has a face that could launch wars, it takes stronger self-confidence than mine not to feel like a second class human next to her, even in the best of conditions.
Theresa was six years older than me and had worked at the University Hospital of Brooklyn ever since she’d qualified as a doctor. She’d had the mindset of a surgeon even when we were children, and she was now watching my injured knee the nurse had cleaned for her like a doctor and not like a sister—emotionally detached.
“Tell me the truth, Doctor, how bad is it? Will I live?”
She frowned. “Of course you will. You only need a few stitches. Did you hit your head?”
I wasn’t entirely sure if the question was a sarcastic addition or a real one, but I shook the protrusion in question. She ignored me and took out a pen. “Follow this with your eyes.” Other tests followed before she was satisfied that I didn’t need to have my head CAT scanned.
With the help of the nurse, she then proceeded to stitch me up. Nothing really hurt yet, which I thought was a good thing, and I decided not to complain.
“Can you make it pretty?”
“The stitches? They don’t need to be pretty. They’ll come off in a week.”
I sighed. “Yes, but I don’t want to be scarred.”
“Some scarring is inevitable,” Tessa said, merciless. “But I’ll do my best.”
“So how’s it going?”
“This is only the first one,” she said, irritated.
“I mean with your life.” Tessa and I only got in touch when there was news, and even then she usually told Mother, who told me.
She gave me a baffled look over her mask. “I’m not used to patients asking personal questions.”
“But I’m your sister.”
“Not on this table you aren’t.” She considered. “It’s going fine. Angela’s moved in with me and she’s getting a divorce.”
Tessa had shocked us—well, Trevor and me, since the rest of the family didn’t know yet—when it turned out she was having an affair with a woman—a married woman at that. We hadn’t known she was gay, let alone a femme fatale who’d break up a marriage.
Tracy Hayes, P.I. and Proud (P.I. Tracy Hayes 2) Page 8
