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

by Susanna Shore

  I was pretty sure I’d be able to handle whatever crisis waited for me—waitresses are experts in crisis management, like when the chef quits in the middle of a busy night because he “just can’t take it anymore”—but I nodded.

  “You’re as curious as I am, so you might as well find out right away.”

  Jarod was leaning against the wall in the hallway, engrossed in his phone when we reached my floor. With anybody else I would’ve taken that to mean the crisis was averted, but he had the ability to shut out the reality when he concentrated on the cyber world.

  “We’re here,” I said, and he registered my words enough to lift his gaze from the phone.

  “Yeah, okay. Good.” And then his attention was on the phone again.

  “Jarod!”

  This time my presence sank in and he put the phone away. He blinked his puppy eyes at me once. “We’ve been robbed.”

  My heart plummeted to my stomach. I didn’t own much, and nothing of value, but the idea of someone violating the safety of my home was truly upsetting. So I lashed out at Jarod:

  “You can’t just blurt it out like that. You have to build to it.”

  “I do? How?” He looked puzzled.

  “Let’s just take a look, shall we,” Jackson cut in, pragmatic as always. He studied the door that was slightly ajar. “The lock doesn’t seem to be broken, at least.” He pulled out a pen from his pocket and wedged the door open with it.

  “No, it was locked. I opened with my keys,” Jarod told him.

  I went in first. I had a clear view to the kitchen and living room from the entrance, and I could see at one glance that Jarod was right. We’d been robbed. Tears sprang to my eyes.

  “Oh no.”

  The TV, sofa, and kitchen table were all gone, as was Jarod’s bed, as I could see through the open door to his room. The place looked empty—hollow—even with the odd furniture, like an armchair and a coffee table, left in place.

  “That’s odd stuff to steal,” Jackson said.

  “Yeah, they took the TV but not my computers.” Jarod had plenty of the latter, all of them good, but the TV was old.

  I knew exactly what had happened, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

  “This wasn’t a robbery,” I said, walking deeper into the apartment. “Jessica finally moved out.” I had no idea what to feel or think. I was glad she was gone, but this pettiness infuriated me.

  “Was it her furniture?” Jackson asked.

  “The bed was, and the sofa. But we bought the kitchen table together and the TV too. And she left everything to me when she moved in with Harris, so technically everything was mine.”

  “Do you want to call the police?”

  I sighed. I wanted to lean against him and wail, but I was made of sterner stuff than that. “It’s not like I don’t know who took it, or that I have insurance to claim.”

  “Let’s call this in anyway. You’ll need to change the locks and it’ll go easier with your super if you have the police report.”

  “Yeah, about that. My landlord didn’t exactly know Jessica was living here.”

  “No need to tell him that, just that the previous tenant still had the key and could walk in and rob you in broad daylight.” He took out his phone and called the police.

  Jarod stood in the middle of his room, looking confused. “Where do I sleep now?”

  “The Salvation Army thrift store isn’t far. We can go look for beds and sofa there.”

  “Can’t we go to a proper furniture store?”

  I looked apologetic. “I don’t think I can afford a new couch. Even once or twice owned might strain my finances.”

  “I have plenty of money. I’ll pay for them.” He said it like it wasn’t a big deal. I’d kind of assumed the private security firm he worked for paid him really well, but I had thought it went to his tuition fees, which was why he had to share the apartment with me instead of living alone.

  Jackson ended his call. “Someone’s coming right over. Do you need me here?”

  I wanted to say yes, but the truth was we could handle things here with Jarod, and I didn’t want to appear needy. He would never give me cases of my own if he didn’t believe I could handle this.

  “Thanks, but I think we’ll be all right.”

  He pulled me into a brief, one-armed hug, and despite my reassurances I got tears in my eyes.

  “Yes, you will. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And he left.

  Two uniformed officers showed up soon enough, and on their heels came Mr. Chlebek, the janitor.

  “I don’t understand how this is possible,” he said, wringing his hands. He was a short, balding man in his early fifties who looked permanently worried, but he was a good janitor who kept the place clean and fixed leaky faucets without fail. He kept a strict eye on people coming and going too, so he took this personally.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I consoled him. “A former tenant used her keys. So I’d like the locks changed, if possible.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll get to that immediately.” He left soon thereafter, having wrung his hands some more.

  “Do I understand correctly that you know who did this?” one of the uniforms, an Asian woman about my age, asked. I nodded and gave her a brief account of what had happened with Jessica. She wrote everything down, as if it was extremely interesting.

  “Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” said the other cop, a grandfatherly man with white hair and moustache. “This constitutes a robbery.”

  “Yeah, well, Jessica is in possession of the furniture now.”

  “We can go have a look at her new place,” the woman said. “Have a talk with her.”

  “That would be great, if I knew where she lived. She didn’t leave her new address. And her phone number was disconnected too.” I’d tried to call her while we waited for the cops.

  “Seems like she planned this,” the older cop said. That was my impression too, and I couldn’t fathom it. We’d been nice to her, despite her being really annoying. Not once had we complained about her preventing us from watching TV.

  “Do you want to press charges?”

  I spread my arms. “I have no idea. This way I’m rid of her, hopefully for good, but it pisses me off to think she’d get away with this.”

  “You don’t have to decide immediately. We’ll file the report and you can come by tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. I’ll call my brother. He’s a lawyer and he’ll know what the best course of action is.”

  The cops left after taking the details. I called Travis.

  “That woman’s proven to be quite a nuisance,” he said dryly after I’d explained everything to him.

  “I know. So should I press charges?”

  “Can you prove the furniture was yours?”

  I thought about it. “No, I can’t. But they were in my apartment. I have photos and Jarod can testify for it too.”

  “Still, it would basically be your word against hers, and she has the furniture now. It’ll be messy and you still wouldn’t necessarily get them back.”

  “I don’t need the furniture back. I just need her to know she didn’t get away with it.”

  “In that case, leave everything to me.” And I was happy to do just that.

  Jarod was hovering nearby, still looking worried when I ended the call. “Are you hungry?” I asked him.

  “Famished.”

  “Good. Me too. I have Mom’s car. Let’s go to IKEA. I bet we can find everything we need there, and food too.”

  Jarod had nothing against my plan, so half an hour later, we were in line for our meatballs and mashed potatoes—or fries, as it was—in the enormous—but cheap—restaurant at the IKEA in Red Hook with about a million others. Didn’t people have better things to do on Thursday evenings?

  Jarod was staring at everything with his huge puppy eyes. “I’ve never been here before.”

  “Not even out of curiosity?”

  “Mother doesn’t approve.”

 
; I’d never met his mother, but what I’d surmised from the little things he’d told me, his parents were fairly wealthy, of old family and well educated. Cheap furniture and meatballs probably weren’t to their liking.

  “This is a fun place. You’ll see.”

  You know what they say: everything is fun and games until you have to assemble an IKEA bed.

  We did try, but in the end I had to call Dad to do it for us. He brought Mom and a sponge cake with him too, so I think we came out as winners, even if Dad snickered at our failure. Then again, Mom took her car when she left, which meant that the next morning I had to take the bus to Jackson’s.

  I was late again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Exercising wasn’t any easier the second morning, and I was sweaty and exhausted when I followed Jackson into his house after a round in the park. He was barely winded, having foregone his customary run. But I’d anticipated this, and I’d taken a change of clothes with me. I intended to shower at his place and then drive with him to work.

  It was a public service that I didn’t take the bus home in this state, and had nothing to do with exhaustion. Or curiosity. Nothing whatsoever.

  The moment Jackson was indoors he started peeling off his sweatshirt, likely a routine of his when he came home from a jog. At least I don’t think he did it on purpose, but my brain stopped functioning when his chest came into view. Fingers snapped in front of my eyes.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Huh?”

  He shook his head, but the corner of his mouth hinted of a smile. Had he done it on purpose after all?

  “I asked if you want to shower first.”

  Ummm… “You can go first,” I managed to say. “So what horrors led to that?” I asked, pointing at the scar on his shoulder to hide my flustering.

  He glanced down. “No horrors. Or heroics. Just war.”

  “I’m not entirely sure that’s any better.” I’d been perpetually worried when Trevor did his eighteen months in Iraq and he’d come home without bullet holes. Thinking of Jackson being shot upset me, and I hadn’t even known him back then.

  Jackson disappeared upstairs and I wandered into his masculine living room with its hardwood shelves and antique leather couch. He’d inherited the furniture with the house and hadn’t done any changes, but I thought the place fit him just fine.

  In the kitchen I rummaged through his cupboards until I found coffee—fine, I found it in the first cupboard, but went through the rest out of curiosity—and started the coffee maker. I’d barely got it done when Jackson reappeared, fully clothed in his usual black-on-black attire and his hair slightly damp. He smelled really nice, like pine and leather.

  “You were fast.”

  He flashed me a smile. “I bet you won’t be.”

  Since I’d lose that bet, I didn’t answer and just headed to his bathroom—after a small peek into the upstairs rooms, but only the bedroom looked lived in; there were clothes on the floor and the bed was unmade. The bathroom was recently refurbished, small and functional. And the water was hot, which was the only thing that mattered.

  I tried to be fast, but with my hair giving me extra trouble, it was closer to half an hour later before I was back downstairs. Jackson had breakfast ready and we settled down to enjoy it in companionable silence at his kitchen table with its view towards the barren backyard. I could get used to this.

  And then he ruined it.

  “I promised Scott we’d go install the cameras this morning, before he opens the bar.”

  “Must I come too?” I groaned. Detours to see the scumbag hadn’t been in my plans for the morning.

  “Yes. It’ll do—”

  “Me good,” I interrupted him. I’d heard that before. “You saw how well it went yesterday.”

  “That’s because you have unresolved issues.”

  “There’s nothing unresolved. I can’t really question the witness of my own eyes. You’re just punishing me for being late, aren’t you?”

  “This is not a punishment. It’s educational.”

  Short of hijacking the car—which I considered—I had no choice but to go to Scott’s. It was an Irish slash sports bar that showed all kinds of sports on large TV screens hanging from the ceiling, and served hearty—read, heart-attack-inducing—meals that my brother Trevor insisted on eating despite my best efforts. There were booths on one long wall and a small stage at the back where Scott occasionally performed for his customers. The long mahogany bar desk on the other long wall was gleaming and very traditional looking.

  The moment I walked behind it, my stomach tightened unpleasantly, as if I were back at waitressing. I hadn’t realized the job had stressed me so much. I never got that feeling these days, and I’d even been shot at.

  “I have two cameras for you,” Jackson explained to Scott while I tried to get my upset stomach to settle. “First one is openly visible and you can tell your employees all about it. I’ll put it here.” He showed a place on the well-stocked shelf behind the bar.

  “The second one will be hidden here.”

  He showed a spot under the bar, on the other side of the register to the first camera. That camera was masked as a small statue. Even if the thief tried to position him or herself so that their face wouldn’t be visible in the first camera, it would be in the second.

  “With these, you can monitor when the money goes missing and who takes it.”

  Scott studied the cameras with interest. “So much has disappeared that I don’t think it would be possible to palm it while giving people their change. They must come here for it specifically.”

  He was more determined today, a good look on him. Back when we were married, he’d been more concerned about his rocker image than the everyday details of the tour. Those had usually fallen on me, and I remembered wishing I could rely on him more. I tried not to feel annoyed that Nicole had got this better version of him. I didn’t want him back.

  As far as Jackson’s plan went, the morning was a small success. I didn’t try to kill Scott and I didn’t get angry with him, even though we were there for quite a long time while Jackson secured the cameras and checked that they were recording. Although the feat was mostly achieved because I amused myself by checking the kitchen. I would’ve made some improvements if this were my place, but the mere thought of working as a waitress again, let alone here, made my stomach ache return with vengeance.

  The morning would’ve been a total success if Nicole hadn’t shown up just as we were leaving. She was a buxom blonde—both fake if I was any judge—who loved tight clothes to show off her tight body. She gave me a look that was full of malice, either because I’d dissed the meals to her, or because Scott had finally told her that I was his ex-wife.

  His first words to her revealed that the latter wasn’t the case: “Jackson and his apprentice, Tracy, are here to check how we could step up our security.”

  I found it interesting that he didn’t talk about the cameras. Had my snide comments hit home?

  Nicole directed her full charm—read, plunging cleavage—at Jackson, causing him to retreat, bewildered and slightly panicked. “It’s wonderful to have you here to take care of the matter,” she said in a breathy tone, pressing closer to him.

  “Yeah, well…” He shot an appealing glance at me, but I only smiled. “Just doing our jobs. And I’m afraid we must be going. Important … work stuff to do.” He escaped out of the door he’d been pressed against. I followed more slowly behind, after giving a small finger wave at Scott on my way out.

  “That went well,” I said when I got into the car.

  “Never ever leave me alone with that woman again.”

  I smiled. “Easily done. We’ll just avoid Scott from now on.” And as he pulled into traffic, I felt like I’d won.

  The rest of the day was more frustrating. I had no new leads on the girls and time was of the essence. Detective Lawrence had left a message while we were gone, saying that JT hadn’t come home the whole night.


  “Do you think he’s gone to where the girls are?” I asked Jackson.

  “It’s possible. Perhaps they’ve all left together.”

  “Or he’s pursuing them.”

  He rubbed his face, thinking. “If the girls are hiding because they know something about the drugs, then the best way to get them to come back home is to put John Brody behind bars. And Lawrence is on that.”

  “He’s not doing a very good job,” I growled.

  “He’s doing fine. What we need is another approach.”

  I gave it a thought. “Do you think Craig Douglas is in the same league or a rival?” Douglas was Moreira’s drug lord boss who had recently taken over the lucrative business of catering drugs to Brooklyn’s ultra-wealthy.

  His brows shot up. “Where are you going with this?”

  “If they’re rivals, we might be able to get Douglas to take Brody out of the equation.”

  “We can’t start a drug war just to save a couple of girls.”

  “Why not?”

  “Plenty of reasons. One is that it would be unethical. Another that the consequences might be worse than a few missing girls. And thirdly, we don’t even know if the girls are missing because of the drugs.”

  “And fourthly,” I said, having considered it myself, “it could be Brody is working for or with Douglas.”

  “There’s that too. Though they don’t exactly deal for the same clientele.”

  “There has to be something I can do.” The frustration was gnawing my insides.

  “Did you finish checking those clinics?”

  I’d spent the morning calling clinics that offered abortions. “They’re not exactly forthcoming about their patients, but all say they don’t have a fourteen year old African-American girl as a patient.”

  “And the girls would probably be home by now if this was about abortion.”

  I had to admit that. “So we’re back to drugs?”

  “If the girls are actively hiding, not just run away, it’ll be really difficult to find them. If they’ve been hurt, or taken captive, then it’ll be almost impossible.”

  My heart plummeted thinking about the latter option. “They’d have gone missing at the same time if they’d been taken.”