The Detective

by Adrienne Giordano

  Suddenly the assistant she’d wanted so badly didn’t matter. Her growing business didn’t matter. Brodey lying to her didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

  Not if she died.

  “Why are you doing this? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Yeah, you did. This case was dead. Cold as they come. For two years. And then you got nosy and put that damned flyer up. You stupid, stupid witch, you should have stayed out of it.”

  “Whatever Brenda told you—”

  “Brenda didn’t tell me anything. I don’t even know her.”

  His gaze skittered around the garage to the assortment of tools hanging on the walls, sitting on metal shelves or in piles on the floor. Only a small open space remained where all the junk hadn’t cluttered together. Closest to him was the workbench and he picked up a rusty screwdriver, ran his hand over the head.

  “The plan was flawless,” he said. “Flawless. He dies, she collects the money and everyone’s out of hot water. No jail for him, no debt for her.” He stroked the edge of the screwdriver, then switched hands, stroking it again and again. “Twisted as it was, the plan worked. Until you came along.” He shook the screwdriver at her. “And I’m not going back to prison because of you.”

  * * *

  SOMEONE SCREAMED.

  Two houses down, Brodey heard it. Outside. Lexi. Rear of the house. Panic flooded his already bursting veins. Get there. He picked up the pace and again the pressure shot right to his bad elbow. He cut around the edge of the house, bumping the gutter hard enough that it crunched. The sound reverberated in the alley. Way to draw attention to himself.

  He hauled down the narrow alley between Lexi’s cottage and the neighboring house, easing his steps as he reached the end. He stopped, peeked around the side of the house and scanned the patch of yard. The single-car garage to the left faced the back alley where cars and garbage trucks had access. From his spot, he couldn’t see a side door, but the path from the house dead-ended and most of these old garages had an alternate entry.

  No Lexi.

  Where was she? Inside? Down the alley? Where? He whipped back against the house and squeezed his eyes closed.

  “Shut up!” a man shouted from inside the garage.

  Gotcha. Brodey visualized the garage. Single car. One large cargo door. Possible side door with a paved path leading to it. Lexi had told him the space was stuffed with junk from the old owners.

  “Please,” Lexi pleaded.

  A door slamming cracked the air and then all sound ceased, leaving an eerie quiet that punctured Brodey’s skin. He glanced around. No one at the back door, which only confirmed there was a side door to the garage.

  Time for reinforcements. He dialed 911, identified himself, gave the dispatcher Lexi’s address and hung up. No time to talk.

  He poked his head around the side again. More muffled voices. One deeper—Ed Long; one higher and in a quick, panicked staccato—Lexi. Only two voices. If luck was on his side and it was just the two of them in there, he and Lexi would outnumber Long. A definite plus considering his injured wing and lack of sidearm.

  Time to go. He slipped around the side, staying low as he hustled the short distance to the garage. Pressing close to the wall, he moved to the edge of the dwelling and peeked around. Entry door. Lock? No way to tell. Either way, he had to bust in there, go with the element of surprise and hopefully take Long down before he knew what the hell had hit him.

  Still plastered against the house, Brodey inched around the edge, reached for the doorknob, wincing when it caught and clicked.

  The door smacked open and he came face-to-face with—yep—Ed Long. Holding a screwdriver. Eyes darting, Long lurched backward, his face littered with that wide-eyed panic Brodey had seen on criminals a thousand times. With panic came irrational decisions. Time to go lights-out. Instincts roaring, Brodey swung, knowing it was going to hurt. The uppercut connected with Long’s jaw and made a gut-twisting crunch. Long reeled backward, farther into the garage, arms flying. The screwdriver sailed through the air and he grabbed the edge of the workbench to break his fall. Lexi stood in the middle of the only clear space but hopped sideways and—damn it—went the wrong way. Now wedged into the far corner, her mistake must have hit her because she looked at Brodey, her perfect face drawn and pale and haunted.

  “Run, Lex!”

  Brodey went back to Long, still righting himself near the workbench, where strewn across the top was every form of weapon—pickax, screwdriver, hammer, a vice—Brodey could conjure. Great. A burst of sunlight filtered through the garage door windows, illuminating the interior. He scanned the junk-filled space. Shovels, rakes, extension cords were stored in every available spot. He shifted right, closer to the shovel. One good swing and any weapon Long chose would be knocked loose.

  “Brodey?” Lexi said, still standing there.

  “Run!”

  Long lunged for her, his weapon of choice an ice pick he’d found in the rubble, and Brodey snapped. At that moment, he envisioned Lexi, that pick butchering her, and he knew, no doubt, he’d kill this man to save her.

  Brodey dodged left, blocking Long’s path to her as he swung the pick, his arm thrusting upward to run it through. Brodey raised his good arm, blocked the swing and kicked. Boom. His boot skittered across Long’s knee. Brodey pounced, shoving him backward, away from Lexi. The pick came at him again, but the block was late and, oh, hell, the tip nicked him, drawing blood.

  Long laughed. And it wasn’t one of those sinister ones Brodey had seen in movies as a kid. This laugh was casual. Entertained. Somewhere along the way, Ed Long had gone seriously off his rails.

  “Brodey! Back!”

  Whoosh. Something flew in front of him and hit Long dead center in the forehead. A spade. Lexi had hurled a garden spade at him. Good for her. It bounced off his head, but drew blood before clattering against the cold cement floor. Long stared down at it with a dazed look that could have been surprise or unconsciousness calling him. He reached up, touched his head where blood trickled, then brought his eyes to Brodey’s. Crazy eyes. Desperate eyes. And desperate eyes might be the most dangerous of all.

  Any heat in Brodey’s body disappeared, replaced by frigid chills. He stepped forward and Long came at him again. Brodey circled right, trying to pin his opponent to a corner as they squared off. His foot hit something. Big. He shot a look at it. Fire extinguisher. Compliments of Lexi, something else flew at Long. This time Long was ready and leaned right as a hand shovel arced by him.

  He lunged for her.

  Extinguisher. Brodey grabbed it with his good hand. If he could get the pin out...but his other arm hung limp at his side from that first crack at his opponent. He bit the end of the pin, yanked it out and hit the handle.

  “Lex, move!”

  Half a foot from Lexi, Long spun back and a spray of foam hit him square in the chest. Brodey aimed higher. Bingo. Long let out a howl that should have cracked the windows, a long, piercing sound that shredded the musty garage air.

  Finally, Lexi darted past him, heading for the doorway.

  But she stopped. “Seriously?” he hollered.

  “What can I do?”

  What could she do? If they lived through this, he’d kill her. “Get the hell out!”

  Long rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear the stinging foam. Go ahead, buddy, rub it all in there. Brodey grabbed him by the shirt, hauled him the two feet to the workbench. And Lexi, once again ignoring his directive, moved beside him.

  “I told you to get out.”

  “Shut up. Let me help.”

  Stubborn woman. Fine. “Stand over here. By the vice.”

  Long swung at her and Brodey, still hanging on with his good hand, kneed him in the thigh. Hard. Long howled. Quickly, Brodey let go, clamped on to his hand and shoved it into the vice attached to the tab
le. “Close that,” he yelled. “Fast.”

  She spun the lever and Brodey watched the sides squeeze against Long’s hand. The man howled again. Not tight enough. He could see Long sliding his hand around, playing them, planning his counterattack.

  “Shut up,” Brodey said. “Keep going, Lex. Two more turns.”

  After the second spin, he checked the tension on the vice. Good enough. It would at least hold Long until they could tie him up. First, he’d have to get rid of the handle so their prisoner didn’t get any ideas about reaching over and loosening the tension with his free hand. Brodey unscrewed the handle and held it in front of Long’s face. “You’re cooked.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Ignoring the taunt, Brodey shoved the handle into his back pocket. Long kicked out. Apparently, that caused a whole lot of problems for his hand because he howled again. “Please, man. Let me outta here.”

  So much for his cocky posturing three seconds ago. “Forget it. But tell me what you did and I’ll loosen it. Give you a few seconds to catch your breath.”

  Sirens filled the sudden silence and Brodey cocked his head to judge the distance. In this city, they could be going somewhere else. Who knew? But how about that, the sirens grew louder. Time to up the stakes on Long. “Dude, I couldn’t care less if you talk. But the cops are gonna be here any second, and the way it looks to me is you and Brenda Williams murdered her husband. You’re both going down.”

  “No!”

  “Yeah!” Brodey mimicked his squealing voice.

  Long swung his head back and forth so fast it should have flown off. Or at least paralyzed him. “She didn’t have anything to do with it,” he said.

  “Right. Really heroic, but there’s a money trail. The detectives didn’t figure out the trail led to you until you came after Lexi. Now it’s done.”

  “It wasn’t...”

  Brodey turned to the door, jerking his thumb at Lexi to get out. “Save it for your lawyer.”

  “She wasn’t involved. She’s a good mother.”

  Blah, blah, blah. He’d heard it a hundred times. “Yeah, I know. What was it? An affair? You and Brenda?”

  “No.”

  “Police!”

  Long’s panic escalated. His gaze shot to the doorway, where Lexi stood, taking it all in, and then he came back to Brodey, again shaking his head hard enough to scramble what little brains he had.

  “I swear. It wasn’t her. It was him. Jonathan. He gave me a key and told me to kill him.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lexi stood by the door, hands curled into fists at her sides, letting her attacker’s words sink in. Not in this lifetime would she consider herself a good detective, but this was beyond reason. This insane man who’d terrorized her expected them to believe Jonathan Williams planned his own murder.

  “Chicago Police!” a man yelled from outside the door.

  Lexi spun sideways, holding up her hands “It’s okay,” she said.

  “I’m Detective Brodey Hayward,” Brodey called from behind her. “I’m with Area Central.”

  “Step outside,” the cop closest to Lexi told Brodey. “Show me your hands.”

  Brodey did as he was told. Weapon drawn, one of the cops stepped into the garage, while the other covered them. If she never again saw the barrel of a gun pointing at her, she wouldn’t mind. Right now, after the storm of emotional horror she’d just experienced, her body was too deflated, too spent to feel much of anything.

  She slid her gaze to Brodey, whose eyes were on her with that same intensity she’d learned was so much a part of him.

  “You’re fine,” he said. He addressed the officer. “This man is Ed Long. He just attacked Ms. Vanderbilt. I arrived in the middle of it. Detective McCall from Area North is working the Jonathan Williams murder. Long claims he killed him. We need to get McCall here. Fast.”

  * * *

  WHILE THE POLICE did their thing in her garage, Lexi went inside, searching for the comfort of her favorite chair. Sketch pad in hand, she worked with colored pencils, drawing random items for who knew what. Brodey sat across from her on the sofa, their sofa, and she dared not look at him. If she looked at him, he’d try to talk to her, and she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t form the right words to tell him what she needed to. That she’d been terrified and he’d saved her from Ed Long’s torment and she would forever love him for it. But her emotions right now couldn’t be trusted. Her emotions told her to walk over to that sofa, to Brodey, and curl into him. Cry it out. Take comfort from him and in him because he’d opened up a part of her that had been dead for almost a year.

  And it would be easy to do. To just let go.

  Only it wouldn’t fix the fact that she needed—no—demanded honesty in a relationship and he, given what he did for a living, would never be able to truly open up to her. Some things would stay buried inside him and that, she knew, would terrorize her worse than Ed Long ever could.

  So she remained rooted in her favorite chair doing her favorite thing, trying to pretend this was any other day. Sketching was about therapy. About keeping her mind and hands active while she worked through the stress of the situation unfolding before her. Even if her trembling fingers wouldn’t allow for anything decent to be created, at least she’d be distracted from thoughts of what happened, and could have happened, in her garage.

  The back door creaked and she looked up to see Detective McCall enter the house.

  “Well,” he said, “this one I haven’t seen.”

  “Tell me,” Brodey said.

  McCall dropped onto the arm of the sofa, folded his arms over his chest. “This guy is unhinged. According to Long, he met Jonathan Williams through his lawyer. He was doing odd jobs at the lawyer’s house and Williams came to pick up his kids at a playdate. Isn’t that what it’s called these days?”

  Lexi nodded.

  “Anyways, Williams hired him to do some work at his place. Nothing inside. Yard work, stuff like that. When the Feds closed in on Williams, he panicked. Guy like him? He can’t do time. Doesn’t have the spine for it. And if he went away, his wife, they were on the outs, would be left in one hell of a jackpot. Between the debt and what the scam victims got robbed of, even if they got divorced the wife would be busted.”

  “So, he wanted to what? Kill himself?”

  McCall rolled out his bottom lip. “Not exactly. He wanted to take care of his kids. Give the mope credit for that. Suicide doesn’t get an insurance payout, though. Turns out, our boy Long here is a family man. Believes a man should protect his family above all else.” McCall snorted. “Gotta love that.”

  “And with no insurance money,” Brodey said, “the wife and kids are stuck with the debt he’d racked up. She wouldn’t even get the house. The government would seize everything.”

  “Unless he was murdered,” Lexi added.

  “Unless he was murdered.” McCall circled his hand at Brodey. “Those withdrawals we thought Brenda made? Williams did it. He took the money out and paid his would-be assassin. Then Long deposited the money, and with amounts that high it triggered the SARs.”

  “And here we are,” Brodey said.

  Lexi was finally maxed out from trembling, and her pencil slipped from her hand and fell to the floor. “The man had himself murdered.”

  Brodey whistled. “Makes sense. Williams gives Long a key, tells him to sneak up on him in the house and kill him.”

  “Close,” McCall said. “According to Long, he was supposed to show up the next day, but he’s a career thief. Murder isn’t his specialty. Williams paid him and he started to get cold feet. One night he gets banged up on a bottle of Jack whiskey and goes to the house a day early. Uses the key to go in the side door. Williams hears a noise and comes to check on it. Long startles him and—” McCall formed a gun with his fingers “—
bang. Job done.”

  The man had actually done it. Absolutely horrifying. Lexi uncurled her legs and sat forward. “That explains the broken glass. He must have been carrying it when he went to the laundry room.” She turned to Brodey. “Just like you said.”

  “What about the address book Lexi found?”

  McCall shrugged. “Don’t know. My guess is Jonathan hid it in the wall, but when Dr. Doom showed up early, he didn’t have a chance to get rid of it. It’s a helluva mess.”

  “We stirred things up again.”

  “Sure did. For the last two years, Long’s been keeping an eye on Brenda and the kids. Heck of a guy, this one. He saw you coming and going and followed you to the house last week. If not for you, maybe he’d have gotten away with it.”

  Somehow, that didn’t make Lexi feel better. Maybe they should have left it alone. Brenda Williams would have been debt-free if they had. But a murderer, albeit a murderer who wanted the kids to be cared for, would have gone free.

  Later, after a month of sleep, Lexi would weigh the moral arguments. Hopefully, she’d decide they’d done the right thing by solving this case. Right now, Brenda and her kids and the emotional fallout they would again endure made her wonder.

  Brodey turned to Lexi, waited for her to meet his gaze. Yes, she was mad at him and didn’t think that would be even a remote possibility.

  * * *

  IN THE HOUR since McCall had left, Lexi moved to one of the counter stools, attempting to choke down a glass of water. Well, what was left of it after she’d sloshed it all over herself. No matter how hard she pressed her fingers against the glass, literally willing herself to relax, every little inch of her still trembled. She glanced up at her precious sofa that she’d taken such extreme care not to damage, where she’d finally allowed herself to be a little careless and made love to Brodey. Her precious sofa where she’d been pinned down, fighting for her life.

  Forget it. She set the glass on the counter and pushed it away. Water wouldn’t control this chaos.