No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) (21 page)

He said, “You didn’t pay for it.”

Um, no kidding. Jim Bob pitched his head toward the manager ringing up a patron. No more than mid-twenties, he wore relaxed fit jeans and a navy short-sleeved polo, collar upturned, and untucked at the bottom. Preppy. VIP. Unfortunately, the keeper of my fate.

The manager ambled over to join us as Susan fished out her black American Express Centurion credit card. It wasn’t only unlimited, it put a whole new spin on the term “no boundaries.” You could buy a freaking third-world country on that card’s clout alone.

“Hello, I’m Susan Taylor,” she introduced herself, placing the card in his hand. “We were shopping when my
daughter
,” she tightly smiled, in my direction, “got distracted. We actually weren’t finished yet.”

I heard the cash register “cha-ching” in his head.

Susan Taylor had the gift of persuasion and could talk her way out of a jail sentence when she had 50 carats of stolen diamonds in her purse and the nuclear football under her arm. At the end of her two-minute montage, the manager was eating out of her hand.

“I didn’t try to steal it,” I mumbled as we took a place at the head of the line.

She found a smile but nonetheless said, “I believe you, but I’ll need an explanation.”

I unloaded it now. “I was running after Cisco Medina.”

The manager smiled pleasantly as Susan pitched a stack of long-sleeved, layering t-shirts and turtlenecks on the counter, along with some socks. “Who’s Cisco Medina?” the manager asked me. And that was the
real
problem.

I repeated the story to Lincoln, throwing in the part about Jim Bob and the panty-hating Sunni as comedic buffers. I’m not sure it provided entertainment. There was a brief lull in conversation, but that could’ve been the interlude where he rued the day he’d answered my call. He breathed deep, rehashing a blow-by-blow account to an extremely impatient Dylan. “Yes, son,” he repeated exasperated, “Darcy’s okay.” A long pause. “No, she didn’t find another head.”

If only I were that lucky
, I laughed to myself.

“What can we do, Lincoln?” I interrupted. “I need you to believe me. I know what I saw.”

Lincoln blew out an aggravated sigh. “Just because I’m quiet doesn’t mean I doubt what you’re saying. I’m merely thinking. Let me log into NCIC when I get back home.”

“NCIC?” I repeated.

“National Crime Information Center. It’s a nationwide computerized index that gives law enforcement access to tags, pawned items, drivers licenses, warrants—”

“Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera,” I interrupted.

“Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera,” he chuckled.

Lincoln explained that each state has their own database and feeds information into a nationwide system in case suspects cross state lines. It’s available to people like him in the field, but it requires FBI clearance to access it.

“When are you coming home?” I pushed. I wanted this done like yesterday, and the last thing we needed was for Cisco, at the spur of a moment, to jump the border.

“Don’t expect us until around midnight, but let me make a few phone calls.”

Huh, wonder what all they had planned?
Well, Darcy Walker
, I smiled to myself,
you have a full day planned, too
.

Number one was to crack the code into that database. Number two? Eat a beignet.

14. DIRE STRAITS

M
Y LEGS WERE CROSSED, SITTING
in the Lotus position in the middle of Dylan’s room. I prayed for patience but was denied. I was tired of passing emails back and forth, and regardless of the consequences, it was time to chat voice-to-voice with Mr.
troyoncrime
himself.

Anonymity be damned.

Or darned … I hoped that wasn’t cursing.

I punched in his number and waited … nothing but voicemail.

Ten minutes ago, Herbie phoned to say a bank representative informed him that Fix It, Incorporated was, in fact, one of the PI firms on his monthly statement. God love him, he didn’t ask if anyone else was listed, but I decided to cut my losses and leave that part of the equation to Troy. A quick scan of the phonebook did actually legitimize Livingston & Associates (who Gertrude said Howie worked for), but a telephone call only produced an automated message.

Who knew, maybe they were at “Howie the head’s” funeral.

Do you send flowers to stuff like that?

“Troy, it’s Jester,” I said. “Did you have any luck on the private investigative firms? I’m working an angle here,” sort of, “and that information will be invaluable. And guess what,” I paused, “I believe Cisco Medina is still in town.”

I think that covered all the bases. Disconnecting, I quickly changed the voicemail on my iPhone to,
Jester’s not in the house. Please, leave a message after the beep.
Then I recorded my own idiotic beep merely because I couldn’t help myself.

“Dire straits” and I were thicker than thieves, and patience had never been one of my virtues. Heck, I didn’t have any virtues, period! But sitting idly by didn’t gel well with my hyperactive tendencies. Where I’d planned to crack the NCIC database, finding a free moment was tantamount to getting lost in New York City during rush hour. Everyone was up everybody’s muffler all day, and short of taking my laptop to the bathroom with me, that idea remained wishful thinking.

I leaned forward thinking fifty push-ups might exorcise the fidgets from my body. After completing 25 in the army position, I started 26 cricket-style with my elbows pressed tightly to my side.

“Knock, knock,” someone said, rapping the door with their knuckles. Glancing up, I saw none other than Kyd Knoblecker. “Zander told me you were here,” he grinned.

Awwwww, and Zander’s days would be numbered like the dodo bird if Dylan discovered the mutiny.

I squeezed out a smile, resuming a count.

Kyd kicked off his flip-flops sidling closer, obviously thinking he’d get some real face time. Maybe that’s what I needed. Kyd
was
a psychiatrist … in a junior bridesmaid sort of way.

He swooped down, tickling his nose in the crook of my neck. I breathed deep. No one had
ever
been that close to my carotid artery other than Dylan, and Kyd acted like he was considering a bite. “What perfume are you wearing?” he growled.

“Dryer sheets,” I mumbled.

“Tasty,” he murmured.

Why did I attract
fast
ards? I’d jumped from Liam Woods to Kyd Knoblecker. Both were taken. And honestly? That was offensive. I should tell Kyd to hit the road—or bite my big, white booty—but I needed him … and by God, I guess I was a user.

Change the subject, Darcy.

“You’re friends with Hank, right?” I asked.

He propped his back against the bed, crossing his legs at the ankles, picking up the controller for Dylan’s Xbox 360. “Good friends.”

“What happened between him and his ex-wife?”

Kyd shot bad guys on Call of Duty Black Ops 2 as I slowly neared the forty mark. “Lola gambled a lot and basically blew through everything they both had. Hank’s job situation has always been shaky, so even though they had joint custody, guardianship to the grandparents was the route they took when Lola lost her rights. Hank can see him whenever he wants. So although it made him sad, he could deal. It’s a shame. I actually like both of them.”

Huh, I had no idea Kyd knew both parents.

I took a deep breath to finish out the last ten. “Where does she work?”

He gave me a shrug. “I don’t know. She’s great with numbers, and that’s what got her into trouble in the first place. Lola gambled with powerful people in town, and sometimes she gambled
for
them. That’s all I know.” No doubt, that led to her losing custody of Cisco, I surmised. The newspaper article claimed she placed him up as ante during a high stakes poker game. She was either grossly negligent or overly confident she could win him back.

Kyd laid down the controller as I finally tapped out at fifty, huffing and puffing, lying supine for a few seconds. After a few beats, I resumed the Lotus position and ripped open a bag of chocolate chip cookies, lying next to me. There was only one left, and in a bag of roughly thirty, that meant I’d polished off twenty-nine and somehow avoided a carbohydrate coma.

After the last bite, Kyd took my hand, his eyes growing heavy-lidded, flickering with what I thought was …
want
? Neh … couldn’t be. The boy had Mary-
I’m a freaking goddess-
Cartwright. That wasn’t even close to Darcy Winston Walker—yeah, my middle name was a cigarette—but flirting aside, he legitimately looked like he desired me. That little voice in my head that screamed “he’s a lying rat
fast
ard” couldn’t peel itself away from his face. Kyd’s sandy blond hair played a nice contrast to his golden tan. Dressed in an old white T and black athletic shorts, he was a card-carrying member of the jocks of the world. Sure, I was a mutual jock, but my brain spoke nothing but nerd.

He held my fingers to his lips, speaking into them. “Come here when you graduate. We can do University of Florida, Florida State, University of Miami,” he rattled off. When I tried to tear my fingers away, he narrowed his eyes, slightly tightening his grip. “Don’t pull away from me,” he begged in a whisper.

Verrrrrrrrrrrry interesting
.

For some reason, that felt like a veiled comment about Mary.

I withdrew my hand, wanting a love triangle like I wanted a punctured lung. “I’m a hometown girl, Kyd. Plus, college is probably out.”

He snorted, “You’re joking, right?”

“Ha-ha,” I lied.

“Then I’ll join you,” he said convincingly. “My parents are going nuts because I haven’t made a decision yet, and I should already be enrolled.”

I snorted, “You’d leave paradise and move to Cincinnati?”

Kyd took a deep breath, acting like a boy desperately in love. Focusing all of his energy on me, he scooted closer—so close that the heat radiated from his body like a Bunsen burner. “I expect I would go to Podunk, Alaska if you were going to be there.”

Podunk was out because I couldn’t leave Marjorie. I remember the shock when out-of-the-blue circumstances left me flying solo. It felt like I had an anchor around my neck while someone pushed me overboard.

Kyd dropped his eyes to my chest, his gaze tearing into me. Yup, he was a
fast
ard.
Fast
ard,
fast
ard,
fast
ard. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is it the, um, head?”

Not even close, perv
, I almost laughed.

Kyd was obviously still reeling from Howie. I’d successfully tucked him away in my
Things Not Meant to be Understood File
. Word on the street, though—according to Lincoln and his inside connections—claimed that Howie had gotten into trouble with gambling debts. I found it interesting that he and Lola had the same pastime.

My stomach started to pitch when Kyd kept pushing the issue. He said I appeared to be experiencing some serious post-traumatic stress and was in danger of snapping at some weird, inopportune time. Oh gosh, I
so
didn’t want to go there … not even in my subconscious. “Trust me, I’ve experienced worse than Howie,” I muttered, and I wasn’t referring to the dead man I found in the spring.

I was referring to my mother.

Kyd immediately got his shrink back on, drool dripping like a leaky valve. I wasn’t even pseudo-ready for this conversation and doubted I’d ever be.

Dylan had a putting green outside his room on the lawn. I grabbed a pair of balls and two putters from his closet and tossed one of each in Kyd’s direction. The testosterone in me needed to kick some serious gluteus maximus. Plus, I needed to break the hormonal mood and the walk down Horror Movie Lane I had no desire in resurrecting. Putting was generic enough, right?

We stepped outside the french doors, seeing who could get closest to the hole in one shot, eight feet out.

Kyd broke into a smile. “Ladies first,” he charmed.

I dropped the ball, lined it up, and sank it in one easy stroke. I stood back up with a cocky laugh. “Taking candy from a baby,” I bragged.

Kyd crossed one ankle over the other, balancing his weight on the club. “If I make this shot, you have to answer a personal question, same for me.”

“Okay,” I shrugged, but evidently he hadn’t learned the first time.

Kyd squatted down, taking a dominant eye’s view. He then stood aright, gripped the club, and followed through on a putt that did a quick 360 of the hole before it bounced inside with a
thunk
. “Do you love Taylor?” he asked, standing aright.

Dylan made me feel unconditionally and irreversibly loved—unfathomable and unsurpassed. There was no hesitation in my answer. “More than anything.”

His confidence deflated like a hot air balloon when you released its air. “Ten feet out this time,” he frowned.

I expelled a ferocious snort. “You’re stacking this in your favor, Kyd. I didn’t even get to ask a question when I scored the first time. If I sink this one, I get to ask two.”

Kyd said, “Sure.” The cocky gleam in his eyes wasn’t convinced I could make it, and frankly, I wasn’t so sure, either. Suddenly, my palms dripped with sweat because I didn’t know what he deemed personal. I bent over gripping the club, swung through, and watched the ball slowly travel to where it teetered at the edge and finally plopped in.