Man Shy Page 16

  “Baby, you look sick!” she said by way of greeting.

  Mallory sat up, yawning. “Late night. What brings you over?”

  April perched on the edge of the sofa. “Did you know your friend Kyle had been hauled down to the police station for questioning?”

  “Yes, but he’s out on bail now.”

  Her mother frowned. “I don’t think so. Not so soon. I just heard it on the radio a few minutes ago.”

  Mallory pulled a throw pillow into her lap, hugging it to her stomach. “Heard what exactly?”

  “Your boyfriend was the one who took him in.”

  “Brody?” Mallory sat up straight, flinging the pillow aside. “What are you talking about? Brody didn’t arrest Kyle. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.”

  April crossed her legs. “I’m just telling you what I heard. According to the radio, police investigators discovered a secret bank account in Kyle’s name, and Detective Brody Hunter hauled him in for questioning.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Turn on the TV and double-check, then.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s just six now. Time for KBRU’s Evening Report,”

  Mallory grabbed the remote from the top of the trunk and flipped to Channel 5 just as the anchorman launched into his spiel: “Our top story tonight is a shocking one, especially for those of us here at—”

  “See? What did I tell you? It’s Kyle he’s talking about.”

  Mallory shushed her mother and punched up the volume. Her gut churned acid. Why had she wasted the whole day sleeping when she should have been doing something to help Kyle?

  “There! I told you so!” April crowed. She pointed at the screen. Videotaped footage of Brody escorting Kyle into the police station ran to the accompaniment of a brief report. Thanks to her mother’s excited commentary, Mallory only caught about half the audio, but the video clip told the whole story.

  Hauled in for questioning twice in the same day. Betrayed by a trusted friend. Kyle must be in shock.

  Mallory was. “How could he do it?”

  “Maybe he needed the money,” her mother suggested.

  She stared at April in confusion. “What?”

  “Maybe Kyle got involved because he needed the money. You know, like maybe somebody found out he was gay and threatened to tell unless he paid them hush money.”

  “Mom, Kyle’s sexual orientation is no secret. Everybody in town knows he’s gay.”

  “Then who were you talking about?”

  “Brody.” Mallory sighed heavily. How could he have aligned himself with Regan Armstrong? He must know as well as she did that Kyle wasn’t guilty. What was he thinking?

  Her mother leaned closer, eyeing her narrowly. “You really don’t look good, Mallory. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she lied.

  “You’re worried about Kyle, aren’t you? Fencing stolen property is a serious charge.”

  “Someone’s framing him, Mother.”

  “But the evidence—”

  “Is circumstantial. I’m sure he’ll be cleared eventually.”

  “I hope so. I’ve always been fond of that boy. Now, if they’d arrested that creepy little man he brought to the wedding, I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.”

  Tim. Of course. “Mother, you’re a genius!”

  “I am?”

  “Definitely. I think you just solved the case.”

  Tim. Why hadn’t she thought of him before? She knew the Blue Russian was involved in the burglaries. Hadn’t she overheard that suggestive conversation between Dimitri Ivanovich and Arlo Junior with her own ears? Working at the Blue Russian didn’t prove Tim was involved, of course, but it did mean he had possible access to stolen goods. And he’d had ample opportunity to get at Kyle’s keys on several occasions, including last night. Dammit, the little worm had been setting Kyle up from the very beginning. She’d bet on it.

  “The lieutenant get anything out of your buddy, Brewster?”

  Brody glanced up from his desk, frowning. “What are you doing here, Regan? Aren’t you on days?”

  “I traded with Andy. It’s his anniversary.” She leaned against his desk, her expression closer to a sneer than a smile. “Why are you here so late, Detective?”

  “I’m filling in for Sergeant Ryan.”

  “Yeah?” She straightened, fussing with her holster, but didn’t move away.

  What the hell was she up to now? Brody wondered. “Can I do something for you?”

  “They release your friend yet?”

  He’d ignored her the first time, but she couldn’t let it go. Inquiring minds want to know. “Yes, he answered the lieutenant’s questions, then went home.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I guess it pays to have friends in high places.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The guy’s under suspicion of fencing half a million dollars’ worth of stolen goods. We found ten thou in jewelry, guns, and electronic equipment hidden on his property. Then we get tipped to the fact that he has cash socked away in a secret account. Under normal circumstances, we’d have put the bastard in cuffs and hauled his butt down to the station in a patrol car.” She smiled unpleasantly. “No cuffs for your pal, plus he gets escorted in by a plainclothes detective. You, his buddy. No lights. No siren. Nothing.”

  “Still made the six-o’clock news, I noticed. Are you the one who called the television crew?”

  She didn’t say a word, but her self-satisfied smirk was answer enough.

  “Being identified on TV as a cop is going to limit my effectiveness in undercover operations. Ever think of that?”

  Her smirk grew wider. “Kinda like being neutered, huh?” She turned and sauntered out of the station, chuckling to herself.

  Brody rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the knotted muscles. Armstrong was a manipulative bitch, but he was a damn fool to let her get to him.

  He studied the numbers in the bankbook the informant had given him. Kyle might not be languishing downstairs in lockup, but he was still in serious trouble. Numbers don’t lie, he told himself wearily. But people did.

  Mallory stared blankly at the flickering television screen, trying to sort out her jumbled thoughts. Kyle was in big trouble. That much was clear. Clear, too, was the fact that Brody wasn’t going to be the one to help him. By taking Kyle into custody, he’d announced his allegiance to the enemy camp.

  Regan Armstrong. Mallory remembered the redhead’s sniping comment to Brody as they’d left the station earlier. When you hang out with the wrong crowd, people start to wonder. Was Brody really worried about what other people thought? Or was the issue more complicated than she realized? He was a cop. So maybe he considered dragging Kyle downtown his duty. But duty doesn’t justify persecution, she argued to herself. How many Nazi soldiers had told themselves they were just doing their duty? Duty was no excuse.

  Mallory pressed a hand to her burning chest, where heartbreak masqueraded as indigestion. A bitter smile curved her lips. What was the prescription for a broken heart anyway? Take two Tums and call me in the morning?

  “Dammit, Brody. You don’t really think Kyle’s involved, do you?” she asked aloud. He knew there was a connection with the Blue Russian, knew Arlo Junior and Dimitri Ivanovich were in it up to their ears. “So why didn’t you haul them in for questioning?”

  No answer except the inane squawking of the television.

  It all came back to Tim. He might look harmless, but she’d bet he was the one who’d planted the stolen items at Kyle’s and tricked up a bogus bank account as part of the frame. She shuddered to think what else he might arrange. A phony suicide with a full confession pinned to Kyle’s lifeless body? It was the obvious solution. The cops would fall for it, too, and the real crooks would get off scot-free.

  Dammit, she couldn’t just sit here waiting for the ax to fall. She had to do something to stop this insanity.

  Grabbing the phone directory, she located the number for the Blue Russian, then
dialed with trembling fingers. One ring. Two. “Pick up,” she whispered. “Come on. Pick up.” Not that she had a clue what she’d say if she did reach Tim.

  On the third ring the machine answered and a recorded version of Dimitri Ivanovich’s voice informed her she’d reached the Blue Russian, but that they were closed on Sundays. She hung up in frustration, a frustration that soon edged toward fear. Dammit. Right this minute Tim could be hammering the final nail in Kyle’s coffin.

  Or maybe not. Kyle was in police custody, she remembered with relief. She still needed to warn him, though.

  Hands shaking, heart pounding, she dialed the Brunswick Police Department. Would they even let her talk to Kyle? If not, she decided, she’d ask for Brody and make him listen to her theory, whether he wanted to or not.

  Unfortunately, the dispatcher couldn’t put her in touch with either man. Kyle had been released already and Brody’d left on his dinner break. “If it’s urgent, though, I can page Detective Hunter and have him call you back,” the woman offered.

  “Thanks.” Mallory gave her the number.

  Time crawled as she paced the floor, waiting for Brody’s call. What was taking him so long? she wondered, then realized barely a minute had passed. She knew she had to be patient, but wasting time when Kyle’s life might be in danger went against the grain.

  He must be home by now. Instead of waiting around for Brody to get back to her, she should be contacting Kyle, warning him. She grabbed the phone again and dialed Kyle’s number only to reach a busy signal.

  She slammed the receiver down. Dammit!

  Waiting any longer was pointless. Kyle was in danger. She had to do something. Grabbing her car keys, she headed out the door.

  What a miserable night. Icy rain streaked down the windshield and battered against the Jeep’s metal roof. Shivering, Brody folded himself behind the wheel and stuck his key in the ignition. His pant legs were soaked from his sprint across the parking lot, and water dripped from his hair down his neck in a steady stream.

  Flipping on the heater, he turned onto Northwest Fourth and headed for the strip of fast-food places out by the freeway. He’d been reviewing the evidence against Kyle for the last four hours. If this was a frame, whoever’d arranged it was a damn genius. His stomach twisted in a knot as he considered the alternative—the possibility that his friend was guilty, after all.

  Jeez. Dinner break. What a joke. At this rate he’d be better off with a couple of Rolaids and a swig of Pepto.

  His beeper went off just as he hit the road construction on Idaho Avenue. Since traffic was heavy, he decided to wait until he was through the bottleneck before checking in. Hell, it was probably just Hawkins with his hourly report from the stakeout.

  Brody pulled into the line at Wendy’s drive-through, put the Jeep in neutral, and called in on the car phone. He had two messages, the expected one from Hawkins and another from Mallory. Hawkins could wait a couple more minutes, he decided. He dialed Mallory’s number. Odd, he thought when her machine answered. Why leave the house when she was expecting his call?

  He punched in the number for the station and asked to talk to whichever dispatcher had fielded Mallory’s original call. When Laurie Fisher came on the line, he quizzed her, trying not to sound as worried as he felt.

  “Did she say why she wanted to talk to me?” he asked for the second time.

  “Like I told you before, no. She seemed upset, though. Real jumpy. And come to think of it, she may have had a new lead to report in the Brewster case.”

  His heart made a lunge for his throat, damn near strangling him. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because she asked to speak to him first.”

  Brody swore.

  “Excuse me?” Laurie didn’t take any crap from anybody. Not even detectives.

  “Sorry,” he said. “And thanks. I gotta check in with Hawkins.”

  The rain was a steady downpour by the time Mallory pulled into Kyle’s driveway, and despite her hooded sweatshirt, she was soaked before she hit the porch. Breathing hard from her mad dash to the house, she leaned on the doorbell and tried to think of a tactful way to tell Kyle she suspected his new boyfriend had set him up to take the fall on the fencing charge and might very well be planning to kill him.

  “It’s about time!” Kyle snapped as he jerked the door open. When he recognized Mallory, he froze, an almost comical look of dismay on his face.

  “Kyle?” Mallory said after they’d stared at each other in silence for a slow ten count. “It’s pouring. Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

  His face cleared, and he backed out of the way. “Sure. Come on in. Sorry to sound so cranky. I was expecting a pizza delivery, and the guy’s late.”

  She stepped inside, and he closed the door. She grinned. “Probably related to Brody.”

  Kyle didn’t say a word, but his grim expression spoke volumes.

  “He’s not your enemy, you know.”

  Kyle’s right eyebrow shot up. “No? Well, with friends like that c” Then, as if noticing for the first time that she was dripping all over his polished parquet entry hall, he said, “Let me get you some towels. You’re soaked.” He headed upstairs at a trot.

  Mallory dragged her hood down and tried to fluff her soggy hair but gave it up as a lost cause. Her glasses were blurry—too bad some genius couldn’t invent glasses with built-in windshield wipers—but she didn’t have anything dry enough to wipe them with. She made do with the tail of her denim shirt, which was only semidamp, having been protected by both a layer of jeans and a layer of sweatshirt. An improvement anyway, she thought as she shoved her glasses back in place.

  Kyle came clattering down the stairs two at a time, a stack of towels in his arms. As she turned to take them she noticed the pile of luggage next to the newel post, and her heart fell through the floor. Her mouth went dry. “Planning a trip?”

  A rueful smile tilted the corners of Kyle’s mouth. “Would you believe me if I told you I was going to visit my sick old auntie? No, I didn’t think so.”

  “You’re skipping town, aren’t you? It wasn’t a frame. You were guilty all along.” She took a ragged breath. “Why, Kyle?”

  He shrugged. “I needed the extra income. This house is a money pit. It breaks my heart to leave it behind, though I suppose Rio offers a few compensations.” He shoved the towels into her hands. “Strip off your wet things and I’ll toss them in the dryer.”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine as I am.”

  “Mallory, don’t be silly. You’re drenched. You’ll end up with pneumonia.”

  “Pneumonia? A bullet? What’s the difference?”

  “I’m not going to kill you!” Kyle looked so affronted, she almost laughed. “I’m not a murderer.”

  “And I’m not stupid. You can’t afford to let me go. I know too much.”

  She stiffened at the sound of pounding from the back of the house. “What’s that?”

  “Pizza’s here.”

  “At the back door?”

  “They must have seen your car parked in the driveway. My deliverymen are shy. In fact, it’s probably not a good idea for them to see you at all.” Taking her arm in an iron grip, Kyle shoved her into the powder room under the stairs. “Don’t make a sound. Please. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Too late, my friend.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I trusted you. I cared for you.”

  A shadow of remorse darkened his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, and locked her in.

  “Hawkins? Detective Hunter here. Got any movement over your way?”

  “Big time, Detective.”

  “Oh, yeah?” The hairs stood up on the back of Brody’s neck.

  “About ten minutes ago a car drove up. Female gets out and rings the bell. Brewster lets her in.”

  “A blonde?”

  “Couldn’t tell. She had her hood pulled up. It’s been raining like hell.’,

  “Any sign of her since she went inside?”

  “No, but right af
ter she arrived, two guys in a dark-colored minivan eased by dead slow, like they were checking the place out. Parked on the side street and went in through the back gate.”

  “Descriptions?”

  “Gimme a break, Detective. It’s pitch-dark and dumping rain besides. All I can tell you is I’m pretty sure they were both males and one of them was huge, about six-eight and bulky enough for the pro wrestling circuit.”

  Brody swore. Arlo Junior. And the second man was probably Ivanovich. Unless someone else was involved that they didn’t know about. “Call for backup. Now. No lights, no sirens. And nobody goes in until I get there.”

  “What if the suspects take off in the meantime?”

  “Follow ’em.”

  As Brody hung up he realized he wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. He was boxed in, three cars ahead of him, two lined up behind him, all waiting for their turn at the drive-through window. Hell. If he had to wait for the damn line to move, he’d be too late for sure. Sweat beaded his forehead; he tasted bile. Mallory.

  Watching his rearview mirror, he backed up to within inches of the car behind him, hoping the driver would take the hint, but all the guy did was lie on his horn, so Brody went with Plan B. Twisting the steering wheel, he angled the Jeep toward the curb separating the drive-through lane from the parking lot. Then he shifted into four-wheel drive and bounced up and over the barrier without—thankfully—losing his muffler or his tailpipe. He pulled onto the street with a squeal of tires and was doing forty by the time he hit the yellow light at the first intersection.

  “Whose car is that in the driveway?” Even muffled by the heavy wooden door that separated them, Mallory recognized the speaker’s voice. Dimitri Ivanovich. His accent was a dead giveaway.

  “My neighbor’s,” said Kyle. “Every time it rains, the storm sewer backs up and floods his parking area.” His lie was so plausible, she started to wonder how much trust to put in his assurance that he meant her no harm.

  “I didn’t see no flooded driveway.” She knew that voice too. Arlo Junior, the last living Neanderthal. “You trying to pull some kind of double cross, boss?”