Toodie scrunched up his face in concentration. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I’ve seen him.”
“Where do you know him from?” I held my breath.
“From jail.”
“What do you mean?” I’d checked Keith out. He has no record.
“I saw him once when he came to visit my cell mate, Uzi Capistrano. I think Uzi might have worked for the guy or something.”
“Where’s Uzi now?”
“Dead. He O.D.’ed about a month after he was released.”
“Is that how you met Glen? Through Uzi?”
“Yeah. Uzi told me to look him up when I got out, but he was dead by then. He and Glen lived together for a while. Hey, I’ll bet that’s how Glen hooked up with Ilene.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“I’d left a bike over at Ilene’s—a really sweet Harley. You should’ve seen it. It was gorgeous—black, with fuchsia and an engine that—”
“Uh, Toodie, stay with me now. How did Ilene meet Glen?”
“Oh yeah, well, Ilene agreed to let Uzi pick up the bike and take it back to his place. Glen must’ve gone with him when he went to get it.”
It was a plausible explanation that would justify why Toodie didn’t know Ilene and Glen knew each other.
Toodie shrugged his big, gangly shoulders. “I don’t know, Brandy. Everybody I know seems to end up dead.”
I really hoped he was being nostalgic and not prophetic.
My time was up so I told him I’d come visit him again. He was in the middle of telling me how much he missed our Friday Night Scrabble tournaments, when something that had been crashing around in my brain suddenly surfaced.
“One more thing, Toodie. Did Ilene have a dog?”
I stopped in to see Bobby on the way out. He was sitting at his desk, launching paper airplanes into a wastebasket. A flow chart was tacked up on the wall in back of him with the names Ilene and Andi and dates and times and circles and arrows in different colored markers. I scanned the board, not bothering to hide my curiosity. Bobby moved in front of it, not bothering to hide his annoyance. The predictability of our actions made us both laugh. I sat down in the chair opposite him.
“Why didn’t you tell me you visited Toodie?”
Bobby shrugged. “I didn’t want you to get any ideas.”
“What ideas?”
“That I’m a nice guy.”
I smiled. “You are a nice guy. It meant a lot to him.”
I filled Bobby in on our conversation, highlighting Keith’s connection to Glen and the possibility that my Adrian could, in fact, have once belonged to Ilene.
“Toodie said she was always rescuing strays—don’t say it,” I added on his look. “We’re talking about Ilene, here.”
Bobby grinned. “I didn’t say a word.”
“Anyway,” I continued, “the neighbor said he’d heard a dog barking the day Keith had been over there. What if it was Ilene’s dog—assuming she had one. Toodie found Adrian about a half a block away from Glen’s apartment. It’s possible that the dog had run off, but he didn’t get very far before Toodie found him.”
“You’re forgetting one thing,” Bobby noted. “We still only have Toodie’s word that there’s a connection between Glen and Ilene. We don’t have any real proof that they even knew each other. And even if Glen did know her, that doesn’t preclude Toodie’s involvement in her murder. They could have been in it together.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“Yeah, alright. So I’ve developed a soft spot for the guy too. But that doesn’t mean he’s not crazy. And crazy people do crazy things.”
Speaking of which, I decided I’d better clue him in about Bonita.
“Yeah, it came up around the dinner table last night. Listen, I’m really sorry about all of this.” He lowered his voice and added, “I’ve been talking to a lawyer.”
“Bobby,” I stopped him. “Maybe I’m not the best person for you to be confiding in right now.”
He nodded in agreement and then laughed softly. “Hey, you’ve been here for twenty minutes and we haven’t had a fight yet. I think that’s a personal record for us, these days.”
“See? Miracles can happen.” I stood and walked out the door.
The Barnes and Noble Café, located on the second floor of the store at Eighteenth and Walnut served as my office for the afternoon. I settled into a cushy seat next to the window, with an espresso and some dark chocolate grahams and watched a light rain tap against the glass. Sitting there I felt safe, a concept that was foreign to me these days, and I took a few minutes to enjoy the feeling.
Spread out before me was my own version of a flow chart, with names and dates, circles and arrows and little hearts and flowers edging the paper, because I’m an avowed doodler. I finished off the first chocolate graham and sat back to review my work.
“Okay,” I conceded, “most of my conclusions are based on conjecture rather than hardcore facts, but it’s damn good conjecture.”
It was a reasonable assumption that Glen Davis and Keith Harrison knew each other. That Glen probably worked for Keith in some capacity. That Keith owed money to the Diamond Casino and that he and Ivan Sandmeyer were both after a computer thumb drive that held information that was valuable to the casino.
It had been inconceivable to me that the separate incidents that have consumed my life for the past few weeks could be related, and now it was equally inconceivable that I hadn’t made the connections sooner.
What I couldn’t figure out is where Ilene fit in the mix. Bobby said there isn’t even any real proof that Glen and Ilene knew each other, so he was hard pressed to place Ilene at Glen’s house at the time of the murder.
My coffee was gone and so were the little chocolate grahams. It was four thirty and dusk was fast approaching. I didn’t want to be caught wandering the city streets after dark; it was scary enough in broad daylight, so I gathered up my pocketbook and left the cheery glow of the bookstore.
The streets were packed with holiday shoppers and people just getting off from work. I took comfort in the crowd, figuring that if anyone felt inclined to kidnap, kill or otherwise manhandle me, they’d have to do it in front of an audience. Luckily, no one seemed all that interested in me, and I got back to the car unscathed by anything except my own imagination.
I’d put my phone on mute while I was in the bookstore. When I turned it back on, there was a voicemail waiting for me from Uncle Frankie.
“Yo, Midget Brat. How about you come by for some homemade pasta tonight. And don’t worry; Carla isn’t going near the stove. I’m cooking. Call me.”
Sounds good. I swung the car around and headed for Perini’s Bakery to pick up some chocolate cannoli, Uncle Frankie’s favorite.
I found a great parking spot on Christian, where a car had gotten the boot and was just being hauled away when I pulled up. I slid into the spot and got out of the car.
The bakery was crammed with customers, the line spilling out the door. I stood out on the sidewalk, tucking in behind a big guy in a Santa Claus suit. An icy wind had kicked up and set my teeth to chattering.
My cell rang again and I stuffed a frozen hand into my bag to find it. “Hello?”
The voice was friendly, cheerful even. “Hi. Did you like my little present?”
“I’m sorry?” Traffic was heavy and I could barely make out the words.
“I said, ‘did you like my little present, bitch?’” Oh shit. Here we go again.
My heartbeat kicked into high gear as I fought down the bile rising in my throat.
“The doll is just a little preview of what I’m going to do to you when I get you alone. I’m getting hard just thinking about it.”
“Shut up you fucking freak!”
Santa whipped his head around to see who the potty-mouth was. Guess I was going on the Naughty List. That is, if I survived until Christmas.
I had to stay calm, and I did, for about half a second. And then came the old
sucker punch.
“You look cold.”
Oh my God. He can see me. I shot a brief hard look at the people in line.
“Where are you?” I willed my voice to keep steady.
“Close by. You should’ve kept your Goddamn nose out of my business. You’ve made my life miserable and I’m gonna pay you back in spades.”
I had to keep him talking. If I could keep him on the line long enough to get someone to call the cops, maybe they’d be able to catch him. I gave Santa a surreptitious poke in the back and he turned around.
“Call the police,” I mouthed.
“What?”
“The Police, the police!”
He turned to the guy in front of him and stuck his index finger next to his temple, twirling it around in the universal sign for crazy.
I sighed. “Glen, could you hold on for a minute? I’m getting another call.” Okay, so maybe I wasn’t thinking too clearly. I just figured if I could put him on hold, I could call the cops myself. But Glen was on a roll.
“I’m used to slicing people now. I’m getting good at it. It’s gonna be fun ripping into you.”
“You’re a real one-note guy, aren’t ya Glen?” That was me being brave, but my knees had other ideas. They were buckling beneath me at an alarming rate.
“I can’t wait to feel your flesh against the knife. In fact, I’m so close I could reach right out and touch you.”
I didn’t get to hear all the other neat plans Glen had for me, for at that precise moment I fainted.
Chapter Fourteen
Santa Claus scraped me off the sidewalk. He offered to call an ambulance, but it’s embarrassing enough to pass out on a city street without being carted away on a stretcher. I was getting pretty good at recognizing the signs of a concussion, blurred vision being one of them. Only one of my eyes was blurry, and my pupils weren’t all that dilated, so I didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Still, Santa, who turned out to be Joe Morgen of the Gas Company, suggested I call someone to give me a ride home. He would have volunteered himself, to make up for the “crazy” reference, but he had to get to a Christmas party.
I picked up my cell phone off the ground and opened it, but that was as far as I got before I slammed it shut again, disgusted with myself. If I hadn’t keeled over, I could’ve contacted the police and maybe they would’ve nabbed Davis. He must be half way across town by now. At least I hope he is. The thought of him watching me made my skin crawl.
Joe felt bad for me and offered to let me cut in front of him, but I was sort of out of the mood for pastry. I stood off to the side and thought about who I could call to pick me up.
Frankie, Carla, the twins, Paul, Johnny—none of them would take the news of my being threatened very well. Bobby’s a professional, but his mood swings are worse than a girl’s lately. That left only one person. I sighed and punched in the number.
“It’s Brandy. I hate to ask, but I wonder if you could do me a favor.”
Fifteen minutes later a black Bronco pulled up to the curb and Alphsonso stuck his head out the window, hollering for me.
I yanked open the door and climbed in, resting my head against the back of the seat. The strain must’ve shown in my face, because he studied me for a beat and then leaned across me and buckled me in.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m sorry about calling you. I just didn’t know who else to ask.”
I couldn’t see his eyes because he was wearing shades, even though the sun had set about fifteen minutes earlier, but he was smiling so I knew he wasn’t too annoyed.
“Does Nick know about this?”
I shook my head no. Alphonso raised an eyebrow but he didn’t press the point. “So what happened?”
I gave him the Readers’ Digest version, skipping over the more graphic details of my conversation with Glen. When I was finished, he pulled away from the curb into the rush hour traffic.
“You’re gonna have to toughen up if you plan on doing this for a living,” he lectured me. “You can’t be passin’ out all the time. How’re the bad guys gonna take you seriously?”
Alphonso was right. I have to toughen up. And I’ll do just that, right after my bubble bath.
“I’ll give you a hundred bucks to forget the whole thing.”
I was sitting with John in the parking lot of the Kensington Rifle Club, a seedy looking building in a dicey neighborhood, overlooking a city dump. I’d found it in the yellow pages.
“Oh, come on, John. You said we need to hang out together more.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘antiquing’ and art shows.”
“Think of this as a bonding experience.” I pried his hands loose from the steering wheel and shoved him out the car door.
Okay, the logical choice would have been Alphonso. The man, no doubt, knew his way around a gun, but then he’d want to know why I didn’t ask Nick and I wasn’t ready for that conversation. Franny’s pregnancy knocked her out of the running. Paul wouldn’t know the port side of a gun from the starboard, Uncle Frankie isn’t technically allowed to handle a firearm, after a little altercation back in ‘93 that the family still refers to as “the incident.” Bobby would freak if he knew I was even considering carrying a weapon, and Janine and Carla—well, that’s just silly. In the end, it was a toss up between John and Mrs. Gentile and I chose John.
I was hard pressed to justify in my own mind why the daughter of a ‘60’s peace-nik would suddenly become a “gun-totin’ mama,” but the thing is, Glen really scared me. He’d been so close he could chart my every movement. I guess I just wanted to know I could take care of myself, should the occasion call for it.
The guy behind the counter looked like your average escapee from a chain gang. The name “Steve” was embroidered on his shirt. Steve cast an aloof eye our way and turned to the behemoth standing next to us, a two hundred and eighty pound linebacker with a penchant for large weaponry.
“Sorry, man, we’re out of AK-47s. But we got some AR-15s that just came in.”
John looked over at the guy, a nervous twitch developing in his right eye. He turned back to me, leaning into my ear. “Did you hear what he just asked for?” he hissed. “They’re talking about semi-automatics. What would he possibly need with a semi-automatic!”
“Shhh. You’re going to get us thrown out of here.”
“And that would be a bad thing?”
Ignoring John, I stepped up to the counter. “Excuse me. We’d like to borrow some guns, please.”
“Handgun or rifle?”
I looked at John. He gave me a blank stare that said, “You’re on your own.”
“Um, handgun. A little one.”
Steve slapped a twenty-two on the counter, along with a box of ammunition. “This is good for beginners. You’re new at this, I take it.”
I wonder what gave it away. I handed him my driver’s license and paid for the gun rental and the ammo.
Steve picked up the twenty-two and was now showing me all about gun safety and how to load the thing properly. I didn’t think this was going to be necessary, seeing as I was too afraid to pick it up off the counter.
John had wandered off and was engaged in conversation with the man with the semi-automatic.
“But what if somebody all of a sudden went crazy in here and started shooting at everyone?” John asked in a voice so high it could shatter crystal. “I mean, what’s to stop him?”
“Well then, we’d all just have to band together and get him,” the man said, as if anticipating this very scenario.
“But how could we possibly do that?” John screeched. “We’d all be dead!”
In the end we were asked to leave. The counter guys said we were scaring the other patrons.
“Sorry,” John told me when we were back in the car.
“That’s alright. At least now I know what it’s like to go to a firing range with Woody Allen.”
“Shut-uh-up!”
I didn’t want to be alone, so I went back
to John’s and stretched out on his couch, while he developed some photos in his dark room. Twenty minutes later, my cell phone rang, rousing me from an uneasy sleep. I plunged into panic mode, thinking it was Glen again. I opened the phone slowly, as if I expected him to pop right out like some psycho Jack-in-the-Box. It wasn’t Glen. But I still wasn’t too anxious to get on the line.
“Hey,” I said.
“Are you avoiding me, angel?”
“What? No. Of course not! Don’t be ridiculous. Pfft.”
Okay, so I was avoiding him.
I got up from the couch and moved into the bathroom and shut the door. I didn’t know where this conversation was headed, but I wanted to go there without John, the big snoop, listening in.
When Nick spoke again, there was playfulness in his voice, and I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or pissed off.
“Because there’s no reason to feel embarrassed by what happened—”
“I’m not!” I shouted, settling on pissed off.
“Good,” he said, amicably. “Since you’re not avoiding me, I’ll expect to see you later on tonight at the apartment. I still owe you a dinner. And a dance,” he added benignly, but he might as well have said, “and some hot Latin sex” for all the innuendo lacing his words.
“Fine,” I told him. “I’ll see you then.” Good girl, Brandy. Keep it curt, business-like.
“Oh, and see if you can salvage that outfit you wore the other night. That was very nice. I’d like to see you in it again.”
There was no mistaking the message behind his request. Oh boy.
My original intention was not to avoid Nick, but to slowly wean myself from him. Since I’d moved into his place, I’d found myself growing more and more dependent on him, and dependence is a dangerous thing. I’d discovered that last July when my cable went out and I was forced to watch network television. I nearly went crazy until it was fixed. But there I go digressing again. The point is I was starting to form an emotional attachment to this man that went far beyond the bounds of safety for me.
Because the thing is, for all of his charm and the genuine kindness he’s extended to me, Nick is a “bad boy” in the truest sense of the word. And bad boys will break your heart every time. My heart is vulnerable enough as it is, what with poor diet and little to no exercise. I don’t need to add emotional turmoil to push it over the edge.
No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) Page 21
