Brandon had a ground-floor apartment in a small complex off Detroit Road, not far from his office. We swept through the parking lot slowly with our lights off. Nothing looked odd or out of place. The night was filled with the usual sounds.
Inside the building he checked his front door for booby traps—something I wouldn’t even have thought to do—while I stood there and tried not to shiver. He went in with his weapon drawn, and I hoped none of his neighbors would happen along and call the cops on us.
I kept expecting to hear shots. The silence was actually scary. And I had reason to be scared.
Brandon had briefed me on the layout. A one-bedroom unit much along the lines of mine with a living/dining room area, a kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. I knew about how long it should have taken to sweep the entire place. When he didn’t come out after three minutes, I went in.
A large brown sectional couch took up most of the living room. There was a shirt thrown over the end of the couch. A pair of scuffed tennis shoes sat where they’d been toed off beneath a pine coffee table that was home to several soda cans, beer bottles, newspapers and the remains of what appeared to be Chinese carryout.
A good-size pine wall unit housed his TV and stereo. Two arching metal floor lamps came up and over either end of the sectional to provide lighting. The dining area had a small pine table and four chairs. The table held mail and papers and a coffee cup. That was the extent of the visible furniture. The small coat closet stood open, a tennis racket spilling out.
I already knew neatness wasn’t one of his virtues, so the clutter didn’t bother me. Brandon’s darkly forbidding expression, however, did. It sent spears of icy fear straight to my nerve endings as he appeared outside his bedroom door.
He put his finger over his lips, motioning me to silence when I would have asked him what was wrong. My fear multiplied as he all but shoved me out into the hall and closed the apartment door quietly behind us.
When I opened my mouth to give voice to my fear, he shook his head. Silently I followed him back to the van, my nerves screaming.
“What’s going on?” I demanded as soon as I climbed in and he started the engine.
“Which is closer—your place or your dad’s?”
“My apartment. Will you please tell me what’s going on?”
“Delvecchi’s on my bed. He’s got a hole through the back of his head.”
“Ohmygod!”
“Give me the address.”
“What?”
“Give me your damn address! We need to get you away from here!”
“Are you crazy? We have to call the police!”
“After I get you out of here!”
“Look, I appreciate your noble need for self-sacrifice—”
“Don’t you get it? It’s another setup. How are we going to explain this to the cops?”
“We tell them the truth!”
“Dee…”
He struggled for words, closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them and looking at me again.
“I was a cop, remember? My father was a cop. Will you trust me on this? Please. I need to take you home. Here’s the story you tell, and you stick to it no matter who asks, no matter what they say, no matter how you think it will help me to tell the truth. We went to dinner. We went to the play. We went to the flower shop to check something on your computer. It is no one’s business what we were checking. It’s private and none of their affair. Stick to that! Then we swung by Mrs. Keene’s house. After that I drove you straight back to your place. We sat in your parking lot and talked for a little while. Then you went inside. You never looked at a clock. You have no idea what time it was. That’s all you know. Can you do that? Can you stay with that story?”
I was scared. Stomach-clenchingly, mind-numbingly scared silly. The intensity was sheeting off him in waves and I understood. This was our alibi. His alibi.
“I can stick.” I wanted to throw up.
“Thanks. What’s the address?”
I gave it to him and he drove even more quickly back into Lakewood than we’d left.
“Brandon, why didn’t someone hear the shot?”
“I’m guessing a silencer. But it is a Friday night. Lots of people would be out and about.”
“Someone must have seen something.”
“We can hope.”
He didn’t sound like he had much. By the time I let myself into my apartment, I had a bad case of the shakes, because it had occurred to me that if Albert Russo had left a dead Hogan Delvecchi in Brandon’s bedroom, he just might have left a dead Elaine Russo in mine. Part of me was glad that hadn’t occurred to Brandon, as well. The other part wished it had, because he didn’t come inside with me and I did not want to go in there alone.
The living area looked exactly as I had left it. I inched open the bedroom door with all the bravado I usually reserve for water bugs and other cockroaches. The bed was blissfully empty. I began to breathe once more. Mama cat looked up from the closet, where her babies cuddled close. I sat down on the floor beside her and gave in to the pressing urge to cry.
Admittedly it wasn’t very professional, but I felt too full of too many emotions not to give vent to some sort of release. My tears didn’t last long. I picked up one of the little gray kittens and petted its small head. The multicolored one squirmed its way over to my knee, so I picked it up, as well. There was something soothing about holding the tiny kitten, and I began telling mama cat about my day, worrying about what was happening at Brandon’s apartment.
I consoled Mama and myself with the knowledge that Brandon knew what he was doing. Even so, why was Hogan Delvecchi dead on Brandon’s bed? Who had called to tell him so? Was Albert Russo trying to frame him for the murder? And where were Nicole Wickley and the real Elaine Russo? Was Elaine dead or not?
When the telephone rang, it woke me from a deep sleep. For one long, hazy minute I didn’t remember getting undressed or falling into bed. It didn’t feel as if I had been there very long. My eyes were gritty and unfocused as I reached blindly for the persistent instrument.
“Hello?”
“Dee? Are you sick?”
“Aunt Lacy? What time is it?”
“It’s ten-fifteen. Were you asleep?”
“Ten-fifteen?” I sat up, wide awake.
“Dee, I think you need to get down here. You have some people waiting here to see you.”
“The police?”
Aunt Lacy made an unhappy sound that could have been assent.
“It’s okay, Aunt Lacy. Let me throw some clothes on and I’ll be right there.”
I decided no matter who it was, they could wait long enough for me to take a quick shower and wash the sleep from my eyes. Then, of course, I had to clean the litter box and feed Mama. Since I was going to face the police at some point, it seemed prudent to look as young and innocent as humanly possible, so I pulled a soft-lime sundress from the closet and pulled my hair on top of my head into a loose ponytail. Leaving last night’s earrings in place, I grabbed my sandals and a caffeinated cola from the refrigerator and headed out the door.
The store looked like we were holding a rummage sale. I had to park halfway down the block and go in through the back just to get inside. I caught Trudy’s eyes and she gestured toward the office, where a uniformed officer stood talking with Aunt Lacy. He turned in profile and I relaxed.
“Hey, Allen,” I greeted.
Allen Longsworth turned toward me. A stocky man with thinning brown hair and a sharp widow’s peak, he’d dated a friend of mine off and on through much of high school. We’d had several classes together and even sat near each other in English class our junior year.
“Hey, Dee. How’s it going?”
“Pretty good. I didn’t know you joined the police force.”
“Last year,” he said, looking almost embarrassed. “Uh, Dee, this is Detective Martin from the Rocky River police force. He’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Sure thing. H
i, Detective. Nice to meet you.”
“Ms. Hayes. Is there someplace we could go to talk that’s a little more private?”
“I’ll shoo everyone out of here, Detective,” my aunt promised. “You can use the office, Dee.”
“Thanks, Aunt Lacy. Sorry I overslept this morning. Late night last night. Gentlemen, come on in. Go ahead and close the door. It’s a little cozy in here, but we’ll fit.”
I walked around the desk with a calm that should have won me an Emmy at the very least and settled carefully in the truculent chair behind the desk. Detective Martin took a seat, but Allen remained standing in front of the closed door. Keeping me in or others out? I didn’t like either thought.
“How may I help you?”
“Would you tell me where you were last night?”
“Okay, I figure this is an official inquiry, so sure, but may I ask why?”
“We’re trying to verify an alibi, Ms. Hayes.”
“Brandon needs an alibi? Oh, this is rich. You do know he’s my competition, right?”
Detective Martin did not appear to have a sense of humor. I figured it was okay if a little of my unease showed through, but I was supposed to be a professional so I tried to act like one. I stayed with the script as directed. I named the restaurant and told them what play we’d gone to see. I even mentioned that there was a substitute actress in for the lead so they’d know we’d actually attended. I did not mention Nicole Wickley’s apartment building and I tried to skim over the fact that we’d stopped here at the store to use my computer. I fully expected the detective to jump on that. He didn’t disappoint me.
“You came here after the play to use your computer? Pardon me if that seems strange, but why would you do that?”
I tried to look embarrassed. “A question came up during the play. We, uh, wanted to do some research.”
“What sort of research?”
I arched my eyebrows. It was only my reputation, after all. Let him think what he wanted. I saw Allen looking at me speculatively and knew he was thinking along the lines I was trying to promote.
“I really don’t see the relevance to that question, Detective Martin,” I told him. “You didn’t ask me the specifics of what we had for dinner. I had pasta Alfredo, if it matters. The point is, if any of the local patrol officers were making their rounds and paying attention, they certainly saw the van Brandon was driving parked in the lot out back. We weren’t trying to hide or anything. On the other hand, we didn’t turn on a lot of lights to draw attention, either.”
The detective didn’t push any further. He did, however, want to know why we had gone to see my father’s next-door neighbor so late. I was prepared for that.
“Detective Martin, as you’re well aware, I’m a licensed private investigator. I know I don’t look like one and I know a lot of police officers don’t have much respect for what I do, but I take my job seriously. Mrs. Keene is my client. If she wants you to know why we were there at that hour, she’ll tell you. Brandon was only with me because I had promised to stop by at some point last night and it had gotten late. He didn’t want me going back there after he dropped me at home, all right? We left her house—”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t know, to tell you the truth. I wasn’t wearing a watch last night. I didn’t put one on this morning, either, you’ll notice. I tend to forget my watch. It’s a failing of mine. So is being on time. I know it was late because the traffic lights were flashing yellow when Brandon drove me home. We sat and talked outside my apartment for a while. Then I went in and played with the kittens and went to bed. Would you like to know the number and color markings on the kittens?”
“And you never looked at a clock at any point?” he asked, ignoring the kitten remark.
“Believe it or not, no, I didn’t.” At least that was the complete truth. “If I’d known Brandon was going to need an alibi, I’d have made a point of noting times, but it was a date, not a job. I’m sure even at your advanced age you remember dating, Detective. We had an enjoyable evening out, like any other pair of mature adults. Now, I’ve been a good, cooperative little witness, so in the interests of professional courtesy, you want to tell me what this is all about?”
Detective Martin managed his scowl. I had the distinct impression he didn’t quite know what to make of me and I was doing my best to foster his confusion. I looked innocent, hopefully sounded intelligent if a bit scatterbrained and I’d seemed relatively forthcoming.
“A man was shot and killed in Mr. Kirkpatrick’s apartment sometime last night. Mr. Kirkpatrick discovered the body when he returned home.”
I tried to let just the right amount of surprise flash in my eyes. It wouldn’t do to overact here.
“Who was killed?”
“You don’t seem shocked, Ms. Hayes.”
“Shock is for winning the lottery or finding exactly the right color shoes to go with the dress you’re going to wear to your best friend’s wedding. I’m a private investigator, Detective Martin, just like Brandon. I didn’t figure you were looking for an alibi because he forgot to take the trash out.”
“Do you know what cases he’s been working on lately?”
“Hardly. I believe I mentioned we’re competitors?”
“Yet you’re dating.”
“That’s personal. Have you seen the man?” I rolled my eyes and raised my brows expressively. I caught Allen grinning.
“I won’t take up any more of your time then,” he said, getting to his feet.
“Not going to tell me who was killed?”
“I can’t release that information pending notification of the next of kin.”
Somehow the idea of Hogan Delvecchi having a next of kin made his death more real. The officer set a business card on the desk.
“Someone will be in touch with you to follow up and take an official statement.”
“It’ll be the same statement I just gave you.”
He gave a terse nod and strode out the door past Allen. Allen offered me a goodbye nod, looking sympathetic. The crush of people out front had diminished significantly, but Trudy and my aunt were still busy, for which I was grateful. I needed a few minutes to pull myself together. I returned to the office and collapsed on the chair, nearly ending up on the floor in the process.
I cursed the chair and my sleep-fogged brain as I strained to think. I’d done what Brandon had ordered, but it wouldn’t last. How could it? As soon as the police started investigating Hogan Delvecchi, they’d be back. It wouldn’t take them long to find out he’d been here in Flower World only a couple of days ago.
This, I realized, was why Brandon hadn’t wanted them to find me in his apartment last night. The situation was going to get complicated. Anything I said was only going to dig his hole a little deeper—or our hole, once they realized the truth.
What was Brandon’s expression? Kimchi. We were in deep kimchi.
There was a brisk tap on the door. I raised my head from where I’d buried it in my arms on the desk and found Aunt Lacy regarding me with eyes creased with worry.
“What happened last night?” she demanded.
I lifted my head all the way off the desk. “Nothing,” I told her truthfully.
She stared at my neck. I felt the blush start somewhere around my navel and work its way up from there. I’d forgotten all about the hickey. Oh, heck. No wonder Detective Martin hadn’t pushed about what we’d been doing here in the office. Well, I’d been trying to foster that very impression, hadn’t I?
“We have several orders that have to get out this afternoon. Are you free to help, or should we call Florence?”
Florence Olesky was a friend of Trudy’s who helped out whenever we were shorthanded. I was sorely tempted to tell her to call the other woman, but while I was still trying to work through the situation in my head, it helped to have something to do with my hands. It also, I realized, helped to talk to Aunt Lacy and Trudy—or would have except for the pursed-lipped disappr
oval so clear on Aunt Lacy’s features.
I found I resented that. She was fine with me being a detective as long as I dabbled and didn’t have a “real” case. Not that I was getting paid for this case, but that didn’t matter. What counted was that what I was doing was important—and dangerous. So Aunt Lacy did not approve and she was making her view clear.
Bearing in mind what Brandon had told me, I did not tell them everything about last night. Basically I stayed with what I had told Detective Martin, leaving out our stop at Nicole’s apartment. Aunt Lacy’s attitude made it easy to skim details.
“Exactly why did you come back here?” she demanded.
I tried to ignore the censure in her tone. “My computer was here. We ran a check on Nicole Wickley and guess what? She’s the woman we both know as Elaine Russo.”
“What happened to Elaine Russo?” Trudy asked.
“That’s what I’d like the two of you to help me find out.”
Trudy raised a single eyebrow but looked pleased, while Aunt Lacy’s lips thinned to nothing.
“I think you should forget about all of this before someone gets hurt.”
“Too late. Delvecchi’s dead and they want to tag Brandon for his murder.”
Her expression flattened. “That horrible man who was here is dead?”
Oops. “Forget I said that.”
“He’s the man Brandon killed?”
I faced my aunt feeling more angry than I could ever remember being in my entire life.
“Brandon did not kill anyone! He was with me when Delvecchi was killed. If they try him for that murder, they’ll come after me, as well, because we were together.”
“In a biblical sense?” she sniffed.
“Lacy!”
I dropped the mutilated daisy on the table and stared at my aunt. She didn’t lower her eyes. The bell out front rang, indicating a customer.
“Think what you like,” I said.
In three strides I crossed to the office, snatched up my purse and headed for the back door. Trudy blocked my way. Aunt Lacy had gone up front to deal with the customer.
D.B. Hayes, Detective Page 16
