No Such Thing as a Free Lunch (No Such Thing As...: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (16 page)

The guard gave me the high sign to wrap it up, which I was only too happy to do. Harmon was leering at me like I was Playmate of the Month, and although deeply flattered I just couldn’t see us having a future together…
although I did still need a date for Paul’s bar mitzvah…

“Oh. One more thing,” I remembered. “Anthony Mitchell. Any idea what happened to him?”

Harmon shrugged. “Heard he came into some money and spent it all on blow. Maybe he dead. If I ever get out of here, he gonna be.”

I
t was lunch time so I stopped off at Barnes and Noble on Rittenhouse Square and headed up to their café. It was really convenient, seeing as it was
only
fifteen miles in the opposite direction of where I was going and, coincidentally, across the street from Nick’s apartment. Okay, so maybe I was hoping he’d be there picking up the latest issue of “Mercenary Weekly” and we could make out again.

I think it’s important to eat a balanced diet, so I ordered a mocha cappuccino (there’s milk in it, right? Milk is a protein) and a hunk of chocolate chip banana bread (fruit equals fiber). Then I ate the four Hershey’s Kisses I found in my coat pocket, because what’s lunch without dessert? And anyway, I needed the energy boost.

The thing is I still wasn’t sleeping. I’d thought that having my parents in the house would help, but it just made things worse. I’d woken them up the first night they arrived, screaming, “Someone’s trying to kill me.” My dad took it literally and ran into my room, minus pajamas and wielding a Star Wars plastic light saber he’d found in the back of Paul’s old bedroom closet. I didn’t want to risk a repeat performance, so last night I set my alarm to go off every hour so I’d wake up before I hit the dream stage of my sleep cycle. It wasn’t a very practical solution, as it took me half an hour each time to fall asleep again. But at least I didn’t have the added horror of seeing my dad in the buff.

I took a seat near the window and gazed across the ice covered branches of frozen trees to the apartment building across the street from the Square. Suddenly, the wrought iron security gate swung open and two figures emerged. One was female, about five foot eight. She was encased in tight, form fitting jeans and a three quarter length, dark leather coat, a stark contrast to her silken blond hair. Her companion was male, wearing faded jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt. Even from a distance I knew it was Nick.

My pulse zoomed into overdrive as I stood with my face pressed against the glass trying to get a better look. Suddenly, their arms were wrapped around each other’s necks and they were kissing. Apparently, they both had lungs of iron and saw no need to come up for air. My heart dropped into my stomach.

I have to stop them before they keel over from lack of oxygen
! I grabbed my cell phone and punched in Nick’s number. A split second later I came to my senses and slammed the phone shut. Too late. Nick heard the ringing and reached into his pocket for his phone. He flipped it open and checked “missed calls” on his caller I.D.
Oh Jeez. Now he knows it’s me.

I fully expected him to stick the phone back into his pocket and resume the lip lock. Instead, he began punching in numbers. A second later my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Angel.”

I felt really stupid and sad and I was struck with a sudden urge to start bawling my head off. I fought to keep it all under control. “Oh um, hi, Nick. Sorry… I didn’t mean to call you. I—I must’ve hit the wrong number.”

“Are you okay?” There was genuine concern in his voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry,” I said again and hung up. He called back immediately, but I didn’t trust myself not to blurt out something dumb, so I didn’t pick up.

A cab pulled up to the curb. Nick opened the door and the woman got in. He didn’t kiss her goodbye.

I called Janine on my way to the office. “Can you believe it? He was kissing her less than twenty-four hours after he kissed me.”

“Yeah, but you were kissing Nick less than twenty-four hours after you kissed Bobby. What’s the difference?”

I didn’t know, but I was sure there was one.

There are about two hundred websites that boast access to old phone records. I know because I spent the afternoon researching every blessed one of them. Most were defunct, some offered highly illegal services and the few legitimate sites I found were cost prohibitive on a cable news budget. I briefly entertained the thought of asking Nick to get the information I needed, but I couldn’t get past the thought of him and that woman. It’s one thing to know something intellectually. But seeing it with your own eyes is a whole other deal.

I finally went with “Insta-search,” a popular site for stalkers and other would-be felons. They faxed me the information in less than an hour.

I took out the notes I’d jotted down at the prison and checked for Harmon’s old phone number against the list of Laura’s outgoing calls. A third of the way down the page I spotted it. At 11:14 p.m. on the night of May 2
^nd
a two-minute phone call was made to Harmon’s number. It was reasonable to assume that Laura had made that call.
So at least Harmon was telling the truth about Laura calling him that night.
It didn’t prove much else, but it was a start.

I scanned down the list of numbers. There were relatively few calls on the page. It made me feel bad to think that Laura didn’t have anyone to talk to. Out of curiosity, I punched in the first phone number on the list. It was no longer in service. The second one connected me to the registrar’s office at Drexel University. I hung up and dialed the next number on the list.

After three rings a man’s voice answered. “Dante’s Garden where
every
night is Ladies’ Night. How can I help you?”

Dante’s Garden? As in the male strip joint?
I thought I’d dialed wrong so I hung up and tried again. I hadn’t dialed wrong.
What was Laura doing calling a place like this?
I quickly scanned the list. There were several more calls, all to the same number
.

“Oh. Um, hi,” I said into the phone. “What’s your address?”

Okay, the way I saw it, I didn’t have any choice. I’m an investigative reporter now. So if getting information on Laura meant spending time with hot, gorgeous naked guys gyrating around to cheesy music while women stuffed dollar bills into their jock straps, well that’s a sacrifice I’d just have to make. I hung up and called Franny, Janine and Carla because I knew they’d want to be there to support me every step of the way.

Craig came by my office at around three p.m. I’d just finished calling the local E.R.’s to inquire if anyone with a missing finger had come in for medical assistance. At the moment, said digit was residing in the mini fridge in Nick’s office. If I could find its rightful owner, maybe I could bargain body parts for answers.

Craig had come around to the other side of my desk. Now he was peering over my shoulder while I typed up my notes from my visit with David Dwayne.

“Um, did you need something?” I asked.

“Someone came by to see you,” he announced, never taking his eyes off my computer screen. “He’s a detective so the guards had to let him in.”

I shut down the screen. “Did he leave a name?”

“Uh huh. Detective DiCarlo. Are you in trouble?” he asked.

“Depends. When he asked where I was, what did you tell him?”

Craig shrugged. “I told him the truth. I didn’t know where you were.”

“Then no, I’m not in trouble.”

“He called you Brandy.”

“Who?”

“Detective DiCarlo. He said, ‘Tell Brandy to give me a call,’ like he knew you or something. But he called you the wrong name.”

“Oh. That. Listen, Craig, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you…”

I had one thing left to do before I left for the day. Something I’d been putting off all afternoon. In order to get the full picture of who Laura Stewart was, I had to talk to her family. This is the thing I hate most about being a reporter. The part where you track down innocent, grieving people, shove a microphone in their face and demand that they tell you how devastated they feel about whatever tragedy has befallen them.

I don’t mind sticking it to people who deserve it. In fact that’s why I wanted to be a reporter in the first place. To right the wrongs and be a voice for those who can’t speak for themselves. I know it sounds corny, but it’s true. But in this case, it meant dredging up horrible memories of the loss of a loved one. The only solace this family probably had was the knowledge that their daughter’s killer had been caught and would soon be put to death. And I was about to take that away from them. Somehow I didn’t think they’d welcome me with open arms.

I didn’t have the heart to confront Laura’s parents head-on. Instead, I looked through the Philadelphia phone directory for her half-brother, Ethan. According to the old newspaper clippings, his last name was Girard. At the time of Laura’s murder he was an intern at Childrens’ Hospital. I found a listing for an obstetrician named Dr. Ethan Girard out in Bryn Mawr and put through a call.

Dr. Girard’s receptionist answered and informed me that he was with a patient.

“Would you like to make an appointment?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. I thought it best to meet with him in person. I figured he’d be less likely to turn me down if I were already sitting in his office, than if I just explained to him what I wanted over the phone.

“Is this for an existing patient?” she chirped. If Tinker Bell could speak I imagined she would sound just like this woman.

“No, actually I’d just like to interview Dr. Girard.”

She didn’t seem surprised by my request. I guess with Harmon’s execution set for next month, I wasn’t the only reporter looking to speak to the victim’s brother.

“Interviews are scheduled on Monday and Thursday mornings,” she explained, confirming my suspicions. “Doctor Girard has a cancellation for this coming Monday at 10:30 a.m. if that’s convenient for you.”

I booked the appointment, relieved that I had the weekend to gear up for the interview.

“See you then and congratulations!” she added sweetly.

“For what?” I asked, but she had already hung up.

“Wow.” Carla leaned forward on the table, her arm outstretched so far I thought it would pop right out of its socket. Frantically, she waved a five dollar bill in the air as if she were hailing a cab. Only it wasn’t a cab she was hailing. It was a guy. A bare-chested, bare-assed hunk of human male perfection. And he was headed our way.

We were seated at one of the side tables located right off the stage at Dante’s Garden. I’d opted for a seat towards the back, preferably in a dark corner near the exit. But Janine had insisted on up close and personal. Franny, Janine and Carla were whooping it up alongside dozens of other uninhibited females and one lone guy who kept pantomiming a phone to his ear and mouthing “Call me” to all the male strippers.

Carla was tanked on rum and coke, her beehive listing like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Zeroing in on her, the dancer reached the edge of the stage and air humped to the beat of the music, his considerable attributes dangling above her. Carla’s eyes began to widen in either terror or anticipation, I really couldn’t tell which. Then without warning she jumped to her feet and rushed the stage.

“Don’t tell your uncle,” she yelled, ripping open her shirt and stuffing the fiver into her bra. He leaned down to meet her and plucked it out with his teeth. The crowd went wild. I slid under the table, (my natural response to anything embarrassing) and stayed there until he headed back upstage.

What I really wanted to do was slug down a straight shot of bourbon, but I was working and needed to sound at least a little bit coherent when I talked to the club manager. I couldn’t stop thinking about Nick and it didn’t help that he’d called again. I ignored the call. I knew I was being childish, but I was never going to win any prizes for maturity anyway.

At 11:00 p.m. I took a bathroom break and then wandered over to the bar. Joe Allen, the manager was there. He was a short, burly man in his late fifties. At the moment he was wrestling a drink out of a very drunk patron’s hand. “You’ve had enough for one night, honey.” He nodded to the bartender. “Take some money out of petty cash and call her a cab.”

I waited while Joe turned the woman over to the bouncer and then went up and introduced myself.

He smiled at me. “Hey, I know you,” he said. “You’re Brandy Alexander from that morning show. Are you doing a piece on the club?” He looked around. “Where are the cameras? Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. What do you want, doll?”

I liked Joe. He reminded me of my Uncle Marty on my father’s side of the family. I smiled back at him. “I’m fine with this,” I said, holding up my Coke. “But I would like to talk to you if you’ve got a minute.”

We went into Joe’s office where I took out Laura’s picture and showed it to him.

“Do you recognize her?” I asked.

Joe stared at it, scratching his head. “Yeah. She looks familiar. I can’t put my finger on why though.”

“Her name was Laura Stewart. She was murdered about four years ago. Maybe you saw her picture in the paper?”

“Maybe.” After a minute he shook his head. “Nah, that’s not it. Wait.
Now
I remember. She used to be a regular here. You say she was murdered?”

I nodded.

“I’m not surprised. This chic was a real weirdo. She’d come in about two, three times a week. She was always alone. She’d sit over there in the corner of the bar, not talking to anyone. It was kind of spooky. Reason I remember her is she used to call here before she came in to make sure this one particular dancer would be here that night. She’d even asked for his phone number so she could call him directly, but we don’t give out personal information on our boys. I figured if he wanted her to have it, he’d have given it to her. Danny used to say she had some strange tastes, if you catch my drift.”

“Who’s Danny?”

“Danny Lang. The guy she used to come see perform.”