Licensed for Trouble

by Susan May Warren

  “What?” Max stepped around her. His eyes bright. “My girlfriend?”

  PJ glanced at Jeremy. “I thought you told him when you stopped by here today.”

  “He was gone.”

  “I was crawling around under your house,” Max said, his eyes never leaving PJ’s.

  PJ put a hand on his arm. “We talked to a neighbor who said the woman who died—Bekka Layton—was seen arguing with a guy who had a tattoo . . . not unlike yours. And there’s more. She had . . . a son.”

  PJ half hoped this information might trigger something—light that new fuse he’d mentioned. Max just went very, very still. She heard him breathing, hard. Saw his jaw tighten.

  “A son.”

  PJ nodded slowly.

  “Did he . . . oh . . .” He put his hand to his chest, breathing as if he might actually be in pain. “The little boy—he didn’t die?”

  “No. They think he’s living with a relative. Bekka’s mother.”

  He looked away, blinked. “Is he . . . related . . . to—”

  “Maybe. I think he could be your son.”

  Max moved away from her, bracing himself against the counter. She wanted to put her arms around him, to pull him close, maybe reassure him. But, oh yes, that would send the right message to the two hulks behind her. Instead, “We’ll figure it out, Max.”

  He said nothing.

  Jeremy and Boone had also gone quiet.

  Outside, the rain continued to lash the house, thunder groaning in the distance.

  Max finally seemed to rouse out of whatever dark place he’d run to. He turned and slowly shook his head.

  “What?”

  “I want you to stop searching for me. I don’t want to know anymore.” He glanced at Jeremy. “I’m not afraid of paying the price for my crimes. But I can’t live with the fact that I could have been that person and done those things. What kind of man kills the mother of his . . .” He winced, his voice emerging tight, raspy. “His own kid. I feel sick just thinking about it.”

  “Max, it wasn’t you.”

  “You don’t know that! And I agree with Jeremy. You gotta stop believing in me. I might be exactly that monster.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Maybe I am.” He tightened his fist, released it. “Sometimes I feel it. A rage, like a coal inside me. Burning.” He took in a long breath, his jaw tight as he looked at the floor, shaking his head. “The truth is, it scares me. I can’t escape it, and if I put a name on it, then it’ll consume me. Maybe it’s better to keep running. To not know.”

  “Or maybe that fire is something else,” PJ said, despite the fact that Jeremy slid his hand over her shoulder, tugging her back. “Maybe it’s the burn of injustice. Or grief. Maybe it’s the pain of watching someone you love die.”

  Max lifted his gaze to her, and it made her want to weep. “Then I don’t want to know that, either.”

  “Max—”

  “No, PJ. Knowing isn’t better. It’s just terrifying.” Max turned and walked away.

  Jeremy’s hand squeezed her shoulder. “I know you don’t want to leave. I’ll sleep outside tonight, and we’ll get a better look at this in the light of day. How’s that sound?”

  “I’ll give Max a ride home. Call me if . . .” Boone’s gaze shot to PJ.

  PJ was no fool. Apparently Boone and Jeremy had silently worked out some two-pronged defense system, because beside her, Jeremy gave a small, approving nod.

  Good grief. Even if she did attract trouble, it hadn’t a prayer of getting past her guard wolves.

  She watched Boone follow Max out, the darkness swallowing them before their footsteps faded away.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Jeremy asked. He turned her, cupped her face with one hand. “You’re shaking a little.”

  He drew her close, his arms enclosing her. She put her arms around his waist. Despite his sodden, cold clothes, his body radiated heat. Still, she shivered.

  Maybe, right here, right now . . . yes, she might be okay.

  * * *

  “Are you sure you don’t need a blanket? or a tent?”

  Jeremy stood in the kitchen, a towel around his neck, wearing one of her oversize Disneyland sweatshirts.

  “You’re kind of cute as Goofy.”

  “Don’t go there. And no, I don’t need a blanket. I have one in my car.”

  “Your car? You have a car?”

  “I couldn’t rightly drive the bike in the rain, could I?”

  “So do I get to see it?”

  He smiled, something scallywag in it. “Hmm. I think you’re finding out way too much about me these days. A guy has to have a few secrets.”

  “About what kind of car you drive?”

  He made a face. “Well, okay, I don’t just drive it. Sometimes I sleep in it.”

  “For pete’s sake, are all the men in my life homeless?”

  “No, I still have my loft downtown. But sometimes when I’m on a stakeout or up late, I just . . . Well, maybe you should see what I’m driving.”

  “Most definitely.”

  The rain had died to a hazy drizzle, the air murky and wet as she stepped out onto the front stoop. Jeremy flipped on the outside light, then walked out behind her, closing her castle door. “So what do you think?”

  A candy apple red, split-window VW camper bus sat in the middle of the drive. “You’re kidding me. This is your car? It’s amazing. My dream wheels!”

  He grinned. “I figured.”

  “When did you get it? Is it a real camper bus?”

  “I’ve had it since I got out of the military. And yes, the backseat folds down into a bed, and there’s a little fridge and stove. I keep it in storage in my loft garage in the summer. It comes in handy in the winter, especially if I have to sit for long hours. There’s a little heater, too.”

  “It’s not exactly inconspicuous.”

  “No, but I have some tricks. And it doesn’t scream Cops like your Vic.”

  “Hey, I have my Bug, too—”

  “Which, I have to admit, is one reason I sort of like you.”

  He sort of liked her? He sort of liked her? What was that, another clue?

  “It’s a thing of joy and beauty.” She walked over to the bus and opened the side door. Sure enough, inside, the compact kitchen looked clean and in working order. And a rolled-up Army sleeping bag on the backseat suggested that yes, he might be just fine out here.

  “Jealous, aren’t you?”

  “Completely.” She climbed inside and crawled to the backseat. Ran her hands over the vinyl. Sighed.

  Jeremy levered himself in and sat beside her. “What?”

  “Max. How can I watch his life unravel without stepping in to stop it? If I don’t keep investigating, get to the bottom of this, for the rest of Max’s life he’ll think he’s a murderer.”

  “Maybe he is.”

  “Don’t.”

  “I’m saying, maybe this time we give him a free pass. For the record, I don’t hate the man. I just don’t necessarily trust him.”

  “With me.”

  “Especially with you.” He wore that pirate smile again. Leaned near her. Something about this night had unleashed all his overprotective instincts, from the way he searched the house, room by room, to the way he stormed into the kitchen after securing the house and pulled her to his chest, holding her for a very long moment.

  She’d let him, listening to his heartbeat, steady, solid.

  Now he drew an S on her leg, tracing the Superman symbol. “I love these pants, you know. And I miss you sleeping at the office.”

  “You said it was a good thing,” she said softly as he raised his beautiful eyes.

  “It is,” he whispered. Then he leaned in and touched his lips to hers. She couldn’t help but hold her breath, his kiss was so sweet, so perfect. He didn’t move to hold her, just touched her cheek ever so lightly with his fingertips. Then he backed away, smiling. “Most definitely, it is.”

  Heat rose to her fac
e, and she found herself grinning.

  Jeremy took her hand. “Listen. Max doesn’t want to know his past. And maybe that’s for the best.”

  PJ wove her fingers into his. “Maybe you’re right. I keep thinking of that word Max used—terrifying. I think I know what he means.”

  Jeremy didn’t speak.

  “The more I dig into Joy and Sunny’s past, the more I have this knot inside me. I know it doesn’t turn out well for Joy, and Sunny’s vanished off the planet. And the fact that my mother has left the continent is altogether inconvenient. I have a few questions for her. Somewhere in all this I can’t help thinking that maybe I’m a Kellogg or at least connected to the Kelloggs. And I think my mother might know it.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, my mother went to school with Sunny—there is a picture of them together in my mother’s yearbook. And apparently Connie saw my mother and Agatha Kellogg fighting not long after I left town ten years ago. She seemed to think that it might have something to do with me. Like Agatha might be angry at my mother. Maybe for letting me go . . . I don’t know. I’m probably letting my overactive imagination—” she shot him a soft grin—“have its way with me. I’m not related to the Kelloggs.”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  “It seems that the more I probe around the Kelloggs’ history, the more I see a legacy of pain. What if that’s why I can never get out of trouble? Because I’m a Kellogg and it’s in my genes? What if Boone is right—I just attract it?”

  “Boone’s not right.”

  “Why not? It’s true. I gravitate to danger and chaos. I mean, no wonder you ran through a storm to get here. No wonder Boone doesn’t want me to be a PI. You guys are constantly having to rescue me.”

  “I didn’t rescue you. You rescued yourself. With soap. Which I find slightly ingenious.”

  “I could have just as easily slipped on that very soap and ended up cracking my head open. Because . . . that’s the kind of person I am. Trouble. No wonder Matthew broke up with me.”

  “Matthew? Who’s Matthew?”

  “An old boyfriend who said I wasn’t pastor’s wife material.”

  Jeremy wore a sad look. “Can I have his full name, please, so I can run a search on him and beat him to death with your soap sock?”

  PJ ran her hand down his whiskered face. Shook her head. “He was right. And I’ve known since I was a kid. Sometimes I would look at Connie and wonder why it was so easy for her to be a Sugar. Perfect and beautiful and smart—”

  “PJ, you are all of those things.”

  “I’m not, Boone!”

  Jeremy blinked at her. Stiffened.

  She swallowed. “Uh, Jeremy. I’m not . . . those things.”

  He took a breath, then slid his hand out from hers. Nodded. “Yes, you are. But you can’t hear that from me, can you?”

  Tears burned her eyes. “I didn’t mean that. Boone and I are over.”

  “Maybe you are. But you’re not over the imprint he made on your life. Nothing but Trouble. I’m so tired of hearing that. It’s like he branded it on your soul. And the worst part is, it’s not Boone calling you trouble anymore—it’s you!”

  “I don’t like being trouble.”

  “Sure you do. Because if you’re trouble, then no one can hurt you.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about your being your own worst enemy. If you label yourself as trouble, then it’s easy to tell yourself that people won’t love you. Can’t love you. You forgive them for rejecting you before they have a chance to hurt you. Like Peter, running back to fishing instead of facing what he thought was God’s rejection. Don’t you get it, PJ? You are holding yourself captive. But it doesn’t matter what I say, does it? Because if you can’t see it, if you can’t hear it, if you can’t believe it, then you’ll always go back to fishing.”

  His voice gentled. “Princess, I can fight Boone for you, but I don’t know how to fight you for your own heart.” He put his hand on her cheek. “No matter how much I want to.”

  She leaned into his hand, her eyes blurry. “You do want to fight for me?” Another tear dripped down her chin. “Why?”

  Jeremy brushed her tear away with his thumb. “Oh, PJ, are you serious? Because you’re the furthest thing from trouble. You’re smart and brave and funny, and you’re incredibly cute, and you take my breath away nearly every day. You are my fresh start.”

  PJ closed her eyes. “I’ve never been anyone’s fresh start.”

  “Yeah. I was kind of hoping I might yours, too. But a guy only has so much fight in him.”

  She opened her mouth, hoping to protest, but he put his finger over her lips. “Go to bed, PJ. We’ll solve more mysteries in the morning.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Someday, PJ would have her own PI shop, with her own one-room office, located on the second floor of a small office building in Dinkytown, carpeted with manila files. Only, she’d take better care of the thirsty spider plant in the window, and she’d never leave cold coffee perched inches from the computer, daring someone to knock it over onto the keyboard.

  Tracking down Bekka Layton’s mother might be a trick, but she had two bagels, a tall vanilla latte, and enough frustration in her to fuel her for a week.

  “It’s not Boone calling you trouble anymore—it’s you!” Not anymore. Jeremy’s words had looped through PJ’s mind for the better part of the night until she finally wrapped her fingers around one solid truth. She had to actually solve a case, not stumble upon the answer or let it creep up on her only to figure it out after finding herself—and various family members—held at gunpoint.

  Trouble created messes. PJ Sugar, PI, cleaned them up.

  No more being held captive by her own low expectations. By calling herself names from the past.

  And it didn’t so much matter if Max didn’t want the details of his past. This wasn’t Max’s case. Not anymore. Because PJ Sugar didn’t quit. Not when the game was afoot.

  She’d dig up the truth, then give him the choice of hearing it.

  While she booted up Jeremy’s computer, she tasted her coffee. It needed sweetener. Outside, the rain had cleansed the sky to a radiant blue. She had gotten up early enough to see the sun rise, thanks to Jeremy’s other comment.

  “You are my fresh start.”

  It still sent a curl of heat through her. She’d never been anyone’s fresh start.

  Logging in to the PI search database as Jeremy and entering his ID and password, PJ ran a credit header search, cross-referencing Bekka’s last known address. A Social Security number popped up from her rental application.

  PJ added some sweetener to her latte as the Social Security search ran. The neighbor had mentioned someplace out West, and sure enough, four addresses down, PJ found a former residence listing in Portland.

  Running a check on the ownership of the records at the Portland address, she bingoed on another name—Flora Layton.

  See, that’s what Jeremy might call a fresh lead.

  She ran a credit header check on Flora, at that address, and landed pages of hits. Thankfully, Flora wasn’t a popular name, and it spit out a Social Security number.

  Halfway through her second bagel, PJ found Flora listed near Minneapolis. She’d moved twice since her daughter’s death, finally landing in Brooklyn Park.

  She had her jacket half-on, holding half of the bagel in her mouth, as Jeremy walked in the door.

  “Good morning,” His eyes, however, spoke reserve. As if he’d been recently kicked in the teeth and didn’t want round two.

  “Morning,” she said, hating that she’d done the kicking.

  He blocked her path with his foot. “Where are you going?”

  She stopped in the doorway. Took the bagel from her mouth. “Uh, just . . .”

  His eyes darkened, the wounded look replaced by the tight pull of his jaw. “You’re still looking for Max, aren’t you?”

  Why was it that she could t
ake on nearly any undercover identity and let lies flow out of her like syrup, but in her own skin, talking to her boss—and the guy that considered her his fresh start—she had nothing more intelligent than “Uh . . .”?

  “You’ve tracked down the victim’s mother, haven’t you?”

  She took a bite.

  “I thought so.” He pushed her out the door, following her down the stairs.

  She swallowed. “I can do this alone, Jer.”

  “Humor me. How did you find her?”

  PJ outlined her investigation methods as she unlocked her Bug. Jeremy slid into the passenger seat. “Okay, I’m impressed.”

  “See, I can be a real PI. And I didn’t even cheat and use my instincts. This was pure brainpower.”

  “I can feel the energy waves from here.” Jeremy sipped his coffee, looking at her from over the rim of his cup. He wore his black baseball cap today, a grey button-down shirt, untucked over a pair of dark jeans. He braced his cup on his knee as she motored them through Dinkytown and out of the city toward Brooklyn Park.

  “Max didn’t show up for work this morning,” she said. Not that he’d know, because when she looked out her bedroom window at the crack of dawn, the red bus had vanished.

  “No Max. No Dog. I left the door unlocked, just in case.”

  “You seriously think he’s coming back?” Jeremy shook his head, not looking at her.

  “He has a job to finish. My living room looks like the Hulk plowed through it—half the wall is torn up, and there’s plaster from one end of the room to the other. And he left half of Home Depot in my front room—an air compressor, a nail gun, a couple sheets of drywall.”

  “If he doesn’t show, I’ll find a new handyman. Or maybe I’ll track him down, make him clean it up. While I stand watch; don’t worry.”

  Which, of course, worried her.

  “What’s our cover, boss?” he asked, taking another sip of coffee.

  “I like that. Keep it up.”

  Jeremy smirked, leaned down, and flicked on the radio. Drive-time KQ92 was headlining the news.