No Such Thing as a Lost Cause (28 page)

My brain was on overload, so I went into Nick’s bedroom and crawled into bed. I lay
on my back and did some controlled breathing exercises, which might have worked, except
that Nick’s scent lingered on the pillow case. With every deep breath I took, I was
reminded of just what I was missing.

After a minute or so of tossing and turning, I gave up and grabbed a pen and pad of
paper out of the drawer. If I wasn’t going to relax, I might as well make good use
of my time. Bobby always told me that the most important thing in an investigation
is to look for connections among seemingly random facts. So, what were the facts?
I began to write.

Donte and Mario Lewis, both card carrying members of The Junk Town Gang, dabbled in
dog fighting. Mario, Donte, and Calvin Doyle, along with a flame- throwing guy named,
appropriately enough, Torch, were in some undisclosed business together. Cal and Donte
were afraid their boss would find out about Mario screwing up, so they killed Mario.
Now, Calvin is dead and Donte Lewis is missing. No word on the pyromaniac, Torch.

I made a side note. Did Lewis and Torch kill Calvin? If so, why? Deal gone wrong?
And where the hell were they now?

Moving along. Wade Stoller tried to hide his association with Calvin Doyle. Plus,
he must have had a vested interest in the Mario Lewis incident. Why else would he
watch that video over and over? Could Stoller be the boss Lewis and Doyle were so
afraid of? And if so, what was his game?

All I had was a gut feeling and a thirty second youtube clip, so I didn’t rush to
talk it over with the police. My intuition would be a hard sell to those assigned
to the case. Especially after the Claire Dobbs debacle.

Somewhere in the middle of perusing Stoller’s client list I fell asleep. When I awoke
two hours later the sun had already gone down. But even in the darkness, I knew I
wasn’t alone.

My brain was set to auto-panic, but as I breathed in, all I felt was a sense of joy
and well being. My heart did a happy dance and I rolled over into Nick’s arms.

“When did you get back?”

“About an hour ago. You were dead to the world, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep. Just resting my eyes.”

“You were sleeping.” Nick brushed my bangs away from my face. “You hate feeling vulnerable,
don’t you?” he said, softly. It wasn’t an accusation, just an observation, and I was
grateful that he knew me so well.

I snuggled in closer. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” He got up and stripped off his clothes and climbed back into
bed. I laid my head on his bare chest and listened as his breathing began to quicken.

“So, how’d things go in…uh, where’d you say you went again?”

In response he slid his hand under my shirt and slipped his tongue in my mouth.

“That’s not an answer,” I said, although it was a spectacular diversionary tactic.

“Will it do for now?”

“For now,” I agreed, because even as I pressed for details, those age-old words of
wisdom rattled around in my mind.
Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.

I untangled myself from his arms and walked over to the curtains and let the moonlight
stream in. Nick’s clothes lay in a pile on the floor in the corner of the room. They
smelled of dirt, and secret, exotic locations, and I was gripped by a pang of fear
that was washed away the moment he reached for me again.

Later, we sat at the bar in his kitchen, and I watched while he whipped up dinner;
linguine with mussels and a radicchio salad.

“Open,” he commanded, and pressed a spoonful of buttery, garlic flavored broth to
my lips.

“Oh, my God. This is fantastic.” I took the spoon from him and helped myself to more.
“Seriously, is there anything you can’t do?”

“Actually, there are quite a few things, Angel.”

“Name one.”

Nick’s smile flickered. “I noticed there wasn’t a lot of food in the apartment,” he
said, deftly changing the subject. “Just what were you eating while I was away?”

“Stuff.” Mostly dessert, but if Nick could keep secrets, I could, too.

“Touche.” He smiled again and handed me a long handled wooden fork. “Dinner’s almost
ready. Would you mind testing the linguine for me?”

I plunged the fork in the pot and stirred it around a bit and then scooped up some
pasta. Years ago, my mother, a notoriously bad cook, (a fact that flies in the face
of her Italian heritage) told me that if I threw the noodles against the wall and
they stuck it was ready to eat. After years of overcooked pasta that tasted like Elmer’s
Glue, I came up with my own method to test for doneness. Pop a strand into my mouth
and chew. If it doesn’t break a tooth, it’s good to go.

Over dinner, I filled Nick in on my trip to K-Nine Security. “Aside from the fact
that I got caught red-handed, I think it went pretty well.”

“You got out alive. That’s always a plus.”

“True. Anyway, for the sake of argument, let’s assume that Stoller is running some
kind of illegal operation. He meets Calvin Doyle, they get to talking, and Stoller
ends up hiring Doyle to help him with whatever it is he’s doing. ”

“Doyle knows Donte Lewis from the hospital. He brings Donte on board, and through
him, Mario and Torch.”

“Right. Now, whether Stoller knew about the other guys is a moot point. The main thing
is Mario fucks up, so they kill him before Stoller finds out. Except, they didn’t
bargain on that video going viral. Stoller sees it and realizes that Cal got him involved
with a bunch of incompetents.” I stabbed a clam off my plate and popped it into my
mouth.

“Sounds plausible,” Nick mused. “But it doesn’t explain how Doyle’s charred body ended
up in Donte Lewis’ basement.”

“I’m working on it,” I said and made a mental note to hound Mike again.

“By the way,” Nick said, “I got some information on the illusive Mr. Torch.” He paused.
“Maybe we should have this discussion after dinner.”

You would think all that talk of charred bodies would dampen my appetite. Sadly, it
did not. I took another helping, because, honestly, I didn’t know when I’d eat so
well again. “Nah, I’m good. So, what did you find out?”

Nick reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet and handed me a piece of
paper. I unfolded it and shuddered. It was a copy of Torch’s mug shot. One of many,
I surmised. I stared hard at the smug smile and eerily vacant eyes.
So this is what it looks like to be born without a soul.

“His real name is Reginald Harwinton,” Nick told me. “By all accounts, he’s seriously
disturbed. He spent a couple of years upstate in the psych ward of a maximum security
prison for, among other things, setting fire to a dog. Even his Junk Town brethren
are afraid of him. He operates on his own quite a bit. Doesn’t show particular loyalty
to the gang, but he’s always there when something fun goes down. If anything needs
to be tortured, Reggie’s your man—which, by the way, is where his nickname originally
came from. The blowtorch was a later addition. The word is he’d do anything on a bet
or for a buck.”

Putting a face to the name was more than I could stand. I folded the picture up and
tossed it on the counter.

“What’s wrong, Angel?”

“I feel so out of control.”

Nick slid off the bar stool and wrapped his arms around me. “I know you do, Darlin.’
You want your life back. And since that’s not possible right now, you’re putting all
your energy into solving other people’s problems. What do you say we put all this
aside, just for tonight? I have something that might make you feel better.”

He reached into the cabinet and took out a box of TASTYKAKES.

“Hey,” I said, lighting up. “They weren’t there this afternoon.”

“I picked them up for you on the way home, today.”

“I guess it would be pointless to ask on your way home from where.” The words came
out with an unintended edge. I averted my eyes from his gaze and opened the box. “Thank
you for getting them for me.” I unwrapped two and ate them and washed them down with
some wine.

“Okay,” I decided, after a healthy slug of Pinot Grigio. (I don’t even like wine,
but I’m trying to class up my palette a bit.) “We’re going to play a modified version
of Twenty Questions. I’m going to ask you some questions and you can only answer with
a yes or no. But it has to be the truth. It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”

Nick drained his wine glass and set it on the coffee table. “I think we may have different
ideas of what constitutes fun. I’ll answer three. So choose carefully.”

“First question. Whatever you were doing when you went away, were you in danger?”

He looked at me steadily. “Yes.”

“Was it legal?”

“Maybe.”

“Yes or no only.”

“Then, no.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Enough to trust me with your secrets?”

“That was four questions, Angel. Game over.”

“Are you avoiding Bobby?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Did he say I was avoiding him? Because I’m not.”

Fran snickered softly into the phone. “So, how come you’re avoiding him?”

It was mid morning, and traffic was backed up all the way to City Hall. I was on my
way to Sherese’s house. I would have called first, but I didn’t know her phone number.
Plus, I wasn’t entirely sure she would speak to me. The last time I’d seen her, we’d
parted on a semi-friendly note, but that could change in a heartbeat.

“Look,” I said and swung wide to avoid a bicyclist, “I am a very busy person, Fran.
What with butting into other people’s business, feeding my neurotic impulses, dwelling
on all the mistakes I’ve made, both personal
and
professional—not to mention a week’s worth of
King of Queens
reruns to catch up on, I don’t have time to think about Bobby.”

“Yeah, okay. So, what did he do to piss you off?”

“I saw him kissing his new girlfriend in DiVinci’s parking lot.”

“I can’t believe it. The man should be horse whipped.”

“Sarcasm noted and appreciated. Believe me, I know how dumb this is, and I’m working
on it.”

“Good, because Eddie’s birthday’s coming up, and I was thinking of having a party
for him. But I’ll limit the guest list to just the gang and no extras if it’s too
awkward for you.” Extras, meaning Lauren, who I couldn’t help but like, (damn it)
and Garret, the poster boy for
hipster dufus.

And then there was Nick, which brought up a whole other set of worries. After my not
so subtle attempt to get him to open up, things felt a bit strained between us.

“I don’t mean to shut you out, Angel,” he’d explained, afterwards. “But trust doesn’t
come naturally to me. I don’t know that it ever will.”

“I get it,” I’d told him.
I hate it, but I get it.

“Invite whoever you want, hon. I’ll deal. Unh. I just missed my turn.” I hung a quick
u-ie and headed back the other way. Someone honked. Obviously, he was driving too
fast. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have appeared like I’d cut him off. I rolled down my
window. “Yo, chooch. Learn to drive.”

“Go pay attention to the road,” Fran said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Good idea. Love you, Franny.”

“Love you, too.”

The scenery began to change at around Randolph and Erie. I rolled up my window and
turned on the air, mostly to rid the car of the oppressive stench of broken dreams.
Crack House Alley was to my right. I turned left at Junk Town and drove a couple more
blocks to Garland.

I parked in front of the Rogers’ house and walked across the street. Sherese’s door
was shut and the curtains drawn. I didn’t relish re-entering the garbage heap she
called home, but I had more questions and I was counting on her for the answers.

Avoiding the broken step on the porch, I went up to the door and gave a tentative
knock. Inside, the TV blared. I knocked louder. Presently, the curtain moved and Sherese’s
little girl appeared at the window.

“Mama, there’s a lady at the door.”

“Get away from the window, Ayana.”

“Sherese,” I called out. “It’s Brandy Alexander. I’d like to talk to you.”

The curtain opened a bit wider, and I stepped back so that she could get a look at
me. It swung closed again, and a few seconds later the front door opened.

Sherese stood in the entryway, her toddler son peering out from between her legs.

“What you want?” There was no hostility in her voice, only curiosity. Something else
was different about her, this time, too. She was sober.

“Look, can I come in?”

While she didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms, she stepped aside to let me enter.
My eyes automatically darted around the living room. Something was different. Where
did all the dirty dishes go? And the place smelled…good. Like Pine Sol Disinfectant…or,
the equally effective but economically cheaper generic brand. In the corner sat the
hobby horse and one of the books I’d picked out for the kids.

Ayana stared at me with wide, unblinking eyes.

“Ayana,” Sherese instructed, “take your brother into the bedroom and try to get him
down for a nap, okay, baby girl?”

“No nap.” The little boy screamed.

Ayana took him by the hand and coaxed him out of the room with promises of candy.

“You wanna sit down?” Sherese shoved a blanket off the sofa and cleared a space for
me.

“Thanks.” I sat on the edge of the sofa and began. “The reason I’m here is—and I don’t
mean to stir up painful memories for you, but I’d like to ask you some questions about
Calvin Doyle.”

“Why? It’s not gonna bring him back.”

“Okay, this is the thing. The cops believe Calvin was killed over a drug deal gone
wrong. I’m not privy to what all they’re basing this on. I do know that Donte’s back
door had been broken into. Maybe Cal surprised him and they got into a fight, and…well,
you know the rest. The point is Donte is their number one suspect. Well, him and some
psycho named Reginald Harwinton.”