No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (11 page)

The officer wrote it all down. Then he asked me if anything was taken.

“I don’t know. At least it didn’t look like he had anything in his hands when he left. I think he must’ve just broken in when I walked in.”

Bobby’s partner, Detective Lindley came up to the door.

“Nobody’s dead,” I said. “How come you’re here?”

“Heard the call and thought maybe Ventura decided to put in an appearance.”

I shook my head. “Wasn’t him. I saw the creep.”

“Can you make a positive I.D. on the guy?”

“I don’t know. I only caught a glimpse of him. Everything happened so fast.”

Mike came back into the living room, followed by his partner. “Looks like your visitor broke a window in the back of the house. The method of entry matches a couple of other break-ins in the neighborhood.”

Mike offered to stay with me until the repair guy came to fix the window. I told him what I really needed was someone to run interference for my mother’s inevitable phone call. And with cops cars parked outside my house twice in one week, it was going to be a doozy of a phone call.

“He likes you,” said Franny, when I replayed all this for her an hour later.

“No he doesn’t. He was just being nice.”

“Nice is offering to make you a cup of tea. The guy practically suggested he move in with you.”

Note to Self: Don’t tell Franny
anything!

“Fran, you’re making way too big a deal out of this.”

“Okay, fine…but I’m telling ya, he likes you.”

I called Paul and told him I wouldn’t be able to come in to work tonight. He could barely contain the relief in his voice, but he made all the obligatory noises about how he’d try to muddle through without me.

I managed to make it to the police station and back without incident. After sifting though about four thousand mug shots, I narrowed it down to a handful that may have been the guy, but I just couldn’t be sure.

“I’m sorry I can’t be more specific,” I said to Mike, who seemed to take a real interest in the case.

“That’s okay. You’ve given us something to go on. Man, you’ve had a rough couple of days, huh?”

“I’ve had better ones,” I admitted. I waited a beat. “Mike, I know you’re not supposed to talk about it, but do you have any suspects in the—ya know, lady in the freezer case?”

“You mean besides Mitchell Ventura?”

“Does
everybody
on the force think he did it?”

“Look, Homicide’s not my department, but he’d be on the top of my list. The guy did time for stalking. That’s a serious offence. And he was in possession of the freezer. Plus, he has priors for drugs. A person under the influence of certain drugs can commit really horrendous acts of violence.”

“Toodie smokes pot, Mike. I’m not advocating it, but I just don’t think he got lit and went on a weed-induced killing frenzy.”

Mike shrugged affably. “Like I said, it’s not my department.”

I cried all the way home. Tears of frustration over everything that’d gone down over the past few days poured out of me, rendering me a soggy mess. My house was broken into, I had no job, my blind date got mugged and my plumber was on the run from the fuzz. Toodie was depending on me to help him. The police seemed sold on the idea that he was guilty of murder, and my stupidity in not telling the cops about his phone call may have cost him his chance to clear himself. If I could only find Glen…but then what? Go up to him and say, “Hey buddy, you’re comin’ with me,” in my best tough guy voice? I’m sure that would work.

John says I have a “control issue.” I have to be in it at all times. But I was in way over my head here. I needed help and I knew where to find it. Only the prospect of making this next phone call was scarier than anything that had happened so far. I took a deep breath and dialed.

He picked up on the third ring. Instantly, I broke out into a sweat and tried to hang up, but the sound of his voice, soft and husky and erotic as all get-out kept me rooted to the phone. “Brandy Alexander,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. Damn that caller I.D.

“Um, hi Nick.” Smooth, Alexander, really smooth.

Nicholas Santiago belonged on the cover of People Magazine under the banner of “Sexiest Man Alive.” It wasn’t so much the way he looked, although he was more than qualified in that department, with long, wavy hair, compelling, almond shaped eyes, sensuous mouth, high cheekbones and a lithe, yet muscular body. No, the man was so much more than the sum of good genes. There was the easy confidence, the quiet air of authority, the calm, almost hypnotic cadence of his speech and the knowledge that he was capable of killing you in an instant should the occasion warrant it.

I met Nick last month, through the course of an investigation. He helped me out of a jam, which is to say he saved my life, and then he disappeared, but he’d left an indelible impression on me. Enigmatic and dangerous, Nick was the first man I’ve had feelings for since Bobby and the last man I
should
be feeling this way about. Boy, isn’t that always the case?

I pictured him now, sitting behind the desk in the office of the martial arts studio he owns, a three days’ stubble on that beautiful face. I heard music playing in the background, Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli.

“So, uh, I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”

“Actually, it’s perfect timing. I’ve been out of town for a while. I just got in about thirty minutes ago, and I stopped by the studio to check on things. So, I hear you’ve been having some adventures without me.” Again, the smile in his voice.

“How did you know?”

“Word gets around.” I’ll bet it does. Nick’s associates range from United States senators and presidents of third world nations, to street thugs named Lefty. There’s not much he doesn’t know.

“Listen, I really hate to impose on you—especially since you were almost killed because of me the last time out—”

“What do you need, angel?” My insides flipped at the familiar term of endearment.

“And I know I said I’d repay you for all you did for me, but then you went out of town, and—”

“Brandy.” His voice had gone soft as a whisper. “Tell me what you need.”

The heat in my belly grew, and now that feeling spread to other, more intimate parts of my body. Did that man have any idea what kind of effect he had on me? My guess is he did.

“Um, I need to run something by you. Do you think we could meet?” I didn’t want to talk about it over the phone, in case it was bugged—and maybe in the back of my mind I was just a little bit excited about the prospect of seeing Nick again. But that was just a bonus. I swear.

“Do you remember where I live?” he asked.

Like I remember my own name.
“I think so.”

“Good. How about you come over tonight, around seven. I’ll make us some dinner and you can tell me all about it.”
Dinner with Nick? Alone? At his place? Oh boy!

Nick lives in Center City, on the top floor of an elegant, old world style apartment building overlooking Rittenhouse Square. At ten ‘til seven I pulled into the loading zone, remembering to scoot all the way forward, in order to leave room for Marie. She was following me again. I punched in Nick’s number as the green Honda slipped off into the night.

“Hey. Where are you?”

“I’m parked in the loading zone.”

“Come on up.”

“But I’ll get towed.”

“It’s okay. The owner won’t mind.”

Before I got there, Marie and I stopped off at a chocolatier’s and picked up a two-pound box of truffles, because my mother says you should never show up at someone’s house empty handed. I shifted the chocolates into my other hand and stopped for a moment to check myself out in the beveled mirror, adjacent to the elevator. I was wearing a low cut white silk blouse and a push-up bra (okay, it could have been worse; at least it wasn’t padded) and some black bikini underwear, in case I got “lucky”, which I didn’t even know what that meant, since these days, lucky has taken on a whole new meaning for me, i.e. not getting myself killed.

The elevator stopped on the fourth floor, opening onto a dimly lit hallway. I felt myself get all sweaty again and just prayed I didn’t break out in hives like I did when I was four and went to see Santa for the first time.

The door to Nick’s apartment was slightly ajar, allowing the most amazing aroma to waft into the hallway. I gave a tentative knock.

“Come on in.”

He was in the kitchen, standing over a large pot of something garlicky and wonderful. He put down the spoon he was holding and crossed the room to greet me. He was wearing a tight black t-shirt and faded blue jeans. His hair, shiny and thick, grazed the base of his neck. As he came nearer he smiled and it took my breath away. And then he closed the gap and I was swept up in a hug, as he placed a kiss on either side of my cheek, his lips warm and soft on my skin. “I’ve missed you, Brandy Alexander.”

“I-I’ve missed you too,” I croaked, reeling from the contact.

It took me a full minute to realize we weren’t alone. Nick turned toward the living room. “Hey, Raoul, you remember Brandy, don’t you?”

I spun around, and seated on Nick’s beige leather couch sat Raoul Sanchez, his gang-scarred tattooed head bobbing up and down in recognition. The last time I saw Raoul he tried to knife me, and I ran over his hand with my car.

I was happy to note the cast was off and he had almost full range of motion back. Raoul grinned and stood, gold teeth gleaming in the lamplight. Nick walked him to the door, where they spent a few minutes quietly conversing in Spanish. I took this time to look around. I love Nick’s apartment, with its high-beamed ceilings, simple but elegant furniture, and, most especially, the beautiful baby grand piano that sits in the corner by the window.

They chatted a moment longer and then the front door opened and Raoul stepped out.

“Nice to see you again,” I called out, weakly.

“Any friend of Santiago’s,” he replied, nodding to me. And he was gone.

“Raoul works for me now,” Nick said, by way of explanation.

“Oh.” I didn’t think I wanted to know exactly how a guy with a murder conviction on his rap sheet earned his paycheck, and besides, I knew Nick wouldn’t tell me anyway.

“I hope you like Cajun,” he said, returning to the kitchen.

We ate at the bar. Nick pulled up two stools and poured us each a glass of red wine. He’d prepared Shrimp Creole. It was spicy and delicious, but it made me really thirsty, which was fine because it gave me an excuse to keep drinking. Being with Nick made me nervous on so many levels and the wine really took the edge off.

We ate in comfortable silence and then he refilled my glass and we moved onto the couch. The box of truffles lay between us. “Take one,” he said. “You know you’re dying to.”

“No I’m not.” I took two and then shoved the box out of reach.

“Now,” he said, settling back into the cushions, “tell me everything.”

The story poured out of me, at times becoming so jumbled and disjointed I had to stop and catch my breath. In the daily living of this nightmare, I’d acted on pure impulse, never stopping to think about what a toll it was taking on me. But when I gave voice to it, I realized how dangerously close I was to an emotional breakdown. That’s why it’s never good to talk about your feelings. It turns you into a wimp.

“So. Your date was beat up—was that before or after you were burglarized… oh,
afte
r the body parts,
before
the burglary. And the guy who broke in—what did he look like?” I told him. “Did he hurt you?” Nick’s face remained impassive, and yet there was something fractionally different about him. I’d seen him react that way about someone once before. The man is dead now.

“No. He didn’t hurt me.”

“And you trust this guy, Toodie, absolutely?”

“Absolutely.” Nick picked up his glass of wine and took a sip. “What does your cop friend think about all this?” I picked up my glass as well and tossed back the remains before I answered.

“I wouldn’t know. We’re not exactly speaking. Did I mention his wife is stalking me? But I digress.”

Nick didn’t know of Glen Davis, off-hand, but he said he’d run a check and help me find him. Keith Harrison, however, had a familiar ring to it. “I seem to recall something about an attorney by that name—the guy was brought up on charges of co-mingling of funds or something—anyway, they couldn’t prove anything and the case, ultimately, was dismissed.” Why did this not surprise me?

I didn’t want to leave the comfort and security of Nick’s place, but I had to get home for the dog’s midnight feeding, before he ate something crucial, like the television set. Nick walked me down to my car, which, miraculously, was right where I’d left it, no Marie in sight, no bald burglars jumping out from behind the bushes. Just the way life’s
supposed
to be.

We stood on the curb while I opened my bag and fumbled around for my keys. It had grown seriously colder, but my chattering teeth were more a function of nerves than the weather. Nick took my bag and extracted my car key. He inserted it into the lock and opened the door and handed me back the key.

“Thanks. Listen, dinner was great, and um, I hope you know how much I appreciate you helping me out—but, hey, don’t worry, once I cultivate my own gang members and street derelicts I won’t keep hitting up your sources.”

Nick’s mouth turned upwards into a grin. “No rush. You going to be okay?”

I nodded. I bent down to slide into the driver’s seat; when, abruptly, he pulled me back up. His voice was gentle but serious.

“Listen angel, from what you’ve told me, Davis is not a nice guy. I know you want to help your friend, but you’re not going to be much use to him dead.” I remembered the four-inch scar on that woman’s face and nodded again. “Be careful.” He stepped back from the curb and watched me as I shifted out of neutral and drove away.

“He kissed you on both cheeks? Was it a brotherly kiss, or something more romantic?” It was nine a.m. and Franny was in hot pursuit of the details of my evening with Nick.

“Neither. It was—European,” I said, remembering a conversation we’d had months ago in which Nick revealed that his mother was part French.