I got up bleary-eyed and thankful. Jessica used to make sure that I woke up in time, and I’d been having significant trouble with it since she’d moved out. Checking the time I panicked. I’d slept half an hour too long without reacting to the alarm at all. No wonder Mrs. Pasternak was annoyed, if she’d had to listen to it beep that long. But then I remembered I didn’t have to be at work until nine. I hadn’t changed the wake-up time in my alarm before I went to bed, so it woke me up at six. Or tried to, anyway. Groaning in pleasure, I sank back to bed.
I startled awake half an hour later.
I shot up and prepared myself for work. It was nice to actually choose what to wear instead of putting on a uniform—but more difficult than I remembered, especially since I didn’t really have much clothes. It would be another hot day, so I selected a powder pink T-shirt—it slightly clashed with my hair, but I didn’t care—and my only pair of summer pants—white but miraculously clean, tight and really good for my figure as they squeezed the extra bits in. My look didn’t exactly match Jackson’s black on black, but I felt great. At the back of my closet I found an old canvas messenger bag that would be perfect in my job. I’d fill it with everything I needed.
Breakfast was cereal without milk, because it had gone off and I’d forgotten to buy more. I began looking for a pen to compose a note for Jessica about it, only to remember she didn’t live here anymore, and then spent a few moments wallowing in self-pity.
Despite the extra sleep, I was early to leave to work, so I made a detour by the college on my way to the subway. I needed a new housemate and I’d decided that the university was my best bet. I put the ad I’d made the previous day on the notice board by the housing office and crossed my fingers. It was almost a month until the next term started, but I felt confident someone would notice it before that. And if not, I’d manage the rent somehow until then.
Subway train was much more crowded than what I was used to and the people were different. This was the commute time for nine-to-five workers that I’d never been part of before. I found it exciting, even if it was hot in the car. It was a reminder that my life was different now.
I exited at my usual station—on purpose, not because I’d had forgotten; I’d never forget I had a new job now. I emerged onto 7th Street and crossed to Café Marina behind a group of commuters eager to get their morning lattes and muffins, and waited in line until it was my turn to be served. The surprised look on my former fellow waitress’s face when she recognized me was worth the queueing.
“What are you doing here?” Kelly asked so loud that the entire café silenced for a second.
“Getting my morning latte and returning this.” I showed her the uniform I’d packed neatly in a plastic bag.
“Couldn’t you have taken it straight to the kitchen?”
“I don’t have a key to the back door anymore.”
“Well, I don’t have time to serve you,” she snapped. “Thanks to you, we’re short-staffed this morning.”
Hearing they were having a hard time without me pleased me. “I’m not the one who decided to fire me for something I didn’t do.” People behind me were getting impatient that the line wasn’t moving, so I stepped aside and made a beeline for the kitchen door behind the counter. “I’ll take this myself.”
Lisa, another morning-shifter, was busy filling trays with donuts. “About time you showed up,” she spat when she spotted me.
“I’m not staying. I was fired, remember.”
“I’m sure Marina has calmed down by now.”
“Possibly, but I haven’t.”
I walked past her to the back of the kitchen, where my erstwhile boss had her small office. It spoke volumes of her character that she wasn’t at the counter helping Kelly, even though they were a staff short, but I didn’t have to care about it anymore. I gave the open door a knock and entered.
“You!” She definitely hadn’t forgiven me yet. She was Italian in both looks and temper.
“I came to return my uniform and collect my wages.” I placed the plastic bag on her desk.
“I haven’t calculated them yet.”
“I can wait.” I leaned against the doorjamb like I had all the time in the world.
“Fine.” She pulled out her lists with my hours on them and began to add them up. “You know, you’d get a full two weeks’ pay if you stayed and helped today.”
“Thanks, but I already got another job.”
Her mouth pressed into a line and she didn’t say another word, not even to ask where I was working now. I itched to tell her, but I wouldn’t volunteer the information, so it frustrated me a little when she kept her silence. She filled the necessary lines in her accounting program and a moment later her printer spewed out a check for me.
“I deducted the donuts.”
“For their retail price, I see.” But I wouldn’t make a number of it. I had a check for almost eight hundred dollars. That was half of the rent covered. Eating was overrated anyway. Then again, I’d had to slave for nearly 140 hours for it. I should have more to show for it.
Even with my detours, I reached the elevator at the agency’s building at the same time as Cheryl and Pippin. She was dressed in the same pink suit as the previous day, with a leopard print top underneath, and Pippin had a pink bow on his head. He was ecstatic to see me.
“He’s not a guard dog, that’s for sure,” I noted, making Cheryl smile.
“He’s a cutie, that’s what he is.”
We reached our floor and stepped out of the elevator just as Jackson emerged from the stairs, dressed in all black again, with a black blazer on, even though it was going to be another hot day. Then I caught a glimpse of a handgun in a shoulder holster and didn’t wonder about the jacket anymore.
He gave me a baffled look, as if he’d forgotten he had hired me. Or possibly for my summery clothes. “You’re early,” he said, opening the office door and switching off the alarm.
“For me this is late.” I followed him in to start my first proper day as an apprentice P.I.
It wasn’t a terribly exciting morning, to be honest, but I enjoyed every moment of it. For the first time ever I was paid to sit on a nice couch with a cup of coffee and read. I definitely needed the coffee, because the reading was fairly dull. Jackson worked on his computer.
“Do you have interesting cases open?”
“Not anything high-profile. I recently finished a case for the DA against a drug lord. It’s coming to trial this week.”
“Was it dangerous?”
“No, but time-consuming and huge. The DA managed to bring down pretty much the entire operation along with the leader.”
“So it’s not solely about photographing cheating spouses?”
His mouth quirked. “Not solely. But how are your photography skills?” I had to admit my ignorance and he added lessons in it to my schedule—as well as buying a camera and a new phone for me on his shopping list.
“What’s the phone for?” Not that I had anything against a new smartphone I didn’t have to pay for.
“Let me count the ways…”
Turned out, a good smartphone was essential for a P.I. You could access all sorts of databases with it on the go, like most wanted, missing persons, and the DMV. Plus it had maps and a camera too.
“You never know when you need to have a license plate checked.” He glanced at his watch. “Actually, we have time for shopping right now. Let’s go.”
So we went.
Chapter Seven
Less than an hour later we emerged from the Atlantic Terminal Mall after a whirlwind shopping excursion. Jackson knew exactly what he wanted and where he wanted it from; there was no window shopping, and God help the salesperson who tried to persuade him into buying what he didn’t want. It was very effective, but not much fun.
I didn’t mind. I was a proud owner of a new smartphone, but not the camera. Jackson had decided that until I learned how to take photos with one of those long lenses—you needed them for ste
alth, long-distance photographing—I’d have to settle with one of his old cameras. I also got a notepad and pens that made me feel nostalgic for school for some reason.
“Do we have time to pop into that bank?” I asked, spotting my branch across the street.
“Of course. Why?”
“I’m carrying a check for eight hundred bucks in my bag.”
To the surprise of no one, Jackson quick-marched me there.
It was almost lunch time, and those who had snuck out early from work to run errands were filling the small lobby, looking impatient for having to stand in line. Jackson eyed them in dismay.
“You know, you could handle this with an app on your new phone too,” he said as I made my way to the desk at the side, where they had the depositing envelopes.
“It’s not operational yet, is it.” I wouldn’t admit it aloud, but I didn’t entirely trust those apps. It was much better to fill the envelope, which really didn’t take that long, and push it through the appointed slot. Much more satisfying too.
“Now what?” I asked, my check safely in the care of the bank.
“Now lunch. Then we’ll take care of your personal security. You have to be able to defend yourself if you plan on walking around with checks in your bag.”
I refrained from telling him it wasn’t exactly an everyday occurrence, and just followed him to lunch. I was even able to buy my own, thanks to Trevor. And the novelty of having lunch at a leisurely pace—sitting down—wouldn’t wear off soon.
Jackson chose a small place behind the mall, and since it was near the 78th Precinct, the place was filled with cops. They all knew Jackson—partly because the agency was only a block away from the precinct, partly because he had a good reputation—and he was greeted like one of them. My presence caused some glee, especially when they learned I was his apprentice.
“What can she do? Check the ladies toilets for cheating spouses?”
I rolled my eyes. “As if there aren’t any women police,” I said to the sexist ass, a man about my age wearing a uniform. He only grinned.
“Not as fine as you.”
I didn’t know if I should be pleased or not. I wasn’t exactly complimented every day, even though customers at the café had liked to flirt with the waitresses, but the tone it was given was disparaging.
Jackson came to my rescue. “I’ve seen your partner, O’Hara. She might get mad if she heard you say that.” Everyone laughed, O’Hara included.
A detective in a rumpled suit came to our table. He was in his late forties, short and overweight with a receding hairline and a cigarette behind his ear, matching my image of what a P.I. should look like exactly. Jackson introduced him as Detective Lonnie Peters and we shook hands. He refrained from making asinine comments about my presence or gender, and just talked to Jackson.
“I hear you did a great job on the MacRath case.” He smiled, but I detected an irritated undertone. Had it been his case? Cops could be territorial. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I hope the streets are cleaner for a while.”
“He didn’t deal for street users. It was CEOs and rock stars for him, and someone will soon fill that vacancy.”
Jackson admitted it with a grim nod. I was curious, but I deduced it was about the case Jackson had done for the DA. I felt proud of him.
After lunch we got into Jackson’s car. He took Atlantic Avenue, a busy road that cut Brooklyn from west to east, heading east through the better neighborhoods of Crown Heights and Bedford and Stuyvesant. But we were almost in Brownsville—the opposite of a good neighborhood—before he pulled over outside a small strip mall. A fast food place on the right, women’s clothes in the middle, and the store we were here for on the left.
Feeling apprehensive, I followed him into the store that specialized in private security business, everything from weapons to alarms and surveillance systems.
“I’m not getting a gun, am I?”
“No, but you do need protection, and not solely for those checks either. Your father is right. This job comes with its own set of hazards. You have to be prepared.”
He proceeded to walk up and down the aisles, checking the merchandize with a keen eye. Now he was in a shopping mood. I followed with less enthusiasm.
Twenty minutes later I was the owner—with ambivalent feelings—of a pair of police quality handcuffs and a can of pepper spray. Jackson would’ve bought me a Taser too, but you needed a license for it, which gave me a good reason to refuse. With my luck, I’d manage to stun myself.
We were about to exit the shop when a man at a side counter showcasing handguns caught my attention, mostly because he was trying really hard not to be noticed. He had a baseball cap pulled low over his face but I recognized him instantly. Hard not to with that face.
I halted Jackson by placing a hand on his arm and leaned closer to him. “Behind your right shoulder is the ugly skip whose photo was on your computer yesterday.”
Jackson didn’t even twitch a brow, but just casually checked the direction I indicated. “You’re right. Well spotted,” he said in a low voice. “Wait here, I’ll go get him.”
I didn’t want to miss the action on my first day, but I wouldn’t be much use in making an arrest. So I walked to the exit instead and placed myself in front of it, proud of my initiative.
Jackson approached the man from the side, reaching behind his back for handcuffs I hadn’t even noticed he had hidden under his blazer. He was about to announce himself when things went wrong.
The security guard had noticed the guy too, probably because he looked suspicious as hell with his ball cap pulled over his face. He walked straight toward the fugitive, not even pretending to hide his intentions. And why would he? It was his job to get rid of suspicious people loitering around guns.
Just as Jackson reached to take a hold of the skip’s shoulder, the guy spotted the guard and instantly bolted for the door, managing to push Jackson off balance as he turned. A heartbeat later the only thing standing between him and freedom—was me.
I’d like to say I did something brave, like stood firm and yelled “Stop, you’re under arrest,” and then pulled a fancy move that stopped the fleeing guy in his tracks. Or that I’d at least fired the pepper spray that was in my hand.
But I didn’t. I froze in horror as two hundred pounds of angry and desperate man barreled at me, his eyes so fixed on the door he barely noticed me there when he bowled over me. I flew backwards and landed heavily on my back, wind knocked out of my lungs, but by sheer luck I didn’t bang my head.
“Are you all right?” Jackson’s face appeared over mine, looking worried.
“Yes. Go,” I wheezed.
He didn’t wait for another command and disappeared out of the door, leaving me to pull myself together on my own. Helpful hands reached to assist me, and a moment later I was on my feet, swaying only a little.
“Are you all right? What happened?”
I gave the cashier who had asked the question my best reassuring smile I’d honed over the years. “We’re private investigators. He’s a fugitive who missed his court date.”
The girl didn’t look terribly surprised to hear it. “We get all kinds here.”
The security guard returned, having run after Jackson and the fugitive. He wasn’t exactly in the prime of his youth so he was panting heavily. “They got away.” He fixed his eyes on me, but the look was mild compared to my dad’s or Jackson’s and I had no trouble keeping calm. “What do you know about this?”
I fished out my new ID from my bag and showed it to him. An excited thrill ran down my spine for the novelty of it. “Private investigators. That man was an FTA.” ‘Failure to appear’, if you will, which I’d only that morning learned from the papers Jackson made me read, but I used it like a pro. “We were trying to arrest him when he fled.” Because of you, I wanted to say, but I managed to keep that to myself. No need to upset him.
He looked pleased. “I knew there was something wrong with the guy.�
��
“Yes, well spotted. Now, which way did they go?”
I had a mosquito’s chance in an insecticide factory of catching them, but I jogged off in the direction the guard had pointed, trying not to limp. I’d fallen on my bag, which had softened my landing, but I’d still have a bruise on my tailbone. I kept running till I rounded the corner—not very far—and then I had to pause to catch my breath. I’d have to start exercising if I wanted to keep this job.
Now there was an aspect of my new life I wasn’t particularly looking forward to.
Chapter Eight
I was leaning against the car when Jackson returned twenty minutes later—without the fugitive. He looked like a storm on two feet, so I decided not to ask any questions and just got in the car. The drive back to the agency went in silence.
My arrival gave Cheryl a fit. “Look at you,” she shrieked. “What’s happened?” Pippin jumped around me yapping, alarmed by Cheryl’s tone. Jackson marched straight into his office and threw the door closed behind him so hard I feared the glass would break.
I took stock of my appearance as I sank down on one of the visitors’ chairs—carefully, wincing when my tailbone protested. My summer pants were no longer white, but nothing was broken and I wasn’t bleeding.
“We ran into a fugitive. Literally.”
I told her the story and she immediately pulled out the details of the guy on her computer.
“Tito Costa, forty-nine, arrested for robbing a bank, currently fugitive for missing his court date. Fairly high bond, but that’s because his loot is still missing. One ugly dude.”
I went to take a look. “I wonder what’s happened to him.”
“I’d say he was thrown through a window face-first, and patched up without much care for where each piece belonged.”
Jackson emerged from his office, still furious. “And why the hell weren’t you answering your phone?”
His angry opening apropos of nothing threw me a little, but I shrugged. “The new one isn’t operational yet and I haven’t heard the old one ring.” I dug into my bag and pulled out both phones. The cardboard box of the new phone was dented in the middle and I winced, fearing the worst. And my old phone was definitely toast, the display sadly crushed.
Tracy Hayes, Apprentice P.I. (P.I. Tracy Hayes 1) Page 4
