by Aidèe Jaimes
Private Investigation
Private Investigation, Book 1
Aidèe Jaimes
Private Investigation
Private Investigation, Book 1
By Aidèe Jaimes
Copyright@2019 Aidèe Jaimes
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Trigger Warning: This story, particularly the second book, contains strong subject matter, including suicide and great emotional distress due to the loss of a loved one.
If you or anyone you know needs help, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
7.b
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
16.b
16.c
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Public Affair
About
Books Under Aidèe Jaimes:
Books Under Haden Hudson:
Chapter 1
Matthew
“Matthew.”
The barely-there whisper wakes me at two a.m. My heart speeds up as I intently listen through the quiet, half-hoping yet half-afraid I’ll hear it again.
But there’s nothing. The room remains painfully quiet, reminding me I’m alone.
I face the window, looking out into the night through the open slats of the blinds. The full moon and a million stars stare back at me. For the thousandth time, I wonder if she’s watching me too. If there’s anything left.
If she forgives me.
“Are you there?” I whisper. But there’s no answer. There never is.
I’ve only slept for two hours. Sighing, I roll over and throw my arm over my eyes. Sleep is always a bitch I can’t hold on to, but two hours is too little, even for me.
Another hour passes, and I’m still awake. It’s too quiet. So damned quiet.
There was a time when I could simply pop a tiny pill and the world would disappear. All of my thoughts would become nothing more than a blur, too fuzzy to care about. Nothing left to mock me.
Those days are gone. Now I lie in the overbearing calm, too afraid to sleep because when it’s this quiet, I can hear her voice. And when I hear it like a fading echo in the distance, I know she’s really gone.
I turn on the television, and the newscasters drown out the sound of my memories, shutting out the ghosts of my past, finally letting me drift off into sweet oblivion.
Where the fuck is it? I slam the top drawer of my dresser and start rummaging through the second one, shoving shirts aside, digging deep until my hand hits the wooden back. It’s got to be here somewhere.
I’m still anxiously searching when my phone buzzes.
“Gray—” I begin.
Justin interrupts, his deep voice reverberating with impatience, “Matt, where the fuck are you? I’ve got less than half an hour.”
“Yup. On my way.” Giving up, I holster my SIG under my blue suit jacket, grab my wallet and keys, and head out the door.
Justin and I meet every Monday at the Lovely Little Motel’s diner to go over both open cases and new cases he’s acquired and to discuss budgets. Mostly, it’s him telling me what to do as I sit, only pretending to listen because I know he’ll send me detailed written instructions anyway.
Mr. Perfect is waiting for me at our normal booth near the window with an annoyed expression on his face that reminds me I’m twenty minutes late.
The moment I slide across the black vinyl seat, our usual server sets down my black coffee. “Thank you, Shyla.”
“I thought your brother would be eatin’ alone this mornin’.” Her heavy Northern Florida accent gives away her upbringing.
A quick glance at Justin makes me wish I’d let him do just that. “Nope. Just ran a bit late today.”
“Well, I’m glad you could make it.” Shyla moves a tight blonde curl behind her ear and bites her lower lip. “Would you like your usual?”
“Do I ever order anything else?”
Her smile deepens, as do the dimples in her smooth skin. “Here, let me fix this. We can’t have you lookin’ disheveled all day.” She reaches over and adjusts my tie, dusting some invisible lint off my shoulder when she’s done. “There, much better.”
“Thanks. You been here all night?”
“Got here at five. Hey, listen, a couple of us are goin’ to the hockey game Friday. I was wonderin’ if you’d like to come. With me, that is. We could grab a bite after. Nothin’ fancy but definitely somewhere nicer than this.”
“Um…” I rub my brow, desperately trying to think of a way to let this sweet girl down easy. “Shyla, I—”
“No, no, it’s okay. If you already have plans, we can do somethin’ another time.” Her ivory skin turns beet red. “I’ll go get your order in.”
I watch her walk away. It’s not the first time she’s worked up the courage to ask me out. If I thought she could handle something casual, a one-night thing, I’d go for it. She’s a beautiful girl. A wet dream, actually. Tall, curvy.
But her bright blue eyes are too sweet, too hopeful. They tell me that what she wants goes beyond what I can give. She wants a man to take her by the hand, laugh with her, dream with her. She wants a promise I can’t make, not again.
“She doesn’t give up,” Justin remarks. He’s been witness to many of her attempts.
“It’s not her. It’s me. Besides, she’s young. She’ll find someone.”
He takes a sip of his drink and changes the subject. “Why were you late? I told you Natalie has a doctor’s appointment—”
“And you’re keeping the kids. Yes, I know. Sorry, I got distracted searching for something.”
He nods, choosing to leave it alone. Pulling several manila folders out of his briefcase, he sets them on the table in front of me. “I have a few cases for you. Three are in the Naples area, one in Punta Gorda. I’ve calculated about two to three weeks for completion.”
Justin is the better half of our little partnership, Grayson Investigations. Dad retired last year, and Justin took over the role of finding us jobs, meeting with clients, and getting payment. He’s better at it. People like that he smiles and he’s always neat. I’m more suited for behind-the-scenes work. The real dirty stuff. Surveillance. Staying in the shadows, where I prefer to be anyway. No one gives a shit what I look like there.
This diner is our office—specifically, this booth. It has been ever since Dad started private investigations ten years ago. It keeps it simple. No overhead, cheap breakfast.
Sipping my coffee, I grimace as the bitter brew burns its way down my throat. Then I pick up the files and glance at the labels briefly.
“G.F. Tech has two new worker’s comp cases for you to investigate. These employees have a penchant for injuries, it seems.”
“I’ll definitely take those.” I push the folders to the side and read the next one aloud, “Aidan Hubbert.”
“He thinks his bus
iness partner has a company on the side and is using their profits to fund it. I’ll take that one if you want. It’ll probably be mostly finding records.”
I nod in agreement. Researching online, locating data, and digging through people’s pasts is more his department.
Moving on to the last one, I read:
Client: Peter Cage, Case ID: 84650 (Infidelity)
“No,” I say, tossing the folder to his side of the table.
“You don’t even know what it is.” Justin pushes it back to me.
“It says it right there. Possible infidelity case. I don’t do affairs. It always gets ugly, then somehow it’s my fault because I’m the one that took the pictures. Too fucking emotional.”
“Matt, he’s paying twice the amount G.F. is. A flat rate. Not hourly. Upfront! And it’s an easy case.”
“I don’t care. These are never easy cases. They get real messy real quick.”
“Do it, Matty. One day and you’ll probably catch this chick. I met with her husband while I was in Naples. He appears to be a decent guy. If he feels like she’s cheating—”
I laugh sarcastically. “He feels like she’s cheating? What, she holdin’ out? Coming home late? Fights?”
“Not exactly. It’s more like everything’s too good. A year ago, they were deep in debt, lots of financial problems. I guess she ran up the credit card bill. His debt.”
Shrugging, I say, “Figures. Likes to shop then?”
“She was paying their bills. It seems Mr. Cage wasn’t giving her enough money to pay on a monthly basis, and instead of saying something, she tried to resolve it by using their cards. So they had a huge blowout that nearly ended in divorce. He started monitoring all of her spending on the cards. They really struggled for a while, especially because she was at home with their twin boys and it was hard for her to work.
“He says she was always restless and anxious. At times, she’d ask him for more money and he’d get angry but would transfer some from his personal account. Then one day, it all stopped. No more stress, no more requests for money. He assumed she was getting better at paying bills. He began to deposit higher and higher amounts into his 401k. Still, she said nothing. The bills were being paid. Some even paid off.”
“So he’s wondering where the money’s coming from?” I nod as I listen, mentally putting the pieces together. “What does he do?”
“Works for a company called Grader Kitchen and Bath. They install—”
“Kitchens and baths,” I finish for him. “Has he asked her where this money is coming from?”
“He’s questioned her. She said it was the little money she’d made from her part-time job making and selling bead jewelry with her friend. He doesn’t buy it but can’t prove any different.” Justin stabs the last forkful of eggs and shoves it in his mouth.
“Has he followed her?”
Around a swallow of his orange juice, he says, “Yup. Found nothing. But he’s given me copies of statements, and I’m positive there’s something there, Matty. Besides, you’ll already be in Naples. One more quick job won’t hurt.”
I smirk. “What will he do when I give him what he wants?”
“It’s not our business. But it is our job to give him what he needs to make that decision.”
Gazing out the window, I watch a happy-looking couple walk by. Without taking my eyes off them, I say, “The last two infidelity cases almost cost me my life.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” he huffs.
I turn back to my brother. “Is it? The asshole I followed tried to run me over with his car. He didn’t even know I was following him! And Mr. Hale, the one before that, tried to punch me when I gave him the proof he wanted.”
“We all learned our lesson from that. You’ll definitely never meet with the client again. You’re just not as funny as you think you are, Matt. Telling him that he’d need to bulk up if he wanted to one-up her lover was uncalled for. So, no, you’re not going near our clients. I’ll be the one to deliver the findings.”
“Yeah, that sounded funny in my head, but once it came out, not so much. In my defense, he was staring at the waitress’s ass when she passed our table. The guy was a jerk.”
“A paying jerk,” Justin corrects.
Shyla interrupts us to place my ham, egg, and cheese on rye in front of me. “There you go. Will I be seein’ you next Monday?” she asks with hopeful eyes.
Justin also looks at me expectantly, batting his lashes when she can’t see.
“I’ll be gone for the next few weeks. But I’m sure you’ll get to see his ugly mug.” I gesture toward my brother.
Shyla giggles, but it isn’t genuine and I can tell she’s disappointed. “Alrighty, hun. You take care, okay?”
“Will do.”
Throwing cash down on the table for me to pay his check, Justin collects his things, but when he starts to pick up the folder with Mr. Cage’s information, I stop him, pressing my hand to it. “I’ll take a look.”
“I need to know by tomorrow. If you won’t take the job, I’ll do it myself. The money is too good, and he’s paying for the expenses.”
Raising my brows, I ask, “Rich guy?”
“Guess he is now that the old wifey’s got herself a sugar daddy. See ya, bro.” He waves goodbye to Shyla and the owner as he walks out.
The folder remains on the table, where I can stare at the label. Justin says this is going to be an easy case. Easy in, easy out. Guess there’s only one way to find out.
Chapter 2
It’s been a long day. My body begs to stretch, to move. To do anything besides sit in a car for another moment.
Once I get home to my small studio apartment, I set my briefcase on the coffee table. Later I’ll go through what’s in the folder Justin gave me. I want to get better acquainted with the case before I turn it down. But not now.
After I change into shorts, I go for a run, needing to clear my head before I fill it with more shit.
The air is humid, but at this evening hour with the sun low in the sky, it’s cool enough. I run until my lungs burn and harder still when I feel that anxious knot in the pit of my stomach that never seems to go away.
It’s dark by the time I make it back. I stand at the kitchen counter, downing the contents of my water bottle, and stare at my brown briefcase. I’ve yet to open the folder with the job I don’t want to do. Peter Cage’s case. He said he’d already followed his wife, tried to find answers himself, but there was nothing. That’s so often the situation. Love blinds people to the small details that are so blatantly obvious to everyone else. Their heart refuses to accept what their brain is telling them.
Sometimes it takes someone with an indiscriminate eye to see the little things, someone who has nothing to lose. Someone who doesn’t care about the outcome one way or another.
It’s those little things that I’m hired to find and then capture with a camera, video, sound—anything. I’d give Mr. Cage what he needs. What he chooses to do with it after would be his business.
Deciding to get it over with, I take the file and pull out its contents. There are past bank statements that show no extra influx of money and copies of bills paid from accounts unknown.
With her name in front of me now, I search for information on Mrs. Eva Jean Cage. Age thirty-five. Also known as Eva Jean Free. Related to Peter Cage III, Andrew Free, Georgia C. Free. Born in North Carolina.
She doesn’t have any social media accounts, which is unusual, especially for someone her age. Someone with children. Usually, I find media walls full of all the “Look at what I did!” and “Look at how good I look!” type of bullshit that grates on my nerves. But not her. No Facebook. And no Twitter or Instagram.
There are no bankruptcies, no liens, no criminal records.
I don’t dig further, because what I need can’t be found in any public record. What I need, I have to see for myself, then snap a picture and hand it over.
“This is fucking stupid.” I shake my head and pinch
the bridge of my nose.
Closing my laptop, I shove the documents aside and go to the bathroom to take a shower, thinking if I ignore this nagging feeling, it’ll somehow go away. It doesn’t. When I come back, it’s still there.
I don’t just hate these cases because I’ve almost been killed. Twice. It’s that more often than not, it’s true. Someone is cheating. My father cheated on my mother. It was my unfortunate luck at eight years old to be the one who discovered him. First thing I did was run to her and rat him out.
Though my and my father’s relationship was forever changed, my parents’ marriage survived it. Somehow.
Then a good buddy convinced me to spy on his wife. He wanted to surprise her for their first anniversary and needed me to be the lookout guy. It turns out, it was he who was surprised when I showed him the photos I took of her sucking his co-worker’s dick on a “girls’ night out.” There her head was, bobbing up and down. If that didn’t give away what she was doing, the guy’s “O” face certainly did. My friend never spoke to me again. Acted like I was the one who betrayed him.
I always felt like it was somehow my fault. Of course, I know that’s not true. Still, it left a bad taste in my mouth for infidelity cases.
I suppose that, in a way, everyone we investigate is cheating. Cheating the system, cheating themselves. Is this really so different?
Taking the folder to the couch, I riffle through it again.
