Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1)

by Jennifer L. Hart

  Another crappy night of sleep and I was up and out of the house early the next morning. Armed with a giant coffee and fortitude, I drove out past Cambridge to my grandmother's old farmhouse situated on the outskirts of Boston.

  My father and Uncle Al had grown up in the farmhouse, and I'd stayed with Nan there most summers as well as my sophomore year of high school. The Captain had been stationed in Italy, and he and my mother had offered me the choice between staying with Nan or coming with them. In the end, even time in Europe couldn't compete with the idea of being free from my parents for an entire year. It was an option they'd both bitterly regretted.

  I pulled Helga up into the shale drive and parked under the giant red maple that was a sight to behold in October. The swing where I'd spent many a summer day was long gone, but the memory of it still made me smile. Nan had been a terrific lady, fun and feisty, a real true blue Yankee to her core. I'd spent hours with her in her garden, weeding, plucking potatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, onions, and carrots from the earth, which she'd then turn into a delicious meal in a process that was nothing less than magic. Being back in her space, I could almost hear her voice.

  "It's all about the love, Mackenzie. You put love into everything you do, or you shouldn't bother doing anything at all."

  "That's not what my mom says," I'd replied as I licked mashed potato off a beater.

  "Stuff and nonsense. Your mother wouldn't know passion if it bit her on the rump."

  She'd always referred to Agnes as that pretentious, social-climbing tartlet, a phrase that was as descriptive of her character as it was of my mother's. I wondered if she'd be pleased that my mother wasn't living in her home any longer, but thought that she would be more upset that her only surviving son's marriage of thirty-three years had failed.

  Feeling Nan's spirit with me for the two unpleasant tasks I'd come here to handle, I lifted my chin, squared my shoulders and made my way up the steps to the front door.

  The Captain pulled it open before I could knock. "I thought I heard a car."

  "You did." I offered a halfhearted smile. If I were a guy, we could do the whole manly handshake thing, but the damn double standard that ruled my father's world wouldn't go for that, so we stood there in uncomfortable silence.

  "Would you care for a cup of coffee?" he asked.

  If it had been anybody else, I would have cracked a joke about my coffee addiction being worse than crack or heroin and called him an enabler. Instead I just nodded and stepped past him into the house.

  My father led the way down the dark pokey hallway that spread out into Nan's bright, sun-filled kitchen. The cabinets were white, and each had a different piece of fruit stenciled by the knob that Nan had painted herself. My father went to the pear one and pulled down two coffee cups.

  "Milk and sugar?" he asked politely.

  "Yes, thank you." I slid my coat off and draped it over the back of my chair by the farm table.

  He fixed the mugs and then handed one to me, keeping the other for himself. I was fairly certain that my caffeine addiction came from him.

  "So, things going well?" He didn't look at me, his sharp blue gaze fixed on his coffee. My father was a tall man with big, broad shoulders and a nose that looked like a piece of Play-Doh someone had stuck on as an afterthought. Uncle Al's had been the same way. The two men had looked like twins, even though there had been six years between them. Thankfully my nose and Mac's came from Agnes's side.

  "Yes, Mac has a genetics project for school."

  He sipped his coffee and nodded. "So you said on the phone."

  "And I wanted to see you. See how you're holding up."

  "Mackenzie, I was in charge of a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier with a crew of five thousand. My life's not about to fall apart because my marriage is."

  "I know that," I said. "But I'm asking more about the emotional side."

  "I don't deal well with emotions. You know that."

  I did, all too well. "Dad, look. Mom's putting on a brave face, but I can tell she's missing you." I could tell nothing of the sort, but I wanted to butter him up. "Do you think maybe if you two talked you could—"

  He slid his chair back abruptly. "No, Mackenzie. Stay out of it."

  I stared up at him, utterly stunned.

  "You needed some pictures, you said?" Without waiting for me to respond, he made his way toward the stairs. I left my practically untouched coffee on the table and followed, my head spinning.

  The room that had always been mine was exactly how I remembered it. After Nana died and my father retired, Mom had talked of turning it into a yoga studio, but never got around to it. Typical Agnes, talked a good game but lacked the follow-through to do much other than live vicariously through her husband and daughter.

  Which made their separation doubly weird. What had The Captain done that she actually left him?

  I couldn't quite manage to voice the thoughts that kept tumbling around in my head. Did you cheat on Mom? Did she cheat on you? For one thing, I didn't want to know that much about their sex lives, and for another I doubted either of them would answer. I'd never heard my father crack a lewd joke or even laugh at one. If someone else did, he usually stood around looking gruff and uncomfortable, which, when I thought about it, was pretty much his MO.

  Another reason he was my polar opposite.

  CDs I'd forgotten all about stood in a little cube container on the white nightstand. Cheap bead necklaces hung from a white sculpted hand that Nan had made in some pottery class, with my sterling toe ring resting in the palm. The lamp had been draped with a purple-and-white polka-dot scarf, and funky bucket hats hanging off the frame of a standing oval mirror attested to the horrific perm my best friend had given me halfway through the school year.

  If only that had been my worst decision. Funny, I couldn't even remember the aspiring stylist's name now. Everything that had happened after had erased her from my memory.

  My father, probably sick of watching my mental stroll down memory lane, moved past the twin bed and white duvet to the closet door. He crouched down and pulled out a box while I stared in horror at the clothes. Tattered jeans and oh, java, save me from the Great Wall of Flannel that had been my tribute to all things hipster. Thankfully, my fashion sense had bounced back from such a low point.

  "In here," he said, handing me the box.

  After all the reminders of the insecure teen I'd once been, the last thing I wanted to do was go pawing through old photos and yearbooks in front of The Captain. But it seemed ungracious to just mutter a thanks and bolt. "You should come over for dinner and see the place now that we're settled." Thanks to Mom, but I left that part out.

  He shifted, looking as ill at ease as I'd ever seen him. "Well, I don't think—"

  I scrambled to think of a decent enticement. "Mac will be there. You haven't seen her since the summer, and she can grill you for questions about Nan for her project."

  I could see him hedging, and inspiration struck. "Oh, and my new boss will be coming over. He's a lawyer, but a real decent guy despite that."

  He blinked, clearly surprised. "You got another job? Working in a law office?"

  "Come over, and I'll tell you all about it." I wouldn't, not really. The Captain would likely burst a blood vessel when he found out his only daughter was an aspiring private investigator, just like his "deadbeat brother."

  "All right," he said, surprising us both. "What time?"

  "Seven thirty?" I asked, figuring that if the meal didn't go well, at least everyone would have the excuse of school or work the next day to make a hasty exit.

  "Sounds good," The Captain said and then picked up the box for me and headed down the stairs.

  "Where'd the car come from?" he asked as we exited the house, heading for Helga.

  "Oh, she was part of the inheritance."

  "Albert must have been doing well for himself." My father set the box on the passenger's seat and then stepped back.

  "I got the feeling he loved what
he did." I said.

  The Captain frowned. "What makes you say that?"

  "Nothing. Just a hunch."

  "Albert was no better than a Peeping Tom, following cheating spouses and stirring up trouble." He squared his shoulders with military precision.

  "He helped people, Dad. Found lost kids and reunited them with their families. You should be proud of him." I never understood the animosity between my father and his only sibling. Sure they were different, but blood was blood. "Nan was proud."

  "Your grandmother had no idea what he did. It was better that way." The Captain didn't back down, instead choosing to retrench. "I'll see you tomorrow. Give my best to Mac."

  Dismissed, I slunk around the side of the car, settled in behind the steering wheel, and turned the engine over. Just to unnerve me, my father watched me back out of the driveway. He looked lonely, standing there by himself. No men to order around, no wife to nudge him back inside for a hot cup of coffee. My father wasn't the sort of man who did well on his own.

  Helga, sweet little ride that she was, came equipped with Bluetooth, and I ordered her to dial Mac. She answered on the first ring with a, "Ground control here. That you, Major Tom?"

  Sometimes I loved that kid so much it hurt. "Affirmative. One mission down, one to go. We have a couple of parents to trap."

  * * *

  I swung by Len's office on my way back into Boston for the promised paperwork tutorial and to invite him to dinner. Bad enough I was planning to spring my parents on one another, but that was a fib of omission. If Len wasn't actually in attendance, that would have been a flat-out lie.

  Luckily, Len was eager for the invite. "Oh, what should I bring?"

  "Um…" It was slowly dawning on me as I was inviting all these people over for dinner they were under the misguided notion that I'd be preparing some sort of meal. "Whatever you want, Len."

  "How about wine. I have a right nice wine cellar here. Red or white?"

  Depending on how the evening went, we might need both. "Surprise me."

  Len hummed as he got down to brass tacks and pulled up a complicated-looking spreadsheet. "Okay, so when it comes to your expenses, anything that falls under the cost of doing business qualifies. Gas, food you buy while out on a case, even phone and internet service, you want to bill for."

  "How about my cell phone?" I asked, surprised that the PI gig would be so lucrative.

  "Absolutely, as long as you're using it for purposes pertaining to the case. I find that the more meticulous your record keeping, the less likely a client will be to challenge. If you have car trouble, charge the cost of repairs not covered by warranty. If you travel for a case, charge the cost of the room, plus any taxes and fees. Best to steer clear of any adult movies if you plan to present the invoice to the client though." He winked.

  "No Debbie Does Des Moines. Got it." I winked back.

  "Do your best to keep it within reason. Most clients won't put up a fuss, but occasionally it'll happen."

  "What about background checks?" I asked, recalling the one I'd shelled out fifty bucks to obtain on Paul Granger.

  "Absolutely. Though I hope you aren't using one of those hokey internet searches," Len cautioned. "You can do it yourself with more accuracy for a lot less. Plus you still have to verify that the information you found is legitimate as well as current."

  "So how do I go about that, then?" I asked, feeling a little overwhelmed.

  "A lot depends on what the client is looking for. Some things, like criminal or civil charges, are often a matter of public record. You can check federal or state sources for financial purposes like tax liens, judgments, and bankruptcies as well as notices of default and assets people try to hide."

  "Wow." I'd decided about halfway through that I should write down what he was saying.

  "Of course these days you want to check with social media as well. I had a case last year where a woman was scamming a charity even though she had photos of a massive in-ground pool and hot tub and admitting to having a pool service on Facebook. That judgment is still pending, but you can bet your boots the people running the charity look a little closer now than they did before at their applicants."

  I wrinkled my nose. "That's heinous and disgusting."

  "People do worse. The point is that the more information you have about your subject, the better, but all you really need is a few pertinent details."

  "What about adoption cases?" I asked.

  "Depends on the case. In Massachusetts, any records before April of 1974 are open and can be obtained with a few forms. Why do you ask?"

  "No particular reason." Hunter was in his thirties like me, so that wouldn't be any help. "I better go. I want to try to corner someone at Right Touch Pharmaceuticals if I can. The weekend staff might not be as cagey. And I think maybe I should look into any history of violence with Robert Fox."

  Len pointed at me. "You're one smart cookie, Mackenzie. Come back to my office, and I'll front you money for your first few weeks' expenses."

  Other than a tank of gas for Helga and a crumpled convenience store receipt with snack cake filling smeared on it, the only other expense I had so far was the internet search. But I felt kind of silly for using it now that Len had explained more of the ins and outs of PI work.

  Len handed me two fifties.

  "That's way too much," I protested. The man was an unbelievable soft touch.

  "You'll earn it quickly," he said.

  Though I was too proud to take money from my mother, I agreed with Len. No one would work harder for that hundred dollars than I would. "Thanks for the tutorial. I feel more confident going forward."

  "We all need to start somewhere. I've worked with enough bad PIs to know you're going to make a terrific one."

  His confidence was humbling. "And on that note, I better get to it."

  My phone rang right as I pulled out into Saturday traffic. "Hello?"

  "Mom." It was Mac, and she sounded out of breath. "We found him."

  "Found who? What are you talking about, babe?"

  "The guy in the Escalade. We have a photo." The pitch of her voice was practically giddy.

  "Who's 'we'? And why are you so sure it's the same guy?"

  "I called Pete, and he came over to help me. We've been going through the traffic cameras surrounding the warehouse all morning, but finally got a clear shot of his face and his license plate. Do you want me to text you the photos?"

  "Yes, absolutely. I pulled over into a laundromat parking lot. "You guys aren't going to get in trouble for this, are you?"

  "No, we covered our tracks. Texting the photo now."

  "I have to hang up. I don't think I can talk and read a text at the same time."

  Mac said good-bye, and I waited for the damn text. As soon as I verified it was the same guy, I'd pass the photo to Hunter and let him go and question the man. Of course since I hadn't seen his face there was no way to be one hundred percent sure I even had the right man. Maybe I'd use some of my newfound detective skills to track the creep down, just to make sure.

  The first image pinged through with the Massachusetts license plate. I jotted it down in my little notebook while waiting for the second image to load.

  It finally did, and I stared at it, unable to blink, or draw breath. No, it couldn't be.

  The box of stuff I'd picked up at The Captain's was still secured in the passenger's seat. Ripping the lid off, I dug through photos of friends long forgotten until my fingers brushed the spine of my yearbook.

  My hand shook as I pulled it free and opened it to the sophomore class. A small white rectangle slipped out onto my lap and I picked it up and turned it over. It was one of those photo booth prints that had been popular back before everyone had camera phones. A series of four images with the same two laughing faces.

  I ignored mine and stared at the other. Young, tanned, blond guy, with all-American good looks and mischievous blue eyes. Captain of the sailing club, the debate team, and the swim club—the high scho
ol heartthrob. Something in my chest squeezed tight.

  My gaze shifted back to the photo Mac had obtained. Same strong jaw, though now covered with stubble. Same sharp nose and full lips. He wasn't smiling in the highly pixelated image, but I recognized him all the same.

  The man who drove the Escalade was Mac's father.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "The first rule of lying—stick as close to the truth as possible. The second rule—don't get caught."

  From the Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living by Albert Taylor, PI

  My phone was ringing again. Ignoring my daughter's image flashing on the screen, I opened up Google and typed in a name I'd done my best to forget over the last sixteen years. Brett Archer.

  Several thousand hits came up. The first several talked about some former track and field star, so I knew even without looking at the photos I had the wrong guy.

  "I only run when I'm being chased by something," Brett had said to me and a bunch of our friends one day at our lunch table. "A grizzly, a mountain lion, maybe a mob boss."

  "You plan on delving into organized crime, do you?" I'd teased him.

  "I'm keeping my options open," he'd muttered and kissed me.

  Blinking, I pulled my attention back to the present. Ignoring all the websites that didn't end in .gov, I hunted for any mention of Brett in public record. I found his driver's license, complete with a photo of the older Brett, stubble and all. The RMV image also offered an address that I scribbled down. No criminal charges but an eight year old record of marriage to a woman whose name didn't ring a bell. Two years after that, a petition for divorce had been filed. I couldn't find a record of employment, and he seemed to be the last holdout on social media because there was no way to friend or follow him that I could see.

  Mac could have done more, but there was no way I was going to ask her.

  I shifted my focus to maps and typed in the address listed on his license. It was down near the harbor in Southie.

  I drummed my thumbs against the steering wheel as I debated what to do next. The Brett Archer I'd known wasn't a killer, and there was nothing in any of the surface intel I'd dug up to indicate he had a motive to off Paul Granger. The way I saw it I had three options: call Hunter and tell him what I'd found, investigate Brett myself, or sneak home and eat a pint of ice cream until I came up with a way to tell Mac that her father was part of my ongoing investigation.