Roger shook his head. “Honey, I made it a point not to. If they thought I had the potential to identify them in a line up, they might’ve killed me on the spot.”
I put down my sandwich mid bite. “Wow. No wonder you don’t want Candice to know.”
“Look, this may amount to a whole lot of nothin’, but I wanted someone to know—just in case…”
*****
“You wanna keep them pearly whites? Tuck in your chin and get those hands up.”
I did as I was told and fended off a couple of sharp jabs. I even managed to throw a quick counter punch. Although it never actually landed, Danny Jenkins, my sparring partner, winked and assured me I was “doin’ just fine.” Danny works at my uncle’s gym. He’s old enough to be my grandfather, but he’s the best trainer in Philly, and I needed all the help I could get.
After my talk with Roger King, I’d resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t going to let this thing with Mario Lewis go. Something fishy was going on, and whatever it was, it put King and his family in jeopardy. So, if I was going to stick my nose in other people’s business, I had to learn how to protect it.
“I’d be careful, Danny. She’s short, but she’s scrappy,” a familiar voice teased from ringside.
I peered over my shoulder and found DiCarlo watching me. He looked damn good in new boxing trunks and a fresh, white tee shirt that showcased tanned, sculpted arms. Bobby had shaved. It was a departure from his usual scruffy look. Plus, I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I smelled cologne.
“Think I’ll take a break,” I told Danny and hopped out of the ring.
Bobby gave me his usual greeting. “Yo.”
“What’s the occasion?” I asked, taking in a whiff of Polo Extreme Sport. I recognized the scent from a shopping excursion with John, pre-Garrett, when he was looking to “exude a manlier image” for some guy he’d met at a shoe sale at Barney’s.
DiCarlo shrugged. “No occasion. Can’t a guy smell nice every once in a while?”
Before I could come up with a clever retort, he asked, “What happened to your face?” I guessed that was going to be the question of the week.
“Tripped over the cat. Listen, I need to talk to you about something. Got a minute?”
Bobby glanced at the front door. “Sure.”
We walked over to the bench, and he untied my gloves while I filled him in on my conversation with Roger King. DiCarlo listened with the ear of a cop, taking mental notes, and interrupting only to ask the occasional clarifying question.
“Mario and those guys were involved in some kind of business, probably something to do with dog fighting,” I concluded. “And Mario screwed up the operation somehow, so they killed him.”
“I don’t know, Brandy. That’s a really big assumption. Look, if they’d wanted him dead, why would they wait until he was in the hospital with an armed guard standing outside his door? They would have killed him that night. If anything, they were just trying to scare Lewis.”
“They would’ve killed him that night, Bobby, if it hadn’t been for the one guy speaking up for him. Something else must’ve happened to make them change their minds. But what?”
“Beats me. But I see where this is heading.” DiCarlo set his smoky blues on me. “Cut yourself a break and stay out of this. And if your pal, Roger King, is so concerned for his safety, he needs to talk to the cops.”
“Yeah?” I challenged. “Well, who’s gonna speak for the dogs? Listen, I’ve got a gut feeling about this, Bobby. I saw with my own eyes what Lewis did to those puppies. What if there’s more to that story? What if Lewis was only a small part of a much bigger operation? What if—”
DiCarlo cut me off. “Okay, okay. I get it. Look,” he sighed, “if it was anybody else talking about ‘gut feelings’ I’d say they were crazy. But it’s you, and I’ve never known you to be wrong.”
Bobby ran his fingers through his hair, messing up the perfect “do” he had going.
“Listen,” he said, finally. “I heard from a buddy that’s working the case that the night Lewis died, there was some sort of distraction on the floor. And the cop watching his room left his post for a few minutes.”
I considered playing dumb, but if DiCarlo was willing to be honest with me, I had to do the same. “I know,” I confessed.
“How the hell did you—ah, never mind.”
“According to my source (Mohindar, the future laundry mogul), it was an officer named Carl Abrams. Can you get him to talk to me? Off the record, of course.”
“Not on a bet.”
“Don’t you mean you’ll think it over and get back to me?”
But Bobby had checked out. “Listen, Bran,” he said, standing up, “my, uh, sparring partner’s here.”
I followed his gaze and spotted the blond cop from DiVinci’s headed our way. Oh. Now the cologne, the shave, and the haircut all made sense.
“I’ll see ya later, okay?” And he was gone like a shot. Crap.
*****
“My life sucks.”
“True,” Franny agreed and hand me her baby. “But this should cheer you up.”
Gazing down at my beautiful goddaughter lying in my lap, I watched in awe as she grabbed my thumb in her tiny little baby hand.
“You are the sweetest thing ever,” I cooed. “How can people like Mario Lewis exist in the world alongside someone as precious as you? Oh, look, Fran, she loves me. See how she’s smiling?”
“That’s gas.”
“Oh…are you sure?”
“Yeah. But she really does love you, hon.” Franny wiped some spit-up off my sleeve and tossed me a burp cloth. “You should feel honored. She doesn’t spit up on just anyone.”
I suspected she did, but being desperate for approval, I didn’t argue the point.
We sat outside on Fran’s stoop slurping Italian ice and watching the neighborhood kids play tag in the street. It was 90 degrees out, and the public pool was closed for repairs, so someone had taken pity on them and opened up the fire hydrant.
“What kind of moron would open the hydrant?” Fran grumbled. “No wonder there’s no water pressure in the house.”
I shrugged. “It was probably the guy up the street with the spider monkey. It just seems like something he would do.”
A barefoot kid in knee-length swim trunks moved toward us. Discreetly I tried to shoo him away, but he kept on coming. Maybe he was dyslexic and thought I meant “come closer.” He stopped in front of me, one arm extended. “Hey, Lady. Here’s your pipe wrench back. Thanks for the loan.”
Franny eyed me. “You’re such a pushover.”
“Well, it’s hot out. And look how much fun they’re having. Besides, it’s only slightly illegal.” I put the wrench down next to me and handed the baby back to Fran. She placed her in her infant swing and gave it a gentle shove.
“So where were we?” she said. “Oh yeah, your sucky life. By the way, I’m with Vince and DiCarlo on the Lewis thing. Your life will suck way less if you just stay out of it.”
“It’s not just that, Fran. It’s everything. Instead of moving forward in my career, I’m stuck doing traffic reports dressed as a St. Bernard. And now John is so wrapped up in Garrett, he doesn’t have time for me anymore. Plus, his boyfriend hates me—for no good reason at all.”
“And don’t forget the whole ‘Bobby dating someone else’ thing, and you feeling jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“Right.”
“I’m not.”
“If you say so.”
“Shut uh-up. I’m very happy for him…really.” I slumped forward and took a large bite of water ice. Oh great, brain freeze. Well, that’s just fabulous.
“Brandy,” Fran said, not without sympathy, “all these things are a drag, but you’ve been through worse. There’s something else going on here, so why don’t you just spill it?”
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “I’ve just been so down lately.” I rubbed my hands over my face and winced
. The bruising on my cheek had mostly subsided, but it still hurt to the touch. “I can’t believe I walked right into that flag pole.”
Fran leaned in close to me, her nose practically grazing my forehead. “Wait a minute,” she said, thinking. “You told me you got hit with an air hockey puck at the arcade…oh my God, Bran. Did Nick do this to you? He did, didn’t he? The bastard!”
“No! Franny, have you completely lost your mind? As if I’d ever put up with that shit! Besides, Nick would never hit me. And anyway, I haven’t seen him in weeks.” The words caught in my throat, and I stopped this short of bawling my eyes out.
“Oh,” she said, as if I’d just unlocked the secrets of the universe.
“I haven’t seen him in weeks,” I repeated. And then I completely lost it. Pent up tears rolled down my cheeks and splash-landed in the Italian Ice.
“Franny, I thought that when he told me he loved me—”
“Birds would sing, flowers would bloom, and you’d walk off into the eternal sunshine of your fantasy-driven life?”
“Pretty much,” I admitted miserably. “But if you tell anyone, I will have to kill you—and I’m not without practice.”
“My lips are sealed.”
I reached into my jeans and fished out an old Kleenex, and blew my nose. “Okay,” I began. “I know Nick isn’t purposely avoiding me or anything. I mean if it’s anyone’s fault it’s mine. He tried to talk to me after my—uh, ‘scare,’ but I just wasn’t ready. And then he took off on business and—jeez, Fran, I don’t even know where he goes…or what he does…or who he’s with. I mean, I love the guy—but who the hell is he? I have no friggin’ idea.”
“And maybe you’re just a little afraid to find out.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” In truth it was more like if he had time to think about it, maybe he’d change his mind about me. But I just couldn’t admit that. Not even to Fran.
We hung out the rest of the afternoon watching Dora the Explorer and pretending we’d put it on for the baby. I just love that Dora. She’s a little spitfire!
The sun had already set by the time I left Fran’s. She walked me to the door, hesitating as I stepped outside.
“I know it won’t do any good to ask you to stop your investigation,” she said, “so just be careful, okay?”
“I will. Thanks. And, uh, thanks for talking to me today. I really don’t know how to repay you. Say! Would you like a puppy?”
*****
Two nights later I was headed home, having just wrapped up the latest humiliating effort to hang onto my job, doing a promo as the ever-popular Godfrey. (“This rush hour traffic report is brought to you by Doggie Donuts. So good, you may be tempted to dunk them in your morning coffee—but save them for your canine pals!”) The costume weighed about twenty-pounds. It’s a bitch to take off, so I didn’t bother to change back into my street clothes. Plus, it was kind of fun to see the looks on people’s faces when I pulled up next to them at red lights.
I turned onto my street and immediately tensed as a slew of police cars came into view; their rotating lights making my head ache. They had converged on a house at the other end of the block. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was my house.
Oh, crap! The dog’s owner must’ve changed his mind about wanting his dog back, and now they’re here to arrest me…is dognapping a federal offense? I could go to jail… I can’t go to jail! I’m claustrophobic…I hate sharing a bathroom…Prison jumpsuits only come in orange… What do I do? What do I do? I’ll keep driving. I’ll just cruise on down past my house, real nonchalant, check it all out…
As I got closer, I panicked and tried to cut a u-ie in the middle of the road, only my street is so narrow I grazed my neighbor’s bumper and set off his car alarm. As Mr. Yong came out of the house to see who was trying to make off with his Ford Fiesta, a uniformed cop stuck his head in through my car window. Fortunately, it was Mike Mahoe, a friend of mine.
“Brandy?”
I reached up and removed the top of the costume, revealing my sweaty, prison-bound head. “I don’t want to go to jail, Mike. I can explain about the dog.” I started to blurt out the whole story, but Mike drowned me out.
“Brandy. It’s not about some dog. It’s—ah, hell, just try not to freak.” He stepped away from the car and I squinted into the growing darkness and freaked.
Chapter Five
I scrambled out of the car and thrust Godfrey’s head at Mike’s chest. “Hold this,”
I yelled and bounded toward my house. A crowd had formed, and I battled my way through. Mahoe trotted along behind and yelled for me to wait up.
Shards of broken glass lay strewn on my front porch, carnage created by a spray of bullets that splintered the front door and shattered every window facing the street. I reached the yellow tape that marked off the crime scene and ducked under it. A hand shot out, grabbed me by the collar and yanked me back.
“Let go, Mike. Rocky and the dogs are in the house. I have to get in there.”
“You can’t. They haven’t finished checking out the premises yet.”
“But they could be hurt—”
“All right, give me a minute, and I’ll talk to the officer in charge.” He handed back Godfrey’s head. “Stay put,” he ordered.
“Yeah, I’ll do just that.” Hysteria made my voice hoarse. I turned and stormed back toward my car.
“You know, I’m not the enemy here,” he shouted after me.
I waited for about a nano-second, and then I marched back to the police barricade and ducked under the tape. A rookie cop stood guard at what was left of my front door.
“Hey, get back.”
“I need to get inside.” I shoved past him which, in retrospect, probably wasn’t the best move. He grabbed my furry arm and pinned it behind my back.
“Ow! Look,” I shouted and tried twisting out of his grasp, which only made him hang on tighter. “This is my house, and my cat and dogs are in there, and they need me. So I’m going in, and not you or anybody else is gonna stop me. Now let go!”
“Just calm down, Ma’am.”
“I’m not gonna calm down. Look, you little pisher—”
Mike came up next to us. He didn’t seem surprised to see me there.
“Skip,” he interrupted. “This is Brandy Alexander. She’s the one who saved Wolinski. Cut her a break, okay? She’s had a rough couple of days. I’ll escort her in.”
“She’s all yours,” Skip muttered and let go of my arm. He stepped aside, and Mike and I entered the house.
The forensics team was just leaving. There was glass everywhere but, the house looked pretty much as I’d left it. Well…except for the bullets that decimated a lamp and left gaping holes in my brand new sofa.
I galloped up the stairs two at a time and found the dogs and Rocky huddled together in Paul’s old bedroom closet. I shut the door, went downstairs, and returned with some leftover lasagna for them to share. Any good psychologist will tell you that you can’t solve your problems with food, but they’re wrong. I ate a TsstyKake and felt tons better.
“Mike, I know this looks bad. But, maybe it was just some guy who was excited about the new assault rifle he got for his birthday, and he just happened to pick my house to practice on.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But—”
“Brandy, someone actually took the time to get out of their car and spray-paint ‘Bitch-ho’ on your front step. This was personal.”
“Y’know, my neighbor, Mrs. Gentile isn’t the easiest person to get along with. Maybe it was meant for her.” Okay. That’s unlikely. Mrs. Gentile is in her eighties. She may be a bitch, but I seriously doubt anyone would mistake her for a ‘ho.
I walked back outside and found her holding court with the neighbors. She had a clipboard which she circulated among the crowd. Mrs. Gentile’s been trying to get preferential parking for our block, which I think is downright unfriendly. But I felt like I owed her one because of recent events. I strode over to her
.
“Uh, Mrs. Gentile, I’d be happy to sign your petition.”
Grace Romano, my mother’s oldest and dearest friend from the neighborhood, cut me a guilty look. She handed the clipboard back to Mrs. Gentile and slunk off toward her house. I craned my neck to read the upside down words (a skill I cultivated from years of cheating in high school math class). All I could make out was my name before Mrs. Gentile snatched it way, pressing it to her scrawny chest.
“You’re a menace,” she squawked, wagging a bony finger at me. “This neighborhood is for decent people. We want you out of here.”
“What?”
She turned the clipboard around so I could read it. A dozen or so of my neighbors had signed the petition. Some of them, twice.
Mike waited while I spoke to a Detective Cabot, who suggested that someone might have a vendetta against me.
“Gee, ya think?”
Mike elbowed me in the ribs.
“Sorry. I’m a little stressed.”
I thought for a minute and then rattled off a rather lengthy list of people I might have annoyed to the point of using weapons of mass destruction against me. Then I collected the dogs and cat, packed a bag, and called my friend Taco, whose dad owns a lumber yard. Taco arranged to have someone come by and board up the windows and door. The thing that bothered me the most was what they’d written on my front step. I mean, that was really uncalled for.
“Brandy, I hate to leave you here like this,” Mike said, “but I’ve got to get back to the precinct.” He took a few steps and stopped, the corners of his mouth forming a grim smile. “Are you gonna be okay?”
“Peachy.”
“Do you want me to call DiCarlo?”
My brain flashed back to Bobby and the blonde at the gym and shook my head. “I’m fine, Mike. Really. Thank you for all your help tonight.”
Mike gave my shoulder an awkward pat and climbed into his patrol car. The neighbors had moved back into their own homes, satisfied that the Brandy Show was done for the night. I sat down on the front step and considered my options.
I could go to John’s, but I didn’t want to risk running into Garrett. Uncle Frankie was still at the gym, and Fran and Janine were having dinner at their mother’s. Paulie? He’d only get upset and blow things all out of proportion. After all, nobody died, and the house is still standing. In the scheme of things, this was no big deal.
No Such Thing as a Lost Cause Page 6
