No Such Thing as a Lost Cause (15 page)

“Keep going, keep going, keep going,” I silently chanted.

Damn it.
Whoever was behind the wheel cut the engine. The car door opened and quickly closed,
and a shadow appeared at the gate.

“Oh, crap, it must be Donte!” screamed both Sensible and Compulsive Me in perfect
two-part harmony. They’d finally found something to agree on.

I scanned the barren back yard, but there was no place to hide.
How many times have I gotten myself into these situations, and when the hell would
I learn not to?
Both good questions, but they would have to wait. My mind went numb and autopilot
took over.

Turning back to the door, I was all set to hip check my way in, when I noticed someone
had already done the work for me. The lock had been jimmied. “That’s weird,” I thought,
only I didn’t have time for an in-depth analysis, as whoever had been in the car was
now squeezing through the gate.

I pushed my way into the apartment, figuring I’d leave by the front door, like in
some delightful, screwball comedy where the main characters keep
just
missing each other and hilarity ensues.

The door led into a small storage room. It had a weird smell, like bad BBQ. As warm
as it was outside, it was surprisingly cold in the apartment. It struck me as odd
that Donte would leave the air conditioning on, but I guess if he was about to be
indicted for murder, he wasn’t all that concerned about running up his electric bill.

I hauled ass out of the storage room and into the living room, dodging furniture in
the dark. My heart was three steps ahead of the rest of me, as I reached the front
door and lunged for the lock.
Christ on a stick.
It was a key-operated dead bolt with no key in sight.

The back door scraped open and the mystery man entered the apartment. His rubber soled
shoes squeaked as he moved across the linoleum floor.

Shit. Shit. Shit!

With ever-growing panic, I retreated from the front door and escaped into the kitchen,
scanning the room in search of a weapon. A vegetable peeler sat on the counter in
front of me.
If I ever get out of here alive, I could really use one of these things.
I scooped it up, wielding it like a shiv.

There were steps just off the kitchen that led to the basement. With any luck at all
there would be a basement door. The BBQ smell got stronger as I fumbled my way down
the cellar stairs. It filled my lungs with a sickeningly sweet, musky, yet, slightly
metallic stench, and I almost gagged as I felt my way across the pitch black room.

Overhead, footsteps hesitated at the entrance to the basement and, to my horror, began
descending the stairs. Frantic for a place to hide, I inched away from the bottom
of the staircase. Without warning, a beam of light illuminated the room. I sucked
in a breath and fell backwards, and crashed on top of something soft…and hard… and…oh,
Jesus…crispy.

My stomach roiled, and I screamed so loud it could have woken the dead guy I’d landed
on. At least I thought it was a guy. The skin was torched, and it flaked all over
me as I struggled to right myself.

Someone strode across the room and offered me a hand. I took it, allowing the person
to whom it belonged to help me up.

“Are you all right?” Kenzo asked; something he must’ve learned in a Social Skills
class. Etiquette did not come naturally to this guy.

“No, I’m not okay! I just gave a lap dance to a dead guy. A
cooked
dead guy. And what the hell are you doing here? You scared the crap out of me.”

My eyes slid downward to the guy on the floor. What was left of him looked familiar.
Bile worked its way up my esophagus. My skin got all clammy, and I was pretty sure
I’d wet my pants. I put my hand to my nose in a fruitless attempt to block the smell
of burnt flesh.

“I’ve got to get out of here.”

Unfazed, Kenzo took out his phone and punched in a number.

“Are you calling the cops?”

Mr. Personality ignored me and grunted into the phone. “You were right…yeah, she’s
right here. Oh, yeah, and she found a corpse.” He handed the phone to me.

“Hello?” I screeched, bordering on hysteria.

“Hello, Angel.”

“H-h-how did you know I was here?”

“I had a feeling when I told you Donte had probably left the state that you might
take it as an invitation to browse. So I asked Kenzo to swing by Lewis’ place, in
case I was wrong about him leaving the area.”

“Turns out I wasn’t the only one browsing, and you should see what Lewis did to this
guy. He burned him, Nick. He burned him bad.”

Santiago went quiet; the two of us sharing the unspoken thought that it could have
been me.

*****

Ten minutes later I stood alone on the street corner and waited for the police to
arrive. Kenzo had taken off the minute I punched in 911, mumbling something about
outstanding warrants and deportation.

“Hang tight, darlin’,” Nick had instructed me. “I’m on my way.”

“It’s really not necessary, Nick. The cops are rounding the corner as we speak,” I
lied. “Besides, this could take a while. Oh, they’re here. I’ll call you when I get
home.”

Before he had a chance to protest I hung up. Because the truth was I just couldn’t
face him.

I’d fucked up. Acted on impulse with no regard to my own safety or the ramifications
of my actions. How many times had my high school principal, Mrs. Marlowe, lectured
me with those exact words?

I thought I was getting better about this. Damn it, I
was
getting better. But sometimes opportunities presented themselves and I just couldn’t
seem to turn them down.

The worst part was Nick had predicted that I wouldn’t be able to control myself. So,
he quietly took care of it, without even a hint of judgment. It was one of the things
I loved most about him—his unconditional acceptance of me. Only, at that moment, I
felt like about four years old.

After what seemed like an eternity, a fleet of cop cars careened down the street and
descended on the crime scene, followed by an ambulance and two fire trucks. Bringing
up the rear was a van carrying a local news crew. The logo painted on the side said
W.I.N.N.

I didn’t recognize any of the cops, which was odd since, over the past year I’d had
ample opportunity to meet most of them. And, just my luck, the one that took my statement
was a stickler for details.

“So, let me get this straight,” Officer Picky said, five minutes into it. “You were
taking a walk, alone, at night…in this neighborhood?”

“Is it against the law?”

“No.”

“All right, then.”

“But entering someone’s house without their express permission is against the law.
How did that happen?”

Hmm…how did that happen?
When confronted with a question for which no good can come of a truthful answer,
it is best to have an alternate response ready to go. What’s even better is having
a somewhat plausible one. I had neither, so I decided to wing it.

“Okay, so like I was saying, I was walking by and I thought I smelled smoke.”

“I don’t smell smoke.”

“Are you going to let me tell this?”

Officer Picky did a magnificent head shake. “Please. Do.”

“I smelled smoke, so, naturally, I had to go check to see if anyone was asleep in
the house.”

“Naturally. So you jimmied the lock and let yourself in.”

“I didn’t jimmy the lock. It was already broken.”

“Ma’am, just admit you broke in.”

“I will not!” I stuffed my hands inside the pockets of my jeans and turned them inside
out. “I have no tools. What do you think I did? Pick the lock with my teeth? Besides,
I’m totally inept. Anyone will tell you that.”

He barked out a sound I can only describe as harrumph.

“Just go on,” he grunted.

I was really warming to my story when I got a shout-out from the news van.

“Yo, Alexander!”

The voice belonged to Ben Hyatt, the station’s hot shot reporter. Ben’s reputation
was fierce. Word had it he’d kill his own mother just to make sure he’d be first on
the scene when the news broke.

Hyatt sprinted over to me with Olympian speed. “What are you doing covering this story?
I heard you got canned.”

Ignoring Ben, I turned to the cop. “Could we be done now? I’ve told you all I know,
and I’m willing to come down to the station tomorrow. But right now, I just want to
go home.”

The cop nodded. “Don’t leave town,” he added and left me alone to deal with Hyatt.

“Oh, this is priceless,” Ben said, catching on. “You’re the woman who called in about
finding the body. Hey, you’re not thinking of breaking this story yourself, are you?”
He sidled up next to me, real chummy. “You give me an exclusive and I’ll pay you double
what the station would offer.”

I pretended to consider this.

“So? Do we have a deal?”

“Let me put it this way, Ben. Bite me.”

*****

The thought of going home to an empty house terrified me, and it was too late to pick
the dogs up from Paul’s. Besides, he’d find out about my adventure soon enough. No
use wrecking his night.

The idea of going to sleep was even less appealing. I knew what was in store the minute
I’d close my eyes, and I wasn’t all that anxious to revisit a char-broiled corpse
in my dreams. Plus, by morning the house would be swarming with reporters all wanting
to interview the freak that kept finding dead people.

The only place I could think of to go at this time of night was The South Street gym.
Open 24/7, it was a haven for hard-core jocks and insomniacs. During my adolescence,
I’d spent a good many nights holed up in my uncle’s office lamenting the fact that
“nobody understands me.” Frankie had a microwave, an unlimited supply of popcorn,
and a comfy couch. What more could a girl ask for.

Greg Piscitello, one of the night managers, let me into Frankie’s office. Greg’s known
me since I was fourteen, and I consider him an uncle of sorts.

“Rough night, honey?”

“Not too bad.” I shrugged. “Just needed an air-conditioned place to crash.”

Greg offered up a sympathetic smile. It said, ‘
I don’t believe you but I’ll respect your privacy
.’

“Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Greg. I will.”

*****

“Mom, was I dropped on my head as a baby?”

“Brandy, don’t be ridiculous. Why would I drop you on your head?”

I stood in my kitchen making breakfast, which was a real challenge considering about
all I had in the cupboard was a box of year-old Rye Crisp. Shifting the phone to my
other ear, I stuck a stale end slice of bread into the toaster.

“I don’t mean on purpose or anything. Just—y’know—by accident.”

It was the only logical explanation. Head trauma, suffered at an early age. Clearly
not my fault.

“Brandy, you’re not making any sense. It’s because you’ve got too much time on your
hands,” she decided. “I didn’t want to mention it, but your brother tells me you got
fired.”

I’m going to kill Paul.

“I wasn’t fired. The company needed to downsize. It happens all the time. Besides,
I’ve got plenty of other offers.”

Big mistake calling my parents. I just figured they’d be upset when they heard I’d
been involved in yet another catastrophe, so I’d reassure them I was fine. Turned
out, I needn’t have worried. Since they retired to Boca Rattan, my parents have lived
blissfully unaware of their only daughter’s daily drama. Which gave them ample time
to sweat the small stuff.

My dad saved me from having to list my phantom job opportunities by weighing in on
the subject. “Does she need any money?”

“Your father wants to know if you need any money.”

“Tell him I’m fine, but thanks.”

“She’s fine. She’s not fine,” my mom added in what she believed to be a whisper. Then
again, in Boca, where the median age is seventy, I suppose it was.

*****

“Remind me again why we’re doing this.” John stood, one leg poised on the first of
seventy-two stone steps leading to the east entrance of the Philadelphia Art Museum.
He was sweaty and flushed, and that was just from the walk from the parking lot.

“We’re doing this because I have to get in better shape.”

“And I’m here because?”

“Because we never get to hang out anymore, and you’ve missed me terribly.”

“I’m missing you less and less by the minute,” John grumbled. He hiked up his pants
exposing designer workout shoes. I recognized the brand as a favorite of sheiks and
other multi-billionaires.

“Jeez, John. Those shoes cost more than my mortgage.”

“And well worth every penny. The leather comes from real Himalayan yak.”

“Ha, ha. Good one!”

“What do you mean?”

Oh, crap. He was serious.

I pretended I didn’t hear him and scanned the broad expanse of stairs. The last time
I ran “The Rocky Steps” I was seven. Wow. I’d forgotten there were so damn many of
them. The top looked to be about a mile away.

“Um, shouldn’t we stretch first or something?”

“Nah.” John unhooked his hip flask from his belt loop, put it to his lips and chugged.
Mountain Spring water with added vitamins and minerals dribbled down his chin. “We
don’t want to sap our strength.”

“We’re not crossing the Sahara, y’know.”

“Suit yourself,” John shrugged. “At least one of us will be well hydrated.”

We started up the stairs. After about ten steps a group of elderly Japanese tourists
came up behind us. One of them had a walker. John and I paused to catch our breath—I
mean to tie our shoes—and they sprinted past us, humming
Eye of the Tiger.

“Show off’s,” John said. “The trick is to pace yourself.”

"Oh, totally.” I wondered how much longer I’d have to keep up the pretense that I
was going to make it to the top. My legs were beginning to cramp.

We hobbled up to the first plateau and surveyed the vista. Eakins Oval and The Benjamin
Franklin Parkway were spread out before us.