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

by Dan Taylor

  “I think so.”

  I realize something, start patting down my pockets.

  “No tracking device, this time. Anyway, Leo’s a family man. Suburban soccer-mom wife, two snot-nosed brats, a goofy lovable dog named Fido. I don’t know whether he gives two fucks about losing his wife, but he sure cares about what he’d be doling out in child support if she ever got wind of it. Not to mention the house, the car, his reputation.”

  “So you used it against him to get him to manipulate me?”

  “I didn’t think there was any need to spell it out like that, but yeah.”

  I pause. “Leo said something about us all being fucked during our last conversation.”

  “Leo was just a bit panicky. There’s no need for that, yet.”

  “No need for what?”

  “Let me give you a little science lesson, Jake. People think forest fires are all bad. But that’s not the case. Over time, forests get too crowded. Overgrowth becomes too dense, mineral levels in the soil get depleted. Sometimes what is needed is for everything to burn, so that new growth can occur.”

  “So, let me get this straight. If all this starts getting a little too complicated, you’re going to pull the plug?”

  “I prefer ‘burn it all to shit.’ All that will be left is a bunch of people all dead, all connected to each other. Cops will be going round in circles so fast it will make their heads spin. But as I said, Leo was just panicked. He jumped the gun.”

  “So we’re good for the time being?”

  “As long as you don’t start getting any more crazy ideas, yeah.”

  I take a deep breath, straighten my suit jacket. “What’s next?”

  Charles grins. “Attaboy, Jake.”

  29.

  “AS LONG AS IT’S nothing too crazy, I’ll do it.”

  “Relax, you’ve practically already done it.”

  My eyebrows narrow.

  “The guy in the bathroom, Donald. He isn’t just some guy we paid to tail you.” He takes out the tracking device, holds it up. “There’s no requirement to have a sorry sack of shit like him working in that capacity.”

  “I thought so.”

  “And you were right. As I said, I knew what you were going to do before you did it. I had Leo phone you right after the cops had shown up, letting you know that we had eyes on you. And I told Donald to monitor your every move. It was inevitable that he would give himself away, that you would spot him. Inevitable that you would try and beat some truth out of him.”

  “What would you have done if the Denny’s employee hadn’t phoned the cops?”

  “We phoned it in ourselves, too.”

  “So why have me beat the shit out of Donald?”

  “It served two functions. One, it let us know how much of a loose cannon you were, and how likely it was you were going to play ball for task one. Two, it let us know if you had the balls to carry out task two.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’re going to torture Donald again. But this time you’re going to use methods a little more persuasive than a novel application of urinal hygiene.”

  30.

  “COUNT ME OUT.”

  “You don’t have much choice in the matter, Jake.”

  “I do. Everything you’ve told me I could tell the cops.”

  “Say what? That some random fella used the guy your ex-wife was banging to manipulate you into getting your ex-wife’s husband-to-be kidnapped? That you got some innocent girl kidnapped instead of her? That you faked your wife’s execution using some special effects guy you’re acquainted with? They’d tell that story at O’Riley’s every Friday night, for as long as they were on the force. And to uproarious laughter.”

  “They could, but it would be true.”

  “Doesn’t mean they’re going to believe it. You’d land yourself in hot water. And the next night pretty much every news network you can think of would run the murder of a Randy and Mary Hancock by some unknown assailant as their lead story. You catch my drift?”

  “It wasn’t much of a drift, Charles. That was quite direct.”

  “Don’t get smart, Jake.”

  “Say I do it. Why am I torturing him? I mean, what do you want me to find out? It is to get information, right?”

  “It almost always is.”

  I think a second. “So how’s Donald connected to all this. I assume he is.”

  “You’re right to make that assumption.”

  “So how?”

  “That’s what you’re going to find out.”

  31.

  “YOU GUYS DON’T KNOW?” I look back at Terry, then at Charles. They shrug their shoulders.

  Charles says, “This guy Donald’s waiting outside of Denny’s while Leo’s looking for someone to use as a plant. We thought we were just choosing some random guy. Some plain-looking guy. But as the night’s drawn on, I’m starting to think this guy wasn’t there on accident. And he’s a little too plain-looking. If you get my meaning.”

  “The perfect cover, right—looking like an accountant.”

  “Right.”

  “So what has he done that’s suspect?”

  “Nothing major. He’s been tailing you all evening.”

  “I haven’t noticed him.”

  “Exactly.”

  I nod, understanding the significance. Or at least thinking I do.

  Charles continues, “He’s also using a cell that’s scrambling the signal of any incoming or outgoing call. Making it wire-tap proof. You ever known an accountant-looking type to carry round a cell like that? Some random nobody?”

  “It seems suspect, I admit.”

  “On top of that, he isn’t called Donald.”

  “What’s his real name?”

  “He goes by the name Theodore Francisco.”

  32.

  “NEVER HEARD OF THE GUY.”

  “If you had, I wouldn’t expect you to say so.”

  “No, really, I haven’t.”

  “Relax, Jake. I believe you.”

  “So who is Theodore Francisco?”

  “That’s what you’re going to find out.”

  “How do you know his real name but not know anything about him?”

  “He left his wallet in Denny’s. And there hasn’t been time to google him yet,” he says sarcastically. “What did you think? We couldn’t find a thing on this guy.”

  I took the guy’s wallet out in the bathroom at Denny’s, which must’ve been a decoy. His real one he must’ve left behind. Could it also have been a decoy?

  “What if this guy’s dangerous? What if he’s setting a trap?”

  “Then you’re going to have to take that risk.”

  “So let me get this straight. I’m to torture some guy named Theodore Francisco, for some unknown reason, and he could potentially be some government agent or terrorist?”

  “That’s about right.”

  I sigh. “And if I don’t?”

  “Then you never see Randy or Mary ever again.”

  “Fuck my life…”

  “Anyway Jake, I’m going to ask nicely.”

  From the seat next to his, Terry picks up the gun with which he shot Ibrahim. Points it at me.

  Now I have both Charles’s pistol and Terry’s bazooka-like rifle pointed at me.

  Charles says, “Pretty please, with fucking sprinkles on top.”

  33.

  I LAND FACE FIRST on the asphalt of the parking lot. I look up to see Charles’s white Datsun speed off.

  I get up, brush myself down, and start thinking about the situation I find myself in.

  I’ve been dragged into a plot to get back drug money belonging to some African drug lord, which was stolen by my ex-wife’s husband-to-be, by making himself the heir to the estate the money ‘belongs’ to. He then subsequently made my ex-wife heir to the estate. And then some underground criminal organization, headed up by a guy calling himself Charles—who’s intent on using his cheesy catchphrase at every opportunity—manipulated me
by using the sleazy guy who had a drawn-out affair with my wife sometime ago. The reason for which is that if Leo starts blabbing to the police, he has every reason to be doing what he was doing, without being under the duress of said criminal organization boss, making going to the cops a bad idea. Following orders, I got Omar, my ex-wife’s husband-to-be, kidnapped, but managed to avoid getting my ex-wife kidnapped, thus outsmarting Leo. I faked the execution of my ex-wife using a British special effects guy I know. Seeing that everything was going to shit, Charles, the guy who had pretended to be Leo’s lackey, intervened. He’s now making sure I do everything I’m supposed to do, in order to get back my kidnapped sister and her son, along with two other people who got dragged into this thing—Cole Baxter, a colleague I’ve never met and Scottie McDougray, an expert computer hacker and researcher.

  In order to get them back, I have to complete three tasks. The second of which is to lure some potentially dangerous man into a place I can torture him, and find out how he’s connected to all this.

  Did I forget anything?

  Oh yeah, and my ex-wife may or may not have been captured, along with the British special effects expert. Though Charles didn’t mention him.

  You can’t write this stuff.

  Seriously.

  On top of all the problems I face, I also find myself in a parking lot I don’t know the location of, and without a cell phone I can make outgoing calls with.

  Time to start walking.

  I get my bearings after I’ve walked two hundred yards or so.

  Turns out I’m in East Hollywood. I can see Barnsdall Art Park in the distance. Which means I’m not too far from Hollywood Boulevard, where my apartment building is. I’ll head for that, get out of this suit, take a shower, and then think of a way of luring Donald.

  I head for and then through the park, keeping an eye out for Donald. He is good; I can’t see him at all.

  Every so often I turn abruptly, hoping to catch him. But I only catch sight of the odd hobo or hooker. Unless Donald’s now posing as a hobo, which would be the perfect disguise in this part of Hollywood, especially in Barnsdall Art Park.

  When I reach my apartment building, I’m ready for bed. The shoes I’m wearing have rubbed my feet something rotten, and the adrenaline I was high on since Ibrahim—the poor son of a bitch—got his head blown off has worn off.

  Home sweet home.

  First thing’s first. I go to my fridge, get out a beer, then put it back, figuring I need a stiffer drink. I tried to like whisky a couple years ago, become that guy who can stand the stuff as he smokes an expensive cigar, but I couldn’t get to the liking it part. There’s a quarter-empty bottle stashed away under the sink in the kitchen, where I keep bleach and other cleaning products.

  I pour myself a generous glass, head over to the sofa, the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other, and decide to sit for just a couple minutes.

  I turn on the TV, flick through the news channel, and happen upon the reporting of the shooting of a yet-unnamed immigrant cab driver.

  Bingo!

  I sit and watch it with my whisky. Some attractive reporter is standing on the street I was on not so long back, Ibrahim’s cab framed in the distance, police cars and an ambulance round it.

  They’re attributing his death to a drive-by shooting.

  If only they knew.

  I turn off the TV.

  With my stomach empty, the whisky hits hard and fast. That couple minutes soon turns into five. Then ten. Before I know it, I’m on my second glass of whisky and I can barely keep my eyes open.

  Just a couple minutes’ sleep, I think.

  I put the glass down on the floor, and turn to a lying position, and fall asleep almost instantly.

  When I open my eyes, there’s a gun pointed at my face.

  34.

  “WHAT THE…?”

  I try to sit up, but the guy calling himself Donald says, “Not so fast, Jake,” then presses the muzzle of the mean-looking rifle into my forehead.

  I stop mid-rise, then go back down to a lying position.

  Theodore says, “I’m going to back up and sit down on the sofa chair over there. Any sudden movements and I put a bullet in your ball sack. Start begging for your life and I put a bullet in your ball sack. In fact, do anything apart than just lie there, and I’m going to put a bullet in your ball sack.”

  He backs up, keeping the rifle trained on me. He sits down carefully, keeping the gun pointed at my forehead. I don’t know if this guy slept through anatomy 101, but even my ex-wife would agree, my ball sack isn’t on my forehead.

  Theodore says, “Say, Jake, pass me over that bottle of whisky. It’s time we had a talk.”

  Unsure if it’s a trick or not, I don’t move.

  “You’re allowed to move, Jake. Reach down and throw it over.”

  “Okay…”

  I reach down, toss it over, but my position makes my throw goofy, sending it careering into his knee. The sound of the glass bottle on his kneecap makes a humorous sound, if not for the fact that person whose knee I just hit is aiming a high-powered rifle at my forehead. He doubles over, rubs his knee, but keeps the rifle trained on me. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Where did you learn to throw, Girls’ High?”

  I don’t answer.

  He composes himself, keeps his eyes on me, screws off the cap, and takes a long pull.

  I say, “Donald, you couldn’t point that gun at my crotch instead of my forehead, could you? Like you said?”

  “Where are my manners?”

  He does as I said, and surprisingly enough I don’t feel the least bit better about my situation.

  Which is what, exactly?

  He says, “You’re probably wondering what I, the guy who you humiliated in a Denny’s bathroom not so long back, am doing in your apartment, pointing a fine rifle at your ball sack.”

  “I was starting to wonder about that, yeah.”

  “Let’s start by you telling me how much Charles knows.”

  “Knows about what?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Jake.”

  “Do you mind if I sit up before answering?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes you do mind, or yes I can sit up?”

  He gets all agitated, starts shaking his head and cursing under his breath. I wince as I pray for my balls. Megan, a young starlet who I had a brief fling with on my previous job was right. I’m never going to have children. But still…

  He calms down some, then says, “Sit up, if it makes you feel any better. But no sudden movements.”

  “You can count on it.”

  I sit up, moving like I’m in yoga class.

  “That better?” he asks.

  “A little.”

  “Want a glass of whisky or a foot rub?”

  “Glass of whisky would be good.”

  He shakes his head dismissively, then tosses the bottle over.

  “So, tell me what Charles knows.”

  I unscrew the cap and take a swig. It tastes better when you have a rifle pointed at you…that should definitely be written on the label some place.

  Theodore points the rifle at my forehead, says, “Jake?”

  “Hold on a minute. I don’t even know who you are.”

  “So you think this is the part, like in the movies, where I tell you everything about myself?”

  “I was kind of hoping for that, yeah.”

  “Not going to happen. If you don’t mind, I’ll ask the questions. And answer quickly. I’ve an itchy trigger finger.”

  “Okay…Charles knows you’re not just some random guy who he hired to tail me.”

  If it’s surprising to him, he doesn’t show it. “Go on.”

  “He knows you’re not called Donald.”

  “You’re not telling me much, Jake.”

  “He knows you’re some guy called Theodore Francisco.”

  This time I get a reaction. His head tilts to one side, and he�
��s smirking wryly. “How does he know that? You tell him?”

  I hold up my hands. “I don’t have a fucking clue who you are.”

  “Then how?”

  “You dropped your wallet in Denny’s. Not the one I looked at, but the other one. One of his guys must’ve picked it up.”

  He’s silent a second. He studies me, trying to work me out, and all I can do is try to stop wincing. That rifle looks pregnant with violence. He takes one hand off it, reaches into his back pocket. Holds something up to show me. “You mean this wallet?” It’s different than the one I looked at.

  I raise my hands again. “Hey! That’s what he told me.”

  “You’re a clever guy, Jake.”

  “I think you overestimate my ability.”

  “Smart play, this.”

  He tosses over the wallet.

  It lands in my lap, and I keep my hands raised, not wanting to touch it, like I’m an impressionable five-year-old who’s just been told it carries lurgies.

  Theodore says, “Take a look inside.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Just take a look.”

  I open it, look at the ID. “Kevin Longfoot?”

  “That’s right. So not only did I not drop my wallet, even if I had, Charles wouldn’t think that my name’s Theodore Francisco.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “It is.”

  No truer words have ever been spoken. Who the hell is this guy? What’s his connection to me, Charles, and this whole situation? And why did Charles lie to me about the wallet?

  It occurs to me that Charles knows much more about this guy than he let on.

  “Can you do me a favor, Jake?”

  “What?”

  “Get up and go into the bathroom.”

  My heartbeat quickens. “Why?”

  “Just get up, you dumb son of a bitch.” He motions with his rifle.

  “No way. You’re going to whack me.”

  He laughs. “Now why do you think that?”

  “That’s where hitmen often do it. So that the blood can be cleaned up easily.”

  “So I’m a hitman, now?” He laughs again. “And think about what you just said.”

  I do. “It’s my apartment, so there’s no need for you to clean up the blood?”