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

by Susanna Shore

  He was silent for a heartbeat. “Who are we talking about?” I told him about Jarod. “You let a potential member of a crime family into your apartment?”

  Put like that, it did sound stupid. “He seems harmless. Besides, I need someone to pay the rent or I’ll be homeless.”

  He sighed. “Do you want me to come and get rid of him?”

  “Nah, I’ll ask Trevor if it comes to that. For now I’d just like to know if he’s at all suitable.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” He called me back twenty minutes later. “He’s legit. No connections to crime families that I can find, and definitely not to MacRath.”

  The relief I felt was disproportional. I reminded myself I wasn’t going to keep Jarod, so I shouldn’t get attached to him.

  But I had a nagging feeling the fight was already lost.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jarod woke up without assistance from me, dressed in his clean clothes, helped himself to coffee, and slumped on the sofa next to me. He looked like a different person—and definitely smelled better.

  “Your background check came clean,” I told him, and he looked delighted like I’d complimented him.

  “Yeah? That was fast.”

  “I’m a P.I., I have resources.”

  He became so animated he almost straightened up. “No way! That’s like really cool. Can you, like, shoot people and stuff?”

  “No one can shoot people,” I said, annoyed.

  “Bummer.”

  He looked so disappointed I felt compelled to add: “I have pepper spray.”

  “Yeah? Do you have, like, any interesting cases?”

  “Just cheating spouses and a stolen dog,” I said with a shrug.

  “Who’s it stolen from?”

  “That’s the thing, we don’t know.”

  “So how do you know it’s stolen?”

  “We have the dog. We have criminals coming after him. We just don’t know who he belongs to or why he was stolen.”

  “I bet I could find out.”

  I gave him a dubious look. “How?”

  “With a creative data search.”

  “Is it legal?”

  He mulled the question. “Probably not.” He glanced around. “Do you have a computer?”

  I got up and fetched my battered laptop that was a hand-me-down from Jessica. Jarod gave it one look and huffed. “I’ll have to set you up with proper equipment. I can’t work like this.”

  “Don’t you have a computer?”

  He slumped, morose. “My girlfriend broke everything I had with a baseball bat. She said I paid more attention to computers than her.” I could absolutely believe that, and kind of understood her too. He got up, full of purpose now. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To get you a proper computer.” He gave me a look that said I was really slow not to figure it out.

  “I can’t afford one.”

  “Don’t worry, it won’t cost you anything.”

  A statement guaranteed to make me worry. But I decided to protest later and just followed him out.

  We took the subway to Dumbo, an area by the East River in north Brooklyn. It was a bit of a hassle with two line changes, because there was no direct line there from the station nearest to my home. Despite its name it was the hottest area in Kings County. It didn’t used to be, but a developer had got his hands on the place and changed it into a hub of art and tech startups.

  Lexton Security had its base of operations on Jay Street, near the Manhattan Bridge, only a short walk from the station past old warehouses and factories turned lofts and artists’ studios. There were two bars on the street with music blaring from their open doors and customers milling in and out. Each place was trying to outdo the other with some sort of post-ironic industrial slash slum chic, and the customers were so hip it made my head hurt. I’d waited tables in a place like those, the only job I’d quit voluntarily, after two weeks.

  Our destination was an erstwhile two story redbrick factory turned into open plan offices. Jarod had explained on our way here that the company had recently upgraded their office laptops—the ones the secretaries and accountants and such used—and he had salvaged a few of the old ones and they were waiting for him in his office. While most businesses on the street had closed for the night, the lights were still on in there.

  “It’s the nightshift,” Jarod explained, as he swiped his identity card through the slot by the door and led us in. “Cybercrime doesn’t look at the time, especially the non-domestic cybercrime.”

  “So you’re kind of a detective too?”

  He looked delighted. “I guess I am. I just never come face to face with the people committing the crimes.” He gave it a thought. “Which I think is good.”

  A security check later—people didn’t just walk into a security firm—I followed Jarod through an industrial-strength steel door to bare concrete steps that led below ground. At their base was another steel door. A wave of heat and noise blasted at me when he opened it, staggering me. The sight that met my eyes was even more staggering.

  The entire open basement was packed side to side with huge computer servers, miles and miles of cable running from them in thick clumps through the floor and ceiling. Air-conditioning and huge fans were blasting on full—hence the noise—but they couldn’t quite counter the heat generated by the servers. And that on top of a cooling system of pipes that ran beneath the floor, into which cold water was fed straight from the East River, as Jarod explained to me once we could talk again.

  We walked the entire length of the basement, me with hands on my ears, into a small, windowless room at the other end. The noise cut instantly when Jarod closed the door. It was considerably cooler too.

  “That was unpleasant.” I was sweaty after the relatively short walk and shivered in the cooler air of the small space.

  “I’ve got used to it,” Jarod answered distractedly, firing up a couple of computers and sitting down.

  I watched him, baffled. “I thought we’d only fetch the computers.”

  “This is better. Unless you have a hundred gigabyte broadband connection?”

  “I sometimes steal Wi-Fi from my neighbor.”

  Jarod rolled his eyes. “So, what are we looking for?”

  I took a seat next to him and gave it a thought. “A criminal court judge or someone from the DA’s office who owns a dog.”

  “Okay, so we need a list of their personnel first.” It didn’t take him long to get it. It was public data and his computers were incredibly fast. He was amazingly focused too, now that he had his computers. A different guy entirely.

  “Now we go through their social media accounts. People with dogs are bound to post photos of them.”

  I wouldn’t have come to think of that.

  He worked on two displays at the same time, I on just one, and we had one more between us that showed the list of names we were searching. It was an education on what not to publish on social media, and that was just the public accounts. The stuff Jarod was able to find that was supposedly private was insane. Surely civil servants should know better.

  “I could really use that skill,” I told him, impressed. A P.I. could get a lot of useful information from people’s private Facebook posts.

  “The power can only be trusted to few.”

  Okay…

  Maybe it was for the better. I’d only spy on Scott if I was given the chance, and that wasn’t healthy.

  A staggering number of the personnel owned pets, and since Jarod didn’t know what Pippin looked like, I had to go through all the dog photos he found. Even with the special speed broadband at our disposal, it took almost an hour to hit the jackpot.

  “Here he is!” The owner had Pippin’s picture as his profile photo even. “No wonder Douglas’s men were able to figure out where to hit hardest.”

  The owner was Daniel Thorne, Assistant DA for Kings County. I found it impressive, especially at only thirty-three—although Tra
vis had managed the same in the defender services. But he kept his personal information private, so I learned nothing more of him, not even what he looked like. All his public photos were of Pippin.

  “Do you want me to find his address?”

  “Nah. It’s late, so we can’t go there tonight anyway. I’ll e-mail the name to my boss and we’ll contact him tomorrow.” It would be best not to face the assistant DA with the knowledge that I’d hacked into his Facebook account. “Let’s just go home now.”

  We couldn’t leave before Jarod had gathered his computers. He stuffed three laptops into a sturdy canvas laundry bag that was lying in the corner. A useless item with him, but handy for carrying the laptops.

  “I need your belt.”

  Baffled, I gave it to him, and he wrapped it around the bag, securing the laptops against each other so they wouldn’t move inside and break. It was incredible how much attention he could pay to inanimate objects compared to how little attention he paid to his own wellbeing.

  Cool air from the East River at the end of the street hit me when we got out, refreshing after the basement. We set a brisk pace—well, brisk-ish, as Jarod’s only speed was ambling—past the revelers, ignoring drunken calls to join the party. Still a bit paranoid, I half expected someone to jump at us during the short walk. The wide, dark underpasses right before the subway station were especially unnerving. So when my phone rang just as we were about to go into the station, it startled me badly.

  I paused to fumble out my phone—a complicated operation as I first had to put the pepper spray back into my pocket—and answer. “Why are you calling me at this hour?” I asked Jackson by way of greeting.

  “Why are you sending me this kind of e-mail at this hour?” he countered. “Where the hell did you get the info?”

  “His Facebook account. He has Pippin as his profile photo.”

  He was silent for a long heartbeat. “I wouldn’t have come to think of that.”

  I wouldn’t have either, but he sounded so admiring I wasn’t about to confess it. “I had help.”

  “Jarod?”

  “Not much of a guess, is it.”

  “Is he reliable?”

  “Reliable enough for his bosses.” Though I suspected they didn’t really know what he used their ultrafast broadband for.

  “Okay, then. Good job. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And he hung up.

  A hand grabbed my shoulder.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I swiveled around with a shriek that echoed in the underpass, and shoved my phone forward as if it was the pepper spray. Good thing it wasn’t, because Detective Lonny Peters, still dressed in his rumpled suit, would’ve got a face-full in that case. It would have served him right, though, for frightening me like that.

  “You’re out late,” he said.

  My mind blank, I struggled to come up with anything sensible. “Are you working? Nothing serious I hope?”

  I eyed the entrance to the station with longing. Jarod was nowhere in sight. He must have gone down the steps while I was talking on the phone.

  “No, just cruising. Do you need a lift home?” He indicated a large black SUV that was idling right next to us. Had it been there a moment earlier? Surely I would’ve noticed.

  Then again, I had been talking on the phone.

  “Thanks.” I only barely managed to make it sound sincere. “But I’ve a friend waiting.”

  “He can come too.”

  Had he seen Jarod with me? The notion that he’d kept an eye on me made a shiver of fear run down my spine. Or maybe it was his tone. His words were so matter of fact—a good cop would offer a ride at this time of night, right?—yet I felt threatened by him. I don’t know why, when I had found him so jovial earlier, but I wasn’t willing to get into his car, with or without Jarod.

  “Really, we’re good.”

  “I’m afraid I have to insist.”

  “You do?” I asked baffled. “What for?”

  “So we can go get the dog.”

  “What dog?” At that moment I honestly couldn’t remember, even though I’d just spent an hour searching for him.

  “The one you found,” he said with a smile that seemed more sinister than amused.

  “We placed him into foster care.” I was proud I could remember that detail with how sluggish my brain was.

  “I know. And you’re going to show me where.”

  He pulled out a gun from his pocket and pointed it at me. I’d never been held at gunpoint and couldn’t quite fathom the gravity of the situation. It was as if I were in a movie all of a sudden.

  “I don’t know their address.” My eyes kept switching their focus between the weapon and Lonnie’s face that was now devoid of all joviality.

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Honestly. I only started at the agency yesterday and don’t know where Jackson placed him.” Not entirely a lie, since I didn’t know where Cheryl lived. “You’ll have to ask him.”

  He stared at me for a pregnant moment. “Then we’ll do that. Together.” He opened the back door of the car and pointed with the gun for me to get in. Out of options, that’s what I did, stumbling a little as I climbed to the high backseat. Lonnie gave me a boost from my bottom, making my skin crawl.

  We weren’t alone in the car. Lonnie took the backseat with me, and in the driver’s seat was Jonny Moreira. Seeing the big guy drove in the seriousness of the situation much better than Lonnie’s gun had.

  “You’re working for Craig Douglas?” I asked Lonnie, barely believing it. It hadn’t even occurred to me. Though, in hindsight, why else would he have been interested in the dog?

  “It’s the only sensible option. He’s going to rule the place, and anyone getting in his way is utterly foolish.”

  “And you’re trying to get to his good graces by finding the dog?” It came out more mocking than I intended, but really it was absurd. The gun turned back to point at me.

  “Just tell us where to find your boss.”

  A moment of panic seized my innards because I didn’t know Jackson’s address either, but then I remembered: “He’s staying at the office because the door is broken.”

  Moreira’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, as if he was trying to curb his anger. Lonnie was openly furious. “We have to get that fucking retard Costa for it.”

  “For breaking in and revealing Moreira had been there?”

  “Yes. What’s the point in sending in a pro if amateurs then wreck everything,” Lonnie spat. Moreira’s anger seemed to intensify too, but I got a curious notion it was for Lonnie’s words. I guess he didn’t want to be publicly identified as a professional B&E guy.

  “Not if we get him first,” I said, not even knowing where I got the courage to taunt Lonnie. I should be terrified. His lifted the gun to point at my face and I raised my hands, calming. “Hey, I need the money.”

  The fairly short drive passed in silence after that. I had tons of questions I wanted to know, like had Lonnie worked for MacRath too? Was the whole precinct rotten or just him? And what had they thought to accomplish by stealing an assistant DA’s dog. But it was finally starting to sink in that I was in mortal danger, and so I kept my mouth shut.

  I briefly entertained the idea of escaping at a stoplight, but with my luck the two men would be in better shape than me and would easily catch me. Well, Moreira would be anyway. He was big but it was all muscle. I didn’t cherish the idea of being chased by him in the dark. Or maybe he wouldn’t chase me, he would just shoot me.

  I pretty much stopped breathing altogether after that thought hit me.

  When Moreira pulled over outside the agency, I exited the car without a word, and though my legs twitched when I passed the steps to the subway, as if I contemplated diving down, I just walked to the entrance door. There a new problem halted us. The door was locked.

  “I don’t have the key.”

  “What sort of boss doesn’t give his underlings a key?” Lonnie asked, incredulous.
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  “I told you, I only started yesterday.”

  Moreira didn’t say a word. If I hadn’t talked to him the other day, I would’ve thought he couldn’t speak. He just pulled out a small square metal case, thin like a cigar box, from the inner pocket of his jacket, and opened it to reveal a selection of lockpicks. Despite the seriousness of the situation, I watched with fascinated interest how he opened the lock with only a few moves, almost as fast as if he’d used a key.

  “That’s a handy skill,” I said, admiring, when he pushed the door open. His mouth quirked in answer. “Really. I could use it myself.” Maybe Jackson could teach me.

  “You’re not allowed to break into peoples’ homes,” he said, sounding oddly like Jackson when he tried to teach me the trade.

  “That’s a funny thing for a professional breaking and entering guy to say.”

  But Moreira just pointed at me to get in and then turned to head to his car. I panicked.

  “You’re not leaving me alone with him, are you?” Of the two men, Moreira seemed more levelheaded. Weird I know, but he wasn’t here to impress a new boss. There was something desperate about Lonnie, which might lead to rash action. With a gun.

  With me at the wrong end of the barrel.

  “He’s not going to harm you,” he said, but didn’t seem to believe his words, because he gave Lonnie a glare that didn’t promise him anything good if he did harm me.

  Lonnie didn’t say anything, but just pushed me in. I walked ahead of him to the elevator, conscious of his gun directed at my back. It made my spine tighten in fear and I had trouble breathing, my heart hammering in my chest. The ride to the second floor was mercifully brief, as I feared I would faint for lack of oxygen. I didn’t even have enough breath to shout to give Jackson a warning when we exited the elevator. It was close to hyperventilating.

  Outside the agency door, Lonnie grabbed a hold of me and thrust the gun painfully against my side. “Just in case Jackson isn’t willing to see reason,” he said. Then he kicked the already broken door open and pushed me in before him.

  Things happened so fast I had trouble comprehending what went down. Lonnie was yanked to the side from behind me with such force that he didn’t even have time to fire his gun. A moment later he was lying face first on the floor, disarmed and with his hands cuffed behind his back.