No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) (25 page)

Here I was, at ten-something in the morning, totally alone. A golf game was minutes from happening and tennis scheduled out the day for the women of the family. Sydney wouldn’t be up for hours, and a look out the door had Zander shuttling to the course with the other guys.

Once the coast was clear, I shoved my lucky hat on my head, snatched Lincoln’s laptop, and perched it on the kitchen counter, plugging it in an outlet. While it fired up, I opened the refrigerator and grabbed ham, pulled pork, cheese, mustard, and pickles, finishing with crusty bread to make a Cuban sandwich. Stacking everything inside the bread, I drizzled on butter and placed it in the sandwich press, counted to 120, and burned my left hand. After I said part of the s-h-i-t word, I apologized to the universe because God knew I had more sin on the horizon.

Tossing it on a paper plate, I took a seat on a barstool and cracked open a Coke, trying to think like a kidnapper. The lady at The Gap didn’t strike me as psychopathic, so conceivably Cisco hadn’t been physically abused. And since I was proof-positive he remained alive, that left it to the personal: (A), this woman wanted a child or (B), the grandparents truly were messed up in this as the newspaper suggested. If it were B, the confusing part, once again, was why would grandparents steal a child they were already legal guardians over? They sure as heck wouldn’t get any kind of ransom from the parents—so if they weren’t the kidnappers, that only left fear.

But what could they fear?

Biting off a big chunk of sandwich, I stared at the screen, knowing my posing as Lincoln Taylor carried some major jail time. As I thread the earbuds of my iPod in my ears, I piped out
Crazy Train
by Ozzy Osbourne and decided the payoff would be worth it. Singing in a tone-deaf splendor, I hit the icon labeled NCIC and struck in “Willow” when prompted for a password. Nothing. Erasing the word, I next typed in “Colton.” Once again, nada. That left the nickname of his son and 9mm gun, “Jackal.” Pecking out those six letters also rendered a big fat zilch in the success department.

“Think, Darcy, think,” I said out loud.

Lincoln dressed in dependable colors. When it was brown, it was brown from head to toe. If he wore black, he decked out like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. He viewed the world simply. Simple people were usually loyal to the bone, and being in the undercover game, I’d guess, made him cling to the realities he knew to be true. It wasn’t abnormal for him to go underground for weeks with no one knowing if he was dead or alive. My feelings were he wouldn’t bombard his brain with an inordinate amount of details.

So who better to know you than your best friend?

I’d memorized Paddy’s digits nights ago, and although the rooster had barely crowed on the West Coast, I dialed anyway.

“Paddy,” he mumbled on the second ring.

“Hey, Paddy, it’s Darcy.”

“Hawareya, doll?” he slurred out.

“I want to get Lincoln a birthday gift.” Dumb opener, but it’s all I had.

“It’s his birthday?” he slurred, a little more awake.

“No, I just wanted to get a jump on the sales. Do you know his favorite color?”

“Uh, no.”

“Favorite book?”

“No.”

“Favorite sport, TV show, clothing brand?”

“No, no, and good God no.”

“Well, how about his favorite food?”

He gave me a whole lot of nothing until he finally muttered, “Something dead, but there was this one time we both got tired of it floppin’ around, so he snatched it up, and bit its head off. So I guess it could be
semi
-dead.”

What … the…?

On any other day, I’d delve into that subject matter, but today wasn’t conducive to my time constraints.

After Paddy proved he might be the worst best friend in the world, we disconnected. A quick look at the rest of Lincoln’s icons didn’t immediately strike me as out of the ordinary. He had a copy of Microsoft Office, icons for two antivirus programs, access to the Internet, and a white birthday cake image in the lower right hand corner.

My forefinger struck the rain slicker yellow birthday candles and up popped an alphabetized list of about one hundred names. Lincoln had five sisters. If Willow was his email password, perhaps his sisters were the others? It was worth a try, and as far as I knew, I had four hours or so to peck to my finger’s delight.

Jumping off the counter, I ran through the living room, jumped over my missing blue sock in the hallway, and bounded into Sydney’s room. Sydney’s room was fit for a demigod. Like Dylan’s, it was modern, but hers had a flair for the dramatic. The walls were painted in pink blush with fuchsia fabric headboards on both white twin beds. Clothes strung the top of a red couch, a black lace bra hung from the white fur lampshade, and magazines were scattered on the bed that I hadn’t slept in but one night.

Sydney lay on top of the white satin sheets, flat on her back in a red babydoll nightgown that looked sultry and sexy with a racy edge. Evaluating my own ensemble, I couldn’t help but laugh. I’d never be sultry and sexy with a racy edge. There’s a good chance I had happies shoved up under my ribs just waiting to fall out.

“Pssst,” I whispered. Just a slight rustle.

“
Sydney
,” I whispered louder. Nothing but a moan. I placed my hands on her shoulders and shook. No movement whatsoever. I jostled her harder.

Sydney rose up on her elbows, sliding her red satin mask up to her forehead. “What time is it?” she muttered. Time to break into Lincoln’s computer, that’s “what.”

“What are Lincoln’s sisters’ names?” I asked sweetly. This could go one of two ways. Sydney would tell me to kiss-her-keister or she would mumble the answer and still tell me to kiss-her-keister.

“Margaret, Anna, Celia, Calliope, and Evie,” she mumbled.

“In that order?”

“That’s the birth order,” she sighed. She pulled her mask down, fluffed her pillow, and then rolled to her stomach … muttering a few cuss words.

Running back to the computer, I typed in all five sisters and once again came up empty-handed. I closed the lid, immediately massaging my temples.
Holy cow
, I thought. Lincoln loved his grandchildren, and guess who just had a birthday in the month of August? A smile lit up my face as I boldly typed in D-y-l-a-n.

Access granted…

Baby Jesus, let me fall down and worship at your baby crib
, I laughed.

I’d just been granted access … and was rubbing shoulders with the F—
freaking
—BI.

Once I keyed in Cisco Medina, I captured the pertinent details on a scrap sheet of paper. He was abducted from a city park near Conroy Road in the city of Orlando. Letting that page idle, I activated another session of Windows Explorer, and typed in
googleearth.com
for an aerial view of that vicinity. Zooming in, I observed playground equipment, parked cars, trees and shrubbery, but nothing really substantial. Zooming out, I spied a laundromat, bank, gas station, apartment complex, and Albertson’s Grocery Store—nothing out of the ordinary that you wouldn’t find in suburbia anywhere.

Flipping back to the case details, Cisco’s grandfather reported him missing at 5PM. Sunset, around that time of year, was roughly an hour later. So Cisco—in theory—still would’ve been visible to someone. He wouldn’t have been swallowed up by the dark. Trouble was, that
someone
very well could’ve been the person that nabbed him.

All at once, I felt the immediate need to blow some cash. Padding back to the couch, I grabbed my purse and fingered inside my wallet, pulling out my father’s MasterCard.

A hypothesis is an educated guess. You theorize if “A” happens, then “B” will result. If you test the theory and get a positive result—or it comes true—you have a scientific fact backed up by experimentation.

Trouble was, I didn’t possess the know-how to make an educated guess on anything. But I knew someone that would … Kyd. Grabbing my iPhone, I punched in Kyd’s digits with my thumb.

He picked up on the first ring. “I do, Legs,” he breathed.

“What?” I giggled, collapsing back on the bed.

“I’m thinking sunshine and skimpy bathing suits for the honeymoon.”

Why did I feel like I’d be dodging that proposal for the rest of my life? He’d only said two sentences, and already I wished I could shove him in front of a moving car. But I needed him. It made me feel horrible—like a bloodsucking user—but not horrible enough to murder my plans.

Leaning back on the pillow, I threw an arm behind my head and contemplated how to get the names of Lola’s contacts. Kyd stated yesterday that she gambled with powerful people and even played cards in their stead. The only way Kyd would gain additional information, however, was to question Hank who clearly was still in pain. I didn’t want to inflict any undue stress on the man, but I had a gut feeling it might mean something.

“Would that be so bad?” he murmured.

“I’m 15!” I shrieked.

“Almost 16,” he deadpanned. True, my birthday was October 15th, but that still wasn’t considered legal in the good ole U.S. of A. Maybe that’s the way they did romance in Louisiana. Heck, Murphy was raised in Kentucky, and a few in his hometown were born with an engagement ring on their finger. But I was a Midwestern girl from Ohio. We tried to hold onto that single status at least until mid-20s, and then you grew paranoid your best days were behind you.

Helloooooo, eHarmony…

“You’re frustrating me,” he muttered. Funny. Dylan turned the same phrase last night.

“Maybe you need to try another pick-up line.”

“Name what you want, and it’s yours.”
Aaah
, I smiled.
Sweet satisfaction
.

I went for the direct hit. “I need the names of the people Lola Medina used to, or better yet,
still
plays cards with. Make it happen, Kyd.”

“Strange request,” he said, suddenly quiet.

“To some, perhaps.”

“Obviously, the human mind fascinates me, or I wouldn’t want to be a psychiatrist, Legs. But I have to admit you are hands-down the most fascinating individual I’ve ever run across. I could spend a lifetime rummaging around in your gray matter.”

I blushed, feeling like something indecent had just occurred between us. I didn’t want Kyd in my gray matter, but fighting the attraction had proven difficult. It was like being a vegetarian and never wanting a flaming piece of steak. Only a moron wouldn’t recognize the juicy smell.

Kyd promised me he’d have their names by the end of the day.

My thumb was lying on the “end” button when Kyd got in touch with his pushy side. “Have you given any thought to coming down here for college?”

I rolled my eyes, pulling a pillow over my head. “I’m kinda stuck in the present right now.”

“Just hear me out,” he encouraged.

“Kyd, I probably won’t go to college,” I spit out.

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

I heard the clock ticking away in Kyd’s brain and fleetingly wondered if he was taking notes to place in his
Darcy Walker File
. You know, childhood trauma, low self esteem, let’s feel sorry for the girl with no mommy. “Legs, we need to work on your self-image,” he said softly.

“My self-image is fine,” I lied.

“Well, if it’s fine, then we can talk about college…”

I chewed my left pinky nail, almost to the cuticle. I didn’t have many options. If I didn’t give Kyd what he wanted—or at least a version of it—he’d call non-stop and interrupt my thinking time … diabolical as it was. Problem was, a good chance existed that talking to him negated Dylan’s and my request to not hurt the other. Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, I ascribed to the concept it’s “better to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

At least for the time being.

“…so I’ll see you in a few?” he asked.

What Dylan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, right?

As far as Kyd knew, I was researching a summer project on murderers versus contract killers, versus serial killers. I thought he’d dehydrate from salivating. When the boy said he loved the brain’s complexities, I mean, he LOVED its complexities. For some reason, he acted like the sun rose and set in my brain—or lack thereof—these days. But spending time with him became a mistake of cosmic proportions. Amidst the talk of born killers, killers driven by circumstance, loyalty, or employment, I dodged my growing feelings infested with an all-consuming guilt. I’d butchered the détente with Dylan—at least, in the fact that I hadn’t explained Kyd’s and my relationship. Heck, I hadn’t explained anything. So while my chest heaved with regret, I had a great, big hormone screaming,
Somebody kiss me
,
somebody kiss me, somebody kiss me
. Thing was, I didn’t know if it was Kyd per se or the fact that my estrogen met up with his testosterone. I didn’t feel entirely ready for a boyfriend (at least my brain wasn’t), but maybe I was
readyish
.