Tracy Hayes, Apprentice P.I. (P.I. Tracy Hayes 1)

by Susanna Shore

  Then I was on the phone to Jackson. “You’d better be close, boss. Because Costa just went into our building.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Stay put, I’ll be right there.” Jackson hung up.

  I stared at the phone, miffed. Like that was going to happen. This was my case too. The ache in my tailbone attested to that.

  I observed through the glass door how Costa got into the elevator, then I rushed in to check its display. Second floor. He was definitely headed to our agency.

  My insides flipped in worry, but I didn’t let that stop me. I rushed to the stairs and ran up them two at the time. I’d overestimated my fitness and I had to pause on the second floor landing to recover, so that I wouldn’t give my approaching away with my loud breathing. I really had thought I was in better shape.

  There was no sign of Costa when I entered the second floor hallway, so I pit-patted to the door of the agency. It was wide open and I paused outside. Had he broken in, or had Cheryl returned? But her desk was empty, as was Jackson’s desk I could see from the door, but I’d have to get closer to see the rest of his office. Cautiously, I stepped in.

  I saw movement in my peripheral vision, but before I could so much as shriek, a hand grabbed hold of my upper arm, and I was yanked to face the badly-sewn-up mug of Tito Costa.

  “You’re not Jackson Dean.” Disgusted, he pushed me away, making me fall on my back for the second time in two days. My new job was really taking a toll on my poor tailbone. “You tell him he leaves my wife alone.” He was out of the door before I had time to be scared.

  I scrambled up and rushed after him, but the hallway was already empty, so he must have taken the stairs. For a large man, he could move really fast. I reached the elevator just as its doors opened and Jackson stepped out. I skidded to a halt, almost crashing into him. He took a hold of my shoulders.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes. Costa went down the stairs. Hurry.”

  He didn’t ask questions and disappeared into the stairwell too. I contemplated running after them, but my feet decided that they’d had enough excitement for one day and I sank on the floor.

  Jackson found me lying there not long after. He wasn’t terribly out of breath, so either he was in better shape than I was—duh—or he’d lost Costa again. He paused by my feet, staring down at me with his brows raised, forcing me to speak first.

  “You didn’t catch him?”

  “No, he’d already vanished. Can you get up?”

  “I’m considering it.”

  He smiled. “What’s with the butterflies?”

  “I’m trying a new style.”

  “Cute. Gives you real street cred.” He leaned over and pulled me to my feet. “Costa didn’t hurt you?”

  I dusted my clothes and adjusted the butterflies. “Unless you consider being bowled over again. He only wanted to deliver a message to you.”

  “Which was?”

  “Leave his wife alone.”

  A satisfied smile spread on his face. “We’re getting to him.”

  I followed at his heels to the agency. At the door he paused so abruptly that I banged my face in his back. “Did you open this?”

  “How could I?” I retorted, rubbing my nose. “I don’t have the key and I don’t know the alarm code.”

  He turned to study the alarm. It had been yanked off the wall, the wires cut. “You don’t need code for that.” He turned to study the door, which I now realized had splintered around the lock. “Really subtle.”

  He strode to his office and tapped the computer keyboard on his desk. “This takes pictures once every minute when I’m not here. Let’s see what he was about.” He watched the feed for a moment and then whistled. “I did not see this option.”

  I went to take a look and had to agree with him. The photos weren’t of Costa. They showed Craig Douglas’s goon stand by the open the door—it was intact, so he must have picked the lock—disable the alarm with a code—Jackson’s brow furrowed seeing it—and then meticulously go through all the filing cabinets. Time stamp on the photos indicated that he had come in soon after we had left, so he must have been keeping an eye on the agency.

  “I bet he was looking for the name and address of the people who are allegedly fostering Buster,” I said.

  “You’d win that bet.”

  When the man left, a photo showed him switch on the alarm again. The door was neatly closed after him. A couple of hours later a photo showed Costa stumble through the reception area after breaking the door with great force, and in the next photo the alarm was off the wall. Jackson frowned when a photo showed Costa grab me. Luckily there wasn’t one of me on my back.

  “Costa did us a favor. I would never have checked these photos if he hadn’t been here.”

  “Should we call the police?”

  Jackson nodded, reluctantly. “I guess we have to, so I can claim the insurance. But I’ll never live this down.”

  “Maybe they’ll think you’ve entered the big leagues with enemies who would do this,” I said, but he rolled his eyes.

  “High profile dog-nappers? That’ll give me street cred.”

  Two uniformed officers arrived gratifyingly fast. Just because the precinct was around the corner didn’t mean we’d be a priority, but it’d been a slow afternoon for them. They weren’t terribly interested in the broken lock and alarm, but they took the details down so Jackson could file the insurance claim.

  However, the pictures of the goon electrified them. “We’d better call in the lieutenant.”

  Lonny Peters showed up ten minutes later. He took one look at the photo of the nameless guy and whistled. “Know who that is?”

  “No, I don’t know,” Jackson said, annoyed. “Face recognition software hasn’t come up with a result yet and your uniforms weren’t forthcoming.”

  “He’s Jonny Moreira, Craig Douglas’s henchman.”

  “I knew that much myself. I just don’t know what makes Craig Douglas a person of interest to the police.”

  “He’s Rob MacRath’s brother-in-law. From Jersey. Handles much of the drug traffic there.”

  Jackson pulled up straighter, clearly impressed. “I had no idea.”

  “We believe he’s taking over the business here too, now that MacRath’s facing a life behind bars.”

  “Then why the hell is he going around stealing dogs?”

  “What fucking dogs?” Jackson briefed the detective, who looked bemused. “I guess we’d better find out whose dog it is, then.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Well, with MacRath’s trial coming up, it might be a good idea to start with the DA’s office.” With that, he was out of the agency, leaving Jackson and me staring at each other, bemused.

  “So MacRath is the drug lord whose case you helped with, right?”

  Jackson’s face set in grim lines as he took a seat behind his desk. “Yeah.”

  “It seems really weird that his drug lord brother-in-law is stealing dogs.”

  “I think Lonnie’s got it right. Pippin belongs to a judge or someone similar.”

  “Do you really think a judge would be swayed just because his or her dog was held hostage?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve heard stranger things in my life.”

  I liked Pippin, so if it came to putting a drug lord away or saving the dog, I might have trouble deciding too.

  “A juror might be persuaded by it.”

  “Except they haven’t been selected yet.”

  “So why was the dog here where I could find him?”

  “MacRath lives in Prospect Heights. It’s the base of his operations, so his brother-in-law likely kept the dog at his place.”

  “Must be lucrative being a drug lord.” I remembered the BMW Moreira drove too.

  “Don’t get any funny ideas,” Jackson said with a smile. I had a more pressing concern.

  “Do you think Douglas knows you’re involved in his brother-in-law’s case?”

  “I
f he didn’t know before, he’ll know now. Moreira was very thorough.”

  “Do you think they’ll come after you?”

  He shrugged, not really concerned. “It’s possible, but not probable.”

  “Should we contact the DA’s office?”

  “We’d better, though they already have all the evidence I got for them.” He glanced at the watch in his wrist. “It’s past closing time there. We’ll have to leave it tomorrow. Let’s call it a day. You can go home.”

  I was reluctant to leave. I was used to longer days, and the excitement of the day still had me in its grips. I wanted action. There was nothing at home except empty cupboards and the TV, and anything the TV had to offer would pale in comparison with reality. I now understood Trevor’s comment about comic relief.

  “Shouldn’t we come up with a plan first, just in case Douglas comes asking for Pippin in the morning?”

  “He actually might. He doesn’t know we know they’ve broken in here.”

  “Unless they kept an eye on this place the rest of the afternoon and saw the police come and go. What if they come back tonight?”

  “I’ll be here the whole night. They’ll have to go through me.”

  “You will? Is that safe?”

  He smiled. “Safe enough. I can’t leave the place unguarded until I get someone to fix the door and the alarm. But you can go home.”

  So I went. Reluctantly.

  I scanned the street outside the agency for Douglas and Moreira, but saw neither of them before I descended the steps to the subway platform. In the train, and while walking home from the station, I kept a constant eye out for suspicious activity. By the time I reached my building I was skittish and paranoid.

  In short, I was in the perfect mood for a freak-out when I saw a strange man waiting for me outside my apartment door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Heart thudding in my throat, I paused right outside the elevator. The man was young, tall, and lanky. He was wearing a dirty T-shirt and frayed jeans, and his hair was a shaggy mop that hadn’t been washed in ages. He had a black, tattered guitar case leaning against his legs, and he smelled so pungently of weed that my eyes started to water.

  He didn’t strike me as someone working for Douglas, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be. Maybe drugs were a perk when one worked for a drug lord.

  Then again, he looked rather mellow as he slouched against the wall. I could take him in a fight.

  Maybe.

  Gathering up my courage, I rummaged through my bag for the pepper spray—why was everything I needed always at the bottom?—and kept my line clear for Mrs. Pasternak’s apartment. I’d seek shelter there if necessary. Then I walked closer and addressed him.

  “What are you doing here?” I was proud of how demanding I sounded, almost like Dad. “How did you get past Mr. Chlebek?” The janitor kept an eye on people coming and going; he would have stopped this guy.

  He lifted his head and his gaze focused slowly on me. “Hey. Wow. Yeah.” It took a while longer for him to get his brain to focus. “I came, like, to check out this room?”

  My heart missed a beat. “What room?”

  He dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a badly crumpled paper and gave it to me. I unfolded it and stared at it in dismay.

  It was my ad for the room.

  My hand turned clammy and I was having trouble breathing. I had faced violence today, but this casual invasion of my home base felt infinitely worse.

  “How did you know it would be here?” I wasn’t so stupid that I’d put my address in the ad.

  “I, like, checked the address from the e-mail address?”

  “You can do that?” I didn’t like the sound of it.

  “I can.”

  “Legally?”

  That got him thinking—a slow process. “I don’t know.”

  He didn’t exactly look like he was capable of any complicated tasks, so I had to wonder how he’d achieved it.

  “Well, I can’t rent the room to you.”

  “Aww, man, don’t say that. I need a place to stay.”

  “And I need someone who’s good for the rent and doesn’t smoke weed.”

  Dad had the strictest policy against drugs, and the nose of a bloodhound to enforce it. He had made me change rooms in college when he smelled the pot my roommate had smoked. Luckily for me I’d been clean, or I don’t know what would’ve happened. Not that I was entirely blameless during my college year. Dad just hadn’t caught me.

  The guy looked baffled, as if I’d asked for the moon. “I only smoke, like, recreationally.”

  “Yeah, well, my brother arrests people professionally, and he doesn’t like drugs.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “Besides, I don’t like guitar players.” Not anymore anyway. One colossally failed marriage to a band leader had cured me of that tendency.

  “That’s cool. This isn’t a guitar.” He flicked the clasps of the case open and dirty clothes tumbled out. I tried not to gag at the smell.

  “I don’t think we’d suit. I want a woman as a roommate.” Preferably one who liked cleaning.

  “Man, that’s, like, sexist. I could sue you.”

  I gave him a slow look. “No, you couldn’t.”

  “Really?”

  I had no idea, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “It’s best you go, before Mrs. Pasternak sees you.” She was a formidable woman and would get rid of him in no time.

  “Couldn’t I, like, stay the night?”

  I knew better than to let him in, but he looked so miserable and hopeful at the same time, like a puppy that expects to be kicked but hopes he won’t, that I felt my resolution waver.

  “Fine. Just for tonight. But I have conditions and they’re non-negotiable. First, I’ll confiscate your weed. There’ll be no recreational anything under my roof. Second, you’ll scrub yourself and your clothes clean the moment you come in, and remain clean. And third, if you’re not out the moment I say so, I’ll call my brother and have him arrest you.”

  He mulled over my terms for a moment and then nodded. “I can live with that.”

  His name was Jarod Fitzpatrick, he told me, as we stuffed all his clothes into my washing machine—a hand-me-down from my aunt, but serviceable—as fast as we could while not breathing. He was twenty-one, which was older than I had thought, and he was a graduate student in computer science at Brooklyn College, which he didn’t seem old enough for. Not that he always remembered to attend, as he admitted.

  “I, like, know everything already. I get bored.”

  Turned out, when he sobered enough after a long shower to give a comprehensive account of his life, he was a former child wizard who’d learned computers when he was only a little kid and had kept learning ever since. He could’ve skipped college, including the graduate degree, and sought full-time employment, but his parents had insisted that he study, because it would teach him discipline. Either they were very mistaken in their notion or this was him disciplined.

  He’d ambled into the kitchen after his shower wearing nothing but the towel I’d loaned him wrapped around his hips. He wasn’t just lanky, he was skinny, and the towel reached twice around him. He didn’t smell anymore, and he had combed his wet hair backwards, revealing a rather delicate face and big brown eyes. He kind of reminded me of Pippin, which instantly warmed me to him.

  Not good. I’d have to stay firm.

  “About the rent. Your share, should I choose to let you stay, would be nine hundred, plus half of the utilities.” It was actually only eight hundred, and water and electricity were included, but I needed to scare him off.

  “I’m good for that. I work at Lexton Security during the summer break, and weekends during the term. I monitor and counter the illegal activity on their clients’ servers. It pays really well.”

  I blinked, twice, and I still couldn’t wrap my mind around what he’d said. “Then why are you desperate for a place to live and look like you’ve been sleeping r
ough?”

  He shrugged. “My girlfriend kicked me out and these were the only clothes I managed to take with me. I was kind of bummed out and couldn’t work up the energy to find a new place, so I’ve been sleeping wherever.”

  “Why didn’t you go to a motel or something?”

  “Oh, I did. I just didn’t have the energy to wash my clothes, you know.” Or himself, for that matter. He might be a computer genius, but he seemed utterly clueless about life in general. “I can pay you two months in advance.” He looked hopeful.

  I wanted to tell him I wouldn’t keep him that long, but I really needed the money. “You’ve managed to keep your job at least. Didn’t anyone complain about the smell?”

  “Nah, I have my own station in the basement.”

  “Well, I’m not promising anything permanent until I’ve made some background checks.”

  “That’s cool. But if I’m good enough for a security firm, I’m sure I’m good enough for you.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “In that case, would you like some dinner? I have cereal, but no milk, and frozen waffles.”

  There had been the leftovers I’d taken the other day, but I’d eaten them while he took the shower. My offerings weren’t much, but Jarod’s eyes lit up like I’d promised him a gourmet meal. He probably hadn’t eaten in ages.

  “I always eat cereal without milk. I’m lactose intolerant.”

  After we finished eating—both cereals and waffles for Jarod—I showed him the room, which only had the bed left from Jessica. Before I even had a chance to look for clean sheets for him, he dropped on it.

  “Can you wake me up in an hour?” With that, he closed his eyes and dozed off as if I wasn’t there.

  Bemused, I wandered to the couch in the living room and called Jackson. “Can you check someone for me?” I should probably have called Trevor instead, but I didn’t want him to barge in here, which he would do the moment he heard about Jarod.

  “Sure, though with the phone you could do it yourself.”

  “Yes, but I probably wouldn’t understand the connections, if he belongs to a crime family.”