Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1) Page 17

  "Not short on confidence, is he?"

  "I think the only thing he's short on is brains. He couldn't even handle the gene diagraming when I asked him to do that. It's, like, so simple."

  "Awe, babe, sorry it didn't work out."

  Mac snorted. "You're such a bad liar."

  "Hey, I'll have you know I'm an excellent liar, but I only use my superpowers for good, not evil."

  "Mom," she said.

  "Okay fine. Sorry, not sorry. You happy now?"

  "Might as well throw an I-told-you-so on for good measure."

  What the kid didn't understand is that I hadn't wanted to be right. Pete the Pervert worshiped the ground Mac walked on, but my daughter looked at him like he was a brother. And meatheads like Todd would never see her worth until they were old and paunchy and the shine was completely off their jockstrap.

  "Mom?" Mac asked as I pulled Fillmore into his customary place in the street in front of Uncle Al's. "What are you thinking about?"

  "Shiny jock straps."

  "Ew! Sorry I asked. Seriously though, what are we going to do about this dinner thing?" Now that the danger of running into her bio dad had passed, Mac had reverted back to her normal quippy self.

  We both climbed from Fillmore, and I turned to face her. "Mac, relax, I have this. Just work on your project and text me if you need anything."

  "Therapy," she said. "Massive doses of therapy."

  "Noted." I headed over to Helga.

  "Hey, no fair. You're taking the good car now?"

  "It's a mom perk. To compensate for the stretch marks. Wanna see?"

  She held up her hands quickly. "I'm good."

  I watched her dart inside, smiling to myself. Just as she reached the door, Hunter stepped out and waved to me.

  I flashed hot and then cold as he trotted down the steps, moving like a great big predator. "Where are you headed?"

  "Um, errands?" Shoot, could that have sounded less convincing?

  "Nona told me about your party tonight."

  Shoot. "Um, it's not a party so much as a set-up for my parents and a social outing for my elderly strays."

  The corners of his mouth turned up slightly. "I'm sure it'll prove eventful."

  I shifted from one foot to the other. He still hadn't said whether he was coming or not. Or mentioned that bone-melting kiss from the night before. "So, where are you off to?"

  "My sister's place. My family takes turns hosting Sunday dinner."

  I glanced at my phone. It was barely afternoon. "It's a little early for dinner."

  "I'm on duty tonight. So they're eating at two."

  So I guessed that answered my question about him dropping by later. "Have fun."

  "I was going to ask you to come with me," he said. "You and Mac."

  My eyebrows went up so high I swore I felt them hit my hairline. "You want to introduce us to your family?" One kiss, no matter how fantastic, didn't equate to meet-the-parents time.

  Hunter didn't bat an eyelash. "Yes, Mary Alice leaves her kids here sometimes, and I thought it would be a good idea if I introduced everyone."

  Oh, that made more sense, the stranger danger factor. "Well, we already have plans. Maybe another time?"

  He nodded and headed toward the shed. I watched as he situated his helmet, started the thing up, and guided it backwards. My inner wild child wanted to leap onto the back of that thing, wrap my arms around his broad form, and ask him to drive me off into the sunset.

  He lifted the visor. "Do me a favor. If you get into any trouble, call me."

  "I don't have your number." I had to shout to be heard over the thunderous engine.

  "Check your phone," he mouthed then flipped his visor down.

  I did as he rode off. Sure enough, Hunter Black was programmed into my contacts list. He must have done that when he'd taken my phone the other night. The man thought of every eventuality.

  It felt amazingly good to get behind Helga's wheel again, and I had to retrain my brain for her power. She really wasn't meant to be a city car. If I was a responsible adult, I'd sell her and buy something fuel efficient that was better suited to surveillance. Good thing I'd never mastered the adulting shtick.

  And my current missions didn't require discretion.

  The location of Right Touch Pharmaceuticals was common knowledge. After being stonewalled every time I'd tried to call the drug manufacturer, I'd decided to show up in person on a Sunday. Because while they were open, I was betting that the pit bull they had manning the phones would be off for the weekend.

  The large, modern, steel-and-glass industrial building was located in Brighton, a few blocks from the New Balance headquarters. There was no sign, but I double-checked the address on the corporate website. It was the place.

  On-street parking was practically nonexistent, but I managed to squeeze Helga in behind a snack cake truck.

  I was sizing up the building when I spotted a black Escalade.

  Oh, no. No way. What were the odds that I'd lost Brett back at his place only to stumble across him here?

  As casually as I could, I strode over to his car, and rested a hand on the hood. The engine was cool, meaning that barring a coffee run, Brett had most likely been here awhile.

  I cracked my knuckles, considering my options. Going into the office building meant risking running into him, something I wanted to avoid. And not just because of our personal drama. No, Brett knew I was a PI, knew I was investigating Paul Granger's murder—information I didn't want to share with any of the Right Touch people.

  Wait a second.

  I frowned at the Escalade. Why was Brett here? If he'd been investigating a workers' comp claim for Right Touch, he wouldn't still be meeting with them. I thought his story about checking up on Mrs. Fox sounded a little too altruistic for him.

  People lie for all sorts of reasons. Hunter's warning from the night before haunted me.

  Brett had lied to me. To my face. And I was going to find out why.

  * * *

  "Hello?" Mac said.

  "I need your help," I told her as I slid into a booth in the coffee shop across the street from Brett's Escalade.

  "Mom?" Mac asked. "What number are you calling from?"

  "It's a burner phone." I smiled at the bored-looking waitress who offered me coffee and waited until she filled the heavy-duty ceramic cup then hissed, "I planted mine on someone I want to follow, and I want you to track it. You have that finding app on your phone, right?"

  "Yeah." The sound of clicking keys came over the line. "Looks like he's standing still."

  "Yup. I have eyes on it right now."

  "Then why am I tracking it?" Mac sounded put out.

  "Because, I want to know where he goes."

  "He?" Mac inquired.

  "The guy I'm following. Plus, I kinda want my phone back."

  "Where is it?"

  "His sunroof was cracked, so I tossed it in the back seat."

  "What if he finds it first?" my little naysayer inquired.

  "Come on, Mac. Just track the stupid thing for me."

  "Okay, okay," Mac grumbled. "I'll call you if the signal moves."

  "Awesome. Gotta go." I closed the phone and slipped it into my shirt pocket.

  "Can I getcha anything else?" the waitress asked on a long-suffering sigh.

  I wanted pie. Or maybe a burger and fries. Sadly, I'd blown what was left of my petty cash on the burner phone and had barely had enough to cover the much-needed java and a meager tip. "I'm good, thanks."

  She skulked off to a corner, and I sipped the burnt-tasting coffee while keeping my gaze locked on the Escalade and trying to come up with a plan of action.

  Mac tracking my phone was the plan of last resort. I'd also considered waiting for Brett and calling him out on his lie. In some ways it was like we were back in high school again, when some random girl, out of sheer bitchiness, told me she'd seen my then boyfriend making out with someone else. I'd confronted him about it, and he'd told me that no
, of course it wasn't true. And he'd done so ever so smoothly. The strip had turned pink on my pregnancy test before I'd discovered that he had been screwing around. In my more honest moments I admitted to myself that was part of what made me hold my tongue about the baby.

  The sour-faced waitress refilled my coffee twice more before Brett emerged from the building, golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. I breathed a sigh of relief. The thought had occurred to me that it hadn't been his Escalade and I'd have to think quickly if I ever wanted to see my cell again.

  After dropping the scant amount of money on the table, I waited until Brett was secured in his car before exiting the diner and heading to Helga. I was still ninety-nine point nine percent sure that Brett wasn't a sociopathic murderer. I reminded myself of this nonstop as I tailed him into the Jamaica Plain neighborhood. Just because he'd lied to me about what Right Touch had hired him for didn't mean my character assessment was totally off base.

  Maybe it was because I had the tech backing me up, but I didn't have a problem keeping the Escalade in sight. I drove in a relaxed manner, listening to classic rock, just another urbanite out doing Sunday errands. I didn't run any lights and kept at least two vehicles between us the whole time.

  Of course I wanted him to be a good guy, for Mac's sake if nothing else. But the personal connection had nothing to do with the job. If I found out he had anything to do with either Paul Granger's or Kimmy's murder, I'd turn his homicidal hide in so fast his head would spin.

  He pulled to a stop on Child Street, across from several triple-decker houses, and parked. I kept going, taking the next side street turn, and zipped around the corners to come up behind him. My heart thundered in my chest. Had he recognized Helga? There was no way to tell, so I had to proceed under the assumption that I hadn't been made.

  By the time I made the turn back onto Child, Brett was striding across the street to a dove-gray house. He didn't look in my direction, so I idled halfway down the street and waited to see who would open the door.

  Of course, when the door did finally open, I couldn't see a damn thing. Brett stepped inside, and the door closed behind him.

  So was this stop personal or work related? I needed more information. I drove around the block again, this time cutting up a side street and parking around the corner, before securing Helga and walking up to the house.

  There were three buzzers beside the intercom labeled A, B, and C. No names, which didn't help. I scribbled down the address and dialed Mac's number. "Is there any way to check who lives at a particular address?"

  She responded right away. "Tax records would show the owners."

  I thought about our particular set up and took a step back to study the house. It wasn't uncommon for these kinds of houses to have multiple tenants. "What about renters in a building with multiple apartments?"

  "Give me the address, and I'll see what I can do," my own personal girl wonder ordered.

  I rattled it off and waited while she did her little tech thing.

  "The owner is Rita Fuller, and she lives in apartment A. I could try to track down leases for the other two if you want."

  I eyeballed the buzzer for the bottom floor apartment. "Does it say how long she's had the property?"

  "Fifty-seven years. You gonna put the squeeze on her, Fogey-Whisperer style?"

  "Hey, one day we'll be lucky to make it to senior citizen status," I cautioned.

  "Especially with the way we eat," Mac said and disconnected.

  I depressed the buzzer, and almost instantly the intercom crackled. "Who's there?" a reedy and yes, elderly, voice called out.

  "Rita Fuller?" I asked. "This is Mackenzie Taylor. I'm a private investigator. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about your tenants."

  Telling her exactly who I was and what I wanted was a gamble. If she had something to hide, she might not admit me. I was banking on the boredom and loneliness that often plagued older people.

  Sure enough, the door buzzed, and I slipped inside, praying I wouldn't run into Brett in the hallway.

  Rita Fuller's door was open, and the woman herself sat there in an automatic wheelchair, a devilish gleam in her eyes. "You don't look like any PI I've ever seen." Her accent was soft but distinctly Chicago, not Boston.

  "Seen a lot of PIs, have you?" I grinned.

  A smile kicked up one side of her mouth. "Enough to know that you have to have a license. Let's see some ID"

  I pulled my driver's license from my wallet and handed it over for her inspection. "I'm actually working for a lawyer right now, just learning the ropes, so I'm not licensed. But that's me."

  She looked it up and down then studied me before handing it back over. "Okay then."

  She maneuvered the chair backward and ushered me into her apartment. It was small but clean, with photographs of handsome men and smiling women, stylish art, and comfortable furniture strategically placed out of the way of her wheelchair. "Want some coffee?" she called over her shoulder as she headed into the kitchen.

  "No, thanks." It wasn't natural for me to turn down coffee, but I already had to use the bathroom. There was a large bay window facing the street, so I took the chair opposite it to keep an eye on Brett's car. "You have a nice place. Are these all your kids?"

  She moved around expertly in the kitchen. Obviously she had her system in place. "And grandkids. And great, great, well, you lose track of the greats after a while."

  "Good-looking crew," I told her as I moved from photo to photo.

  Rita returned, coffee cup in hand. "Now, tell me what you're investigating and what I can do to help you."

  "A man came in here a little while ago. Did you see him?"

  She nodded. "I've never seen him before. He went upstairs."

  "Do you know which apartment?"

  "It has to be the third floor. The girl on the second floor is a friend of my granddaughter's."

  "And who lives on the third floor?"

  "A couple. The man's a no-goodnik. The wife supports him. I forget the name, but it's on the rent check." She headed down the small hallway to what I assumed was a den before I could even ask.

  She was back a moment later, check in hand. "It's a good thing I didn't cash this yet, or you'd be out of luck. The name's Brown, Ruth Brown."

  I blinked in surprise. "Is Ruth about five-foot-five, a curvy African American woman with a no-nonsense attitude who looks like she eats tacks for breakfast?"

  Rita nodded. "Oh, so you know her then?"

  "Our paths have crossed," I said, just as the sound of glass breaking came from upstairs.

  Rita shook her head. "Fight like cats and dogs, those two. They don't make men like they used to, that's for sure."

  "I don't know about that," I said as footsteps thundered down the stairs. "I need to go, Rita, but it was real nice meeting you."

  "Come back anytime," my hostess called.

  I hit the hallway the same time as Brett barreled down the stairs to the second floor landing, a pissed off Ruth hot on his heels.

  "Come back here, you, so I can squish you like the no-good cockroach you are!" Ruth thundered.

  "I'm sorry," Brett said. "I didn't mean to upset you."

  Neither of them had noticed me yet. I ducked back into the shadow of Rita's doorway to listen.

  "Upset? Why would I be upset? What with you accusing my poor dead friend of dealing drugs. Nu-uh, nothing to be upset about there." Rita had, for whatever reason, a fistful of pennies, and she lobbed one at Brett's head every time she paused her tirade.

  He put his hands up as though to ward her off. "Mrs. Brown, the company who hired me knows for a fact that someone was helping Paul Granger fake orders for Alphadra."

  "Is that right?" I said stepping out so Brett could see me. "Funny, this is the first I've heard about it.

  Brett's hands fell to his sides. "I'm so busted."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Trade Secret—A formula, pattern, process, device, information, or compilation of
information that gives the owner of that secret an advantage over competitors who do not know or use it. I'd tell you mine, but then I'd have to kill you.

  From the Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living by Albert Taylor, PI

  "You know this loser?" Ruth huffed from the stairs. She looked different in jeans and a purple hoodie, with her hair down, though her expression remained as menacing.

  "Intimately."

  "He's asking if Kimmy was helping the leg-humper forge orders for that stupid drug that didn't even work. I been telling him Kimmy wouldn't do such a thing. He's a damn liar."

  "No argument here," I said.

  Brett's face was flushed, his gaze split between the two pissed-off females who had him in their crosshairs. "Look, ladies, I didn't mean to disrespect your friend."

  "And then when I told him Kimmy wouldn't do it, he said I was helping him." Ruth's nostrils flared—she was practically breathing fire.

  "I'm sure he didn't mean it," I tried to soothe her.

  "Mean it or not, the man owes me an apology." Ruth crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her toe.

  "Brett, apologize."

  "But—"

  "Apologize!" I barked, not wanting to see Ruth commit murder, even if it was justifiable.

  "I'm sorry." Brett lowered his gaze. "I never meant to impugn your honor."

  "Hmmph," Ruth said. She whirled on her heel and stomped up to her apartment, slamming the door behind her.

  "Impugn your honor?" I raised a brow.

  Brett trotted down the steps and took me by the elbow. "Heard it on Game of Thrones. Come on, let's get out of here before she changes her mind and decides inflation demands nickels."

  "Let go of me." How dare he try to perp walk me like I was the one in the wrong? Well I was, but not at the moment.

  "Take it easy," he said when I yanked my arm back. "It's really not that big a deal."

  "Oh, lying to me isn't categorized as a big deal, huh? Good to know." I saw the irony that I was the one accusing him of being a liar when I was the one with the big Mac Daddy whopper of a secret, but still, I was too pissed to care.