I shuddered at the idea of sharing a ride with the loud toddler, but Jackson just smiled. “That’s okay. We can walk.” The smile he got in return was openly inviting.
“You should’ve asked for her number,” I said as we headed up the stairs. He gave me a funny look, so I hastened to add: “You’re not married, are you?” Weird, how I hadn’t thought to ask that before.
“No.”
“So what was wrong with her? I thought she was pretty.”
“She was twenty!”
“She was willing is all I’m saying.”
We reached the correct floor. “You go first and try to look innocent,” Jackson said with a low voice. Since I was wearing my fancy new butterfly clips again, I had the innocent part covered. “I’ll stand out of sight.”
I assumed my most guileless face, the one I used with extremely annoying customers to keep my cool, the face that said ‘I’m too stupid to understand your demands’: big eyes, and mouth slightly open as if in perpetual surprise. You’d be amazed how well it usually worked. I could keep it up much longer than annoying customers could pester me. Then I knocked on the door.
A dog began barking inside the apartment and I heard a woman order it sharply to shut up. High heels clicked against a hardwood floor and the door was opened by a woman in her early sixties—or well-preserved late sixties; she was so nipped and tucked it was hard to tell. Her dark brown hair was in a bouffant do and she had squeezed her voluptuous body into leopard print spandex.
I blinked, baffled, and opened my mouth to greet her when a man shouted from somewhere inside the apartment. “Don’t let the dog run out!”
I looked down and saw a little dog much like Pippin—Mac—about to make a mad dash to freedom. Instinctively, I dropped on my knees and managed to capture the dog just as the man ran to the door too. Above me, a camera shutter closed with a click.
“Thank you,” Jackson said, taking a few more photos. “I think this will be all.”
Craig Douglas lunged towards Jackson and I scrambled up hastily, the dog tightly in my arms. The woman shrieked and flailed, trying to get out of his way, but she only managed to trip him and lose his balance. Jackson grabbed a hold of him and a moment later he was on his knees, handcuffed.
“You can’t arrest me. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“You’ve stolen a dog, for starters,” Jackson said calmly. “That’s a plausible cause to hold you until the police arrive.”
“That’s my daughter’s dog,” Mrs. Allen said indignantly.
“She has two?” I asked, baffled, baffling the woman in return.
“Of course not. One of those ghastly things is enough. Mac is his name. My cousin delivered him just now.” She nodded towards Douglas, who was shooting daggers at her.
“Are you willing to go on record with it?” Jackson asked.
And when the woman said “Absolutely,” he pulled out his phone and fired up the video, even though Douglas told her to shut up. Jackson nodded at me to ask my questions.
“So you’re saying that Mr. Craig Douglas here is your cousin?”
“Yes.”
“And he stole your daughter’s dog?”
She frowned—or tried to anyway. Her brows weren’t exactly mobile anymore. “He didn’t steal anything, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. He’s my daughter’s dog as much as it’s her ex-husband’s.”
“So your daughter gave Mac to Douglas?”
“Yes.”
“To be kept away from Mr. Thorne?”
“Yes.”
“Shut the fuck up, Loreen,” Douglas growled, startling the woman, but she wasn’t done yet.
“And now he’s brought the dog back, so you see, there’s been no crime. You can’t arrest him.”
I fought valiantly not to grin. “I’m afraid Mr. Douglas hasn’t been honest with you.”
“What?”
“This isn’t Mac.”
“Of course he is.”
I shook my head. “For one, we delivered Mac to Mr. Thorne this morning. For another…” I lifted the dog for her to take a closer look, “this one’s a girl.”
“What?” The woman pulled back, appalled.
“Your cousin probably failed to tell you that he let Mac run away and we found him. He tried to get Mac back, which helped us figure out who he belongs to. Having failed to fetch the real dog, he then delivered you this one.” Probably in that food container he had carried in earlier.
Jackson barked a laugh. “What did you think to do? Take photos of the dog on today’s paper to show Thorne that you have Mac so he would be more willing to negotiate? Don’t you think he would’ve spotted the difference?”
“He’s not getting this apartment,” Mrs. Allen declared, getting angry again. “It belongs to my daughter.”
“I think you just made the settlement negotiations that much more difficult for her.”
I watched the woman realize she probably should have listened to Douglas after all. Her face distorted with fury. “Not if I get that phone,” she hissed and made to grab it from Jackson. The dog I was holding took an exception to her sudden movement and surged forward, trying to sink her teeth in Loreen’s arm. The woman retreated hastily.
“Take that awful thing away from here.”
“Gladly,” Jackson said, and pulled Douglas back to his feet. He didn’t try to resist. He had likely been through this before and knew he couldn’t be held long with such flimsy charges against him.
We took the stairs down and were soon at Jackson’s car. “Should we take him to the nearest station or the same one they took Lonnie?”
But to my utter bafflement, Jackson released the cuffs and freed Douglas. “Actually, we’re not legally allowed to make arrests.”
“I could sue you for this,” Douglas spat, massaging his wrists as he made his way to the delivery van he had driven here in.
“You can try.”
Douglas didn’t answer, but just got in the car and drove off with tires spinning.
I didn’t understand anything anymore. “Why did you put the cuffs on him in the first place if you can’t arrest him?” I asked when we were back in his car.
“It made him easier to handle. And it got the woman to talk.” He patted at his jacket pocket where the phone was. “We’d better get this to Thorne.”
The dog squirmed in my lap. “I think we have more pressing concerns. Like whose dog is this?”
Chapter Twenty-two
Cheryl shrieked in delight when we showed up with the dog. “Who is this, then?” Clearly she had a better eye for dogs than Mrs. Allen. I placed her on Cheryl’s desk and put the pink collar she had bought for Pippin/Mac on her. She looked absolutely wonderful in it.
“Her name is Misty Morning.” We had dropped by a vet on our way to the agency and had them check her for a microchip, which there had been to our surprise.
“She’s three years old, and a border terrier Yorkie mix. She’s in very good condition and all her shots are up to date too. And she belongs to Morning Glory shelter in Elizabeth.” It was in New Jersey, but under an hour’s drive from our office—in good traffic—if you went through the Staten Island.
We assumed that Douglas had stolen her from there when Moreira failed to get Pippin through me. Not that I could easily picture him skulking around the shelter, looking for a correct dog. Maybe he’d sent an underling.
“So chances are you can adopt her.”
I told her the story of how we’d got her while she petted the dog, who seemed to be as good natured and as curious as Pippin had been. When I finished, she immediately picked up the phone.
“I’ll call there and ask right now.”
The speaker was on and Jackson and I listened in as she made the call. “Yes, of course I remember her,” the helpful woman with a heavy Jersey accent said at the other end. “She was only adopted this morning. Has something happened to her?”
“She appears to have become lost from her new owner,” Cheryl
said, her shoulders slumping, and I felt for her. I’d been absolutely certain we’d found a dog for her. “But the microchip only listed you.”
“The new owner likely hasn’t had a chance to update the info yet. Let me look it up for you.” There was a clicking of a keyboard in the background. “The new owner is Jonny Moreira. A very nice young man who was in a great hurry to get exactly that dog for his sister who had recently lost her dog, poor dear. He made a handsome donation to our shelter too.”
Jackson and I exchanged amused looks. We wouldn’t exactly describe Moreira as nice. Then again, Suzy’s mother had used that exact word too, so maybe he appeared different to older women. Or he was good at pretending. And the donation made sense, if he’d wanted to speed things up. You couldn’t normally take a dog from a shelter without a waiting period.
“Shall I look for the address?”
“Thank you, but we’re private investigators and will find it ourselves.” Cheryl hung up and sighed. “I guess I’ll look him up.”
Jackson smiled. “No need. Moreira works for Craig Douglas. He won’t want the dog back. And since she’s legally his, the shelter won’t be asking for her back either.”
“So I can keep her?”
“Absolutely.”
She dashed to him and pulled him down to a hearty hug, as if he had given her the best gift of her life. Technically the dog wasn’t ours to give, but Jackson was right. Moreira wouldn’t want her.
And even if he did, he’d have to fight for it. With Cheryl, by the looks of it. She might even win.
We retired to Jackson’s office and Jackson e-mailed the video to Daniel Thorne. He called back a moment later and Jackson put it on speaker.
“That video is excellent. Great work. How much do I owe you?” Jackson named the sum, which made my brows shoot up. It seemed large, considering we’d only spent about an hour on his case, but Thorne accepted it without comment.
“Excellent. And I’ll be adding two hundred dollars for finding Mac.”
“That’s generous of you,” Jackson said, making a ‘got ya’ face at me when I feared he would refuse.
“You’ve earned it.”
Jackson smiled at me when he ended the call. “I believe you can keep the finder’s fee.”
“Minus your cut?”
“Nah. You’ve earned the whole.”
I most assuredly had. I’d been held at gunpoint for it.
“What’s next?”
“We’ll go catch Costa.”
“Excellent.”
He wouldn’t escape again.
Jackson drove to Costa’s apartment in East New York. “You think he’ll be here now, when he wasn’t before?” I asked, studying the dark windows of Costa’s place. It didn’t exactly look like anyone was home.
“We’ve been through all the other places, and apart from his wife, no one seemed willing to hide him. We’ll go to her next if he’s not here.”
I followed him to the entrance. Jackson pushed the door and this time it opened. His hand went to the gun inside his jacket and I tensed.
“You think there’s trouble?” I asked in a low voice when he took it out.
“Yes. Go back to the car.”
“No.” In this neighborhood there was only one safe place and that was right next to Jackson. To my surprise, he didn’t argue when I dug out my pepper spray and followed him in.
The hallway smelled of mold and cigarette smoke, the walls were gray from years of smut and the floor was missing tiles. Narrow steps led up to the next floor and they squeaked under Jackson’s weight, so he leaned against the wall to take the load off. I followed the example, even though my skin crawled when I brushed those disgusting walls.
We made it relatively quietly to the next floor. A short, dim corridor led to Costa’s apartment door, but there was enough light to see a man crouched before it, picking the lock open. Jackson lifted his weapon and took a two handed aim at the man.
“If you’re going to shoot, at least wait until I’ve picked the lock,” Moreira said calmly, not even turning to look.
You could’ve dropped me with a feather, but Jackson’s aim didn’t waver. “What are you doing here?” He kept his voice low but firm.
“We told Tracy we’d get Costa.” He used my name as if we’d been introduced.
“And I told you we’d handle it,” I reminded him, annoyed both because he hadn’t believed me and for his familiarity.
Then again, we’d been through extraordinary events together, so I guess we knew each other well enough for him to call me by my first name.
“You can have him once I’m done with him,” Moreira said, getting up.
“That’s petty of you.”
“We can’t let little shits jump on our noses.”
That’s mafia for you.
He pushed the door open, drew out his weapon, and entered the apartment stealthily like a commando. I’d say he owed his training as bodyguard slash mafia goon slash B&E pro to the military. Special ops, by the looks of it.
Jackson and I exchanged baffled glances and followed, although he made me wait by the door while he and Moreira searched the place. It was small, ramshackle, and empty of Costa.
“Fuck.” Jackson looked angry. “I was so sure he’d be here.”
“Since we’re here, we might as well search for his stash,” Moreira said.
Jackson gave him a slow look. “I don’t have a legal right to do that.”
Moreira sneered. “Good thing I don’t care about legal rights, then.”
We watched in silence as he went through the most obvious places—and the few less obvious ones. “Haven’t the police already searched here?” I had to ask.
“Not in the past couple of days.”
“And what did you think to do with it if you found it?” But he just shrugged. His unruffled cool aggravated me, so I tried another topic.
“By the way, we gave your dog to our secretary.”
This made him pause and look at me. He smiled and I could actually understand why old women thought him nice. Good thing I knew better.
“Yeah? Good. I can send you the paperwork too.”
“Okay, this is officially the weirdest house search I’ve ever attended,” Jackson growled. “We’re leaving. Including you,” he said to Moreira.
“Nothing here anyway.”
We returned to the street and the tension between the men returned. “I should have you arrested for scaring Tracy,” Jackson said to Moreira. His eyes said that he’d rather punch the guy instead. If he’d still been holding his gun, he might have even used that.
“I already apologized to her,” Moreira said, looking squarely at Jackson.
My hand went into my pocket and to the pepper spray I’d put back there. If needed, I’d spray both of them. But as if by a press of a button, the spell that had kept them immobile released, and they both headed to their own directions so abruptly that Jackson was halfway to the car before I thought to move.
Hurrying after him, I was passing the door to the drycleaner’s when it opened. I glanced automatically at who was exiting, not really caring, and came face to face with Costa. He was carrying a large laundry bag not unlike the one Jarod had used, only gray. It seemed heavy, so he must have had everything he owned washed.
I paused and he did too. We stared at each other. Then he swerved around and dashed back into the drycleaner.
“Hey!” I didn’t think. I just ran after him.
It was a small place and he was faster than me even with the bag. He had already crossed the floor to the back room when I got in. I followed. The old lady at the counter tried to prevent me from getting past her, cursing loudly in her native language—they sounded like curses anyway—when I wouldn’t stop.
The small back room opened to the cleaning facilities where two women were working. They barely paused to watch as first Costa and then I ran past them to the backdoor. It opened onto a small lot with dumpsters, old cars, and junk. It was separat
ed from the adjoining lot by a tall wire-netting fence, and I eyed it worriedly, fearing he would climb over it. I’d try to follow, but I most likely wouldn’t succeed.
Luckily for me, he ran towards the street instead and I forced myself to go faster, even though I was wheezing already. I wouldn’t be able to keep this up much longer. But when Jackson whizzed past me with long strides that ate the distance to Costa with every step, I gritted my teeth and pushed faster. I would not give up the chase.
But I was no match for the men, and by the time I reached the street they’d already disappeared. Breathing heavily, I jogged to the next corner—and could finally pause.
Jackson had Costa on his knees and handcuffed. His gun was out, but it was pointed at Moreira, who was standing in front of them, aiming his weapon at Costa.
“Let go, Moreira,” Jackson said with authority. “You lost.”
I limped closer and pulled out my pepper spray. I hadn’t had a chance to use it once, and this was as good an opportunity as any. I paused by Jackson and pointed the can at Moreira’s face, my finger itching to release the spray.
The big man stared at Costa for a few pregnant moments, impassive. He wasn’t angry with Costa; this was a task for him, nothing personal. Then he looked at Jackson and lifted his hands in mock surrender, winked at me—the bastard—and turned around, not looking back. Jackson only put his weapon away when Moreira had got into his car.
“And you,” Jackson said, glowering at me, “What the hell were you thinking?”
I hadn’t, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “We got the guy, didn’t we? Stop bitching and let’s get him away from here.”
He shook his head. “You’ll be the death of me. I just know it.” He pulled Costa to his feet and led him to our car, nodding to me as he went. “Come, I’ll show you how the skips are booked. And then we’ll definitely call it a week.”
I took the heavy laundry bag Costa had dropped when Jackson caught him. It felt lumpy, not at all like it contained clothes. The mouth had become loose, so I’m sure I didn’t break any laws when I peeked inside.
The bag was full of money.
Tracy Hayes, Apprentice P.I. (P.I. Tracy Hayes 1) Page 12
