Our Little Secret (Jake Hancock Private Investigator Mystery series Book 5)

by Dan Taylor

  “That figures.”

  “So what now? Are you going to run and tell the feds, like a good little detective?”

  “I folded.”

  “Huh?”

  “I didn’t let on I know what’s going on. I figured we might hit a few brick walls had we gone my route.”

  “I’m proud of you, Jake Hancock. You’re way cooler than I thought.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “Oh.”

  “I know one thing for sure. Bradley Hoverbrooke’s days of sticking fingers in pies he’s drugged are over.”

  “Your metaphor kinda fell down there.”

  “Yeah, I’m a little rusty with those today.”

  We sit in silence a short while, soaking in the sun.

  Then Annabelle says, “Would it be weird if I said you sitting there in that goofy shirt with that bump on your head is one of the most romantic things I’ve ever seen?”

  “I don’t know. Try it out.”

  She does.

  We sit in silence a few seconds afterwards.

  “So?” Annabelle says.

  “You made me blush a little.”

  She playfully punches me on the arm, reminding me how young she is. I forgot for a second.

  Changing the subject, I say, “I’ve been wondering about something, Annabelle.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What’s your major?”

  “Sociology, why?”

  “Close but no cigar. I figured psychology.”

  “Nah, psychology majors are total nerds.”

  “Now sociology, whole different kettle of fish.”

  She punches me on the arm again, and I can tell she’s trying to make eye contact with me. I carry on staring at the pool.

  She gives up after a couple seconds or so.

  Then I say, “Do you think Brad would enjoy a trip to Las Vegas?”

  “To do some gambling?”

  “Brad’s a rapist who uses a condom. He doesn’t strike me as the gambling type. After he’s confessed, I thought he might enjoy a relaxing stroll through the desert. Ladies’ man like that needs to keep his tan topped up.”

  “I think he’d like that.”

  It’s getting close to the time I’ve got to leave. As fun as my weekend break in Hickston has been, I really need to get back to Hollywood so that I can have even more fun breaking the news to Megan. Nine months ago when I did a gig for Megan, I faced an ethical dilemma. I found out something about Megan’s parents that would destroy her, so I kept it a secret. And have done so ever since.

  Part of me thinks Megan would be happier if I never told her about what Julius was doing in Hickston last weekend, and had he not put a ring on her finger—although it’s just an engagement ring, for now—I might have just taken him aside, spoken only to him, letting him know I’m onto him. It would’ve been a gamble, because if things had progressed to the point of marriage and all that jazz, and if Julius was still fooling around, I would’ve felt obligated to let Megan know the truth about her husband-to-be. Because I hadn’t spilled the beans right away, it might ruin mine and Megan’s friendship. But if it meant there was a chance of Megan being happier for it, it was a gamble I was willing to take. I would’ve just told Megan that Julius had come here to score some pot, that he’s some kind of pot nerd who traveled here to buy a specific strain or some shit.

  Julius isn’t going to get a pass for this. He forced my hand when he asked Megan for her hand in marriage.

  There’s a cliché about not mixing business with pleasure, which I mentioned earlier. It’s true for most gigs. But I think investigating’s a little different in that respect. Sure, things get messy when your client’s your friend, and ethical dilemmas are par for the course when investigating something really personal to them. I knew this coming in, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Because I know Megan reasonably well, I’m able to make decisions taking the bigger picture into account, where a different detective wouldn’t.

  Wow, that was a pretty poignant speech. I’ll have to remember to tell it to my shrink.

  I’m pretty sure I know what’s in store for Brad. Now all I have to think about is how I’m going to break the news to Megan and how I’ll spend the rest of the weekend.

  Annabelle interrupts my thoughts, “You’ve got a stupid smile on your face. Are you all right?”

  “I think I know how I’m going to spend my Sunday morning and afternoon.”

  “How?”

  “I’m going to get stoned and watch SpongeBob SquarePants.”

  “Okay. That’s random.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t smoke pot.”

  “I don’t.”

  “What the hell do you do at college?”

  “Study…”

  “All the time, or just on weekdays?”

  “Nearly every day.”

  “Okay, so it’s obvious what Mom and Dad are getting out of paying all that tuition, but what the hell are you getting out of it?”

  We go back and forth like this for a minute or so. Annabelle argues the merits of getting a job with a Fortune 500 company after college, building up a stock portfolio for retirement, getting on the property ladder, and being able to afford a wedding that doesn’t blow. I argue the merits of the typical college experience: frat parties, beer bongs, normal bongs, and sleeping with the guy the girl you hate in your class has the hots for. Okay, so I never experienced that last one, but that sounds like a blast. Just if the sexes were reversed…I mean, if I slept with the girl the guy I hated in my class had the hots for. Not that there’d be anything wrong with what I originally said.

  Anyway, after that silly conversation, the topic of conversation turns serious. I ask her, “Annabelle, are you going to be all right?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “No, I mean really all right.”

  She looks at me strangely. “Like in what way?”

  “Well, you went through a traumatic experience. Do you think you’ll be mentally scarred in some way?”

  “Nah, I think I’ll be okay.”

  I believe Annabelle. She’s a tough girl.

  I get up to leave. “Okay, so I better be going now.”

  “Aren’t you at least going to drive me back to campus?”

  I did not think of that. “Which college?”

  She looks at me, doe eyed. Her hands together as though praying. “UCLA.”

  “That’s like a stone’s throw away from where I live. Sure.” I pretend to take in her appearance anew. “In fact, I think I recognize you from this bar I go to that college students frequent.”

  “Eww, gross, Jake. Tell me you’re lying.”

  “I’m just busting your balls. I’ve never seen you there.”

  We both get up and start walking to the reception desk, so that she can check out. Annabelle links arms with me.

  When we’re in the reception area, I say to the receptionist, “See? Friends.”

  She says, smiling knowingly, “Yes, I can see that.”

  She doesn’t get a tip.

  After we’ve checked out, we walk to the car.

  Annabelle says, “What the hell happened to your rental.”

  “Funny story. I was just driving along, minding my own business, when I see some fucked-up college-age girl walking along the shoulder road…”

  36.

  A COUPLE MILES into the drive, the conversation inevitably turns to Megan. Annabelle’s theories for why I was investigating Megan’s boyfriend are way wilder than what actually happened, so I figure I may as well satisfy her curiosity. Damage limitation. Not that I don’t trust her to keep this stuff a secret.

  “Wow. So Megan’s boyfriend likes to play both quarterback and wide receiver?” Annabelle asks.

  “I haven’t heard that one before. I’ll have to write it down.”

  “This is the worst kind of breakup. You know that, right
?”

  “I suspected it might be.”

  “She could come to the conclusion she turned her boyfriend gay. She could begin to question the whole of her femininity.”

  “It’s a difficult situation. I need to think of a way to break the news gently to her, maybe even find a different reason why Julius was in Hickston for the weekend without him being a bisexual, cheating asshole. You up for a spit-balling session?”

  “Shoot.”

  “I could…go on vacation and write it on a postcard and send it to her. I could mention it in passing, right after I told her swimming with dolphins was everything I thought it would be and more.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “No, I fucking hate dolphins.”

  “What have you got against dolphins?”

  “They’re the sea’s librarians. I prefer sea lions. Those things look dumb as fuck.”

  “Why is dumb good?”

  “Dogs are preferable to cats. Sea lions are preferable to dolphins. And Sylvester Stallone is preferable to Jeff Goldblum. Anyway, we’re getting off track. It’s your turn.”

  “Okay, I’ll ignore the fact yours wasn’t serious and that it didn’t exactly get around telling Megan that her boyfriend’s gay.” She thinks a second. “Ooo, I’ve got a good one.”

  “Does it involve dolphins?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “You could make up that Julius has children with another woman, and that he kept it from her.”

  “There’s a tiny hole in your plan.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It isn’t guaranteed to break them up. Megan could just forgive him on the spot. And even if she didn’t, Julius could easily prove he doesn’t have children.”

  “Can you prove you don’t have children somewhere?”

  “Me? Definitely not. But I get the impression that Megan took his flower and probably suspects she did.”

  “Okay then, your turn.”

  I think a second. “I’m out of ideas. But I think I know someone who could help.”

  “Who?”

  “My sister, Mare. She’s the creative type, at least when she’s pissed at me.”

  I take out my cell phone and connect it to the car’s speaker system. Then I phone Mare.

  She answers after a shit-ton of rings. “Hi, Jake. Now isn’t a good time. I’m on the can.”

  “You’re on speaker, and there’s a girl in my car. And when did you start using Dad’s tactic for avoiding phone calls with family members?”

  “Jesus, Jake. Why didn’t you let me know before I said that? At least tell me she’s a stripper.”

  “There’s still a girl in my car, Mare. A non-sex-worker girl who can hear everything you say.”

  “Well, thanks for the warning, Jake, but it came a little late.”

  “I just phoned for some advice. I take it you’re not actually on the can, seeing as though I can hear what sounds like over-caffeinated soccer moms encouraging their little ones to perform beyond their physical capabilities.”

  “I’m watching Randy play Little League. Why didn’t you phone Dad instead?”

  “He’s having a spa day with Mom, and I don’t think this is the kind of advice he’s good at giving.”

  “Don’t tell me you finally got a hooker pregnant.”

  “Again, Mare. She’s sitting right next to me. She’s young and impressionable, so I hope you can be on your best behavior.”

  “Honey?”

  “What?”

  “Not you, you doofus. The girl.”

  Annabelle, after looking unsure—maybe even scared; I know I would be—says, “Hi. It’s me. The girl in Jake’s car.”

  “No matter how charming my brother gets, reject his advances.”

  “Thanks, I will, Ms. Hancock.”

  “Polite girl. Now Jake, what advice do you need?”

  I explain the situation to Mare.

  Then she says, “It’s obvious what you should do.”

  “It is?”

  “Yeah.”

  After calling me a whole host of colorful names to express how stupid she thinks I am—with my personal favorite being “it would be offensive to shit to describe what’s between your ears as such”—she tells me what she would do.

  “Thanks, Mare, great advice. If Randy doesn’t hit a homerun, don’t be too hard on him.”

  “He’s the catcher, and these kids are like six. I’ve been watching all season and not seen one hit that’s gone farther than twelve yards.”

  “Oh, then if he doesn’t manage to…catch all the pitches, don’t go too hard on him. You could pop his self-esteem before it’s had chance to fully inflate.”

  “He’s the catcher on the team. I think the coach might be doing that already. But thanks for the condescending advice, anyway.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Any other areas of parenting you want to explain to me with a balloon metaphor before I go back to supporting my son?”

  I think a second. “I have a great one about potty training, but I’ll save that for another time.”

  “Randy’s six, Jake.”

  “Are kids that age potty trained?”

  “Let me just have a look and see if any of the other kids are wearing diapers.”

  “Okay, but don’t stare at their asses too long. The other soccer moms might start talking.”

  She ignores me, says, “Nope. Just Kevin, but I don’t think he really counts.”

  “Okay, Mare. I better get going now.”

  “Will you come by and see us some day next week? God knows why, but Randy’s been asking about you.”

  “I think my own self-esteem balloon might be getting a little too big for its…balloon cage? Is that a thing? Anyway, it probably needs deflating a little, so I’ll come and see you guys.”

  “Okay, Jake. And don’t bring him candy this time. You don’t need to buy his affection, and you won’t be paying his dental bills when he’s older.”

  “I won’t. I’ll bring him a big old cabbage instead. Bye now.”

  She hangs up.

  Annabelle says, “Do you think it’ll work?”

  “No way will that cabbage make up for my inadequacies as an uncle.”

  “Not that, you doofus.”

  I glance at Annabelle, raising an eyebrow.

  She says, “Sorry, I just wanted to see if I could get away with it too.”

  “You’re missing a vital qualification to be able to talk to me like that.”

  “Will I regret asking what that is?”

  “You didn’t come kicking and screaming out of the same vagina.”

  “I’ll go ahead and say I would’ve regretted it, had I asked.”

  I sense the need to steer the conversation away from my mom’s vagina, so I say, “Do I think what’ll work?”

  “The advice your sister gave you for dealing with this Megan situation.”

  “Oh that. Most definitely not. But I can’t see any harm in trying.”

  “Then why’d you tell your sister it was great advice?”

  “Did you not hear the conversation I just had with my sister? If it were possible to kill people with words said through a telephone, Mare would be America’s most notorious serial killer.”

  “True. I can think of a few ways it might cause harm.”

  “Well, it’s all we’ve got.”

  We sit in silence for ten seconds or so.

  Then Annabelle says, “This plan, you’re not going to be able to do it on your own. Unless you look great in drag?”

  “I do, as it so happens. But there’s no need for that. I think I know someone who owes me one.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “I’ll give you a clue. Her name rhymes with…Snannabelle Penglish.”

  “Oh hell no!”

  “Just think of the good you’ll be doing, Snannabelle.”

  “Stop calling me that. And there’s no way I’m getting involved in this.”


  “Okay, but I’ll be shit at putting on mascara. My hand’s still shaking from being tortured by the sheriff.”

  “He did that?”

  “Did I not mention it?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, he did. At least mentally tortured, and the binds chafed a little.”

  Silence a second. Annabelle’s biting her fingernails.

  “I suppose I do owe you one,” she says.

  “I was just messing with you. If you don’t feel comfortable doing it, just say so, and I’ll drop you off. I’ll find someone else to save Megan from marrying a cheating dude who butters his toast on both sides.”

  Annabelle goes back to biting her fingernails. After a minute or so, she says, “Okay, I’m in.”

  “Are you sure? I haven’t emotionally blackmailed you into it, have I?”

  “You kind of did, but that isn’t my motivation. I’m glad to help.”

  “Attagirl.”

  37.

  I PHONE MEGAN and arrange to meet her and Julius. They’ve moved on from celebrating at the restaurant to some shitty bar Julius probably chose. I said I’ll be there at about nine, right after I’ve gotten changed.

  The plan is to drop off the rental, walk to Greg’s car, in which I’ll get changed into my pizza delivery boy uniform, as Annabelle waits outside with her eyes closed. Then we’ll go to my apartment and I can pay Greg for his gig and get changed. We’ll head to the bar, but it’s Annabelle who’ll be meeting them before I do.

  When I relay the plan to Annabelle, conversation inevitably turns to why I have to change cars and dress up as a pizza delivery boy to go back to my apartment. I tell her about the whole messed-up situation with my former employers, who are watching me like a hawk. And about the souped-up pacemaker in my chest that they’ll activate if they suspect I’m plotting to uncover their secrets.

  Annabelle thinks I’m fucking with her, no matter how much I tell her it’s the truth. She’s even adamant after I show her the scar on my chest from where they operated. She busts out an ageist joke, telling me that it’s obviously just a scar from when I had triple-bypass surgery.

  “When you’ve stopped wearing your hair in pigtails, you’ll know how offensive that is,” I say.

  “Ouch.”

  When we drop off the rental, I try to tell the young guy who’s gig is to inspect my rental that those scratches and bumps were there before I rented it.