“If you can’t keep her out of your office, how am I supposed to?” Rachel shot back.
“You’re fired,” Jack called over his shoulder as he headed out the door.
Rachel smiled and went back to her laptop.
After a moment, Jack stuck his head back in the door. “Get rid of her.”
“Oh!” Startled, Rachel jumped up to perform the thankless job of hustling Petunia out of Jack’s office.
Jack walked quickly down the stairs and pushed open the door leading to the street. Jack luxuriated in the face full of heat, which never failed to surprise him with its intensity. Cutting through traffic, his eyes caught on a dark sedan. The driver’s face was hidden behind a newspaper.
Jack rubbed his chin thoughtfully, frowning.
He entered the diner and took a seat at the Formica counter next to Sam Waterstone. In his early forties, Sam sported a boyish face that was strangely counteracted by a cynical glint in his bright blue eyes. He nodded to Jack, munching on an overstuffed sandwich. On his belt hung his City of Phoenix detective’s badge.
Jack said, “I need a favor.”
Sam swallowed, roughly wiped his mouth and said, “Kids swore me on a stack of Harry-F-ing-Potters to make sure Uncle Jack comes over. Saturday. Four o’clock. There! Now maybe the little punks will get off my ass.”
Mona sauntered up with a warm smile. “Hey Jack, the usual?”
“Sure thing. Plus a cheeseburger, well done.” Jack eyed her appreciatively. “Lookin’ good, Mona.”
Eyes sparkling, Mona let out a ‘Humph!’ and headed toward the kitchen.
“For God’s sake, I’m a married man,” Sam said as he gripped his stomach and burped. “The last thing I need is to be caught in the crossfire of whatever it is that you two have going on. Go out with her already. You’re giving me indigestion.”
“You worked the Daniel Hargrove case, right?”
“That case is colder than my ex-wife’s….” Sam took another bite of his sandwich, his words lost in his munching.
Mona placed a to-go coffee in front of Jack. She frowned at Sam. “P.G. it, Sam. This is a family establishment.”
“How did you hear that?” Sam said, mouth full.
“I know what you said.” Mona gave him a warning look as she walked away.
Jack said, “I need a copy of the case file. Anything you got.”
“You working it?”
“Wallpaper. Working a fast-and-easy for the daughter.”
“Which one? Legs, Brains or The Ghost?”
Jack shot him an incredulous look, “If the one I met ain’t Legs – I’m in love with the one who is.”
“Then you ain’t seen Brains yet,” Sam whistled softly. “Brick F-ing shithouse.”
“Sam!” Mona threw him a warning look from the other end of the counter.
Sam blew her a kiss, “Love you too, Mona. If I wasn’t already taken – you’d be in trouble.”
Mona frowned, spun on her heels and disappeared into the kitchen.
Sam turned to Jack, “She wants me. She’s sharpening her teeth on you to get to me.”
Mona returned, carrying a take-out bag that she plunked on the counter in front of Jack.
“Ears burnin’?” Sam smiled lasciviously at Mona.
“Sam, you seem to forget that I know your wife and if I told her the things you say and how you act…”
“You mean the burping?”
“She’d lock you in the cellar and never let you out.”
“That’s how much you know. We don’t have a cellar,” Sam grinned.
Mona rolled her eyes, “If there were a real policeman around – I’d be tempted to file a sexual harassment complaint.”
“And she’s funny,” Sam smiled.
Jack got out his wallet, gave Mona cash.
“Thanks, Jack.” She smiled appreciatively and pocketed the money. Mona held up the edge of her skirt where a single thread hung. “You mind?”
Jack pulled out his switchblade and, holding it low so no one could see, he deftly sliced off the thread.
“Thanks.” Mona smiled at him.
“You need to learn how to sew,” Jack said.
“It’s so much more fun to have you do it,” Mona grinned.
Sam gripped his stomach and burped.
Mona flinched, ignoring Sam and smiling at Jack. “Don’t be such a stranger, Jack.”
From another table, a customer called out, “Excuse me, Miss?”
Mona hurried away.
“You think you can have the file for me by four o’clock?” Jack asked. “I can meet you here. Coffee is on me.”
“Sure. I got nothing better to do,” Sam said sarcastically. “It’s not like it’s illegal or anything.”
“How’re the kids?” Jack asked, ignoring the comment.
“Sharon wants to be a private detective like Uncle Jack. Never mind being a flatfoot cop like Pop.”
“How ‘bout Ernie?”
Sam makes a wry face, “Ernie’s discovered the exciting new world of – ballet.”
“Really?” Jack asked, surprised.
“Really.”
“Is he good?” Jack asked.
“Scary good.”
Jack laughed. Turning to leave, he walked past a surprised Mona and headed into the kitchen where a Hispanic dishwasher stared after him indignantly. Jack slipped out the back door that led into an alley. A Goth girl leaned against a brick wall, smoking. She gave Jack the once over, wrote him off and returned to her cigarette with black lipstick stains.
Jack entered a door that read “Ide Mania.” He found himself in a storage room, his nostrils assailed by the acrid smell of hair chemicals. Jack straightened and walked with confidence into the beauty salon that smelled as pleasantly aromatic as the storage room smelled acrid. Three stylists were busy working on their clients.
The beautiful owner, Ide Flores, who looked like the Hispanic answer to Rita Hayworth, looked up with a frown as she demanded, “Who are you?”
Jack held up the to-go bag like it contained a rodent. “Call me if you have any more problems.”
Jack strode out the front door and into the street. He approached the dark sedan from behind and gave a hard rap on the driver’s window.
Frank Ficus let out a yelp and gripped his heart. Scowling, he rolled the window down and exclaimed, “Jesus Christ, Jack! You tryin’ to kill me?”
At fifty-eight, Frank Ficus had resigned himself to the extra weight he’d long ago given up trying to lose. His nose showed the signs of early pugilist pursuits and, in his heyday, he’d prided himself on finishing any fight that someone else was daft enough to start. With every passing year, he moved slower but still packed a brick pile of a punch.
Jack held out the to-go bag that held a cheeseburger. “Well done. The way you like it.”
Frank eyed it suspiciously.
Jack waved it closer to him so he could smell it.
Frank snatched the bag and suspiciously examined its contents.
“Who hired you to follow me, Franko?” Jack asked.
“I’m not one of your cheap dates who’s going to blow you for a burger.”
Jack opened his mouth with a slur against Frank’s sister but remembered his sister died of breast cancer. It was more fun doing the sister insults when they were younger – before they all got married, fat or dead. “Tell Petunia’s husband that he can stop spending his paycheck on detectives. It’s over between me and her.”
Frank’s eyes widened in surprise as he exclaimed, “Jesus, Jack! Aren’t you too old to be cattin’ around after other men’s wives? You never learn…”
“Tell him,” Jack said, turning to go back to the office. He turned, pointed to Frank like they’d come to an understanding.
Frank shot him the finger and muttered, “Asshole.”
Taking a hearty bite of the burger, Frank made a “this ain’t bad” face. Mouth full, he called after Jack’s retreating back, “You forgot the ketchup!�
�
CHAPTER TWELVE
I’m not interested in preserving the status quo; I want to overthrow it.
–Niccolo Machiavelli
Bud stared at Chip in horror. After several moments of floundering for something to say, he blurted out, “You can’t quit!”
“You’re the one who said I should,” Chip answered calmly, picking up his duffel bag from the baggage carousel at Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport. He tossed the bag over his shoulder and asked, “Where you parked, Pops?”
Chip Orlean was twenty-six and had a body and face that made straight men look twice. He was what a Southern ex-girlfriend’s mother once called a tall glass of hot tea – with muscles. He was in the final weeks of his third year of medical school in Philadelphia and was on track to getting a residency that would allow him to become a cardiologist.
“I said? What the blazes are you talking about?” Bud sputtered.
“You told me to follow my heart.”
“That’s assuming your heart led you to finishing med school!” Bud roared, feeling sick with frustration and not caring that he was making a public scene.
Chip glanced nervously at the heads that were turning in their direction. Chip tried to guide him toward the exit. “Calm down, Pops. This isn’t like you.”
Bud shook off his arm, “We’re not going anywhere until you tell me what is going on! Does this have something to do with a girl?”
“I wouldn’t change the entire direction of my life because of a girl. What am I in? Seventh grade?”
Bud glared at him.
A security guard walked toward them. Chip nodded toward the exit. “Let’s talk about it in the truck.”
“You’re not getting in my truck! You don’t deserve to get in a truck. There’s no ‘soul searching’ allowed in my truck. You can’t quit med school because you want to soul search. We’re buying you a ticket today and you’re going back to school!”
“Is there a problem?” the security guard asked.
“Lieutenant Orleans, Homicide,” Bud flashed his badge.
“You planning one, Lieutenant?” the guard asked with a quizzical smile.
Bud scowled at him, hooked his thumb at Chip, “Top of his class. Third year medical school. Who quits medical school in their third year?”
“Better than waiting until my fourth,” Chip quipped.
The security guard pushed back his cap, “Sorry to hear that, Lieutenant. I do need to ask you to take the show on the road.”
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks,” Bud glowered at Chip, who followed him as he strode toward the exit.
Bud didn’t trust himself to speak until they were in his truck. He sat silent, looking out the front window. He felt like a Buick was parked on his chest and he was having trouble catching his breath. With a grimace of pain, Bud started the truck. He turned to Chip, “Where am I taking you, because I refuse to take you home. Your mother is going to blow a gasket.”
“When I explain everything, she’ll understand,” Chip said confidently.
Bud stared at him in disbelief, “Son, have you met your mother?”
“You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
A searing pain shot down his left arm. Bud gripped his chest and bent forward, groaning.
“Are you all right?” Chip asked, concerned.
“Never better,” Bud said through clenched teeth.
“What’s wrong?”
“If you’d made it to fourth year, you’d know,” Bud gasped, doubling over in pain.
“Pops!” Chip jumped out of the truck and ran to the driver’s side. He shoved his dad over and got behind the wheel.
“I’m fine,” Bud choked out.
“Sit tight.” Chip gunned the engine and sped toward the exit.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.
–Anton Chekhov
“Sit still!” Jeni said as she jumped off the couch to get Enid a towel.
Enid held Jeni’s baby girl, Faith, as far away as her arms would allow. Jeni quickly returned and mopped up the baby puke that had been spewed on Enid’s shoulder.
Jeni cooed at the baby, “Doesn’t that feel better? Get that bad ole’ bubble out of your tum-tum-tummy?”
Enid grimaced in disgust as Jeni took the baby from her. Enid grabbed the towel and worked on getting the puke stain off.
An hour earlier, on the drive to Jeni’s apartment, Enid had been thrilled to strike a deal that she could crash on Jeni’s couch for babysitting services.
Jeni had given Enid a tour of the tiny apartment, which consisted of a living room whose sole contents were a worn pleather couch, scratched coffee table and a television that sat on the upside-down cardboard box it came in. The kitchen was more cheerful with daisy dish towels and brightly colored dishes. Potted cacti sat on the windowsill, softening the effect of the bars that were on the windows. Jeni had confided to Enid that the only plant she had ever been able to keep alive was a cactus.
Hanging on the wall was a decorative blanket with the image of Marilyn Monroe’s fuzzy, but dazzling, face. Jeni proudly told Enid she got it from the parking lot vendors on Dunlap and Seventh for ten dollars.
“You sure you’re up to watching Faith?” Jeni said.
“Yeah. Sure,” Enid said with false confidence.
It can’t be any harder than taking care of a drunk.
“Babies are harder to take care of than drunks,” Jeni said.
Enid looked at her with wide eyes.
“I mean, they both throw up on you but you change a lot more diapers with babies.”
Enid smiled weakly.
Jeni grabbed her keys and a gym bag. “I can be hard to reach at work. If I’m not answering, Mrs. Lopez next door can help you out.” Jeni hesitated, frowning, “But, uh, try not to bother her if you don’t have to because, uh, you sort of took her job.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. She’s reliable but she knows it and overcharges.”
“Doesn’t she know you’re a student?” Enid said.
Jeni stared at her blankly for a moment, “Oh, yeah. No, she is – not aware of that.”
“Is there anything else I need to know?” Enid asked.
“Whatever you do, no matter what happens – don’t let anyone in,” Jeni warned, her voice ominous.
“Are you expecting someone?”
“No.”
She sounds like my mom does when I ask her if she has money for groceries.
They stared at each other for a few moments.
“Help yourself to whatever is in the fridge but make sure you leave the last Pepsi for me. I need my morning Pepsi.”
“Okay,” Enid said.
Jeni smiled nervously. “Call me if you need me, right?”
“Right.”
Jeni went to the door, stopped, jiggling her keys.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nooo. You – everything – it’s going to be fine,” Jeni said in an unconvincing voice.
“Bye,” Enid said, ready to lock the door behind her.
Jeni glanced worriedly back at Faith, then at Enid, “Mrs. Lopez…”
“Don’t worry. I won’t open the door for anybody. I won’t drink your morning Pepsi. Nothing is going to happen.”
With a wan smile, Jeni left. Enid locked the door behind her, gave a sigh of relief.
God! She acts like something horrible is going to happen.
Enid grabbed the remote and clicked on the television. She got her backpack and sat on the couch so she was facing the door. She hadn’t wanted Jeni to know, but she was scared about being left in a strange apartment all alone. With a nervous look over her shoulder, she got the gun out of the backpack and placed it on the couch and settled in to watch television.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, be
fore a word has been spoken.
–Fyodor Dostoevsky
Returning from the diner, Jack strode into the reception room. He was looking forward to eating his lunch in the privacy of his office. Rachel looked up with that tight smile she got whenever she was about to derail his plans.
“What’s wrong?” he said. “Petunia stole the silver?”
Rachel pointed toward his office and whispered, “Someone’s waiting.”
Jack raised his eyebrows, gestured around the room. “Hence, the waiting room.”
“She wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“Damn it, Rachel! What am I paying you for?” Jack walked in the client office. It was empty.
Rachel peeked over his shoulder, surprised. “She was here a minute ago.”
Jack jerked open to the door to his private office and stalked in. He stopped short.
Twenty-five and exquisite, Eve Hargrove sat at his desk like she already owned him. Porcelain skin, glossy black hair that fell in lush waves over her shoulders, she had full red lips and startlingly green eyes. She wore a simple summer dress – the kind of simple that only a person in a stratospheric tax brackets can afford; the kind of dress that transforms an attractive woman into a gorgeous woman and a gorgeous woman into a goddess.
Eve examined Jack with take-aim eyes. “Jack Fox, I presume?”
Jack stepped forward, not trusting himself to speak.
She said, “I’m here to hire you.”
Jack frowned, pissed that she’d hijacked his chair and expected him to sit in the client chair. Something primal twisted in his gut and with sure-footed animal instinct, he walked to where she sat looking up at him with cool eyes.
Too cool. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.
He leaned on the edge of his desk, crowding her. She didn’t seem to notice – or care. He put his foot up on the windowsill, trapping her in. It was a move designed to own the space and force her to retreat.
She didn’t.
Cool as ice, Eve kept her eyes locked on his. “You are a private detective, aren’t you?”
Gunning For Angels (Fallen Angels Book 1) Page 5
