100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) Read online

  “Hmmm,” she said. “Next time someone destroys your Miracle Bra in a fit of passion make sure you have a ring on your finger, baby.”

  And that was the extent of my good girl lecture for the night. “Please tell me you didn’t tell Rookie,” she grimaced.

  “I thought better of it,” I answered.

  She nodded, relieved. “Listen, baby. I respect why you found yourself in this situation, but if you’re going to continue to fight the good fight and go all guardian angel on the masses, then make sure you’re in the company of your best friend.”

  “Point taken.”

  With a sigh, she threw a file on her desk and out popped the photograph of the guy Tito faxed over Saturday night. Same greasy hair, same deep-set eyes, one eye lower than the other.

  It was a miracle…nothing short of Jesus walking on water.

  I spit out, “Who’s the guy?”

  Red was one of those people that her Christmas cheer spilled over onto everyone else. But not with this case; her face leaked radioactive byproducts. We briefly went over what’d happened to Tito (I acted unaware) with Red pointing out that next year was election year. What I knew from election year is that you’d better have your ducks—or cases—all lined up in a row, solved, and ready for the archives.

  “Cookie Harper-Stark needs to solve this case,” she murmured. “If she doesn’t, her career’s over. I want it to be over, but I’m afraid if she doesn’t solve it, then Rookie’s good heart will find her a job here. And I find it odd she won’t speak to Tito—who is directly involved as a victim—and there’s only one reason that makes sense. She’s stalling. She’s stalling even though her district needs it solved. And that, my dear, is simply because she wants help from Rookie. I love that about him, and I hate that about him. Anyone else,” she shrugged, “I wouldn’t care, but Cookie,” she sneered, “wants my husband.” I raised a brow. “Well, he’s not really my husband,” she amended, “but Cookie can’t have what’s mine.”

  “It’s not only Cookie who wants him,” I sort of smiled. “He just met up with someone else.”

  Red narrowed her eyes, all judicious. “Who?” she demanded.

  I picked at my nails, propping my feet on her desk, crossing them at the ankles. “Shoshanna,” I said quietly.

  She slammed a fist on the folder. “Ah, hell to the no, no, no!! That’s the little pipsqueak, Jewish princess of his dreams!” she spat, marking the words with venom. She frantically picked up her phone, dialing her ex-husband’s number.

  No answer. Went to voice mail.

  Two more times…voicemail again.

  “Apparently, I’m going to have to act like I still love him,” she grumbled.

  “You do,” I reminded her with a grin.

  “Shepard,” she seethed, calling him by his first name, deciding to leave a message. “Answer your phone before I ram your yarmulke up your ass.” I snorted so loud I slammed my hand over my mouth. “Watch this baby,” she winked. She held up her fingers, counting down the seconds. “Five, four, three, two, one…”

  He never called back. But she didn’t look angry.

  “Okay,” she muttered to herself. “I’ve really upset him.” I caught up on Dumb Ways to Die on my iPhone as she punched in his number again, her face saying she’d go for a softer approach. “Rookie, baby,” she begged tenderly. “Pick up. I’m sorry.” She held up a hand again but got nothing but voicemail. She now looked one step from going postal and shooting up the place. “What an ass,” she mumbled, dialing yet again. “God, you’ve got to help me here,” she added with a begging look to the ceiling. She pushed away from the desk and paced over to the window, flipping the blinds back to peer outside. “Shepard, I’m standing here half naked, prepared to show you how sorry I am, but if you don’t pick up the phone, I quit!”

  After some bone-chilling silence, the phone rang. “That always works,” she laughed.

  Trouble was, it didn’t…

  Murphy was on the line, wondering when I was coming home to do the homework he was “gosh-danged certain I had.” Before we knew it, thirty minutes melted by, and Rookie was so MIA, Red thought it was issue-an-APB time.

  She had her elbows resting on her knees, one hand clutching her cell, the other worshiping a Dr. Pepper like it was the last cup of water on Earth. I told her to stop dialing because it made her look desperate, immature, and like a teenage stalker. When she heeded my words, I used the time to pick her brain.

  “Who is he?” I asked, nodding to the faxed photograph of whom I referred to as Motor Oil Hair.

  Red went back in lawyer-mode. She sat down on the leather couch across from me, pulling on her three-inch black leather boots that made her well over six feet tall. She was frustrated and broke a nail yanking the zipper up too fast. “This kid is called The Ghost,” she sighed, deciding to bite the hanging nail off. “If I had a name, then we could simply tail him and find out who he’s associated with and what all he was up to. Tito’s source,” she said soberly, “swears this kid is the identity thief on your side of town. But Tito’s source didn’t give us a name. Only a picture. We have a few good cops looking out, and normally I don’t get involved, but I need this done. If I can get it done, then Cookie will be out of Rookie’s life and my nightmares.”

  “Are these cops good?”

  Ask and ye shall receive because she answered, “Not as good as Tito. You ought to read the stack of notes he gave me.”

  You know what, I intended to. I tried to look innocent, but the nosy part of me chomped at the bit. “Like what?”

  “The Ghost has some distinguishable characteristics.”

  “Such as?” I asked again.

  “He cracks his knuckles non-stop and has to hold something in his hands at all times. He licks it and stuff,” she shuddered. I burst out laughing. “Yeah,” she groaned. “That really sets him apart, doesn’t it? How in the world can’t you identify the scum of the earth who makes-out with things other than people? These guys all crawl out of the same holes. Someone either isn’t looking down the right hole, or the guy truly is a ghost. Evidently, he’s in and out like the wind. The things you’ve been involved in before pale in comparison to this guy’s setup.”

  She referred to me solving who murdered the body I found in a dumpster and helping find the kidnapped Cisco Medina last summer.

  “All of that was child’s play if this guy is as evil as we think,” she explained.

  “How evil?” I asked confused. “He steals identities, Red. Granted that’s bad if you’re the vict—”

  She cut me off. “From what we suspect, murder is in his background. I have two bodies that fit the personality profile of Tito. People that tried to find this guy and wound up dead. The medical examiner claims a bullet killed both men, but both had also been stabbed long after their heart stopped beating. So we’ve got a killer who likes to use his hands, who more than likely enjoys a little bit of torture. Those kind bother me the most. And baby, we both know murderers are bad. Smart murderers, the worst.”

  I barely had enough headspace for identity theft…add a murderer, and my brain was almost tapped out. “Does he go to my school?” I pushed.

  She didn’t directly answer or issue a denial; she directed the questioning back to me. Smart woman; she knew what I’d do if I had more information, but Tito had already told me he was a teenager, and Valley High was the only high school in Mack County.

  “Does he look familiar?” she inquired.

  “Never seen him before,” I lied, “and if I don’t know someone personally, I at least recognize the face.” Finn had truly worked a miracle today. He’d provided the names of who was tardy on the day Coach’s car had been painted, plus he printed a list of who’d been in detention—not one year, but two years out—all with their student ID photographs, class schedules, and
home addresses. Coffee Blot Boy—what I’d nicknamed the guy in Coach’s file—did not appear to be in the photographs, but granted, he’d been beaten to a pulp in his picture. What was interesting, however, was that Motor Oil Hair (Tito’s faxed photograph) looked an awful lot like a guy named Brantley McCoy.

  A guy who was mysteriously unaccounted for when I combed through the past six years of school yearbooks.

  “Cookie is going to post a reward,” she explained.

  I licked my lips.

  She shoved his picture back into the file, and my guess was that’s all Cookie would get from Red’s energy reserves tonight.

  Red recited the reasons for all four divorces, clearly rattled. I nodded, riding her downward spiral into despair, trying to sympathize and rationalize her actions. While she paced the floor, erasing the contents of her dry-erase board, I succumbed to temptation and dumped the file’s contents into my black Coach tote bag, Hanukkah gift number two. You had to give it to Rookie; he sure as heck could give good gifts. I’d never be able to purchase a Coach bag and had always settled for some pleather knockoff.

  There was a good, solid knock at the door. We both looked up at the brass clock hanging from a wall. Eight o’clock.

  Red yelled, “Come in if you have dinner because I’m famished.” I thought that to be a little dangerous, but hey, who was I? It could be anyone at this time of night, a crazed custodian or heck, an out-on-parole felon with a pizza.

  But in walked Rookie, a ballsy move perhaps, because Red was hungry and the look on her face said Rookie was food. He carried a takeout bag from Izzy’s, a homegrown restaurant that specializes in corned beef Reubens with sauerkraut and swiss cheese on rye. Red’s favorite, I smiled to myself.

  Anger—that morphed into an even deeper despair—washed over her, followed by an instant relief he was present. Still, she fumed, “Why didn’t you answer my calls?” He stared. Not dignifying it with a response. Only Red would get upset Rookie didn’t answer her call but instead graced her with an in-person visit. “Answer me,” she demanded. She was stuck in attorneytown.

  Rookie gave her a benign smile as if she had no effect on him whatsoever. He leisurely removed his jacket and pitched it to the leather couch, pausing to wink and make eye contact with me. After the unspoken niceties, he turned to her. “Drop the cold-shoulder, Tabitha. Remember who signs your paycheck.”

  It was game-over, lights-are-down-on-Broadway stuff going on in his eyes.

  They truly were a romantic comedy: girl meets boy, girls loses boy, girl gets boy back and apologizes for her stupidity. If I had a car, I’d be out of here. Intimacy sometimes made me uneasy. I’m not sure why. Maybe it represented a familial unit, or maybe it represented something missing in my personal life.

  “Don’t mind me,” I muttered. Rookie gave half a nod because Red now had both her arms wrapped tightly around his waist as he pulled the ivory ponytail holder out of her hair. She even shook her fake blonde tresses out like women do in shampoo commercials.

  One of life’s little mysteries, I sighed.

  Fishing my phone from my back pocket, when my thumb hovered over Dylan’s speed dial, Finn’s words rang ominously. I did call him when I needed a hug. Well, everyone deserved a dumb day; unfortunately, I had more than the average person. “Hey, Darc,” he answered before I even said anything. “Dad and I stopped by to check on you, but Murphy said you were with Rookie. I’ve missed your face, and I’m still tortured by what happened. I died a little inside this afternoon,” he exhaled.

  “Don’t worry, D. It’s just another day in Darcyville: rated-NC-17 for violence, raunchy humor, and indecipherable language.”

  “I just worry,” he sighed. “Tell me you’re fine.”

  Now I am, I thought, but I wasn’t good for him. My life had an expiration date…one I knew instinctively was about to shorten even more.

  It is thought a disgrace to love unrequited. But the great will see that true love cannot be unrequited.

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  10. Poetic Justice

  Red’s file contained more juicy tidbits than bathroom recaps of Jagger’s infidelity.

  Inside, I discovered general information that helped to paint a clearer picture. Other than stealing your purse or wallet outright, some identity thieves discovered your card’s password by doing something called “shoulder surfing.” They’d stand too close in the checkout line and watch you input your password. Then, when the time was right, they’d discreetly nab your purse or wallet. A man dialed 911 that this exact thing happened to him by a “scumbag teenager” at the self-checkout line at Walmart. When he went Lone Ranger on the teen, the teen bolted and the man went rage crazy, continuing pursuit. Thing was, the man was found dead a week later. Gunshot and stab wounds. The coroner estimated he’d been dead for some time, so a good chance existed he died on the day of the confrontation. During the time he was missing, the thief emptied the man’s bank account over a series of four days.

  If that sounded hairy, try this next case on for size. A man had his mail delivered to two locations: office and home. Someone intercepted a credit card that the bank had sent him when his old one was about to expire, activated it, and had several thousand dollars charged to his name. Last thing heard from the victim was that he knew “exactly who the effer was” and attempted to bloodhound him out. Er, it didn’t go well. He was found with a screwdriver to the chest under one of Cincinnati’s overpasses. A bullet was also dug out of his gut. Authorities interviewed everyone in his office but walked away with no leads.

  And like Red had said, both bodies had been “stabbed” before shot—almost like the perpetrator wanted to play with the victim, grew tired of him, and ended it with a bullet. The real friendly type.

  Once finished, I flipped on Murphy’s printer and copied the contents of Red’s file. Then I placed the originals in a FedEx overnight envelope Murphy had on hand and marked it for delivery tomorrow. My note to Red? Oops. I’d cover my lack of creativity later if it came back to bite me.

  It felt crazy to put all my eggs in one basket with detention because it’d either end with answers, or I’d be SOL and back to square one. There was no choice but to embrace it and cross my fingers those on my hypothetical payroll would uncover something useful. What I didn’t expect was for the payroll to include Bean. I’d given him the assignment of contacting Owen Lancaster and Wyatt Brown—the two Coach mentioned might nurse a grudge—thinking it would be futile and sate his OCD tendencies for days. Shock of all shockers, he called last night, job done. Owen Lancaster reportedly “cried like a girl” he’d even been considered, and Wyatt Brown set up a play-date to watch The Lord of the Rings Trilogy.

  And Coach thought them the culprits? I couldn’t help but laugh.

  Maybe if he was a hobbit hater…

  It was hump day. Bean had followed me to each of my classes and now stood in the lunch line, whispering about our next move. “I’ve been thinking all night about Coach’s car,” he whispered, “but nothing is popping into my head yet.”

  I looked at Bean. I was surprised anything ever popped in his head. His hair had been severely parted on the left side, matted down with so much gel you could see the air bubbles on his head. Today he’d dressed in all gray. Gray oxford buttoned to his chin, gray cotton drawstring pants. Gray canvas Keds.

  God love him, he got weirder and weirder.

  I wasn’t particularly hungry, and my gut told me—short of churros on the menu—to save the calories. Why? Mystery meat was on the menu. You could tell by the smell. The key to survival was looking the other way. Or pizza.

  As Bean and I merged into the pizza line, I halfway carried on a conversation with Rudi and Justice Becker in front of me. Justice was my jock soulmate. Like me, she had broad shoulders, a gift for putting her foot in her mouth, and big lips. She was biracial, about
six feet tall with auburn-colored hair, and dark chocolate eyes. Also like me, she was the quintessential wallflower. Regarding Justice, it frankly would take an overly confident guy to win her anyway. She had a black belt in karate. Most guys lost a testicle when they found out she could kill them with her knee.

  She suffered from a red-green color deficiency, and in light of her color-blindness had a tendency to dress like fruit. Today she wore a kiwi-green, cable knit sweater and matching leggings with dusty brown riding boots. I was in Levi’s boyfriend jeans with metallic slip-on Vans and an over-sized black “Army” hoodie. Hoodies could cover a multitude of bodily sins.

  “Girlfriend,” Justice whispered, “I’ve been looking for you all day. Did you hear?”

  Um, yeah, I had. I knew what Justice was going to say, and it might’ve been worse than the fact I had the crap beaten out of me yesterday. Apparently, someone hacked into my Twitter account and sent my entire following a mass email that called Mr. Himmel a “dog-humping troll.”

  Problem was, it sounded like something I’d do if I’d thought of it.

  Sad thing is, I’m mad I didn’t.

  “Yeah,” I mumbled. “Finn told me this morning on the way to school. He’s going to set up a new password and make me impenetrable. Does Mr. Himmel know?”

  “I don’t think so,” she muttered. “He didn’t say anything in class. Watch your back, though. Somebody’s out to get you.”

  But who would be gunning for me? Nico Drake? The Ghost, perhaps? God knew I’d turned over a lot of rocks at VHS, even recruiting others—via Bean—to contact me if they ran across anything useful. But those people, as far as I knew, only thought I had reward money to dispense.

  I picked up a tray and napkin as Justice acknowledged Bean. “How’s Mr. Pongo?”

  It was widely accepted Bean carried a stuffed gerbil named Mr. Pongo in his backpack. Mr. Pongo was a blue-gray rodent with a green bowtie around his neck. Complements of Bean’s taxidermist-by-night father. That probably accounted for one year of counseling all in itself. Thing was, today Mr. Pongo peeked out of the pocket of his oxford shirt.