Tracy Hayes, P.I. to the Rescue (P.I. Tracy Hayes 3)

by Susanna Shore

  I smiled. “No.” Then I reconsidered. “Actually, yes, but that’s not why I came.”

  “Want to purchase another hairclip then?”

  “I might. The previous ones met with an unfortunate accident.”

  They had fallen into a dumpster. While on my head. Their loss still upset me, so I went to the hairclips rack and began to skim.

  “You don’t have the butterflies anymore,” I said, disappointed. I’d really liked them.

  “Then perhaps you’d like the cornrows now?” she asked as she finished the hairdo of her client with a cloud of hairspray.

  I gave it a thought. Cornrows might not suit me as well as I’d thought back then, but in my defense I’d really needed to use the bathroom.

  “Do you know how to dye a white girl’s hair? My roots could use a touch-up.”

  I had mud-brown hair that was an unfortunate result of mixing my mother’s strawberry blond and father’s black Irish hair, the kind with a hint of auburn in it. My six–years-older sister Theresa, Tessa for short, had inherited beautiful naturally auburn hair, but my auburn came from a can and needed regular maintenance.

  “Of course,” the woman drawled. “When you’ve burned a white girl’s hair trying to bleach it, you learn to make weak enough dye mixes.”

  That wasn’t encouraging. “Do you have auburn color?”

  “I can whip up something for you.”

  Right… “In that case, do you have time for my hair?”

  Ten minutes later I was sitting at the washing station, having my hair washed. It’s wonderfully relaxing to have another person wash your hair, and Shakeia, the hairdresser, with her slow, deliberate movements, was extra relaxing. I almost fell asleep, completely forgetting why I was here.

  “Auburn, you say?” Shakeia asked when I was seated in her chair a little later. I nodded, barely managing to keep my eyes open. “Are you sure? A girl like you could use something more edgy.” That roused me, but not enough to alarm me.

  “Nothing too edgy.”

  She set to work, and little by little I woke from my slumber and remembered why I’d come.

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “All my life.”

  That threw me, because her accent was so strong. “I’m looking for two missing girls and I was wondering where fourteen year olds who want to skip school would hang out.”

  She considered my question so long that I thought she’d forgotten it. “Are they good girls?”

  “Yes.” Just because Alysha’s mom was a junkie wasn’t a reason to think less of her. “But one of them might have a difficult time at home.”

  “Boyfriends?”

  “One of them has. The other might too, but maybe wouldn’t tell anyone about him at home, if he’s not suitable.”

  “She’s fourteen. Of course the boy isn’t suitable.”

  “I hear you. I fell head over heels for this guy in my brother’s class who played in a band.”

  I hadn’t thought of him in ages—couldn’t even remember his name or what he’d looked like—but I’d had a certain type even before Scott. Bad boy rocker.

  “Utterly unsuitable. The only reason I didn’t come to any trouble with him was because my brother put an end to it.” To my eternal heartbreak, it had seemed at the time. I didn’t speak to Trevor for a week afterwards.

  “I liked boys with motorbikes,” Shakeia said with a wistful smile. “I spent endless hours in this garage watching the boy I liked repair bikes.”

  My body quickened in excitement. “I don’t suppose those garages still exist?”

  “Ay, they do. Near the New Lots Avenue subway station. The one closer to Brownsville, not the one in East New York.”

  After that she concentrated on my hair and we talked about normal things you do at the hairdresser’s—the latest celebrity gossip. My hair was washed again—bliss—and then Shakeia sat me back on her chair and took out her scissors. Before I could make any requests, like, leave everything as it is, she began to cut it. And then she took out a knife. I closed my eyes.

  I only opened them when she began to dry my hair. It didn’t take her long—there was considerably less hair now—and soon she was putting the finishing touches to it.

  “What do you think?”

  I blinked at my image in the mirror, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. The cut was perky, shorter than the shoulder-length it had been, heavily layered and bent outwards to a sort of spiky cloud below my ears. Not bad, actually. But…

  I blinked again.

  “It’s red.”

  She shrugged. “Auburn’s such a boring color.”

  “But … red?” It wasn’t exactly fire engine red, but it was much brighter than the auburn it had been, with lighter—dare I say pink—highlights. My mom’s car was this color. Cherry.

  My family would never let me live this down.

  Chapter Five

  I was feeling more optimistic about the hair by the time I emerged from the hair salon, especially since I’d paid only half of what I usually did for a dye job. It was well past lunchtime, so I located the nearest eatery with my phone, a Thai place a street down, and noticed Jackson had tried to call several times. I’d had my phone on mute, because no one wanted interruptions at a hairdresser’s. Feeling guilty, I called him.

  “Where the hell have you been the past two hours?” he yelled by way of answering. He had a tendency to become loud and angry when he got worried, so I ignored it.

  “Working. And having my hair done.”

  “Having your hair done?” he asked incredulous.

  “Hey, you had yours done during work hours. Besides, this was useful, because now I have a lead for the girls.”

  “Girls?”

  Oops. I should’ve called him when I left the school. And when I left Alysha’s home, and when I went to the hairdressers, and…

  “Sorry, I forgot to tell you. Deanna’s best friend has now gone missing too.”

  “Are they together?” He sounded calmer now.

  “I hope so.”

  “And what’s the lead?”

  “Alysha has a biker boyfriend. I’ll ask around the local garages for her.” I thought it was a brilliant idea, but the growl coming down the line was very distinct and unhappy.

  “You are not going to interview biker gangs alone.”

  “Her teacher was fairly sure he wasn’t in a gang,” I answered primly, but he wasn’t impressed.

  “Where are you? I’m coming to fetch you.”

  Since the garages I was headed to were a couple of miles away, at the edge of Brownsville, I had nothing against a lift. “Shall I order you food? I’m at this Thai place.”

  He sighed. “Fine.”

  He showed up before the food did, so he must’ve been in the neighborhood. I hoped it was for a case and not because he’d been driving around Brownsville looking for me. The restaurant was small and I was sitting by the window, so he spotted me instantly and beelined toward me—only to halt and stare.

  His mouth pursed as he tried to suppress his mirth. A dimple showed up on his cheek even. I’d only witnessed it a couple of times before and it was always fascinating, even if it usually appeared because he was trying hard not to laugh at me.

  He drew a deep breath and managed to pull himself together. “So … red, huh?” he said, taking a seat. I fluffed my hair.

  “I thought I needed an edgier do.”

  His eyes were dancing as he studied me. “You got it.” Then the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “It suits you.”

  “Thanks.” I chose to ignore the amusement. Our food arrived and we tucked in, both clearly ravenous.

  “Tell me about the girls,” Jackson said after he’d eaten half of his portion. I took out the photo of the girls and gave it to him.

  “They’re best friends, and according to their principal they’ve been skipping school together this term. Deanna’s siblings couldn’t tell me where they spend their days, but the stude
nt counsellor mentioned Alysha has a boyfriend who’s not from the same school and he drives a bike, so I thought they might be hanging out at a biker garage.”

  “And how long has Alysha been missing?”

  “Her mom says since yesterday after school, but she was so wasted she’s not exactly reliable.”

  Jackson’s face clouded. “I can relate. Sometimes I could be away for days and my parents wouldn’t notice.”

  My heart clenched in sympathy. “You never talk about them.”

  “What’s there to talk about? My dad was a gambler who spent everything he made as a construction worker on ponies, and always lost, and Mom was an alcoholic who drank whatever money there was left.”

  “You turned out all right.”

  He gave a grim smile. “Thanks to my uncle. He moved the agency from Manhattan to Brooklyn when I was seventeen. He started to pay attention to where I was and who I was hanging out with. Took a really firm hand at one point and pulled me off the path I’d been heading down.”

  “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  “No, thankfully.” Then he shook his head. “That’s not true. I would have loved a family like yours, where the siblings look after each other as much as the parents do.”

  I got tears in my eyes, and looked down so he wouldn’t notice. My family drove me to distraction at times, but there was no denying we’d always look after one another.

  “Hey, it wasn’t that bad,” he said, noticing my moist eyes anyway. “If I was headed to juvie at some point, I managed to turn myself around. My parents are dead now, so I don’t have to worry about them anymore.”

  He actually sounded happy with that, so I resisted the urge to pat his hand.

  Twenty minutes later we were driving down Van Sinderen Avenue, a one lane street between the elevated railroad tracks above the New Lots Avenue station—the one at the border of Brownsville and East New York, not the one in East New York—and a row of low redbrick garages, looking for one that was open. Most of them were rented to the residents of nearby streets to keep their cars in, but a couple had car related businesses in them, like welding shops.

  Jackson pulled over outside an auto body and repair shop and we went in. It was like all the garages I’d ever been in, which was surprisingly a lot, considering I didn’t drive all that often. Back when I was touring with my scumbag of an ex and his band, we had to handle the maintenance of the van and the other cars we used ourselves, and since we couldn’t afford decent cars, we’d ended up spending quite a lot of time in garages all over the country. They were all exactly the same; the same people, the same tools, and the same smells—gasoline and grease.

  A big Hispanic man put down his tools, wiped his hands on a greasy cloth hanging from his belt, and came to us. “Need your car checked? We’re booked till the end of November.”

  “No, I need information.” Jackson showed the man his ID. I kept mine in my pocket; it wouldn’t impress anyone here.

  The man frowned. “We’re not snitches.”

  Jackson was undeterred. “We’re looking for two fourteen-year-old girls who have gone missing. We hear they like to spend time with biker boys, and we were wondering if there are boys like that in any of these garages.”

  The man scratched his forehead, leaving a black streak on it. “I don’t know about that. The one on this street don’t have any little girls hanging out there.” He turned to yell at someone at the back: “Carlos, come here.” Only he did it in Spanish and I was never any good at it, so he could just as well have been yelling about the weather.

  Why he would yell about the weather in the middle of our conversation eluded me.

  Since a young man about eighteen showed up a few moments later, I felt pretty confident with my language skills. He flashed me a smile, which I’d like to say was because he found me attractive—although boys that age find all women attractive—but it was probably for my new hair. I smiled back, because he was cute; tall and wiry—his arms were bare, so I got a good look—with curly black hair and chocolate eyes.

  “Have you seen any girls hanging out with those guys who fix their bikes down the road?” the man asked, in English this time.

  The boy, Carlos, shook his head. “No. Tony’s wife is dead jealous. No women allowed in his garage.”

  My shoulders slumped. This garage was a manageable distance away from the girls’ homes. I’d been sure they’d been hanging out here.

  “What about the place where you like to go?” the older man demanded.

  A slow smile spread on Carlos’s face. “Oh, plenty of girls there.”

  Jackson pulled the photo of Deanna and Alysha out of his pocket. “Have you seen these two there?”

  He took a look. “No, they don’t look familiar. But I haven’t been there much since school started. I’m a senior,” he added to me, flashing another smile. How cute was he?

  I didn’t ask him why he was here and not at school—I wouldn’t ruin my standing by becoming the old aunt again—and just smiled back. “Could you tell us the address, or if you know any other places where young men with bikes like to hang out?”

  He puffed his chest, and I tried hard not to find it funny. “Sure. And if you want I can take you out for a spin on my bike.”

  “That would be great,” I said, lying through my teeth. I was horrified of bikes. “But maybe some other time. We need to find the girls first.”

  A couple of minutes later we were back at Jackson’s car, with the address. He started the engine and a crooked grin spread on his face. “Well, he certainly was tall, dark, and handsome.”

  My laughter could probably be heard a mile away.

  Chapter Six

  The garage where Carlos directed us to was at the south end of Livonia Yard, where the trains were maintained, in the middle of East New York, a large neighborhood between Brownsville and Queens. It was a quiet looking area consisting mostly of huge warehouses for import and export companies, but also cute one-family houses with tiny yards—and bars in their windows.

  Jackson pulled over across the street from a large, featureless redbrick building, one of three built side by side. He reached into the glove compartment and took out his gun, checked it for bullets and slid it into the holster underneath his blazer.

  “Do you think you’ll need it?” I asked, my heart speeding up a little. I hadn’t exactly recovered from almost being shot a month ago, no matter what I liked to pretend.

  “Better safe than sorry. Carlos seemed like a nice kid, but the gang insignia on the wall of that last garage indicates that not all who hang out here are.”

  Since I wasn’t familiar with gang tags I took his word for it. East New York was almost as bad an area as Brownsville when it came to crime. I patted my pocket to make sure the pepper spray was there, but I’d put it in my bag when the security guard at the school returned it, so I took a moment to dig it out. I put it in the pocket though. Gang tags aside, the neighborhood seemed quiet.

  We got out of the car and I followed at Jackson’s heels to the garage in the middle. The aluminum roll-up door was down, covering an opening that was large enough for a truck to drive in, but there was a perfectly normal sized green metal door next to it that was slightly ajar. Jackson opened it and stepped in. I followed.

  The garage was vast and the three bikes there—plus one that was currently a ten-thousand-piece puzzle on the floor—didn’t really take much of the space. A bunch of men from fifteen to fifty—and not a single woman—were gathered around them, tinkering enthusiastically and arguing over the finer points of carburetor tuning—I’m guessing, as I couldn’t hear them clearly from where I stood.

  On the side of the room were tall metal shelves with tools and spare parts, and at the back were dingy couches and armchairs. Ten or so girls from fifteen to twenty were lounging on them, reading magazines and painting their nails, as if most of them shouldn’t be at school at this hour. I studied their faces carefully, but the girls we were looking for weren’t a
mong them.

  Jackson went to the men, and without a prompt from him I headed towards the girls. As one, they watched me approach and assessed me from head—still cherry red—to toes—ordinary sneakers—and everything in between, and found me wanting. The synchronized eye roll was pretty impressive. I tried not to feel hurt, but I’d thought I looked great. The jeans hugged my bottom quite nicely and the short jacket followed my curves.

  Then again, they were fifteen. What did they know.

  “Hi, I’m Tracy. I’m a private detective. Could you help me?”

  No answer. Everyone returned to what they’d been doing, ignoring me completely.

  “I’m looking for Deanna Murray and Alysha Hanson.”

  “Do you see them here?”

  I smiled at the girl who had spoken and was met with a hard stare too old for a girl that young. “But they have been here, right?” She shrugged. “They’ve been missing for almost three days. Do you know where they might be?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know Alysha’s boyfriend?”

  One of the girls snorted. “She wishes he was her boyfriend. JT’s mine. He doesn’t date little girls.” All the girls nodded enthusiastically, with a chorus of “uh-huhs.” I refrained from pointing out that the speaker couldn’t be older than sixteen herself, but pressed on, happy for my breakthrough.

  “And where can I find JT?”

  “Your man is talking to him now.”

  I glanced towards Jackson, who was talking to a youth about seventeen. He stood slightly hunched, as if he’d only recently reached his current height, and had a stock of black hair that constantly fell over his eyes. He was wearing a really cool leather jacket not many here could afford, me included.

  “And what about Deanna, does she have a boyfriend here?”

  “No, she only comes because Alysha does.”

  “If they show up, could you ask them to call this number?” I took out one of my precious calling cards and gave it to the girl with the hard eyes, who seemed to be the boss among them. “Their families would really like to know they’re safe.”