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

by Dan Taylor

  Brandon scoffs. “Please. Let the adults do the talking.”

  Grace inhales deeply and gets to “pervert” before Brandon gives in. He holds up his hands—his face glowing redder than a Texan’s barbecue—and says, “All right, all right. I’ll find the name. But you two have to promise me one thing first.”

  Grace still has the reins. “Depends what it is.”

  “That you two never step foot in this establishment again.”

  Grace and I look at each other and shrug. Then I say, “You have a deal, Brandon. I’ve always been more of a badminton man, anyway.”

  At this point, Kevin, who’s been listening in to the conversation from a small distance away, disappears off through a door marked STAFF ONLY. I think he’s going to get last week’s sign-in book, until Brandon starts flicking through the one lying on the reception counter.

  “Ah, here it is,” he says. “It was a Hayley Toothridge.”

  The name’s familiar. Have I slept with this woman? Hardly narrows it down if I have. “Thanks, Brandon.”

  “It’s been a pleasure.” He smiles sardonically, like Tim Curry in Home Alone 2, minus the cheese pizza.

  Grace and I leave The Hills Spa Executive. Outside, meekly, she says, “I hate to say I told you so.”

  16.

  GERRY SMOULDERWELL IS being driven home by McKinley ‘I could…’ Howard. The driver got the name for his propensity to sarcastically respond to a request from the people he drives: he begins his response with “I could…” before finishing with an implied, silly rejection of said request.

  Such as the start of this journey, when Gerry asked him if he could “stop with the nose whistling?”

  “I could…” he began, before pausing, “if you want to pick the boogers out of my nose personally.”

  Conversation between them has since dried up, and Gerry is staring out of the window, thinking about the pickle she finds herself in. She has to deal with this business of covering up her affair with Cole Baxter, the Agency spy. During a fling, she started to develop…feelings, which isn’t really her style. As time went on, it became clear that it was solely Gerry who wanted more. One evening, when in the motel room with Cole, she decided she’d test Cole’s level of commitment, by inviting him for a dirty weekend at a cabin by Big Bear Lake. He agreed, but then reneged on the plan. It was then she decided she would get revenge on Cole.

  She sent Cole to Antarctica, to gain intelligence on a Russian observation station, which she knew to be benign: nothing more than the base for research the Russians were doing into preventing cabin fever among their submariners. She phoned ahead, informing the scientist that Cole Baxter would be posing as Troy Kellerman, a down-on-his-luck but bright Canadian, who unknown to him would be a subject for the experiment. Using her particular set of skills, and with a few lies sprinkled into the conversation, she turned the scientist against Cole, manipulating him into torturing Cole. But it turned out he was a few speakers short of a full 5.1 sound system, and Cole was found dead, his bones in the septic tank. Or so it seemed.

  She had thought Hancock hadn’t found anything when he’d been in Oslo, Norway, investigating what had happened to Cole. And she’d very nearly breathed a sigh of relief after the debriefing following the mission, until he’d started acting strangely. Possibly implying that he knew Cole was alive, which meant he could know about her involvement with him. So she lured him to a motel room and, after he confirmed it by implying that Cole was not in fact dead, she’d dealt with Hancock. Had completed what she now refers to as ‘Operation Amnesia.’ She obtained a drug from the boffins at the Agency weapons and equipment department. She used it to wipe Hancock’s memory of his investigation in Oslo.

  Another victim of Operation Amnesia is Eric Clark, an Agency employee who she’d hired to tail Hancock while he was in Oslo, to find out if he learned what she’d done. Eric gave himself away after some suspect work, forcing Gerry to call him back to L.A. She subsequently lured him to the same motel room, the day before Hancock, and drugged him.

  Apart from Cole, who she’ll deal with, drugging Hancock was the last bit of the cover up.

  She very nearly breathed a sigh of relief again, until she got a call from one of the boffins, who told her subsequent testing indicated that the drug’s amnesia-causing side effects aren’t as consistent as they once thought.

  A whole load of shit and some really powerful fans.

  It comes as no surprise when her phone starts ringing and that ‘Creepy Squash Guy’ is phoning her.

  She answers, “Gerry.”

  “Uh, Ms. Smoulderwell?”

  She waits a second before replying, “No, I would not like to upgrade my cat food delivery service to your premium package.”

  “Ms. Smoulderwell, is that you?”

  “No, I don’t think it’s a good time, no matter how more cost effective the service is.”

  “Uh, I think I’ll hang up now.”

  She glances at the driver, who’s playing with his nose and staring into space. Then she whispers, “I was trying to imply that now’s not a good time to speak.”

  “Oh. I’ll go then.”

  Still whispering. “You may as well tell me what it is now. I’ll pretend you’re the cat guy, so don’t go getting all confused again.”

  Gerry returned to the squash club Jake worked at, promised she’d take the dorky squash club employee out for drinks if he would let her know if Jake Hancock ever returned and what he said if he did.

  He either has or he’s wondering about those drinks.

  He says, “The guy you were wondering about. He just returned.”

  “That’s great. So you guys do catnip now?”

  “Mm, I have no idea how to respond. Can you put subtext into what you’re saying about your cat?”

  She whispers, “I thought I was.”

  “Were you? I didn’t get it.”

  “Let me make it more obvious.” She returns to using her slightly interested but slightly disgruntled customer voice. “My cat likes the stuff, but sometimes he forgets he likes it. If you know what I mean?”

  “Ah, I think I do. He was acting all strange, saying he couldn’t remember what he’d done for the last week.”

  Jackpot! The full seven days of memory loss. Though his returning can’t be good.

  Gerry says, “That’s a strange question to ask. Yeah, I suppose he can get a little suspicious of what that catnip stuff is. I’ve told him to keep away from that humane society website.” She fake giggles.

  “Mm, are you asking if he thought…Wait a minute. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Okay, thanks for calling.”

  “Wait, what about those drin—”

  She hangs up.

  This doesn’t sound good. She decides to phone him back after ‘I Could…’ has dropped her off.

  It’s only a short drive.

  She doesn’t give him a tip.

  After he’s driven off, she phones.

  “Hey, it’s Gerry. Tell me what happened.”

  “Are you still going to be talking about your cat?”

  “No. I can talk now.”

  “Good. I was getting a little confused back there.”

  “Just tell me what you’ve got.”

  A pause. “I’m a little confused. You were way friendlier when you came down to the squash club.”

  She sighs silently. “I’m sorry…Kevin, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m just a little stressed at the moment, but I think I’d be a little more relaxed with a drink in my hand, if you know what I mean, Kevin?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Start from the beginning.”

  “Well, he came in, and with a girl. He knew who I was, but he didn’t recognize my colleague, despite their having had numerous conversations before we—”

  “Back up a bit. Who was the girl?”

  “Rude type. Trailer trash but without the southern accent.”
<
br />   “Drop the stereotyping. Who was she? Do you have a name?”

  “Mm, let me think a second.”

  Gerry waits.

  Then Kevin continues, “Gray. I think he referred to her as Gray.”

  “Ever met a girl named Gray before, Kev?”

  “I haven’t, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “Think a little harder.”

  “Look, if I misheard I misheard. Thinking harder won’t rectify that.”

  “It’s washday, Kevin. And I’ve run out of washing powder.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  She sighs. “Do I have to spell out everything for you?”

  “Uh, I think so.”

  This guy’s probably never been laid. “What do people tend to run out of on washday?”

  He thinks a second. “Clothes?”

  “Right. And what are the garments that go under clothes called?”

  “Underwear…ohhhhh, I get it now.”

  “Good. Now think harder.”

  He does, making mm sounds the whole time. Gerry waits impatiently.

  Then he says, “Grace. Her name was definitely Grace.”

  “Did you get a second name?”

  “Uh, Johnson.”

  “You just made that up, didn’t you.”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t lie, Kevin. It won’t help my investigation and it definitely won’t help you find out how long ago my last wax was.”

  “The guy didn’t refer to her by her full name.”

  “Yeah, kinda worked that out for myself, Kev. Can you at least tell me what she looked

  like?”

  “She was pretty, but not as pretty as you. Oh, and she was wearing what looked like a waitress’s uniform.”

  Bingo. “Anything on the garment that indicated where she works?”

  “Uh, it didn’t.”

  “Wait a minute. Grace, right?” She laughs out of relief. The diner where she and Cole ate before going to the motel has a waitress called Grace. That place is a stone’s throw away from the motel Hancock woke up in this morning.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, tell me about the rest of his visit.”

  Kevin does, remembering all the details: tedious line-for-line recounting of the exchange between Brandon and Jake; Grace’s sexual harassment tactic to get the name of the mystery squash player, who he’s obviously identified as a lead; even the bit about Jake being “more of a badminton guy.”

  Gerry says, “Yeah, I think he was being sarcastic, Kevin. But thanks for not leaving anything out.”

  “It’s a far inferior game to squash. I mean, come on.”

  “That’s great. Thanks for your effort. It won’t go unappreciated.”

  “Does that mean?”

  Gerry hangs up.

  Then she thinks about what all this means. Jakes onto her, for sure. Onto someone, at least. Someone who he thinks is called Hayley Toothridge. And he’s created another loose end: Grace the waitress from Greasy Fingers Diner. And maybe some others, too. He must’ve gone there straight from the motel.

  What’s she doing with Jake? Could be tagging along, she supposes.

  Everything’s still good as long as he thinks he’s looking for a Hayley Toothridge.

  17.

  “YEAH, WE’RE NOT looking for a Hayley Toothridge,” I say.

  We’re heading back to the Motel 6, where we can look further into who checked me into the motel. Or maybe I have to rethink that whole theory, taking into consideration that I worked at a place and can’t remember it from Adam. Maybe I checked myself in. Maybe before I did, I rode a camel down Hollywood Boulevard, singing, “She’ll be coming ‘round the mountain when she comes.” It’s anybody’s guess at the moment.

  Except Grace’s, who asks the obvious, “Why not? That’s the name that Brandon gave you.”

  “Because it’s obviously a fake name.”

  “Says the man who’s called Jake Hancock.”

  “Says the woman who’s called Grace Black.”

  “That’s exactly my point.”

  I think about that a second. I see what she did there. She’s good. “Okay, so we have names like characters in a bad novel. Fair point. This mystery lady could too, I suppose. We’ll check it out. But I bet my last Jolly Rancher that not only is there not a Hayley Toothridge in the state, there’s not one in the whole country.”

  “Oooo, that’s a bold statement.”

  “Hayley? Fine. Toothridge? There’s not a family in America that’s named after a dental imperfection.”

  “What about Chip? That could be a name.”

  “That’s too vague. You’re cheating. I was thinking more Plaque Buildup, something like that. Anyway, pass me over your cell. I’ll check if this Hayley Toothridge exists.”

  She does. I bring up the web browser, head over to 411.com. “Aha, no Hayley Toothridge. But amazingly enough there is an entry for Toothridge. And in L.A. No way!”

  Grace giggles. Then, in the voice of a pedantic nerd, she quotes me. “‘Because an investigator explores every possibility, no matter how unlikely it is.’”

  “It’ll just be a coincidence.”

  “Phone the number.”

  I do. I put it on speaker as it’s ringing.

  “Toothridge residence,” a haughty-sounding lady says.

  Grace and I giggle. I get myself under control and say, “Hi, this is Jake Hancock. I’m a licensed private investigator. As part of my investigation, I was just wondering if there’s anyone at the residence named Hayley? A Hayley Toothridge?”

  Silence. We can hear her breathing. “Who did you say you were again?”

  “Jake Hancock, ma’am.” I glance at Grace, who mouths the word “ma’am?” I shrug.

  “And you’re a private investigator?”

  “That’s right.”

  She’s skeptical. “And who would this Hayley Toothridge be?”

  Now that question came right out of left field.

  I think a second. “She could be your daughter, or you could have a niece with that name. Or your mother?” Should I continue listing relative familial titles? I have no idea.

  “There’s no one in this residence with that name, Mr. Hancock. Hang on a second.”

  “Oh, okay. It was worth a try. I’ll be going then.”

  I wait for a farewell remark, but none comes. When she speaks next, her voice sounds distant. “Beatrice, you come down these stairs this minute.”

  I glance at Grace. Then I mouth, “Should I hang up?”

  She shakes her head.

  Then we hear a girl’s voice. “What is it, Mother?”

  The lady again. “Have you been on those chatrooms, again? Using the name ‘Hayley’?”

  “Mm, noooo.”

  “Because there’s a strange man phoning. And he specifically asked for my daughter.”

  And Grandma Hayley, too, lady, if we’re going to be fair.

  “Uh, what does he want?”

  “He wants to speak to you. Strange.”

  Do I?

  “Mm, should I speak to him?”

  “No, don’t be silly. But your father and I warned you not to use those chatrooms to talk to strange men. Now up to your room. Your allowance is suspended until further notice.”

  Allowance suspended? Until further notice? Who talks to their daughter like that?

  The daughter says, “Mootthhhherrrr,” before we hear footsteps on the stairs.

  Mrs. Toothridge comes back on the line. “Now, Jake Hancock, my daughter is twelve. I don’t know what age she said she was, but I do hope this has served as a lesson to you. I’ll be contacting the authorities, giving them this number.”

  It’s too late to hang up now. If not for my sake, then Beatrice’s. “You’ve got it all twisted, ma’am. I don’t use chatrooms, and I certainly didn’t groom your daughter, Beatrice.”

  “A pervert would say that.”

  “I’d jump
to the same conclusion. But I really was just enquiring about if there’s a Hayley Toothridge at the residence.”

  I explain the situation.

  Then she says, “And you expect me to believe that story?

  “It’s the tooth.”

  Grace giggles. I put a finger to my lips, shushing her.

  “Are you mocking me, Mr. Hancock?”

  “No, ma’am. I’ll say one thing before I go. Check Beatrice’s browser history, and find out if she actually has used these chatrooms again before you go jumping to conclusions. And stay safe out there, Mrs. Toothridge. There are some strange men around. Good day.”

  I hang up.

  Then I say, “So, are you happy now? No Hayley Toothridge.”

  I look at Grace, who’s more than happy. She’s finding the whole thing hilarious.

  I say, “I don’t know what you’re laughing about. It’s your cell I called from.”

  “It’s my cell, but it’s registered under Rebel’s name.”

  “All’s well that ends well, then.”

  “I’d love to hear how Rebel talks his way out of this one.”

  “Speaking of Rebel. What are you going to do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’re married to the guy. You’re employed by him. It would be a huge leap to leave him. Your whole life would be uprooted. And you live with him too, right?”

  “Yeah. And we’ve been through this before. I’m going to leave him and that diner behind. I need a job waiting tables like I need a man beating on me every day.”

  “You did say you were going to leave, but I just thought that was a knee-jerk response.”

  “Now hold on a minute. Let’s give Rebel a little credit here. I helped a man off the street beat him up today, and helped him lock him in the refrigerator. Why are you so convinced that he’d want us to brush this thing under the rug and move on?”

  “I think you’re getting your idioms mixed up. And I just assumed he would—want to move on, that is.”

  “Rebel’s a dumb son of a bitch, but he’s not a silly dumb son of a bitch.”

  I don’t really get the nuance, if there is one, but I get what she’s saying.

  We drop the subject and drive in silence awhile. I glance at her every so often, seeing if the gravity of the situation is having any effect. Going on her appearance, her looking around at the Hollywood streets, as though taking it all in for the first time, there’s not a worry in this young woman’s life.