About JACKED UP!
Leah Ryan used to steal cars for a living. A former repo chick, she’d hung up her lock picks for a new career as a private eye. But when her old boss calls up with an offer to repossess a Rolls Royce, the thrill-seeker in Leah can’t refuse.
Leah’s trip to Chicago turns out to be more than just a simple boost. As the dead bodies start piling up, she runs afoul with a homicide cop named Lt. Jack Daniels, and her uncouth ex-partner, Harry McGlade.
JACKED UP! teams up Tracy Ryan’s unorthodox heroine (REPO CHICK BLUES, FINDING CHLOE, DIRTY BUSINESS) with J.A. Konrath’s stalwart cop (WHISKEY SOUR, SHAKEN, STIRRED) in an action-packed, hilarious mystery-thriller.
This short novel is 20,000 words long, and is a great introduction to the worlds of Leah Ryan and Jack Daniels, while also being a treat for longtime fans of both series.
Warning: Contains what may be the funniest sex scene ever written. And a ninja.
JACKED UP!
A MYSTERY THRILLER
J.A. KONRATH
TRACY SHARP
CONTENTS
JACKED UP!
About the Authors
Also by Tracy Sharp
Also by J.A. Konrath
Copyright
LEAH RYAN
How did I come to be straddling a dead guy while a gun was jammed against the back of my head?
I was on my knees, looking down at the slack face below me, the jagged cut across his throat still leaking. He stared up at me, unfocused, his eyes round and empty.
My blood roaring in my ears, fear clawing at my insides, waiting for the bullet to punch through my skull and enter my brain. I clenched my teeth, trying to stop trembling.
It had started with a single line. One so enticing and sexy, I couldn’t ignore it, though I should’ve at the time.
“Wanna steal a car?”
I closed my eyes and remembered, feeling the barrel of the gun press harder into the back of my skull. Wanting the voice in my memory to be the last I heard. Not the voice behind me. The one of the man that would end my life in a few mere moments. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, willing the memory to take over…
• • •
“Wanna steal a car?” The voice on the other end of the phone had made me catch my breath.
I hoped he hadn’t heard it. Callahan. He’d moved out several months before, put off by the dead bodies that seemed to pile up around me. Go figure.
I paused before responding, making sure to keep my tone neutral. “I always want to steal a car. I just haven’t done it in a while. Kind of out of practice.”
“It’s like riding a bike. It’ll come back to you.”
I could hear the smile in his voice and my heart fluttered. The wound was still healing.
I looked around my sunny, yellow kitchen. I rested my feet on the table, legs crossed at the ankles. My gaze fell on the photo on my wall of a daisy growing through a crack in concrete, tilting in the wind. The smell of strong coffee still hung in the air.
I took a deep breath, sensing the winds of change threatening my peaceful life. “Are you offering me a job?” I asked him, keeping the enthusiasm out of my voice.
“Yeah. I ran into Jackson the other day. He told me you were pretty much collecting dust. That’s not like you.”
Jackson was my partner. We run a small private investigation firm. I was taking a much needed break.
I shrugged, though I knew he couldn’t see me do it. “The last case was a tough one, if you recall.” Several pregnant women had gone missing in the capital region over the fall and winter. I’d been hired to find one of them. The search had taken a toll.
“I do. Look, Leah, I think this’ll do you good. This is an interesting one. You get to visit Chicago.”
I frowned, lifting my feet off the table. “Chicago? I’ve never even been there. Why Chicago?” I sipped cold coffee and spit it back into the mug.
“It’s a special case. A Bentley GT bought in Saratoga, but the owner now lives in Chicago. However, he hasn’t made payments on said Bentley GT in a couple of months.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear and gaped at it. “A Bentley GT isn’t a car that you just buy on a whim. The guy must’ve been able to afford it when he bought it.”
“Oh, he can afford it. Name’s Stanley Carey. Family owns Carey Luxury Cars. Several dealerships of the same name. He used to run the dealership in Saratoga but he moved to Chicago a while back. Mr. Carey hasn’t been around lately and hasn’t been keeping up with the payments for some reason. Whatever the case may be, you’re the best repo agent I’ve ever had. You up for it?”
“He sold the car to himself?” That didn’t make sense.
“No. Got it from another dealer.”
That didn’t make sense either. Why would a car dealer go elsewhere to buy a car? I took a swig of coffee backwash. My need for caffeine outweighed the sour taste.
“Interesting, huh? I know you like interesting, Leah. Want to hear something even more unusual?”
I did. And he knew it. “Spill.”
“It’s purple.”
“Probably not a standard color for a Rolls. Sure he was a car dealer, and not a pimp?”
Callahan didn’t answer. He knew he’d roped me in, just like I knew it. Besides, a change might do me good. And I’d kill to steal back a Bentley. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Come on by and I’ll fill you in a little more.”
I could hear the grin in his voice again, and that husky tone he got when he was thinking naughty thoughts.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Callahan had once been my on again, off again boyfriend. As much as I preferred him on, or me on him, he was currently off, and I didn’t need the complications our physical indulgences brought me. My life was nice and simple, just the way I liked it.
My life was about to change in a hurry.
• • •
The Farlance Hotel in Chicago was a nice place. Boutique. Fancy. Callahan had booked me here because Bentley man and the owner of the hotel had appeared in a photo at the same function in early December of the previous year. They stood side by side in a group of sponsors at a charity function to raise money for children of lower income families, to help them have a merrier Christmas.
Callahan had emailed the picture. Stanley Carey was in his mid-forties, tall, average looking, with a kind smile. He looked like a nice man. But so did Ted Bundy in pictures. I scoured my memory for anything I might’ve seen about him while he was living in Saratoga. Most dealership owners were kind of conspicuous, buying television and radio ads, but selling luxury cars marketed to a more streamlined clientele. Your average buyer wasn’t looking for his Porsche in the local newspaper.
Stanley Carey’s loan application on the Bentley provided some basic data. Single. A mid six figure income. His parents listed as references. I tried his home number, and his cell, got a machine for the home and a disconnect message on the cell. I tried the dealership he worked at, said I’d been talking to him about a car deal, but was told he wasn’t available but another salesperson would be happy to assist.
“Has he been in lately?”
“Actually, no. He’s… on vacation right now. Are you sure you wouldn’t like another dealer to help you? I’d be happy to—”
I hung up. Then I sat on a plush couch in the lobby, my suitcase between my feet. Callahan had alluded that Carey was missing, which is why he sent me here rather than one of his regular repo guys. Lots of people can boost cars. But I was pretty good at finding folks who wanted to stay lost.
For no real reason other than to satisfy my sense of curiosity, I tried his parents. A woman answered.
“I’m looking for Stanley Carey.”
“Who is this?”
“Is this Stanley’s mother? Mabel?”
“Yes. Do you know my Stanley?”
“Yes. We’re old friends from…” I scanned his loan ap on my laptop, quickly looking for the college he attended. “…Penn State.”
“I’m afraid Stanley isn’t here.”
“I tried his home and his cell phone. No answer. Do you know where he might be? We’ve got a reunion coming up, and he was supposed to take me, but I haven’t heard from him in weeks.”
“Neither have we.” Her voice cracked. “He moved to Chicago, and since then we can’t get ahold of him.”
“Is that normal for him?”
“There was one time, he didn’t call us for over a month. He and Arthur, my husband, were fighting. To tell you the truth, he didn’t leave here on the best of terms.”
“Your husband didn’t want him opening a dealership in Chicago?”
“Yes. But more than that.”
“Does your dealership sell Rolls-Royces?”
“Of course.”
“Why did Stanley buy a Bentley from another dealership?”
“He did what? But that makes no sense. What did you say your name was?”
“I’m Leah.” I gave her my cell phone number. “If your son gets in touch, can you have him call me?”
“Yes, of course. And please, if you wouldn’t mind, if you run into Stanley please have him call home.”
I agreed, then hung up. I sat there for a moment, piecing together what I’d learned. My original plan had been to swing by his house, see if the Rolls was there. But I wasn’t betting on it being there. I had a hunch there was more to this than just a bad loan.
I got up and went to the front desk. The girl who checked me in was used to smiling, and spoke to me with a tone that I was sure was slightly higher pitched than her normal voice. She was young. Early twenties. I seemed to make her nervous.
Her gaze twitched from my face to my tangled dark hair, to my black leather jacket, down my worn jeans, skittered back to my white tank top which didn’t hide the black bra underneath. I knew she got a peek at my scuffed motorcycle boots when I walked in.
I seem to have this effect on people. Like they know I’m not really and truly fit for society. Must be an aura I give off. Or my tank top, which had “DON’T FUCK WITH ME” printed on it.
But she needn’t have worried. I only hurt people who’ve really earned it.
I grinned at her and she actually took a small step back. Then she seemed to gather herself and had me sign a form. I filled out fake information about my name, vehicle, my address and my phone number, in a barely legible scrawl. I wasn’t paying attention to the page, wanting to get moving. I slid the form back to her. She slid a key card toward me.
“Mr. Dillinger has taken care of your expenses. Room 314. Enjoy your stay, Ms. Clyde.”
Callahan was Dillinger. He always booked me under the name Bonnie Clyde.
“Thanks,” I read her gold name tag. “Tyler.”
The elevator opened as I was walking through the lobby and a cute dark haired girl walked out, smoothing her short hair and her uniform jacket as she headed to the front desk. She gave me a quick, self-conscious smile as she passed me. I winked at her as I went by, but her easy gait made me realize how tense I was. I’d had more coffee at the airport in NY, and another at O-Hare when I was picking up the rental, and I was jittery and tight, partly from the travel and partly from overdoing it with the caffeine. The fact that I hadn’t eaten no doubt added to my discomfort.
I turned and headed out to the hotel restaurant, too hungry to find the kind of place I preferred. I like pubs and diners. But for now, this place would have to do. I parked my check in bag next to the stool and ordered a burger from the pretty bartender.
His dark hair was styled in the latest Emo shag. Razored hair falling over his big, brown eyes. I actually wasn’t much for overly styled hair but he sure was nice to look at.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” He said, handing me the bill in a folded leather check minder. I took a peek. Eighteen bucks. I signed it to my room, too interested in the hottie in front of me to care about the price, and pocketed the pen.
“Nope.”
“Where you from?”
“New York.”
“City?”
“Thanks,” I said, not answering his question.
He gave me a smile that I was sure had assisted in the removal of countless pairs of panties.
“You’re very attractive,” he said.
“Thanks. You, too.”
“I do some photography. Kind of a hobby. I’d really like to shoot you.”
I’d heard that before, but in a different context. I remembered that I had a room upstairs. An empty room.
I stared at him for a moment, considering. I didn’t mind being easy, but he had to put at least a little more effort into it. “That’s your best line?”
“Not a line.” He crossed his heart and held up his hand like a Boy Scout. “True. Got a camera and everything.”
The camera I didn’t care about. But as I let my eyes track up his body, I realized I wouldn’t mind seeing everything.
“I’m not big on pictures,” I said. “But you wanna come up to my room on your break, see my stamp collection?”
• • •
The burger was still in the bag, resting on my luggage, which I hadn’t bothered to unpack. My jeans and panties were on the floor beside the bed. I still wore the tank, bra and boots.
“You don’t really have a stamp collection, do you?” He said, his breath ragged. He lay on his back and I straddled him, one boot on either side of his hips.
I let my own breathing return to normal before answering. The tension in my neck and shoulders had disappeared, and the sense of calm that I chase with sex left me happy and serene. I knew the feeling wouldn’t last so I savored it for a moment. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Maybe you’ll have to come back later to find out.”
I stared up at the picture over the bed. A painting of a black cat, and an ugly one at that. It seemed out of place in such a nice room. The cat seemed to read my thoughts, and looked unhappy with them.
“Don’t you want to know my name?”
I tilted my head to the side. “I think I’ll call you… Fred.”
He laughed. It was a nice laugh. Full and robust.
I felt myself smile.
“You have a gorgeous smile,” he said.
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only the ones with gorgeous smiles.” He winked. “What will I call you?”
“What would you like to call me?”
“Hmm.” He watched me, considering. “Wilma.”
I raised an eyebrow. “A fan of old Hanna Barbera. I like it.”
“I like you,” he said, and I could feel him liking me better and better with each passing moment.
“I like you, too. But I have to get going.”
“You just got here.”
“I have shit to do.” I climbed off him and found my panties, stepping into them. Sliding into my jeans was trickier with the boots on. The flared bottoms helped.
He lifted himself up on his elbows. “You sure?”
I felt the grin on my lips. “Sadly, yes. Besides, your break must be over by now.”
He looked at his sports watch. It was a nice one. I wondered if some well-to-do lady bought it for him. I let my eyes wander over his chest and abs. Damn. He was fine. I zipped my well-worn jeans. At least he wasn’t after me for my money. Pretty obvious I didn’t have much.
As if reading my mind, he said, “Yeah, I figured you were here for some kind of work. You a criminal?” His face lit up.
“Define criminal.”
“You do illegal things?”
I cl
imbed on the bed and looked in his eyes, my face an inch away from his. “The less you know about me, the better off you’ll be. Trust me on that.”
“Sounds mysterious.”
“That’s me. Wilma, woman of mystery.”
I kissed his mouth and pushed off, finding my leather jacket and sliding into it.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched, groaning. “Anything I can help you with?”
“Well, where would I find a guy with a 2011 Bentley GT?”
His face sank. “You’re crushing me. I know I don’t have a Bentley, but I’m not half bad, am I?”
“You’re perfectly lovely, Fred. But I actually came here looking for a specific man. No romance involved. This is your city. Where would I find a guy who drives a purple Bentley around these parts?” I really didn’t want to be more specific than that with Fred. I really didn’t know the guy, after all.
“Did you say a purple Bentley?”
“I did. Purple as—” I glanced between his legs, “an eggplant.”
Fred stared at me for a few seconds, obviously thinking. “I actually know someone who might be able to help you with that. I have a friend who valets for a very high end Country Club. If your guy owns a Bentley, he’s definitely been at this place. Let me call my friend for you.”
As it turned out, Fred was useful in more ways than one. He wasn’t just another pretty face. I decided I might keep him around for the duration of my stay in Chicago.
• • •
The Martingale Country Club was in Elmwood Park, just west of the city. Classy. Good thing Fred’s friend was one of the valets, because I’d never get past the door. But he was waiting for the rented Ford Focus I was driving. You don’t see many of those at a place like this.
I saw Porsches, Ferraris, Mercedes, Cadillacs, a couple of Lamborghini, a couple of Rolls but no purple ones. The stares I got motoring on up to the place were priceless. A quick look in the mirror made me realize that it wasn’t so much the car as it was me. I hadn’t even brushed my hair after my romp with Fred, and my black eyeliner was smeared around my eyes much more than usual.
Jacked Up! (A Lt. Jack Daniels/Leah Ryan Mystery) Page 1
