No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery)

by Shelly Fredman

  The guys from down the block came closer, taking up their chant of “fight, fight” again. I threw down my bag and pushed her back. She lost her balance but remained standing. I decided to try and reason with her.

  “Marie, we’re adults. This is ridiculous.” At least that’s what I’d planned on saying, before she hurled herself at me and began yanking my hair. I fought back, tackling her to the ground. The guys from down the block were now surrounding us, taking bets on the “tall, skinny girl” and the “short, scrappy one.”

  A patrol car turned the corner and came cruising down the street, just as the noise from the crowd brought Father Vincenzio outside. He grabbed us each by the elbow and hauled us upright. The patrol car slowed down and idled in front of us.

  Mike Mahoe rolled down a window, a big, dumb smile plastered on his face.

  “Everything all right here, Father?”

  Father V. nodded. “I’ve got it under control, officer.”

  My nose was bleeding and I think a chunk of my hair was missing. Marie had the beginnings of a black eye.

  I watched Mike drive away and then turned my attention back to Father Vincenzio, who was wagging a bony finger in my direction.

  “Brandy Renee Alexander, your mother would be so ashamed of this infantile behavior.”

  “She started it,” I sulked, eyeing Marie, warily.

  Marie scowled back, her face contorting like a pit bull on steroids.

  Father V. ushered her into the church, making comforting clucking noises at her and leaving me standing alone on the sidewalk with the guys from down the block.

  “You won,” the biggest guy said.

  “Ya think?”

  “Yeah, totally.”

  “Thanks.”

  I sat in Nick’s truck, fuming. It was too late to go home and change, so I took out some wetnaps and sponged off my face. The yellow mustard cast sort of a greenish glow on my hair, and it felt a little stiff, but other than that it looked okay.

  I thought I deserved some TLC after my ordeal, so I stopped into the Seven-Eleven and bought a six-pack of Oreos. I was coming out of the store when Bobby rounded the corner in his Mustang and stopped in front of me, blocking my way to the truck. He leaned over and swung open the passenger door. “Get in.”

  He didn’t look like it was up for discussion so I climbed in. Mike, you are such a big mouth!

  Bobby cast an eye over my hair and exhaled sharply. “So it’s true,” he said.

  “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “It never is.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I could feel my blood pressure rising up around my ears. I opened the Oreos and popped one in.

  Bobby slumped forward, holding his head in his hands. “My life isn’t great, ya know? But it’s tolerable. I have my kid, I have my job and Marie’s been manageable. But now—shit!” he exploded, slamming his hands down on the steering wheel. “Why’d you have to come back?”

  I was out of the car before he could take another breath. Bobby jumped out the driver’s side door, racing to catch up with me.

  “Christ, Brandy, I didn’t mean it.”

  “Yeah, Bobby, ya did.”

  I made it to DiVinci’s with fifteen minutes to spare. The drive over was rough going, what with me crying my heart out the entire way. Bobby’s words cut deep. There was a time I was his salvation. Now I just added to his misery.

  Lindsay Sargenti was waiting tables. She offered me a booth, but I told her I was meeting someone at the bar.

  “I like what you did with your hair, Bran. I’ve never actually seen that color on anyone before.” She got closer and sniffed. “How come you smell like mustard and baby wipes?”

  “Long story, Linz.”

  I made my way to the bar and hopped up on an ancient stool. The bar top was scarred with decades-old graffiti and cigarette burns. I ordered a coke and sat with my back to the door, watching the TV that was anchored above the hanging glasses.

  The news was on. I recognized the reporter. She was my classmate at Temple University’s Masters program in Journalism. She was as dumb as a rock and yet there she sat, gainfully employed, dispensing the news of the day. Boy, this network must have some pretty low standards. I wonder if they’re hiring.

  “There were protests at the U.S. Embassy in Ottawa today by Canadians, outraged by a recent decision by U.S. Immigration and Customs Services to require passports for all visitors to the United States, including Canadians, who have traditionally been exempted from this rule. This tightened security measure is intended to cut down on illegal immigration and potential terrorist attacks.

  In related news, United States passports are entering the digital age. In the near future, a tiny microchip will be embedded in the cover of all U.S. passports issued. These chips will contain digitized photos, holograms and other personal data. Officials claim that the new digital technology will make counterfeiting much more difficult and will increase the security of the nation. Critics charge that the code that enables the encryption of sensitive data is far too vulnerable to theft and reproduction, making the United States an even greater target for terrorists seeking illegal entry into the country.”

  Theft and reproduction? Theft and reproduction! I jolted, spilling Coke all over the bar as thoughts rushed though me all at once…Diamond Casino…immigrants…charming gambling addict…dog that poops electronic devices containing names and birth dates…new passports susceptible to THEFT AND REPRODUCTION!

  Suddenly I knew what was so special about the thumb drive and why people were willing to kill for it. Maybe I didn’t understand how all the puzzle pieces fit exactly, but one thing I knew for sure. I had a major breach in national security sitting in the bottom of my pocketbook.

  I had to get out of there. I had to get to the police and turn this thing over to them. I had to…Keith! Shit! He was standing right behind me, watching my reaction in the beveled mirror behind the bar. I tried to remain calm, but my heart was beating a mile a minute. I swiveled around slowly, making my face as neutral as possible for someone who was about to pee her pants.

  He was wearing the same black Burberry overcoat he’d worn when I’d first met him, but now it seemed to hang on him. The boyish charm was gone, replaced by the haggard look of desperation. “Oh, hey, Keith. How long have you been here?”

  He studied me in tense silence. “Not long.”

  I could hear the gears in his bruised head turning, trying to figure out if I’d connected the dots. I gazed back at him, affecting a smile. “Have a seat,” I offered.

  He seemed to relax and flashed a smile of his own, showing off his newly capped teeth. “No thanks. Been doing way too much of that lately. Listen,” he said, looking around, “this place isn’t really conducive to conversation. How about we go somewhere else?” He pressed closer to me, crowding me on the stool.

  “Uh, personal space, Keith?” He didn’t seem to hear me. Or pretended not to, I couldn’t tell which. My head was spinning. How the fuck am I going to get out of here? He looked terrible. If push came to shove I’m sure I could outrun him. Hey, if push really did come to shove, I was fairly confident I could handle that too.

  “I’ve got to go to the little girl’s room,” I said. “I’ll be right back and then we can discuss going somewhere else.”

  Keith turned, and for the first time I noticed his right hand had never left his coat pocket. He slung his left arm around me in a companionable embrace, squeezing me against him. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  With surprising strength he yanked me off the stool, simultaneously whispering in my ear. “You make a scene, you’re dead. I have nothing to lose. You got that?” He lifted his right hand slightly out of his pocket, enough so that I could glimpse what was wrapped inside it. At least the trip to the firing range wasn’t wasted. I could now recognize a real gun when I saw one.

  I nodded, my eyes wide.

  “You got the thumb drive?” Keith asked, quietly.

  I
tried to calculate the odds of him shooting me on the spot if I said no and decided they were not in my favor. I nodded again.

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Keith was in much better shape than he had let on. Despite his limp, we walked briskly arm in arm to the back door, the gun in his hand a constant reminder to behave myself. Frantically I searched out Lindsay, but she was on the other side of the restaurant, serving a table of frat boys.

  “Wait,” I shouted above the din of the crowd. “I forgot to leave a tip. Bartenders depend on it for their livelihood!”

  Keith almost cracked a smile. “I guess he’ll just have to go hungry tonight.” He maneuvered us through the door and out into the parking lot.

  A light snow had begun to fall, casting a pristine glow on the street. There should be a law against bad things happening when the world looks so peaceful. I cast my eyes around for someone to help me, or at least be a potential witness to my kidnapping, but the lot was empty. Where’s Marie DiCarlo when you really need her?

  We reached Nick’s truck. “Get in,” Keith ordered.

  I looked around for the Lexus, but it was nowhere in sight. “Where are we going?”

  “Look, just shut up and get in, okay?” He was nervous. I didn’t think he had much practice at being a “tough guy” and I wondered what he’d do if I flat out refused to go with him.

  “No,” I said, taking a chance.

  Keith grabbed my arm and wrenched it behind my back. The pain was excruciating and I cried out.

  “I said, ‘get the fuck in the car.’” He released his grip on me and waited while I fumbled with my bag looking for the keys. He grabbed them from me and pressed the pad to unlock the door. He opened the passenger side, casting furtive glances at DiVinci’s back door. “Climb in,” he ordered.

  Oh crap. The number one rule they teach you in self-defense class is never let them get you into a car. If they do, you’re a goner. I hoisted myself up onto the seat, figuring I’d spin around and surprise him with one of those nifty karate kicks I’d seen Nick do. Only I hadn’t counted on what happened next. As I turned my back, there was a sudden, sharp stinging sensation behind my left ear, as Keith gave me a solid whack with the butt of the gun. Abruptly, all my fears drifted away along with conscious thought.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I awoke slowly, a blinding headache causing waves of nausea to ripple through my stomach. We were in some kind of warehouse. The entire contents of my bag had been dumped on the floor next to me. The thumb drive was gone, and since Keith had gotten what he so desperately wanted, I couldn’t help but wonder why I was still alive.

  He was on the phone. I squeezed my eyes shut, mostly to keep from vomiting all over myself and listened in on his half of the conversation.

  “Yeah, I’ve got her… your troubles are over…well, hurry up.”

  I sat up carefully, leaning against the wall. The warehouse was an ancient World War II era structure, empty, except for a few odd crates and a rusting dumpster. Judging by the green slime growing on the walls, we had to be near water. My guess was we were in an old storage area for one of a handful of now defunct factories tucked between the I-95 and the river.

  Harrison disconnected the call and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He appeared agitated; gone was any trace of the charming yuppie I’d first encountered. He began a slow pace back and forth in front of me.

  “Ya know this whole thing could have been avoided if you had just given me the thumb drive. I didn’t want it to turn out this way.”

  For once we were in agreement. I didn’t want it to turn out this way either.

  “I don’t suppose we could strike some kind of a deal,” I offered.

  “Afraid not. You seem to have run out of bargaining chips.” He held up the thumb drive to illustrate his point.

  “Who’s Conley?” I asked. If I was going to die, it would not be from curiosity.

  Harrison stopped abruptly and knelt beside me, his face a mottled mess in the dimming light. “Who?”

  “Oh, come on, Keith. What difference does it make if you tell me now? A witness heard Ivan Sandmeyer say, ‘This is for Conley’ before he beat the shit out of you.”

  Harrison, laughed and some of the tension eased from his face, softening it.

  “I guess you’re right. I can tell you anything now. You’re not going to tell anyone. Sandmeyer said, ‘This is for conning me.’ The people he works for thought I was holding out on them.”

  “The Diamond Casino owners?”

  Harrison shot me a look of astonishment. “Exactly how much did you figure out?”

  “Enough,” I shrugged. “You’ve got a gambling habit. You owed money to the casino and—here it gets a little fuzzy, but I think the owners asked you to steal some government information having to do with the new passports, so that they could duplicate them. In exchange, they’d let you off the hook for the money you owed them. Am I close?”

  “Close enough. I didn’t have to steal it. The deal was already arranged. All I had to do was drop off the money and pick up the thumb drive.”

  “Jesus Christ, Keith, we’re talking about national security here. How could you sell out your own country like that?”

  “The price was right.” Keith resumed his pacing. “If it hadn’t been for that God damn dog eating the thumb drive, everything would have been fine.”

  “So that’s really what happened?” Even in the midst of a life and death crisis, Adrian’s gastric capabilities impressed me.

  “You can’t make that shit up.” Keith emitted a rueful snort.

  Slowly the puzzle was coming together. “The dog was Ilene Werner’s wasn’t it? She was at Glen Davis’s house the night she was murdered. Why did he kill her?”

  Harrison glanced at his watch, his agitation increasing tenfold with each passing minute.

  “How the fuck should I know? Couple of junkies having a lovers’ quarrel. According to Davis, her last boyfriend was that idiot friend of yours, Ventura,” he added. “Talk about the perfect scapegoat.”

  “So Glen planned all along to set Toodie up for Ilene’s murder?”

  Keith shook his head. “You give that cretin far too much credit. He needed someone with a dolly to haul the freezer out of there and not ask questions. Ventura fit the bill.”

  “But Toodie said he was supposed to meet Glen at his house, only when he got there, Glen was gone. Why would he call Toodie up and then just leave?”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” Keith barked. “The guy’s hooked on ice. He has to get high about every fifteen minutes. He went out to score something and forgot all about Toodie and the freezer. If it hadn’t been for me suggesting he bury the head in Ventura’s back yard, Glen would be on death row by now.”

  I thought about this. “I don’t get it, Keith. I mean I can understand you hiring Glen. He’s your equivalent of Toodie. He probably did whatever you wanted and didn’t ask a lot of questions. But you’re really going out on a limb for him by helping him cover up his girlfriend’s murder. What’s in it for you?”

  Suddenly the light dawned. I figured out the passport scam so now Keith wants me dead as much as Glen does. Only Keith’s a white-collar kind of guy. He doesn’t go in for the hardcore stuff, but he’s perfectly willing to let someone else do it. I wondered if Glen knew Keith’s motives weren’t exactly altruistic.

  “Why don’t you give it a rest for awhile?” Harrison suggested, brandishing the gun at me. It didn’t look entirely natural in his hand.

  My head was hurting so bad he would have done me a favor by shooting me. “You don’t happen to have any aspirin on you, do ya?”

  “Sorry, no. But don’t worry, your headache will be taken care of soon enough.”

  Keith resumed his pacing while I sank back along the wall again in a vain attempt at seeing only one of him. The word “concussion” was fast becoming a permanent part of my lexicon.

  It was freezing in the warehouse. I stuck my hands in my coat pocket to
keep warm and found an old Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup in one of them. Brain fuel. I popped it in my mouth.

  Okay, so Keith comes over to see Glen. Ilene is there with her dog, visiting Glen. It’s hot in the apartment because of the broken thermostat. He takes off his coat, lays it on the couch. Adrian finds the thumb drive in the coat pocket and eats it, thinking it’s a candy bar. Then somehow, the dog runs off and Keith goes looking for him. Is that when Glen killed Ilene? And in the scheme of things did it really matter?

  I gazed around the room, trying to come up with an exit strategy that didn’t include me being carted away horizontally. I decided to try my hand at bluffing. “You’re not going to get away with this, Keith. You may have the information, but I left an extra copy with a friend, with a note saying that if anything happened to me to go after you.”

  “You made an extra copy?” His look of incredulity really ticked me off.

  “Of course I made an extra copy. What do you think, I’m stupid?”

  I made no extra copy. I am so stupid! I meant to make a copy. I really did. But then the whole Marie debacle happened and it just slipped my mind.

  There was a sudden scuffling sound coming from outside and then someone rapped on the warehouse door. Keith inched his way toward it, keeping his gun trained on me the entire time. It really wasn’t necessary. I could barely lift my head, let alone leap to my own defense.

  Keith flattened himself against the wall and tugged on the sliding door. A thin shaft of light worked its way into the room, illuminating a scrawny figure standing at the entrance. A small caliber pistol jutted out from his right hand. He wore a dark, hooded sweatshirt and torn black jeans. His sunken eyes and emaciated form gave him the surreal look of a walking skeleton. Physically, he was the polar opposite of his brother, Turk. In fact, it was hard to believe he had any human relatives at all. He was unequivocally the ugliest person I’d ever seen. My phone buddy and mental tormenter, Glen Davis.