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SLEUTHING FOR A LIVING
by
JENNIFER L. HART
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Copyright © 2016 by Jennifer L. Hart
Cover design by Estrella Designs
Gemma Halliday Publishing
http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY JENNIFER L. HART
SNEAK PEEK
To my neighbor and friend, Ms. Joan.
Thanks for all the stories!
CHAPTER ONE
Pretexting—misrepresenting yourself to achieve a hidden end goal.
From the Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living by Albert Taylor, PI
There was someone lurking in our apartment. Visible through the slatted blinds covering the bay front window, the beam from the flashlight roved over the mound of boxes and bags Mac and I had abandoned in our search for sustenance.
"Judas Priest," I muttered.
"I thought you said this was a good neighborhood," my sixteen-year-old daughter hissed at me.
"Well, it's not Beacon Hill," I whispered back, not taking my eyes from the bouncing beam of light. "But it was free, courtesy of Uncle Al's passing. Register your complaints with him."
Mac shifted the plastic bag filled with Thai takeout between her hands and darted a look back to our brand new pad. "We only moved in four hours ago. I haven't even unboxed my PC, and someone's robbing us." She thought about it for a beat and added, "And who's desperate enough to want your vintage He-Man trash can anyway?"
I glowered at her. "That's a collector's item." My gaze slid back to the window. The flashlight inside had moved down the hall.
"Do you have your cell?" I asked Mac. It was a rhetorical question, since my daughter was wired 24/7. When she nodded, I passed her the car keys and pointed to our ancient Jetta. The vehicle was a total eyesore—it needed a bungee cord to keep the trunk lid shut, and I'd covered the myriad dents and dings and rust with hair bands' bumper stickers. I'd lovingly dubbed the vehicle Fillmore, since he burned through gas and oil the way I went through a box of cookies, but he was better than not having a car. "Lock yourself in the car and call the police."
Mac's big blue eyes got even bigger. She sounded more like my mother than my offspring when she mumbled, "Mackenzie Elizabeth Taylor, what are you going to do?"
"Hit him with the He-Man trashcan maybe. With luck it won't come to that." I dug in my purse, hunting for the container of pepper spray my mother had given me as a stocking stuffer last Christmas. "Go on."
Mac's chin went up in classic Taylor girl let's take it to the mat fashion. "Come with me."
I didn't play the mom card very often. I didn't need to since I had the most mature teenage daughter on the face of the planet, which at the moment was more a curse than a blessing. Unfortunately for her, I had an additional sixteen years of practice at being a stubborn pain in the ass to my credit. No way would I let some creep loot our new apartment within hours of our taking possession. My mother would never let me live it down. "Mac, go, or I swear I'll never let you drive Fillmore again. It'll be public transportation from now until you're old enough to pay for your own therapist."
The streetlight fell on her worried expression. "Just don't do anything stupid, okay?"
"Go," I insisted, making no promises. Sometimes "anything stupid" was all a mother could manage.
After Mac was as secure as possible, I depressed the latch and opened the door that led to the four apartments in Uncle Al's building—now my building—well, mine and my mother's. The huge turn-of-the-century villa had been renovated into four separate apartments. The residence above us was occupied by Mrs. Burkowitz, who'd introduced herself the second we'd arrived, insisting both Mac and I call her Nona. She was sweet but wouldn't have my back if things went sideways. The other second-floor apartment was currently vacant, and I hadn't met the downstairs tenant yet. I was on my own until the police showed up.
My heart pounded, and there was a distinct roaring in my ears as I moved into the foyer, pepper spray in hand. The door to the apartment stood ajar. I swallowed past the lump in my throat. Though she lacked appreciation for my classic '80s paraphernalia, Mac was right—there really wasn't much worth taking in our new place, at least not of our stuff. No family jewels or giant wads of cash lying around the Taylor abode. My mom had insisted we keep all of Uncle Al's furniture, since mine was what I could afford, aka off-the-truck specials. Mac's computer equipment was all older stuff she'd refurbished herself, and most of it was bulky as all get-out. Hell, Fillmore was my most expensive item, and how sad was that?
I had second and then third thoughts about going inside. What if there was a tweaker or crackhead in there, someone crazy and desperate enough to attack me instead of just running away? What if he had a gun? Suddenly, my little vial of pepper spray didn't seem like much protection.
The distinct sound of something crashing spurred me into action. We may not have had much, but I'd worked hard for all of it. I wasn't about to let some drugged-out creep trash the place on a whim. And java help him if that had been my coffeepot. Decided, I skulked through the darkened living room. Sticking to the shadows, I paused only long enough to let my eyes adjust.
The intruder was in what had been Uncle Al's office and was destined to be Mac's bedroom, once we got around to moving all the clutter out and buying her a bed. The room faced the left side of the house and his flashlight was now invisible from the street. Cautiously, I peeked around the corner to get a look at our burglar. Even in the dim light cast by my LED nightlight in the hall, I could tell the guy was immense. He had at least a foot on me and looked three times as broad. And at five-foot-nine with the Rubenesque stature to match, I was no waif. He was sliding drawers open to Uncle Al's desk, rummaging through the con
tents.
Uncle Al had been my father's estranged older brother who dabbled at private investigation. He and Dad had some sort of argument years ago, and Uncle Al had kept to himself ever since. I'd only seen him twice, and one of those times had been at his wake. I'd done a cursory look through the room earlier, just to make sure dear old Uncle Al hadn't left any skin magazines where Mac might find them. There had been an epic amount of flotsam but nothing valuable. What did the intruder hope to find?
The sheer size of the man gave me fourth thoughts—I considered diving into the cast-iron tub and hiding until he left. Then he turned in my direction, and I plastered my back against the wall, trapped. I had no clue what the range on my pepper spray was but figured ten feet was asking too much from the little vial. I waited until he was just on the other side of the doorway, keeping out of line of sight as I called out, "The cops are on their way."
The footsteps stopped. "Are you Mackenzie?"
How did he know my name? Well, he had just been rifling through our stuff, but most people usually thought Mackenzie was my last name, not my first. His voice rumbled, the deepest I'd ever heard. It sounded like distant thunder over craggy mountains.
Swallowing, I forced a note of steely badass-ness into my voice. "Get out. And leave whatever you took."
Too late, I realized he'd have to walk past me in order to exit the apartment, either back through the living room to the front door. Or into my bedroom and through the French doors leading out to the back garden. I made a face, wishing I'd thought this through better.
"It's not what you think." He stepped out into the hallway, holding the flashlight off to one side. It reflected off the cream-colored walls so the left side of his face was somewhat visible. I'd expected something scary to match his hulking goon build and was a little taken aback. Even with the crappy illumination, I could tell he had sharp bone structure and full, almost sensual lips. His nose was straight, but with an obvious bump, as if it had been broken a time or two. The small flaw added character and depth to his natural good looks. His long jet hair was tied back into a ponytail.
The fact that he was a hot burglar changed nothing. He was huge and menacing and in my space. My arm flew up, pepper spray aimed and ready to rock. "Stay back."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. Can we just go into the other room and get some light so I can show you—"
"Mom?" Mac called from the front door. My blood flash froze. Oh no, what was she doing in here?
The stranger reached into his coat. Even in the low light, I could make out a gun holster.
My daughter was in danger. I didn't wait to see what he was reaching for, just hit the depressor and shot a steady stream of the goop directly into my own face.
Oh it burned. Like the time I'd accidently stuck a mascara wand in my eye, only ten thousand times worse. And in both eyes. My nose dripped, and I coughed, trying to suck fresh air into my singed lungs. My back hit the wall, and with a curse I slid down. Something snagged the hem of my jeans, pulling and tugging with little force and making growling sounds. He'd brought a dog with him?
"Run," I wheezed at Mac. "Get back outside, now!"
"It's not what you think," she began. "He's—"
The miniscule pooch continued to yap. "Mac, go!"
"Mom, he's a cop."
"Huh?" I whipped my head around to face Mac, even though I couldn't see her. "What?"
"Here." He put something in my hand, helping me trace the shape with my thumb. A police shield.
I coughed again and rasped, "What the hell is he doing in here lurking around in the dark? And where did this dog come from?"
Mac cleared her throat. "When I called Mrs. B to tell her what was happening, she said that the power had gone out. She asked Detective Black to come get a fuse for the fuse box, since he had a key. And he also brought Snickers home."
"Detective Black?" I repeated stupidly, the badge still in my hand. "Snickers? Wait, did you say home? That creature lives here?"
"Gggrrr ruff." Snickers danced around my feet all ferocious-like. I turned my attention from the tiny dog to the big man, the freaking cop that I would have dosed with pepper spray if I'd been less of a spaz.
"Yeah, she was Uncle Al's dog. The detective took him in until we got here." Mac made a derisive sound. "Congrats, Mom. You just tried to assault a police officer and our new tenant all in one shot."
I choked and wheezed, "The key word there is tried."
* * *
Detective Black helped me up off the floor and over to the couch and instructed Mac to get him a wet washcloth for my eyes.
"I know that's hell," he murmured, pressing the damp fabric over my face. "Keep blinking, it'll help."
"Get spritzed often, do you?" I couldn't help the acerbity in my tone. If he had just knocked like a normal person instead of scaring me half to death, I wouldn't be in this situation. And part of me was doubly miffed at looking like such an idiot in front of him. He was right though, my vision was slowly clearing, the burning subsiding.
His hands were gentle as he pushed my hair back over my ears. "No, all police officers have to endure nonlethal force measures before we hit the streets. Tasers, stun guns, and pepper spray. The spray is the worst though. Stings like he…" He coughed, casting a sidelong glance at my daughter, and didn't finish his thought.
"Don't worry. I know all the bad words. Mom made flash cards when I was eight," Mac said.
"Ix-nay on the ashcards-flay in front of the officer-ay," I hissed.
The detective's gaze went from one of us to the other and he shook his head. "I'm off duty. And am fluent in Pig Latin. Besides, I don't think teaching your daughter curse words is illegal."
"I didn't want her to be behind the other kids in public school," I explained.
Mac went down to the basement to change the burned-out fuse, but the small dog, Snickers, still skulked and growled by my feet.
I blew my nose then asked, "What's her problem?"
Detective Black scooped up the glaring critter. "Just a lot of transition lately. She's never been keen on strangers."
"Well they don't make them stranger than me," I quipped.
It was a lame joke, but he smiled anyway as he scratched Snickers behind her ears. "Noted."
There was some serious chemistry in the room, more than just the remnants of pepper spray. The only thing that ruined it was the snarling mongrel between us. Damn it, no one said anything about a dog. Not that I had anything against dogs, but I liked them better when I could coo at them, give them a scratch, and then go on my merry way. Dogs had a way of being less cute when they messed on a girl's carpet or chewed up her favorite pair of designer knock-off boots.
Note to self—padlock the closet.
"So, Detective Black," I said, turning my attention away from the territorial little beast, "have you lived here long?"
"Call me Hunter. And about six months," he said and set Snickers back down. "Your uncle offered me the apartment after I arrested him for trespassing."
I blinked my still watering eyes. "Really?"
"You didn't know?" He raised a jet eyebrow. His eyes were so dark there was no distinction between pupil and iris.
I shrugged and looked away from those intense dark eyes. "My father and Uncle Al had a falling-out several years ago, so I didn't really know him all that well. I think that's why he left the building to me and my mom, to get one last shot on the chin at The Captain. My dad was career Navy."
"So you're a military brat?" he teased.
"Recovering military brat," I corrected with a smile. "He's been retired for ten years." I didn't mention that I'd moved out of my parents' house long before that.
The lights flicked back on, and I blinked like a baby bat up at my new neighbor.
"Let me get a look at your eyes." Hunter leaned in close, presumably to examine my face. He smelled woodsy, like campfires and fresh air and pine boughs. The clean scent cut through my stinging nostrils and raw throat, and it
took all of my energy not to sigh as he examined my eyes.
"Pretty," he whispered, so low that I thought I was imagining it.
"Mom?" Mac had returned, and we sprang apart like a couple of guilty teenagers.
Hunter rose from the couch and backed toward the door. "Pretty much standard. Do you have any honey? It will help with the raw throat."
"We subsist mostly on frozen dinners and takeout." Mac gestured to the bag of Thai congealing on the counter.
He headed for the door and murmured, "Let me check with Nona. She might have some."
Mac chucked her thumb at the still open door to the hall. "Did I interrupt something? Because you know you're supposed to hang a sock on the doorknob when you have a boy over."
"It's not like that." I struggled up off the couch. "Besides, I'd have to be an idiot to start macking on the tenants."
My daughter rolled her eyes. "Mom, like you could help yourself."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Before she could answer there was a tentative knock on the door, and Nona Burkowitz shuffled in, carrying a jar of organic honey. She was a short, heavy-set woman in her late sixties with silver hair that she wore in a tight perm. Her housecoat was floral, her stockings pink, and her glasses thick as her Queens accent. "Hunter said you needed some honey, bubala."
"Yeah, it'll go awesome with my larb." I peeked in the bag. "You want to stay for dinner, Nona? There's plenty."
Nona wrinkled her beaklike nose. "I can't eat that spicy foreign stuff. It gives me gas. Besides, I had a nosh with my book club ladies earlier. Though I could do with a cup of tea."
"Do we have tea?" I asked Mac, who was in charge of the grocery shopping. I did too much impulse buying.
She opened one of the boxes that clogged up the counter. "Maybe from Grams?"
"Don't trouble yourself, dolly. I don't mean to be a nuisance." Nona parked herself on one of the barstools, making no move to leave. "So, Miss Mackenzie, what do you think of our good detective? He's single, you know."
Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1) Page 1
