D.B. Hayes, Detective

by Darlene Scalera; Dani Sinclair

  Now, the sign out front next to the door is on the small side, but do you know how much a sign costs? Besides, this is my aunt’s shop and that means she gets the big billing. But geesh. Who needs to be patronized by a ten-year-old?

  “D.B. Hayes is a private investigator,” I explained to him.

  “I know. That’s why I want to hire him.”

  “You want to hire a private investigator?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.

  He shuffled his feet and looked down at his scuffed tennis shoes. His body was so tense, it made my muscles ache to look at him.

  “I have to find Mr. Sam,” the boy said. “See, he’s old and I was supposed to keep an eye on him so he didn’t get out and wander away, like he does sometimes, but I was playing a game and I forgot to check the screen door after my mom left.”

  He got it all out in one long breath, and I wondered what sort of people would make a little kid like this responsible for some old man with Alzheimer’s. The boy was far too young for that sort of responsibility.

  “If he gets hit by a car or attacked by dogs, it’ll be all my fault.”

  I put down the fern and tried frantically to think of something comforting to offer. “I don’t think you have to worry about him getting attacked by dogs.”

  He looked up at me, then gave a nod as if that wasn’t a perfectly stupid thing to say.

  “I guess so. He chases old man Roble’s Doberman all the time. But if I don’t find Mr. Sam before my mom gets home, she’s going to be awful upset.”

  “I’ll tell you what, why don’t we call the police and…”

  “No!” Panic filled his expression. “I want to hire D.B. Hayes! I can pay him.”

  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of grungy dollar bills.

  “I’ve got forty-two dollars saved to buy the Glimmer Man game. It’s coming out next month, but this is more important. Do you think it’s enough to find Mr. Sam?”

  The kid was so pathetically earnest, I wanted to hug him and promise everything would be all right. “Look, I’ll tell you what we…”

  “I mean, he’s just a cat. Anything could happen to him.”

  My mouth dropped open again. “A cat?”

  The kid nodded solemnly. “D.B. Hayes has to help me find him. My uncle says that’s one of the things detectives do. They find things for people.”

  Faced with that adorable, earnest expression, I swallowed several inappropriate responses while he waited in silence for me to say something.

  “Let me get this straight,” I stalled. “You want to hire me to find your cat?”

  “Not you,” he scoffed. “D.B. Hayes. And it isn’t my cat, he’s my uncle’s cat. I was just watching him.”

  Why me?

  “Look, I hate to tell you this kid, but I’m D.B. Hayes.”

  “No, you aren’t. You work in the flower shop.”

  The tone and his assumption stung my pride. I tugged my identification folder from my hip pocket and flipped it open, holding it out for his inspection.

  “See,” I told him. “D.B. Hayes. Diana Barbara Hayes.”

  The little squirt actually took the folder and examined it, comparing me to my picture. While it wasn’t a particularly flattering picture and my hair was shorter back then, my features were clear enough to satisfy him.

  “You don’t look like a private investigator.”

  “I get that a lot.” Unfortunately it was true. “That’s what makes me good at my job,” I added, giving him my stock response. “Look, kid…what’s your name anyhow?”

  “Mickey.”

  “Okay, Mickey,” I said, replacing the folder. “I’d really like to help you out, but I don’t know anything about cats. Your best bet…”

  But the kid had come prepared for a brush-off. He whipped out a bent photograph of himself holding an indistinguishable blob of gray fur. He thrust it in my hand before I could finish my suggestion.

  “Here’s his picture,” Mickey said in a rush. “His name is Mr. Sam and he’s seventeen. That’s old for a cat. The screen door doesn’t latch so good, so he musta got out between nine and ten this morning. I searched the whole neighborhood, but I can’t find him. We live right near the park, so I bet he went there to chase birds or something, but I can’t search the whole park by myself. And I have to get home before my mom finds out I’m not at the pool with Ray and his mom. See, my mom’s kinda nervous on account of my dad getting killed. Mom’s been under a lot of stress.”

  That put the brakes on my objections and captured my full and complete attention. “Your dad was killed?”

  He nodded gravely. “That’s why you have to find Mr. Sam. I don’t want my mom to cry anymore. She’ll be real upset when she finds out he’s gone. I was supposed to watch him.”

  I had so many questions jamming my brain, I couldn’t decide what to ask first. Unfortunately the kid moved a lot faster than my thought processes. He plopped the wad of crumpled bills on the work counter and sprinted for the front of the shop before I could blink.

  “Hey! Wait!”

  “You can keep the picture,” Mickey tossed over his shoulder.

  “Wait! Mickey! Wait! What’s your last name?”

  I chased him out the front door, but he was already astride a fancy red bike.

  “Where do you live? I need more information!”

  “I gotta go!” he shouted. “I’m late! Keep Mr. Sam when you find him. I’ll come back tomorrow to get him.”

  The bike turned the corner and sped off down the sidewalk.

  I started to run after him before I remembered that I was alone in the store. I couldn’t leave until Trudy returned.

  Blast! How humiliating to be caught flat by a ten-year-old kid. Since standing there wasn’t going to do much good and the afternoon heat was sucking my lungs dry, I returned to the chill air inside the store. I stared at the grungy heap of crumpled dollar bills sitting on the counter in the back room. Now what was I supposed to do?

  I’m a dog person. I don’t even like cats.

  Chapter Two

  Finding a gray cat is not like looking for a needle in a haystack. It is the haystack. The world is full of gray cats—at least, Lakewood Park was on this particular day.

  There were dozens of small parks in and around town, not to mention the valley, a system of parks that twisted around a good portion of Cuyahoga County. But using my deductive abilities, I took the direction the kid had headed and his comment about the pool and chose Lakewood over Madison Park, since they were the only two that had pools nearby.

  Searching for a cat is a job for Animal Control, not a private investigator, but the kid had hooked me with those sad eyes. And I admit the whole bit about his father being killed had dangled a carrot I couldn’t resist. It could have been a traffic accident. Heck, it probably had been a traffic accident. But I wanted more information.

  Besides, the kid had given up a Glimmer Man game—whatever that was—to hire a detective to find his uncle’s old cat so his mom wouldn’t cry anymore. Heck. I didn’t have any choice. Not when he’d paid up front.

  I had no intention of keeping his money, of course. I’d locked it away in my aunt’s desk drawer and I’d give it back to him as soon as he picked up his cat. And hopefully one of the two beasts I’d managed to catch would turn out to be Mr. Sam.

  Not being totally stupid, I’d stopped by a pet store on my way to the park to pick up a few things I figured I was going to need to trap and hold Mr. Sam. Silly me. I should have added bandages, iodine, even tourniquets, to my list of necessities. Blood still trickled down my hand, squishing between my fingers and smearing the steering wheel with sticky residue. I should have remembered that cats come with claws. Nevertheless I had two mostly gray cats that sort of matched the picture Mickey had given me. One of them had better be Mr. Sam.

  As far as I’m concerned, one gray cat looks pretty much like another. Even though the first one was a darker gray and had white under his
chin and the second one had a patch of white on his belly, either one could be the cat in the picture as far as I could tell. The two nasty-tempered little monsters were in my car yowling at the top of their considerable lungs. They’d been friendly enough when I was petting them and offering them treats, but once I’d put them inside, all hell broke loose.

  Sam One was inside the box a stock boy had given me. Since I hadn’t planned on finding more than one cat, I didn’t have a second box, but Sam Two had come willingly into my arms until I’d tried to add him to the same box. Hence all the blood. Sam Two was now crouched on the floorboard in the narrow backseat after tearing strips of skin off my hand.

  Driving with a cat loose in the car made me nervous, but I wasn’t about to try picking the beast up a second time. And short of putting him in the trunk, there was no other option. To make matters worse, I’d spotted a third gray cat right before leaving the park. By then my need to help the kid was waning big-time. It was growing late and my stomach was grumbling over the small salad I’d had for lunch, and where would I have put a third cat anyhow? As it was, I was going to have to smuggle the two beasts into my apartment without being seen and I doubted they were going to cooperate.

  I debated blowing my diet by stopping for a fast-food hamburger on my way home, but given my luck, Sam Two would prefer fast food to the kitty tuna I’d bought. He’d probably have it eaten before I got it out of the car. He’d certainly eaten the treats I’d offered him as if he’d been starving—which, from the paunch on that cat, was a big, fat lie.

  I figured my best bet was to go straight home and change into something more appropriate for tailing someone who lives in the Shaker Heights area. I could get fast food on my way to the assignment. Besides, I needed to call Aunt Lacy and remind her I wanted to borrow her car tonight. I could hardly drive around on the east side of town in an antique VW Beetle painted mostly in primer-gray.

  My cell phone rang as I pulled onto Lake Avenue coming out of the park. I dripped a splotch of blood on the seat cover while reaching over to answer the summons. I wouldn’t have bothered except that my cell phone is listed on my business cards and I can’t afford to ignore a possible client.

  “D.B. Hayes,” I snapped out, hoping for a red light so I could use a tissue to mop the blood before it stained. Between the rivulets of sweat dripping down my body, the throbbing gouges on my hand and the noise emanating from both cats, I was not in the best of moods.

  There was a pause on the other end that made me regret my tone. Then a familiar voice—one that sounded as if the speaker had swallowed gravel shards—spoke in my ear.

  “Ms. Hayes, this is Albert Russo.”

  I cringed. Clenching the cell phone against my ear, I prayed he wasn’t calling to cancel tonight’s job. The rent was due next week and I’d counted on that money.

  “Mr. Russo!” I exclaimed, trying to infuse my voice with enthusiasm. “What can I do for you?”

  This time the pause was enough to send my heart in my throat.

  “Have I called at a bad time, Ms. Hayes?”

  “Of course not.”

  Sam Two contradicted me with a plaintive yowl. The sound filled the interior of the car. I grimaced.

  “Sorry about the noise, Mr. Russo. I’m transporting a pair of unhappy cats, uh…for a friend.”

  What else could I say?

  He sniffed. “Nasty creatures, cats.”

  I wasn’t about to argue the point. At the moment they didn’t rank high in my esteem either. I only hoped they had all their shots. And why hadn’t I thought of that before I’d gone and picked them up with my bare hands?

  “Ms. Hayes, I’m wondering if you could see your way clear to start the assignment a bit earlier this evening than we agreed?” he went on. “It seems my wife made dinner plans with some acquaintances and just communicated this information to me. I’m sorry for the short notice, but she intends to leave the house a little past six. You will need to be in position before then.”

  I glanced at the dashboard clock. It was a few minutes past five already. Rush hour. And his address was clear across town in an area I wasn’t familiar with. There was no way I could go home and change clothes and still make it to Shaker Heights before six. I glanced down at my shorts and stained blouse and bit my bottom lip.

  “Is your wife going somewhere fancy for dinner?” I asked. If so, I was doomed.

  “I believe she mentioned Bergan’s in Legacy Village. Is that a problem, Ms. Hayes?”

  His cold tone indicated it had better not be a problem.

  “Of course not,” I lied. “I’m on my way.”

  “Excellent. I’ll send someone by your office tomorrow morning for a copy of the pictures and your report.”

  “Ah, that’ll be fine, Mr. Russo, but, well, there isn’t anyone at the shop before nine. If you like, I can bring everything by your office earlier than that.”

  “Nine o’clock will suffice, Ms. Hayes. My associate will call on you then.”

  “Okay, if that’s your preference.”

  “It is. Good evening, Ms. Hayes.”

  “Too late for that,” I muttered at the sound of the click on his end.

  Actually I could have gotten to the shop earlier than nine, but I’m not a morning person. Besides, I didn’t want to risk any flower shop customers coming in when I was there alone with a client. Or in this case, a client’s representative.

  The cat in the box on the seat beside me was scrabbling furiously at the cardboard and swearing at me in cat. The one in the back had settled for piteous mews of unhappiness. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

  “Look, guys, let’s just make the best of this, all right? Whichever one of you is Mr. Sam is going back home tomorrow. The other one gets to go to the animal shelter to find a nice new home, so let’s be quiet and let me drive, okay?”

  Not a chance. Time stretched unbearably between the cats and rush-hour traffic. All in all I made decent time to Shaker Heights, but then I got lost on the side streets trying to find the address.

  I was sweating profusely by the time I stumbled on it through sheer dumb luck. The sweat was only partly due to frustration. Mostly it was a result of the lack of cool air in the small car. I didn’t dare open the windows, even the wings, more than a crack, for fear Sam Two might prove suicidal.

  The east side of Cleveland is different from my part of town. Binky wouldn’t raise eyebrows on the west side, but here he stood out like hot pink at a funeral. Somehow I was pretty sure no one in this neighborhood was apt to mistake him for one of the trendy reissued Bugs that had come out a couple of years ago. Binky made no pretenses about what he was. His numerous rust spots had been sanded, filled in and painted with primer, but I’d broken things off with Ted Osher again before the mechanic got around to putting any paint on Binky for me. Bad timing on my part.

  I’ve known Ted since high school. We graduated together. He’s a nice enough guy when he isn’t being a jerk, but our relationship is not exactly the romance of the century. More like a comfortable habit when we’re both at loose ends. Ted’s happiest when he’s covered in grease, with auto guts spread all around him. Whatever our relationship at any given moment, I have to give him credit for keeping the important parts of Binky running all these years past their prime.

  As I drove past the address I’d been given, I wondered what it would be like to live in a place this fancy. Somehow I didn’t think I’d be comfortable behind an ornate fence in a neighborhood where even the houses managed to look snobbish.

  Since there was nowhere I could park and look inconspicuous, I pulled to the side of the road a few houses down and spread out the map I’d been trying to read when I’d gotten lost. I had the perfect cover story ready in case someone came along demanding to know what I was doing here. I’d tell the curious that I was trying to deliver a pair of lost cats to their owner. I’ve found it always pays to use what you have to hand.

  Besides, I wasn’t the only car parked along the stree
t, even if the other vehicle was a burgundy Honda that looked far more presentable in this neighborhood than Binky. Tough cookies, as Trudy liked to say. I was here and I was staying here until my quarry appeared. I had her picture, her license plate number and a description of her car. All I had to do was wait and pray Elaine Russo hadn’t left before I’d found her house.

  My hand had stopped bleeding, so I used tissues and spit to clean up as best I could. I was running out of saliva when I realized the car had grown ominously silent. No sound came from inside the box. Worse, there was nothing from the backseat.

  My shoulders tensed. My neck prickled. Was Sam Two preparing to spring over the seat and attack me? Or worse, had he died of asphyxiation back there? The last thing I needed was a pair of dead cats. I hadn’t thought to poke any air holes in the box since I hadn’t expected him to be in there for any length of time. But cats like heat, right? They were always pictured curled up in front of a roaring fire.

  I lowered the windows as far as I dared and opened the wings to the extent where I was pretty sure the cat’s head wouldn’t fit through. Then I debated lifting a flap to check on Sam One. Except things would be worse if he got loose in the car with the other one. I was twisting to peer over the backseat to check on Sam Two when movement over near the burgundy Honda caught my attention.

  A man appeared between some tall hedges. Not just any man. This was a delicious hunk of serious eye candy. He strode toward the car with the assurance of someone who knew where he was going. A sporty white shirt, open at the neck, over neatly tailored black dress slacks gave him a suave, debonair look that captured my full attention—and my imagination.

  Yum. He was gorgeous. Even his dark hair, curled slightly against the nape of his neck and in need of a trim, didn’t diminish his appeal. He carried his tall, lean frame with comfortable authority. His features carried a trace of ruggedness that kept him from being too pretty, but it was a face no sane woman would mind waking up beside. The man exuded raw sex appeal.