Both plans A and C had their high points, but my jeans were feeling a wee bit snug, and I didn't really want to talk to anyone about what I'd discovered. Decided, I shifted into drive and merged with traffic.
The drive didn't take too long, and soon I was parked across the street from Brett's house. It was a shingle-style duplex, finished in dark gray naturally weathered shingles. Very quintessential New England. Too bad I wasn't here for the architecture.
The address I'd found listed Brett as side A. There was no garage and no sign of an Escalade anywhere on the street. A big blue Cadillac DeVille was parked in the driveway by side B, though.
Talk to people. The same advice Uncle Al listed in his book time and again. A good PI knocked on doors and asked questions. If I wanted to know about Brett, I should speak to his neighbors and hope they were in a chatty mood.
The concrete steps leading up to the small stoop on side B were crumbling a bit, and the railing looked like a tetanus hazard. Careful to choose my footfalls, I slowly made my way up the walk. When I looked up again, an older lady with white hair wearing a garish floral dressing gown was standing just inside the storm door, watching my slow progress.
"Whatever you're selling, I don't want any," she informed me in a thick Southie accent marred with two packs of unfiltereds a day.
I hopped over the last step and offered her my most winning smile. "Actually I'm here about your neighbor. We went to high school together, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."
She didn't invite me in, but didn't slam the door in my face, either. "Can't say I know him very well. He's only been here for a few months. He's single if that's what you want to know."
I hadn't realized I did want to know until she'd said as much. "Does he have any kids?" More importantly did Mac have any half brothers or sisters running around?
"Not that I've seen." She shook her head, and I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
"Do you know where he works?"
"He doesn't, so far as I can tell. At least nothing legitimate. Doesn't keep a regular schedule at all. Though he's got people from all over tromping in and out of here at all hours of the day and night. They don't stick around long at least, and thankfully they aren't loud. These walls are paper-thin. My best guess is he deals drugs. If you ask me, you're better off letting the past lie."
"Thanks," I said and turned to go, just as an Escalade pulled up to the curb behind Helga.
I swore long and loud. For the second time that week I was tempted to duck down and hide from a man, but there was nowhere to hide.
I turned back to his neighbor. "May I use your restroom?"
She scowled. "That's your guy now. You change your mind about talking to him?"
"Yes, and I don't want him to know I was here either. So is it all right if I come in until he goes into his place?"
"You don't got a gun, do you?" she asked. "I'd hate to be robbed at gunpoint in my own home."
"Just pepper spray," I admitted.
"All right. You look harmless enough I suppose." She unlatched her door, and I practically ripped the thing off the hinges before diving inside for cover.
The storm door led to a small mudroom and into a kitchen at the back of the house.
"You want some tea?" my hostess, whose name I still didn't know, asked grudgingly.
"I'm fine, thanks." There was a small window to the left of the storm door, and I pulled it aside to get a clear view of the street. The Escalade's driver's side door was open, and I saw Brett emerge, his head down, a cell phone glued to his ear. The conversation ended, and he snapped the phone shut. He didn't look over at his neighbor's house. His gaze remained focused on the sidewalk.
I watched him for a minute, searching for signs of the carefree boy I'd loved. He'd filled out, especially in the shoulders, and he moved with the same confident stride I remembered. How could I not have recognized him?
And how could he not have recognized me?
Brett stalked up the stairs and into his own place. I closed my eyes, imagining him dropping his wallet and keys, maybe going through his mail. Maybe he was tying off his arm and looking for a vein. Or, maybe he was unlocking the woman he kept chained in the basement for a round of tickle the pickle.
I didn't want to think of Brett as a criminal, but I needed more information.
"Loo's first door on your right," my hostess gestured.
"I actually just didn't want him to see me." Dropping the curtain, I turned away from the window and asked, "Does he live alone?"
The sour neighbor was perched at her kitchen table, a cigarette hanging from her mouth. She didn't bother to remove it before answering. "Sure does. He had a girlfriend for a while with a great big dog. Pooped all over the yard and neither of them bothered to clean it up."
"But she's gone now?"
"Oh yeah, left before Labor Day."
So, Brett was in there alone, doing whatever it was he did that got him involved with murders. What sort of man had Mac's father become?
Speaking of the devil seed, my phone lit up yet again with her face. "I better answer this," I told Brett's sour neighbor, "before my daughter sends out a search party."
She didn't look impressed as she stubbed out her cigarette. "I've gotta poop. Lock the door behind you when you leave."
"Will do," I called faintly. She was a tough old bird, oversharing notwithstanding.
I slid the green phone icon over and held it to my ear. "Mac?"
"Oh my God, what happened to you?"
"My phone died," I fibbed. If Brett happened to be looking out his front window, he probably had the same view of his neighbor's stoop as I had of his. There had to be a back door around here somewhere. "I had to wait for it to recharge."
"Bull," Mac called me on the lie. "If your phone died, it would have gone straight to voice mail instead of ringing through. What's going on? Are you in danger? Should I call Detective Black?"
"No!" I paused halfway through the kitchen and scanned the area, looking for any alternate exit and finding none. "Mac, please. I'm fine, nothing to worry about, okay?"
"It's not okay." She had steel in her voice. "You tell me everything."
"No, I don't." No door, but the kitchen window was large and missing a screen. The place reeked like an ashtray. Placing the phone between my ear and shoulder, I used my hands to shove the window up. Cold air rushed in.
"Mom, you text me like seven trillion times a day. You ask me when you're thinking about buying a new nail polish."
"This is different." The ground sloped up toward the window so the drop was only a few feet. If I went out legs first, I was pretty sure I had enough upper body strength to dangle until I could successfully drop to the ground. Then it was just a matter of cutting between houses and heading back to Helga. "My job requires me to keep secrets sometimes. Other people's secrets. Now I'm fine, but I have to go. Love you."
I hung up and stowed the phone before crouching low and slinging one leg over the windowsill. After securing my grip, I ducked my head through and then followed with my remaining leg. The track cut into my palms as my full weight was suspended from them, the force of gravity yanking me down urgently. My palms started to sweat, and my grip grew precarious.
"That's it," I huffed, trying to straighten my legs so I landed on my feet. "No more snack cakes. For at least a month."
"Now that's just crazy talk," a male voice said from behind me.
Surprised, I yelped and tried to turn and see who it was, moving my palms to the right. My precarious hold had enough of my antics, though, and decided to give up the ghost. With a yell, I tumbled backward and hit the ground hard.
No, not the ground, but something equally unyielding.
Brett?" I panted, scrambling off of him. "Are you okay?"
He blinked and then turned his head to meet my gaze. "You always knew how to make a grand entrance. Or exit in this case."
"What are you doing here?" I asked before
I thought it through.
He sat up, blond hair roguishly tussled, and quirked a brow. "In case it escaped your notice, we're in my back yard."
"Technically, it's your neighbor's back yard. And I hear you don't clean up after your dog."
He grinned. "It was my ex's dog, and therefore her crap to deal with. I see you've been chatting with Doris. She's a pip, isn't she?"
"Not the word I'd use." I could see why his girlfriend had left him—he hadn't matured at all since high school.
He gave me a slow once over. "You look great, Mackenzie. Haven't aged a day."
I snorted. "Must be all the preservatives in my diet. Better than Botox."
"Can I ask why you felt the need to climb out her window instead of using the perfectly acceptable door in front?
My jaw dropped. "You knew I was here all along, didn't you."
He picked up a tendril of my hair. "It's like a beacon on a sunny day. I knew it was you the second I pulled up."
"And the other night, when you dosed me with pepper spray? Did you know it was me then?"
Brett stood in one fluid motion and pulled me to my feet. "Sorry about that. I couldn't take the chance you'd recognize me and give my name to the cops. You do like chatting with them, and my client is paying me a lot of money to keep this investigation under wraps."
I let go of his hand. "Your client. Please tell me you're not a contract killer."
That goofy lopsided grin stole across his face. "Of course not. I'm a PI like you."
* * *
Brett, it turned out, wasn't a PI like me, mostly because he knew what the hell he was doing. "I knew you were tailing me the second you started." He opened the side door to his house and ushered me inside.
"Was it that obvious?"
"Don't feel bad. It takes practice to tail a car right. And it's definitely easier to go unnoticed without driving a sixty-five-thousand-dollar vehicle."
"I should have thought of that." I grimaced and checked the scrape on my left elbow that had impacted the ground.
"Let me see that." He pulled me toward the window and bent my elbow until he could examine the scrape.
"It's not bad," I said through clenched teeth, trying to ignore the stinging sensation.
"This needs to be washed out. I have some disinfectant and bandages in my bedroom. Hold on a sec." He sprinted off in what I could only presume was the direction of his bedroom.
While he was gone, I looked around the space. It was what I thought of as lived in. No art, but plenty of photos. I recognized Brett's older sister and brother in a group shot, a picture of his parents at a barbeque, Brett aboard a sailboat, looking all wind tousled and happy. A lump formed in my throat. Mac would love to go sailing, to know another set of grandparents, aunts and uncles she didn't have on my side.
I had to tell him. I had to tell them both.
But not yet. No, I needed to find out whatever Brett knew about the Granger case because I was laying odds on the fact that when I fessed up about Mac, he'd never speak to me willingly again.
Brett returned with a large black knapsack, which he unzipped. I watched as he extracted hydrogen peroxide and gauze, but stepped away when he reached for my arm.
"I can do it."
"Let's call it even since I spritzed you the other night. Who was with you by the way?"
"Agnes. Ouch, that stings."
"Sorry." Blue eyes flicked up to me, the expression there telegraphing his surprise. "The battle-ax is a PI too?"
I laughed. "I forgot we used to call her that. And no, she was more of an unwanted ride-along. I tried to shake her, but she's relentless."
He was quiet as he finished bandaging my arm. "So what happened to you?"
I stared at the carpet. It was a hideous mauve shade that was so not Brett's style. "The Captain got reassigned, and I went with them." It was the simplest version of the truth, and I'd promised myself I wouldn't lie to him.
He looked hurt. "You couldn't call? Or write? Hell, look me up on Facebook?"
"You aren't on Facebook."
He snapped his fingers and pointed at me. "So you did look."
"Sneak." I batted the finger away. "Just recently. So, who hired you to follow Paul Granger?"
Brett studied me a moment and then leaned back against the doorframe. "His employer. Or more accurately, his employer's insurance. It was a workers' comp claim."
I blinked. "Seriously? But he was visiting all those doctor's offices, pushing his ED drug."
"No, he wasn't. He hadn't made a sale in months. He filed for workers' comp on a supposed back injury, and that's when Right Touch hired me because they suspected he was faking the injury."
"And was he?" And was scamming a small pharmaceutical employer motive for murder?
Brett shook his head. "I don't know one way or the other. He was a shifty bastard and never let me see him doing anything that could have disabused the claim—never picked up his kids, or anything heavier than a briefcase. My gut tells me he was lying though. No man with severe back pain could be having the kind of sex that guy was."
"You saw him at it? With his wife?"
"And the mistress, Mrs. Fox. I have enough trouble keeping one woman happy without a back injury, you might remember."
I ignored that last bit, as he was obviously fishing for a compliment. "Who do you think killed him? Mr. Fox?"
"I really couldn't say. Guy wasn't a peaceful sort. He made enemies wherever he went. Tends to shorten a man's lifespan."
"So you're done with the case now?" I asked.
He folded his arms over his chest. "That one, yes. It ended when he died."
"So why were you checking up on Mr. and Mrs. Fox?"
His lips thinned and his eyes narrowed. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"
I crossed my arms over my chest. "Since I got a snoot-full of pepper spray, I think I at least need to know the reason you were lurking in their bushes."
"I wasn't lurking. I was doing surveillance, and a better job of it than you, might I add. You need to be more careful if you don't want to get made."
I lifted my chin, unwilling to back down.
He blew out a sigh. "Okay, if you must know, I wanted to make sure Rose Fox was all right. I'd been following Paul long enough to know Robert has a temper and uses his fists on his wife. I couldn't call the cops in without risking my case, but after Paul was killed, I had a feeling the Foxes were going to have it out. And I was right. But you beat me to the punch, so to speak."
Brett's words were tinged with regret. Because he hadn't called the authorities before? Or was there something else at play?
Before I could ask, my cell phone buzzed. Dollars to doughnuts that was Mac again.
Squaring my shoulders, I looked my unwitting baby daddy in the eye. "I should go."
He blinked. "Just like high school all over again. You're going to run away again?"
The buzzing phone sounded angry. "No, I'm not, but there's somewhere I need to be tonight, someone waiting for me."
"Husband?" Brett asked.
I was halfway out the door when I looked back at him. "Never married, but you already knew that, didn't you?"
He grinned and reached into his back pocket, extracting a clean, white business card. "You're learning quick there, hot stuff. Don't be a stranger."
I took the card and then sprinted for Helga. The buzzing quit as I turned the engine over and I sent a quick text to Mac. On my way home.
A message came through while I was backing out, but I ignored it, heart pounding like crazy.
Brett or Mac? Which one should I fess up to first?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Conflict of Interest—When a private investigator has a duty to more than one individual or group, but both parties' varying interests make it impossible to act impartially for either entity.
From the Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living by Albert Taylor, PI
I'd forgotten about movie night until entering my own apa
rtment to see my mother in my kitchen, trying to work a blender filled with what looked like daiquiri mix.
"Did you have a nice day at work, dear?" My mother asked the same exact question she'd asked my father every single night throughout my childhood.
"What are you doing?" I eyeballed the blender with deep mistrust. The last thing my secret-keeping self needed was a healthy swig of alcohol to loosen the old tongue.
"Don't worry, it's virgin. That way Mac can participate too," she said as she wrestled with the gadget.
I moved past her into the living room where Mac was typing away in a fervor. "Hey, kid."
"Grams," Mac said without looking up. "Would you please tell my mother that I'm not speaking to her at the moment?"
I blinked and looked over my shoulder at the amateur bartender, who shrugged.
"Why?" I asked Mac. "What did I do?"
She didn't respond, though the clacking of her keys grew in intensity.
I plopped onto the couch beside her. "Okay, stupid question. I didn't pick up when you called a few times, didn't tell you where I was, what I was doing, or when I'd be home. You were worried. I'm sorry for that."
Her gaze flicked to me briefly before she refocused on the screen.
I glanced into the kitchen. Agnes had been staring, but she hastily returned to her blender mishap.
"Mac, come on."
"Where were you?" Her question was smooth, level.
"It had to do with the case," I hedged.
She stood up and walked past me into her bedroom, slamming the door as only a pissed-off teenage girl could.
I leaned back into the couch and closed my eyes.
There was some rattling and then the whir of the blender. Way to go, Agnes.
A cabinet door opened and shut and then something cold and smooth was pressed into my outstretched hand.
Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1) Page 14
