by Alan Lee
The Second Secret
Written by Alan Lee
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Alan Janney
First Edition
Printed in USA
Cover by Inspired Cover Designs
Formatting by Polgarus
ISBN: 0-9983165-6-3 (Ebook)
ISBN: 0-9983165-7-4 (Print)
Sparkle Press
For my children
Jackson
Chase
and Grace
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Excerpt from the next Mackenzie August book
Chapter One
Kristin Payne and I spent the evening at River and Rail, a precocious bistro in south Roanoke with polished wooden tables and reverent servers. We sat near the front window and heroically ordered the chef’s special. Our waiter was a severe man who whispered, and he brought us cocktails and deviled eggs.
“The problem, Mack,” Kristin told me, “is that I’m an athletic girl.”
“Ah, poor thing.”
“I’m not fat.”
“I noticed,” I said.
“When you’re strong, when you play softball in college, when you maintain an active workout schedule into your thirties, it doesn’t matter how much you diet. I’m not fitting this ass into size eights.”
“So you’re a size ten,” I noted helpfully.
“You know Gina Carano?”
“Heavens yes.”
“That’s me,” said Kristin and she took a drink of her elusive pear, a house specialty.
Kristin was something of a blast from the past. We’d spent a memorable seven minutes between classes inside a science department supply closet, sophomore year of college, and then tried to meet up socially for a while but it never happened. My son’s sitter had ambushed me with this blind date but seeing Kristin again had not been an unpleasant surprise. Her dark hair was cut in a ragged bob, she wore no jewelry, and her white knit top had a plunging neckline. Of which I took no notice, Lancelot that I was.
“Whatever number, you are wearing the hell out of those jeans,” I said, a momentary lapse of chivalry.
“The denim is stretchy and the heels help. But thank you.”
“Can you punch as hard as Gina?”
“Doubtful. But I bet I’m close on the front squat.”
“As an act of charity, I’ll pay for your meal anyway.”
She said, “Roxanne tells me you’re a private investigator. I didn’t know that was a real thing.”
“Fell backwards into it. I taught a couple years, and I miss that.”
“Taught?”
“High school English,” I said.
“You’re enormous.”
I shrugged. Modestly so.
She said, “You can’t teach English. You should be the football coach.”
“I’ve received a few calls about being an assistant. Coordinating the defense. I might.”
She snapped her fingers.
“I remember, now. You’re the teacher who shot his co-worker. I heard about this…a couple years ago?”
Our food came and she ordered another elusive pear.
“Right? That was you?” she asked.
“Shot him to pieces, yes.”
“I forget why.”
“He voted for Bernie Sanders.”
She coughed and nearly spit out her drink.
Mackenzie August, master of wit.
“That’s funny,” she said.
“I know.”
“But seriously.”
“Man I shot had kidnapped my son. My opinion, I let him off easy.”
“Didn’t the guy die on the spot? Front lawn of the school?”
“Exactly.”
“Have you shot anyone else since?” she asked.
“A gentleman never tells.”
“So you’re like Kinsey Millhone.”
“Yes but she has better legs. Perhaps I’m more like Mike Hammer.”
Kristin had an aggressive sensuality about her. She was physical. Fit. Proud of it. She sucked the barbecue sauce off her finger and she knew she looked good doing so.
I asked, “What do you do? Roxanne didn’t tell me.”
“Assistant professor of cultural psychology at Roanoke College.”
“So you’re Dr. Payne now.”
“Has a great ring to it, right? And I coach field hockey.”
“If you’re into psychology, are you diagnosing me?”
She grinned, with a mischievous twist.
“Sizing you up? Analyzing your problems?”
“I don’t have any of those,” I politely corrected her.
“Tonight I’m simply a gal on a date. All I’ve diagnosed is that you have broad shoulders, thick biceps, and great hair.”
“My hair is short,” I said. “And unpretentious.”
“But it’s all there and you use product,” she said. “It hasn’t changed drastically since college. Do you remember that afternoon in the supply closet?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Yes it does. I sent you away with a smile on your face. I even remember your cologne. And the smell of bleach.”
“That’s a hard one to forget. Though it’s been over ten years.”
She shrugged and finished her second drink. “You were the starting middle linebacker. Lotta girls pined after you. And some boys are worth remembering.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“You married what’s-her-name, right? What happened?”
“Krystal,” I said. “She died unexpectedly after moving to New York. We never married. I went to California and joined the police force so I could legally kill everyone.”
“Wow, once a linebacker, always a linebacker, huh?”
“I like to think I’ve changed.”
She gave a lazy smile.
“Not too much, I hope. I liked the boy in the supply closet.”
“You’ve stayed single.”
She tilted her head back and forth in partial agreement. “Meh. I’ve called off two engagements so far. Men are pigs. And so am I, possibly.”
“You are suggesting a degree in psychology does not an expert make?” I asked.
“I do not practice what I preach.”
“Physician, heal thyself.”
“Fancy quote for hired muscle,” she said. “And here I was toning down my affectation.”
&
nbsp; “I wish your restraint rubbed off on our waiter.”
“Going to ask me out again?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“Buy me another drink and take me home, Mack.”
I did. She lived in Salem, near her place of work. She had the top floor of an old white house with faded wooden slats. Academia didn’t pay, apparently. I parked out front and put the car in drive but let the motor run.
“Come inside?” she asked. “Want to see how far you get?”
Yes. I did want to see. A lot. Like most men I knew, I was a human being. Built with wants and needs. And she was a woman, healthy, full of vitality and promise. I was nearly breathless with the idea. But I’d been asked this question before and I’d accepted. Many times. Not once — not once — had it ended well.
“Mack? Walk me up. I’m three drinks in. Three drinks could mean third base,” she said and she stumbled through her R’s.
“You’re a professor of psychology. How would you diagnose your potty mouth?”
“You get to take the professor’s clothes off.” She grinned and covered her mouth. “How about that?
“I can’t,” I said, ignoring thousands of years of evolutionary biology which were screaming at me. “I’m late to relieve my sitter already.”
It was a lie. I couldn’t think past the thundering in my ears.
“Don’t you get lonely?” she asked.
“I do.”
“God, I get so lonely. Are you lonely right now? At this point in your life?”
“Kinda.”
“Come on, Mack. Let’s go be lonely together. I got ideas about stuff we can do to forget the lonely. Fun stuff.”
“I can’t. But let’s go out again,” I said.
What the hell was wrong with me.
She said fun stuff. I liked fun stuff.
Get out of the car, Mack. Turn off the damn engine.
“So you’re not coming?”
I didn’t answer.
“What’re you afraid of?” she said, barely making the transition from “What” to “you.”
“Being untrue.”
“You havfa girlfriend?”
“Being untrue to myself.”
“Ugh. Fine,” she said.
I got out to get her door but she kicked it open and walked purposefully to her staircase.
“See you,” I said.
“If you’re lucky.”
Chapter Two
It was a beautiful late March. Temperatures in the mid-fifties, the skies were clear and business was booming.
Except I didn’t want to do any of it. I needed a day off from photographing romantic trysts, searching for missing teenage runaways, and foiling insurance fraud. So I did what all trusty and industrious private detectives do in their downtime; I searched for new grill recipes online and practiced drawing my gun from the holster, Wild West style.
Fortunately for me, and also for the client, I was sitting at my desk when the stairs creaked. Someone knocked softly on the door and entered.
A blonde. She wore a white blouse with an exaggerated collar and one of those skirts which was already too short and then had a professional slit running halfway up the side. Red heels. No hose.
She was perhaps the prettiest person I’d ever seen in real life.
“Hello, Ronnie,” I said.
“I am in need of a professional private detective,” said Veronica Summers. “Are you accepting clients?”
“I’m your man.”
The gravid statement hovered and the air became hot and electric. She inspected me. I watched her inspecting me. Both of us flushed a little. I almost flinched each time our eyes connected.
She said, “Mackenzie. I’m serious. This is a professional call.”
“Then you should put on an overcoat.”
“But how would you look at my legs?”
“I have a degree in criminal investigation. I’ll find a way,” I said. “Close the door behind you.”
“If you’re accepting clients and you think we can work together, I’ll go fetch him.”
“Fetch who?”
“The client,” she said. “My father.”
“Oh.”
“You were hoping for a damsel in distress? One wearing a tiny skirt?”
“More like a damsel in distress with a bag of money.”
“He’s loaded,” she said.
“And his skirt?”
Ronnie smiled.
The room brightened.
My heart nearly stopped.
“Take his money, Mackenzie. And I’ll keep wearing the skirt.”
“Bring him in.”
She went to fetch him and I wiped sweaty palms on my pants. Get it together, Mackenzie. You’re a grown man. With a gun.
Ronnie and I had recent history. Though I hadn’t seen her in three months, I pondered her daily. If I was stranded on a deserted island and got to take one thing she might be it.
No. Wait.
I had a son. I’d take him.
But if I could take two…
She returned with her father, a genteel silver fox. Perfect part in his cobalt hair, a faint tan, blue suit worn unbuttoned, white cuffs peeking from his sleeves, shiny deck shoes. He smelled of money and power and the awareness of it. The family resemblance was strong. He entered and Ronnie closed the door.
I stood.
“Not much of an office,” he said, waving offhand.
“Perhaps you were looking for a dentist?”
“I’m looking for a man who gets things done.”
“Such men do not spend time on decorations.”
He nodded. “Fair enough.”
We shook hands.
“Calvin Summers.”
“Mackenzie August. Please sit,” I said.
He sat. So did Ronnie and she crossed her legs. I pointedly did not watch, which was even more difficult than turning down Kristin Payne. I believe she enjoyed my discomfort.
“My attorney tells me you’re good,” he said.
“Ms. Summers is your attorney?”
“She is.” He indicated her with his chin. “You’ve worked with her before?”
I glanced at Ronnie. She was rigid, anxious, and she gave her head a slight shake.
“Not much. She referred some work my way. And those went well.”
“I need you to find someone,” he said.
“I can do that.”
“But I don’t know who. I know that doesn’t make sense yet.” He leaned back in the chair and picked invisible lint from his pressed slacks. “I run a small organization and someone inside is disloyal to me. I want the fucker found out.”
“How many persons do you employ?”
He waffled his hand, which gleamed with a college ring. Looked like Virginia Tech. “It depends. Call it…fifty, in various capacities. Only ten of whom directly answer to me. For example, I own a restaurant. The restaurant has approximately twenty employees, but I only communicate with the manager. You see.”
“I see.”
“Can you do this?”
“I can. It will involve snooping into your affairs, however.”
“Hell, everyone else does. You can be discreet?”
“Can, must, and will.”
Ronnie placed a hand on his arm to get his attention, but he shrugged her off.
I hoped she was appreciating my exhaustive efforts at professionalism. She was on edge about this encounter, which was why thus far I hadn’t mentioned his obtrusive Confederate flag belt buckle. Or his complete disregard for her.
“My business is sensitive, Mr. August. What assurances do I have you won’t report what you find?”
“None, I suppose. We could shake on it.”
“Shake on it,” he repeated. With displeasure.
Ronnie shifted in her chair.
“Pinky swear?” I offered.
No response.
I said, “I do not share my client’s information. With anyone. If, after discovery of your
unsavory and sordid secrets, I decide I’d rather not work with you then I will simply quit. But that won’t happen.”
“Veronica tells me you used to be a detective in Los Angeles?”
I nodded.
“Any leftover Boy Scout sentiment?” he asked.
“Boy Scouts do not last two days in Los Angeles. What business are you in, Mr. Summers?”
“I own commercial investments. Some of it under the table.”
“Local?” I asked.
“All investments are within forty miles. I live at the lake.”
“How do you know one of your employees is disloyal?”
“Because two weeks ago I was released from Ashland, after spending an unpleasant six months there.”
“Ashland,” I said. “The white-collar prison in Kentucky.”
Ronnie kept her gaze fixed on her legal pad.
He said, “Yes. I reached a plea deal with the fucking US attorney. I forget the details. Something like a fine and twelve months for tax evasion, released after six. A cushy establishment, but I did not enjoy it. Nor did I enjoy my embarrassment.”
“And one of your employees tipped off the feds,” I said.
“Almost certainly.”
Ronnie spoke up. “So you understand, Mr. August, why neither he nor I, his attorney, would want details of the situation circulating.”
“Of course.”
“Your discretion is paramount.”
“Of course,” I said again.
“Will you be working with anyone else on this case?” she asked, making notes.
“Possibly.”
“Who?”
“Whomever I choose. You’ll need to trust my judgement or find a different investigator,” I said.
Calvin Summers shot his daughter an irked glance of death. “Grown-ups are handling this. Take notes, and that’s it. Understand?”
She ignored him. “If you use someone else I’d like his or her name, Mr. August.”
“You’ll get no one’s name, I’m afraid.”
“You’re not married,” she said.
“No.”
“Dating?”
“Sure,” I said. “More or less.”
