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

by Dan Taylor

  I wonder about a few things: if she has savings, what she plans on doing after we’re finished with the investigation, and how she’s managed to stay so thin. Her arms are like twigs, and there isn’t a roll of fat on her. I wouldn’t be thinking about it, if I saw her at some gym, health freak eating a salad after a two-hour workout. But Grace is too hip to be a health freak. And she works at a diner, where the idea of a healthy lunch is a leaf of lettuce dressing a hamburger.

  Anyway, I’ve got enough problems of my own, if this thing about her being underweight is a problem. Maybe she just has a high metabolism.

  I spend the next five minutes thinking of a plan for the next part of the investigation.

  18.

  NOW THAT WE know I spent last week compos mentis, if my working at the squash club a day and a half is anything to go by, we’re going to investigate a few things: A) who checked me into the motel, assuming it wasn’t me? B) who was this mystery guy who was driven by the same taxi driver and who was talking of memory loss? And C) how’s this mystery guy related to what happened to me?

  I have a sneaking suspicion all these things are related to my visit by this mystery woman Hayley Toothridge.

  I run it all by Grace, starting with the conversation I had with Dean, the over-caffeinated kid who was manning the reception desk.

  Grace says, “I would’ve totally thought you’d made up some crazy story to get her number too.” Grace has a way of really getting to the heart of any matter.

  I reply, “Without knowing what she looked like?”

  We pull into the motel parking lot, and Grace turns off Winnie Pooh’s engine. Then she turns to me, takes in my appearance afresh. “You’re cute, but not that cute that you’re above pursuing some motel reception trash.”

  “Thanks. It means a lot. Anyway, let’s keep our minds on what’s important.”

  But Grace isn’t ready to drop the subject. “I mean, you tried to pick me up, so should I not assume you tried to pick up this Gill or whatever her name is?”

  She easily remembered her name. Don’t let her fool you.

  I say, “I don’t think I’ve even met this woman. And I didn’t try to pick you up. I questioned you as part of the investigation.”

  “Just like we’re going to question Gill? Seeing any similarities? Come to think of it, this whole thing could be your convoluted way of picking up your next score.”

  I sense jealousy. It’s one of my superpowers. “The mystery is a real one. And relax, Grace, you’re the only sassy young lady I need in my life right now.”

  “Gee, are you sure?”

  When it’s time for lunch I’ll try my best to keep her away from coffee as best I can.

  I say, “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

  Despite our little tiff, Grace links arms with me on our way to the reception desk, staking her claim as what, exactly? I like Grace. She’s got a rocking bod—apart from her stick-thin arms—and quirky sense of humor. But Grace seems to be making a few assumptions. Ones I don’t like. At some point I’ll need to put the brakes on.

  When we get there and she sees that it’s a guy at the desk—Dean and not Gill—she unlinks arms.

  “Oh, it’s you again,” Dean says. He glances at Grace, then says, “Wow, you’re really trying to get your money’s worth out of the room you rented.”

  Grace handles this: “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know…” His voice trails off.

  “What do I know?”

  “Forget about it.”

  “No really, how’s he getting his money’s worth?”

  “I thought it was obvious.”

  “Explain it to me. I don’t think it is obvious.”

  Kid’s now sweating like a spit-roasting pig. His voice goes meek and he’s unable to meet Grace’s eye contact. “Nothing was obvious.”

  “‘Nothing was obvious’? Wow, this is a really informative little lecture. Do you have any other nuggets of wisdom you’d like to share with us? I have no idea why you’re sitting behind the desk of some seedy motel. You should really get a gig teaching the higher echelons of philosophy about what they don’t know about life.”

  Now that he’s tenderized, I take over the barbecue. “What time does Gill come on shift? We need to speak to her.”

  He glances at the clock behind him. “Twenty minutes, give or take. I thought you were going to phone her—” I get the impression he wanted to say more but stopped himself because of Grace’s searing eye contact.

  “I haven’t yet. I’d rather speak to her in person.”

  “Well, as I said, twenty minutes.”

  “I’m not finished with you yet. Maybe you can be of use as we wait for her.”

  He sneaks a glance of Grace, then says, “Shoot.”

  “Not yesterday but the day before, a guy with a limp rented a room. Did you check the guy in?”

  “What time was that?”

  “Let’s go ahead and assume it was around the same time that someone checked me into this flea nest.” Flea nest? Is that a recognized term? Maybe I meant to say fleabag. That’s right. Fleabag. I make my face extra serious to gloss over my mistake.

  “Around eight, right?” he asks.

  “Right.”

  “What room? If I check, there’s bound to be someone who checked in around that time in one of the rooms. It’s our busiest time for check-ins.”

  “Try the same room that I’m in.”

  “Let me see,” he begins, then taps his index finger on his chin, thinking. “It was my turn to babysit Ferrara, so I took the graveyard.”

  I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. He just looks at us dumbly.

  Then Grace says, “Does that mean you were here or not, Doink?”

  “Doink?” he asks.

  “The Clown.”

  He’s confused.

  Grace and I shoot each other a look, as though to say, The kids of the today…

  He continues, “I start at nine. So there’s a good chance that it was me who checked him in.”

  I say, “Care to check, Randy?”

  He doesn’t bother asking for clarification of the reference this time. Shame, I was looking forward to calling him Macho Man.

  Dean starts tapping away at the keyboard on his desk. On the wall, to our right, is a television. It’s displaying a morning show. Goofy presenters filling hours with non-entertainment. Who has time in the morning for this? And if you did have time, why would you watch this type of show? Surely any other broadcast trumps this. Even cartoons.

  Tune in for more insightful social commentary from Old Hancock tomorrow.

  “Nope,” Dean says after thirty seconds or so.

  “Nope?” Grace asks.

  “Like I said, nope.”

  I shake my head. “Nope what, Dean?”

  “Nobody checked into that room around that time.”

  “Then can you tell us what time someone did check into that room.”

  “Of course.”

  Of course it’s of course. And of course he didn’t just tell us instead of saying nope.

  “Then go ahead and do that, Dean,” I say.

  “It was at two-thirty-three. Gill was on shift.”

  “Thanks, I kinda worked that last part out for myself. So I take it we have to speak to Gill about who checked in.”

  “Nope, I could tell you myself.”

  “Then who was it, Dean?”

  “I can’t give out that type of information.”

  “So you can tell us what time someone checked in but you can’t tell us who?”

  “That’s right.” He smiles smugly.

  Damn. We’ve hit a bureaucratic brick wall. I get the impression I’ll hit the same dead end with Gill. Bribes are my go-to way of persuading bureaucrats their work isn’t nearly as important as they think it is. But the smug smile on his face tells me it won’t work this time. It’s going to take more than money to convince this teenager to start cutting
some red tape.

  I take a second to look at him. I think about what leverage I can apply to wipe that smile off his face. I notice a zit on his chin and then it comes to me.

  “Let me make you a deal, Dean,” I say.

  “I’m not giving you the information, sir.”

  “Just hear me out.”

  “Okay, but there’s no point.”

  “I think you might think otherwise when you hear the terms of the deal.”

  That smug smile again. Clearly he took that Doink the Clown reference personally, even if he’s not old enough to have been around during the golden age of professional wrestling. “I’ll keep your little pastime a secret if you tell me the name of the guy who was checked into that room.”

  He frowns. “What pastime?”

  I theatrically chuckle. “Don’t be coy, Dean. Both Grace and I saw it before you tucked it away in your little drawer behind the desk there.” I find describing things as little intimidates interviewees. I turn to Grace, and say, “You saw it, right, Grace?”

  I wink with my right eye, so that Dean doesn’t see. Then Grace, after looking momentarily confused, starts playing along. “Yeah, I saw it.”

  “I didn’t put anything in a little drawer.” He looks around with exaggerated enthusiasm. “In fact, I don’t even have a little drawer.”

  “Oh, you do, Dean,” Grace says.

  I reiterate, “You do.”

  Then Grace says, “Want to tell him what he has in his little drawer, Jake? Or should I?”

  “I think it’s best that I do. Man to man. Mano a mano.”

  Dean’s sweating again. This pig’s nearly cooked right the way through.

  I lean forward and whisper a stage whisper, so that it’s obvious that Grace can hear. “I get it. You’ve got to pass the time someway. Hell, if I were a young man working such a mundane job I’d probably pass the time in pretty much the same way. You’re a porno magazine enthusiast.”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t have any porno back here. And if I wanted to look at porno, I’d just look at some on the internet, like any other person in twenty-fifteen who can work a computer.”

  It didn’t have the impact I expected. Damn these desensitized teenagers. And damn widespread internet porn.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” Dean asks. That smug smile again.

  It is, but Grace takes over. She leans in close, just like I did, and starts whispering. A stage whisper again. Mano a mujer. “Jake didn’t see what type of porno magazine it is, Dean. But I did.”

  I wince. Is she going there?

  She continues, “A young man like you, I’d have thought you were into women more your own age.”

  For some reason Dean whispers too, even though it’s obvious to all present that I can hear everything that’s being said. Could be something to do with the concern on his face. “What do you mean, lady?”

  “You know. Don’t make me say it.”

  Come on, Dean, crack, for God’s sake. If Grace is going where I think she’s going, this is going to get really awkward for everyone.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, lady.”

  Grace sighs theatrically. “You know and I know that you’ve got an over-fifties porno magazine in your little drawer. I’d hate for Gill to find out that her darling little brother, who has babysitting duties, no less, whacks off to women old enough to be his grammy.”

  Phew. That’s not what I was expecting.

  It has the effect I originally hoped for. He goes as red as a ready-to-pop zit. Then he whispers, “You wouldn’t?”

  “Oh, we would, Dean.”

  “I’d just deny it. I’d let them search for this little drawer of yours.”

  “Details, Dean. It’s the details I’d use that would convince them. Do you want to hear a few?”

  For all our sakes, Dean gives in, though I’m intrigued what details Grace would’ve used. She’s proving herself to be a sick little puppy. He says, “Eric Clark. That’s the name of the guy that checked into the same room the day before. Now get out of here.”

  Never heard of the guy. We’re going to need more, so I take over from Grace. “Not so fast, Roddy Piper. We’re going to need a little more than that.”

  “No way.”

  “Grace, oblige him.”

  Grace does. “Dean seemed fixated on a Hilary Clinton type, he was practically drooling—”

  “Okay, okay, what do you want to know?”

  I say, “Whether or not it was Eric Clark who booked the room or if it was someone else.”

  “Our policy is that the person who contacts us must make the reservation under their name, but the person who made the reservation can allow someone else to check into the room.”

  “And did it happen in this instance?”

  “If the booking was made under a different name, then yes.”

  “Then check that, Dean.”

  He starts beavering away with the computer. Then he says, “The booking was made under a Ms. Hayley Toothridge.”

  Bingo!

  “And did this Ms. Hayley Toothridge show up at the motel with Eric Clark?”

  “Lots of people check in and out of the motel.”

  I scan the upper section of the walls of the room, looking for a security camera. The TV catches my gaze. The goofy presenters are grinning like idiots as the TV chef talks them through a recipe. I move past that and spot a camera next to it.

  Double bingo!

  I say, “Show us the tape from yesterday, when Eric Clark checked in.”

  “I’ll get fired.”

  “Grace?”

  “Just before Dean hastily put the magazine away, which was open on a page featuring a model with a salt-and-pepper perm, he was unzipping his fly—”

  “Okay. Just give me a sec.”

  We go behind the desk and stand behind Dean. The computer is wired up to the camera. Dean starts looking through a folder marked with Friday’s date. “Ah, here it is.”

  He clicks on the file, and we start watching the day’s security footage in fast forward. People coming in and out of the reception area. It’s a late-twenties girl behind the desk. Gill. She provides way better customer service than Dean, if the footage is anything to go by. They should really charge less when Dean is on checking-in and checking-out duty.

  “Isn’t there a feature that allows you to go straight to two-thirty-three?” I ask

  Dean shushes me, as though we’re at the theater.

  Any switched-on person would’ve worked out that Dean could easily disprove our over-fifties porno magazine claim by playing back the security footage of when we came in. But you can bet your last Jolly Rancher that neither I nor Grace will clue him in.

  It’s taking time. We might be here a couple minutes. I decide to pass the time by watching the morning show. Just as the chef is about to serve whatever dish it is to the grinning presenters—their faces must be aching at this point—the broadcast cuts to a Breaking News segment. This has livened things up. What’ll it be? A car chase? A hostage situation? A pretty but aging news correspondent is standing in front of a building that looks familiar.

  Oh, wait…

  I put the pieces of the puzzle together.

  I pull my gaze away from it and resume watching the security footage, trying to act cool. But Dean must’ve caught me watching it or must sense that I’m acting funny. He glances at the TV. Does a double take. His eyes narrow, but I get the impression he hasn’t placed the woman at the top-right corner of the screen.

  We’re at midday in the footage. Not too long now.

  I try to distract him. “Check that out, Dean. That motel guest has come in topless.”

  He glances at the security footage but it doesn’t fool him. Doink the Clown must still be wired after all those energy drinks. He says, “Wait a minute. That’s you!”

  He’s right. In the top-right corner of the screen is Grace. They must’ve been short on photos, because it’s a picture of he
r on her wedding day, wearing a white dress—bold, Grace—and looking drunk, her eyes both sleepy and deranged. At the bottom of the screen, beneath the news correspondent, is ‘Waitress Locks Husband/Chef in Walk-in Refrigerator.’ Okay, maybe it was a suitable photo, now that I think about it.

  Just as it’s getting close to two-thirty-three, Dean closes down the security footage window and spins around on his desk chair, so that he’s facing us. He points at Grace and says, “You’re the crazy waitress!”

  Good job he pointed at Grace, clearing up that I’m not the crazy waitress. Though I do look good in white.

  Meekly, Grace says, “Surprise…”

  Without missing a beat, Dean picks up the phone and starts dialing.

  I take it from him. He’s stronger than I thought. His grip is vice-like. Maybe my shot in the dark about his being a porno magazine enthusiast was on the money. I have all the leverage, with me standing up and all, and I certainly have an advantage with me being a fully grown man, but despite these things it’s a much closer contest than you would think. To Grace, I say, “Pull out the wire.”

  Grace asks, “What wire?”

  “The phone wire.”

  After I cleared that up, she does.

  I let Dean win, and he puts the phone to his ear to find there’s no tone.

  It’s my turn to smile smugly. “Now start that security footage again, Papa.” Papa Shango. I’m really scraping the bottom of the barrel now.

  Dean thinks a second, then rushes up from his sitting position as he says, “No way,” and pushes past me and Grace. Before I can stop him, he’s on the other side of the desk.

  In Dean’s world, ways rarely exist.

  I say, “No matter, Dean. We’ll watch the footage without you, before you can make it to a payphone and call the cops.”

  He pulls his cell phone out of his pants pocket.

  I did not think of that.

  “Grace?” I say.

  “I think it’s a little late for details, Jake.”

  She’s right.

  He starts dialing and running away at the same time. Abandoned his post. America better hope that boy never joins the army.