Jake Hancock Private Investigator mystery series box set (Books 1-4)

by Dan Taylor

  “I will.”

  I hang up.

  I look at the phone, expecting to see another message from Jane, but there’s none.

  I simmer down, and then brush my teeth. Turns out that Brighter White is good toothpaste. It leaves my teeth feeling cleaner than they’ve felt in a long time.

  I return to the bedroom. Megan’s in bed.

  I remember something. “When I was briefed on the gig, I was told that you demanded that I be undercover. Why did you demand that?”

  Megan looks confused. “I demanded no such thing. Think I’d want this?”

  “Then why would I get told that?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to bed.”

  Someone’s lying, and it isn’t Gerry. I think about the comment she made before I went to phone Gerry, about my girlfriend. Could it be that Megan demanded I conduct my investigation in this fashion to get close to me? I’m not that self-centered. I do think the investigation is real. But is Megan using the situation to her advantage?

  Only one way to find out. “Should I go ahead and lie so that we’re top and tailing, or…”

  Megan props herself up on her elbows. “You’re not sleeping in here with me, Jake. I’ve left a blow-up mattress out for you.”

  I didn’t see it before, but there it is. It’s not inflated, either. And it’s safe to assume that Megan won’t be doing the inflating. She won’t be blowing anything tonight.

  I say, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Just think of it as your punishment for your performance tonight, Andy.”

  I kneel down, say, “Don’t worry, after a good night’s sleep my performance will be much improved.”

  I start blowing it up. Makes for tiring work. Breathing in and out at the rate that I am makes me go lightheaded.

  When it’s nearly inflated, there’s a knock at the door. Charles Books must be one of those “not-in-my-house” kind of dads, because he opens the door and peeks in to say, “Goodnight.”

  He catches me mid-blow.

  We’ve been busted. Megan knows it. I know it. The only person who doesn’t seem to know is her father. But there’s a question hanging on his face.

  I take my mouth away from the inlet valve, say, “I’m in the doghouse, sir.”

  He laughs, but it does nothing to convince me I’ve gotten away with it. “We’ve all been there, son.”

  After he’s closed the door, I look at Megan to see she’s burning a hole in me.

  “In the dog house? Well done, Mr. De Niro.”

  11.

  DESPITE THE MATTRESS, I sleep well. I’m generally as sharp as a tack in the morning, especially if I drink one of those big-ass energy drinks you see our next sorry generation drinking. They’ll be no energy drink, but it bodes well for the day’s work, anyway.

  When I open my eyes, Megan is stomping around the bedroom, attempting to wake me up.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she says.

  Clearly eight hours has done nothing to alleviate that bad bout of sassiness Megan was suffering from yesterday.

  We need to work as a team to get this done. The reason why I’m working for Andre—which in my profession is being part of the elite—is my success rate. I’ve done thirty-six gigs for Andre. Guess how many I’ve solved within the deadline? Thirty-five. Doesn’t sound impressive? You try tailing a famous movie director’s ex-wife in an Andre-issued automobile when the ex-wife in question is driving a Ferrari.

  “Good morning, Megan.”

  “You slept in.”

  Fuck, that’s a good start. I need a good recovery line. If there’s one way to a starlet’s heart, it’s through her wardrobe.

  “Cute pajamas you have on, there.”

  She looks down at them, waves her hands to show how ill-fitting they are. “Fuck you, Jake.”

  I shush her, tell her to keep in character, and she responds with some snide remark about some movie I’ve never heard of.

  I look at her dumbly.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asks.

  “I didn’t get the reference.”

  “You didn’t have to…”

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my thirty-seven years, it’s that if there’s one way to piss a woman off, it’s by not understanding their doublespeak.

  I’m clearly not as sharp as I thought. I decide it’s best to just stay silent.

  Megan goes to the en suite and starts washing up. I resist the temptation to act as diplomat by making a toothpaste joke.

  Now that I have time to think, and now that I’m rested, I start looking at the facts. There was definitely something weird going on the night before with the date of their moving to Rodeo. It wasn’t so much what Barbara said, but how Charles reacted. He shut her up sharpish.

  I didn’t mention it last night, but Megan shares a likeness with both her father and mother, despite all their having had work done. The mother was a given, but her dad? Makes no sense, unless they all went to the same plastic surgeon. But no, it’s more than that. Megan has Charles’s eyes. They’re the same washed-out green color.

  If we were on the Bible Belt, I would bet my amazing condo on the fact that Megan’s dad is actually her uncle, or cousin, or both. But we’re not, and these are civilized people.

  I decide that I’m going to call this moving-date weirdness a lead. There’s not much that I can do my end—though one thing comes to mind—but think of me as a general practitioner. I don’t know shit about why your right testicle aches or why it stings when you piss, but I know someone who does.

  I reach over and get my phone from my chino pocket, scroll to Scottie McDougray, and press call. While I’m waiting for him to answer, Megan peeks ‘round through the doorway, looking pissed that I haven’t got up yet.

  Scottie answers with a cough and then a groan, and then what I think is a hello.

  “Scottie?”

  There’s silence. I think I can hear him sniffing his armpits.

  “I said, ‘What the fuck do you want?’”

  “All I got was a cough.”

  Here’s Scottie in a nutshell. He’s from Scotland, which is a small island off the coast of England. He, along with his countrymen, speaks a dialect of English that isn’t dissimilar to the noise that a whoopee cushion makes if you squash it slowly between your hands. I have no idea how he acquired his skill, but he’s the greatest computer hacker on the planet. You wouldn’t think it to look at the man, what with his apelike features, burly arms, and lack of glasses or anything else that would stereotype him as a nerd, but give him ten minutes and an old Windows PC, and he’ll bring up a top-secret CIA list of people who’ve phoned for a delivery pizza and not left a tip. He’s a raging alcoholic, too, but you knew that as soon as I said he’s from Scotland. It hasn’t affected his work at all, so I haven’t mentioned his incessant drinking during the six years he’s been my go-to guy for the type of information I’m about to ask him for. Besides, if I did, I’m pretty sure he’d kick the shit out of me.

  Scottie says, “You cannee fuckin’ list’n, man.”

  “What’s that, Scottie?”

  “Nay fuckin’ mind. What can I do for ya?”

  “I’m going to go ahead and assume you asked for the details of your assignment.”

  “Aye, fuckin’ do tha’”

  I hate to think he’s kissed his mother with that mouth.

  “I need the background works on a Charles and Barbara Books of Rodeo, Texas. The usual. Employment record, list of dwellings, any large expenditures, felonies and misdemeanors. Start with the years nineteen-ninety and ninety-five, but go further back.”

  “Tha’ the fuckin’ twat from Muckin’ the Yard?”

  “I have no idea what you just said, Scottie.”

  “Nay fuckin’ mind.”

  “I’m going to go—“

  “Ahead and assume tha’ am fuckin’ on it. Aye, tha’s what you always say.”

  “Okay…okay, Scottie. And one more thi
ng, if you could speak just a tad clearer, that would be great.”

  As rude as he sounds, he always says bye before he hangs up. It’s a British thing.

  I say bye back, then hang up.

  When Megan comes back in the room, some of her sassiness has gone.

  She says, “Mom and Dad go for a three-hour stroll to work up an appetite on Saturday mornings. What should we do?”

  I think for a second, then say, “Baby photos.”

  12.

  “THIS PROBABLY SOUNDS weird to you, but I don’t suggest looking at baby photos whenever a boyfriend visits,” Megan says. “That’s Mom’s job”

  “We’re not dating,” I reply.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You’re saying that you don’t know where the photos are, right?”

  “Give the man a medal.”

  “Why do people keep on saying that?”

  “What? Who else says it?”

  “Never mind.”

  Megan thinks a second. “Come to think of it, Mom hasn’t suggested it often.”

  “How many boyfriends have you had during your short life?”

  She punches me on the shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

  I don’t. I’m silent.

  Megan, having learned that that the only time I pause during conversations is when I’m lost, speaks, “What I mean is that this is a clichéd thing to do, isn’t it? To suggest busting out the baby photos whenever a family member or someone else visits. At least that’s what happens in movies.”

  “It is. In bad books, too.”

  “I don’t read books.”

  I can’t work Megan out. At times she seems switched on, other times like a Barbie doll after a heavy nap.

  I say, “So what you’re saying is that you can’t remember a time when Mom has sprung baby photos on you and guests, causing you to be embarrassed.”

  “Right.”

  “That is strange.”

  It is. Unless they don’t often take photographs. I don’t. In fact, there isn’t a single one in my condo. But then again, I don’t have a baby who I feel the need to document the life of. And she’s right. My Mom has a baby photograph showing every time someone significant visits. It’s Mom 101, covered in the first chapter of the first volume: embarrass kids at every opportunity.

  “So where do we start looking?” I say

  “How would I know? My mom never gets them out. Where does your mom keep hers?”

  “On the coffee table.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Deadly.”

  “But that’s not normal, right?”

  “I’d hate to think it is.”

  “So where does a rational mom keep them?”

  I go to say, I think we’re going the wrong route, but stop myself. “The same place she stashes anything away she doesn’t want found by her daughter.”

  “Where’s that? In the attic?”

  “In her underwear draw.”

  She punches me on the arm again, but this time it’s much harder. “Be serious, Jake.”

  “I am.”

  “We can start with the attic.”

  “We should split up. You take the underwear draw, I’ll take the attic.”

  “But what if we get caught? It won’t look half as suspect if we’re caught together.”

  “So you’d rather get caught rifling through your mom’s panties as a team rather than by yourself?”

  “Good point.”

  I think a second. “Set the shower running. Then if your mom and dad come back while I’m in the attic, you can lie and say I’m in there, if they wonder where I am.”

  “Good thinking, again.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re pretty good at this, Jake.”

  “Is that the first time you’ve ever paid anyone a compliment?”

  “No.”

  “Really? Name an example.”

  “Before we went to bed last night, I apologized to my parents, and explained you’re usually not a complete moron.”

  “Give the woman a medal.”

  We’re a silent a moment.

  She says, “You can’t pull that off.”

  “I thought I kind of did.”

  “Not nearly.”

  We split up, both still wearing pajamas. I find the attic, push on the hatch covering. I’m relieved when I find that it’s the type with the ladder attached.

  Not so relieved when I climb up though, and find that it looks like a thrift store up here. There are literally racks of old clothing, masses of files. It would take days to go through all this thoroughly. But there’s an old chest. Surely the place.

  Distracted, I take one of the dresses off a clothes rack, and it looks too small to fit Megan’s mom. She’s not big, not in the way that you’re thinking. She’s big boned, has a large frame. Broader shoulders than her dad, in fact. Diet or no diet, this dress has no chance of fitting.

  I place it back, deciding they must have been Megan’s grandma’s.

  I hit the chest next. It’s full of old toys. Not all girls’ toys. There are a couple Action Man dolls among the girlie ones. I try to picture Megan as a tomboy, and laugh.

  I’m about to decide the photos aren’t there, when I find it at the bottom. Megan’s remembered right. They don’t get the album out often, if at all. Besides being at the bottom of all these toys, its spine looks barely used.

  I climb back down, bringing the photo album with me, start searching for Megan. I find her in what must be her mom and dad’s bedroom, a look of shock on her face. She’s standing by an open draw, holding what any child should never find out their mom uses—a thong.

  I say, “I found it, Megan.”

  She’s unresponsive. As hideous a sight as it is, she can’t pull her eyes away.

  I go over and take the thong off her with pincer fingers, lower it into the drawer, shut it, then put my arm round her shoulders, lead her away from the room like a fireman would lead a newly widowed woman away from a charred house. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  I sit her down in the bedroom we’re using for the weekend, and after a couple minutes, she comes round, says, “My life is now divided into two distinct eras—pre- and post-Mom-thong.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  One time I visited my mom, I walked in on her in the bathroom, caught her wiping her ass. We haven’t hugged since.

  She notices the photo album.

  I say, “Do you want me to look through the photos alone first?”

  “Why would I want you to do that?”

  “To protect you from something you might not want to find out.”

  “I’m a big girl, Jake.”

  “I know.”

  I open it, hoping Megan won’t live to regret her decision. They’re displayed chronologically, with baby photos at the start. We look through them quietly, not noticing much of anything. They seem to be regular baby and toddler photos.

  “Well that was an anticlimax,” Megan says.

  I think a second. Start flicking through the pages again. Then notice something.

  Megan notices that I’ve become curious. “What is it, Jake?”

  “What do you notice about the pictures from pages one to six?”

  She flicks through them. “What?”

  “Compare them to the rest of the pages.”

  She does, then she looks at me, confused. “I don’t get it.”

  I’m silent a second, thinking about whether I should keep the information to myself. “In all the pictures up until you’re about three years old, not one of them has either of your parents in them.”

  13.

  “THAT’S ABOUT THE time we moved to Rodeo.”

  “I think so, too.”

  “No, I don’t think, I know.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t recognize the house in the pictures.”

  “Isn’t it possible that your folks decorated since then?”

  She thinks a sec
ond. The photo album is open on my lap. Her eyes move over the pictures.

  She says, “Let’s stop calling them ‘my folks.’ It’s possible. But that doesn’t feel right.”

  “I don’t think we can jump to conclusions, here, Megan. We need to stick to the facts. We know Charles isn’t your biological father. It could just be that your biological father is a piece of shit, and that your mom married Charles after a messy breakup. Moved away to be safe from him. Then they waited to tell you the truth, watched you grow up, and then didn’t have the nerve to tell you.”

  “Nice story, Jake. But I don’t buy it. How does my mom not featuring in any of the pictures fit in with your story?”

  She has me stumped.

  I say, “Maybe your mom doesn’t like being in photographs.”

  Megan sniggers. “Mom photobombs at every opportunity.”

  “What’s a photobomb?”

  “It’s when you hijack someone else’s photo opp’ by jumping into the frame. I can’t believe you’ve never heard of it.”

  I ignore Megan’s attempt to make me feel like a fish out of water. “So you’re saying your mom likes to be photographed?”

  “Well duh.”

  Again, I ignore her. “She could’ve changed since then. I couldn’t tolerate being around sassy young actresses until I started this line of work.”

  Okay, not quite.

  Megan was deep in thought, but now she turns towards me, raises her eyebrow. “I couldn’t be around aging, culturally inept PIs until I met you.”

  “I hardly think not knowing about some immature form of photograph sabotage makes me culturally inept.”

  “You may as well be a T.rex. And I notice you didn’t deny the aging part.”

  “We need to get back on track.”

  “I know.”

  There’s silence.

  She says, “Well? You’re supposed to be running this gig.”

  “First thing’s first. We need to get out of our pajamas.”

  Megan collects some clothes from the wardrobe, goes off to the en suite, leaves the door open. “So where are we going?”

  I’m looking into the suitcase of clothes Andre provided. The question stumps me more than how I can possibly combine the items of clothing to make an outfit that doesn’t make me look like some dumb, rich eighteen-year-old. “I don’t know yet. But we need to find out about your life as a toddler. I don’t suppose you can just think hard and try and remember, can you?”