Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1) Page 3

  His sincere honesty kept me from saying something about how he should arrest himself on principle. I wouldn't have had the restraint not to slide inside such a sweet ride and take it for a spin up and down the eastern seaboard. It was all I could do not to scream road trip and burn rubber. Only the thought of our bare cabinets which could've given Old Mother Hubbard a run for her money reminded me I was a grown up and didn't have time to frolic.

  But even driving Mac to school in the Hellcat was a boatload better than a morning of putt-putting down the streets of Boston in Fillmore, watching him belch smoke everywhere he went. I beamed up at our new neighbor. "Wow, this…this is incredible. Thank you."

  His smile was slight, but his eyes spoke volumes. Again, the notion about still waters running deep played through my mind. I felt like a bubbling brook next to a vast river when I stood beside our new neighbor. But my daughter, who asked so little of me, had requested that I not get emotionally entangled with our new neighbor. I'd done it before, dated one of our landlords, and it hadn't ended well. And for her sake, as well as my own, I wouldn't pursue the detective. With considerable effort, I looked back at Mac. "You ready for school?"

  Not one to wait for an engraved invitation, my mini tossed her backpack over the back seat and slipped into the passenger's side.

  "Can I give you a ride somewhere?" I asked Hunter. Out of politeness, not because I wanted to spend more time with him. Not that he was even interested in me as anything more than a neighbor and someone to pay his rent to every month.

  But he shook his head. "No, I'm heading back to the precinct in an hour. Enjoy the car, Mackenzie."

  It was the first time he'd spoken my name, and the deep rumble of his voice had turned it into a sort of verbal caress. "I will. Um…I guess I'll see you later."

  Our new neighbor didn't make huge gestures or any obvious clues as to his thoughts. He was a riddle hidden within a concealing fog. He simply said, "Looking forward to it."

  Hunter stepped back, and I moved toward the driver's-side door, feeling an odd pang. Strange, I didn't know the man, not really, but leaving him behind felt…wrong somehow.

  Sliding behind the wheel of the hellcat dispelled the bizarre feeling. "I could die happy right now," I told my daughter.

  "Good. Then as your next of kin, I'll be the first to drive it," Mac teased.

  I frowned even as I caressed the buttery steering wheel. "Where do you suppose Uncle Al got the money for this car? He wasn't exactly living the life of Riley in his apartment."

  Mac shrugged. "Maybe he won the lotto or something. Come on, I'm going to be late for first period."

  "Not if Helga and I have anything to say about it." I revved the engine once then shifted out of neutral, and the car shot forward. Panicked by the sheer responsiveness, I did a both feet on the brake thing and narrowly missed careening through the rickety garage wall.

  "Maybe she doesn't like being called Helga," Mac suggested.

  I was too busy catching my breath to respond. This car was certainly not Fillmore, and there could be no showboating with my offspring in the car. "No, she does, she's just flexing her muscles, letting us know what she's made of. But we can stand up to a little Hellcat guff, right?"

  "Right." Mac nodded crisply, grin firmly in place. "Let's do this."

  * * *

  A few hours later, I parked in front of the third law office of the morning. The first two had been a bust, one claiming they didn't retain investigators. The second refused to see me because I didn't have a scheduled appointment. In layman's terms, I was SOL.

  I figured I had time for one more before my lunch date with my mother. Though job hunting should under normal circumstances trump a ham and cheese, I knew better than to blow off this particular meeting.

  Because Uncle Al had left the building to the two of us, we were co-owners, and as my mother succinctly put it, matters needed to be discussed. And meeting her at a restaurant was a hell of a lot easier than having her come to inspect the building firsthand. We'd had an unspoken truce ever since I'd left home at sixteen. We always met on neutral territory. That way neither of us had home field advantage.

  But one thing at a time. It would be so much more satisfying to stroll into the café with a case file under one arm, knowing that whatever shenanigans Agnes Taylor decided to pull, I had the beginnings of a new career waiting for me. And in order to get that first case as an unlicensed PI, I needed to convince a lawyer to hire me.

  At first glance, the law firm of Lennard Copeland & Associates wasn't all that impressive. It wasn't situated in one of the high-rise buildings overlooking Boston harbor. No, it was a small office with peeling lettering on the door sandwiched between a delicatessen and a rundown-looking bar. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel for a minute, trying to decide if it was worth going inside. If worse came to worst, Lennard would tell me no, and I could brace myself with a drink before meeting with Mom.

  With a plan in place, I exited Helga and made sure to lock the doors before pushing my way through the glass doors and into the law office.

  A stoop-shouldered man sat at the reception desk. He had a coffee stain on his tie and liver spots on his expanding forehead, but he smiled brightly when I made my way inside. "May I help you, my dear?" His voice was accented with the honey of the Deep South.

  "Yes, hi, I'm Mackenzie Taylor. I was hoping for a few minutes of Mr. Copeland's time. Do you know if he's available?"

  The smile stayed in place and bright blue eyes twinkled merrily behind horn-rimmed glasses. "Why yes, I believe he does have an opening. If you'd follow me, please." He rose, the motion appearing painful, and my back spasmed in sympathy. It took a great deal of effort not to tap my foot in impatience as he shuffled around the desk and toward the door to the left of the water cooler. Then an arthritic hand reached for the doorknob, pushing the thing open a few inches. More shuffling, more pushing, shuffle, push, shuffle. And being a true gentleman, he held the door for me, which required still more shuffling.

  Glancing around, I was surprised to see the room was empty, except for the two of us. Where were all the associates? Well, it was closing in on lunchtime. Still, it didn't seem right that Copeland abandoned the firm into his kind but clearly elderly assistant's care.

  I offered a smile and a nod of thanks before taking a seat across from the cluttered walnut desk. A matching bookshelf stood behind it, overflowing with tattered law books. A hideous pea-green vinyl chair stood in the opposite corner with a cheap standing lamp behind it. I knew for a fact it was cheap because I had the same one at home. There wasn't much going on to instill confidence in Copeland's case-winning skills. Good thing I wasn't a client.

  "Will Mr. Copeland be back soon?" I asked the assistant when I realized he was still in the room.

  "He'll be in presently." My escort scuffed his way forward. I hoped the carpeting was tacked down properly. I didn't want the old guy to fall and break a hip. Way to kill a job interview before it even started.

  I had an affinity for older people. Both my parents had been well beyond the average child-rearing age when they'd had me. I'd been a late-life surprise for my mother, who'd all but abandoned hope of having a child and had been disappointed in the one she had. When I lived with them, I'd followed the children should be seen and not heard edict, and years of sitting by the sidelines made me an excellent listener. It was a skill I retained, even after fleeing my mother's suffocating grasp. Seniors liked someone who stopped by to listen to their stories when their relatives were busy or had heard a particular tale one time too many. I could so relate, and it was easy enough to find common ground that I started conversations with complete strangers on the T who looked a little lonely and sometimes missed my stop. These habits were so deeply ingrained that Mac had dubbed me the Fogey Whisperer.

  This particular senior was hard to read though. He didn't give much away, almost like he was a lifelong poker player. There was something about the look in his eyes, some secret that amuse
d him. His expression was friendly and open, but it was almost deceptive, as though he were waiting for me to get the punch line of a joke he'd just told.

  It clicked then. "You're, Mr. Copeland, aren't you?"

  "My third grade teacher called me Mr. Copeland. I like the way you say it better, but you can call me Len." A dry sounding chuckle wheezed from him, and he extended a hand. "You're sharp, I'll give you that, Miz Taylor. What can I do for you?"

  Here went everything. I took a deep breath and donned my brightest smile. "Actually, it's about what I can do for you. I was wondering if you needed a private investigator."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Around eighty percent of all cases a private investigator works are domestic and require nothing more than simple surveillance. Any PI who tells you he works only criminal cases is a liar.

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

  "You did it? You really got hired as a PI?" Mac's voice sounded both hopeful and wary over our static filled connection. "I'm not being Punk'd, am I?"

  "You know that was cancelled. Besides, if Ashton Kutcher was here, you know I would have led with that." Overjoyed, I again looked down at the manila envelope, the details of my very first case as a private investigator—left out on the restaurant's clean white linens conveniently located for Mommy Dearest to notice.

  "Like, you're getting paid and everything?" Mac still sounded skeptical.

  "Hourly rates, plus expenses," I said proudly. Of course I left out the bit about being hired on a trial basis. Results were expected by both Len and the client.

  "So what's the case?"

  I made a disgusted sound. "What, no congratulations?"

  "I'm not sure I should congratulate you. You don't have to bust up a black market trafficking circle or something, do you?"

  "No, it's a child custody case." I didn't want to get into more details than that over the phone. Uncle Al's book had warned that the most successful PIs knew how to keep their mouths shut, and blabbing out the details of my first case in a crowded restaurant didn't seem the best way to start. "Really, all I need to do is take a few pictures with my phone, write up notes for my findings, and possibly appear in court, if Len thinks it's necessary for me to present testimony."

  "Wow, Mom. That sounds important. Congratulations."

  "Now was that so hard?" The restaurant door opened, and Agnes Taylor breezed in. "Shoot, I've gotta go. Grandma just showed up."

  "Remember—like a kidney stone, this too shall pass," my daughter snickered.

  I said good-bye to the smartass and stowed my phone as my mother approached. "Mom, how are you?"

  In typical Agnes fashion, she ignored the question, instead surveying me from head to toe. "What on earth are you wearing?"

  I looked down to the clean pair of jeans and dark leather jacket which had seemed the perfect PI ensemble with the added bonus of being comfy and provoking the maternal unit. "Clothes, same as you."

  "Not the same as me." She indicated her tailored slacks and cream twinset. "I look respectable enough for a luncheon in this restaurant. How do you ever expect to meet a decent man if you go about dressed like you should be hanging off the back of one of those dreadful motorcycles?"

  "Have you ever heard of the women's lib movement? I hear tell it was kind of a big thing in your day."

  "Honestly, Mackenzie, we're not talking about equal pay for equal work here. You have a child and children need two parents."

  I blew out a breath. No sense in pointing out that my child was the same age as I had been when I'd started living as an adult. "There's a biker bar not far from Uncle Al's place…"

  She rolled her eyes then pointedly looked to the waiter who hovered nearby. "Tom Collins," she snapped. "And my daughter will have water with a twist of lemon. Make sure it's bottled, not tap. And no ice."

  The young man nodded and scurried off. I looked at her. "Room temperature water with lemon?"

  She lowered herself into her chair, setting her small purse beside her neatly folded napkin. "It kills the appetite. The holidays are coming, and you could stand to lose a few pounds beforehand."

  There was a stabbing pain behind my right eye, and I glanced at the clock. I hadn't even been with her ten minutes, and I felt as though I were being lobotomized sans anesthesia. In other words, right on schedule.

  "Now, about the building," Agnes began, but I cut her off.

  "Mom, before we get into it I wanted to share some good news."

  Her face lit up. "You're seeing someone?"

  Immediately Hunter Black's face popped to mind, but no, he was our tenant, and Mac had made me promise not to screw it up. "No, I got a job."

  "Oh?" Her eyebrows drew down. Leave it to my mother to be disappointed that she hadn't raised a gold digger.

  "That's right." I forced enough cheerfulness for the both of us, imagining how Mac and I would celebrate my first case. Pizza with extra cheese and full-calorie soda to make up for the lemon water. "I'm going to be a private investigator. Isn't that great?"

  She scowled. "What do you mean 'a private investigator'? You can't do that."

  "I can, and I'm going to. In fact, this is my first case right here." I tapped the manila folder for emphasis.

  The browbeaten waiter reappeared and deposited our drinks just as Agnes hissed, "Have you lost your mind?"

  "I'll come back for your order." The waiter beat a hasty retreat.

  I huffed out a breath, not really surprised by her lack of support. Why bother breaking a lifelong habit? "I need a job, mother. To support myself and Mac."

  "You'd have plenty of money if you agreed to sell that accursed apartment building."

  And round and round we went. "Mom, I've told you, we need a place to live, and Uncle Al's space is perfect for us. Let someone else snag the little house with a white picket fence and the man to bring home the bacon. We're doing just fine."

  Her lips pressed into a thin line. Agnes Taylor was still a beautiful woman, when she smiled. Which she didn't do often. "That place is too much for you to handle. It needs work, and that's expensive."

  I thought about the Hellcat in the garage. "Uncle Al was managing just fine. Mac and I will too."

  "Mackenzie, please. Think about the example you're setting for your child. Do you want her growing up telling her friends that her mother spies on people having seedy affairs?"

  I stared at the sad-looking lemon slice floating in my water glass. "Well it's better than telling people her mother is a browbeaten trophy wife who vents all life's disappointments on her daughter. You promised you would stop this, Mom. Five years ago when you begged me to let you be a part of Mac's life, you vowed that you would stop judging the way I choose to live. Stop forcing your screwy agenda down my throat."

  My words didn't make a dent. "Lower your voice. We're in public."

  I nodded once. "Thanks for lunch, Mom. It was memorable as always." I rose and scooped my file up. "I'll let you get the check. I feel like I've paid enough for the water already."

  "Mackenzie, sit down." She seethed, but I turned and strode from the restaurant, mouthing a sorry at our waiter as I passed his hiding place.

  "That went well." I breathed when I was once again out in the autumn wind. Why did I ever expect anything to be different with Agnes? Though she was half my size she was as immovable as a mountain. But I never failed to come away from a meeting with her with a lingering sense of disappointment. Seeing Helga parked at the curb lifted my spirits considerably, and I squared my shoulders and sat down inside to rack the file.

  Len's client was Jessica Granger. She was a middle-aged pediatrician with two children—Evan, age thirteen, and Mary, age eight—and she was petitioning the court for sole custody of her two kids, claiming that their father, Paul, left the kids with his parents during his custody visits. Supposedly Paul had won joint custody because he had more flexible work hours and could really be there for his kids. My job was straightforward. Document
Paul leaving Evan and Mary with their grandparents on several different occasions to provide support to Jessica's claim for sole custody.

  It was early still, but I didn't feel like heading home to unpack one box and then coming back to see what went down when school let out. I parked across the street from Paul's parents' house and waited. And waited. Damn, I should have used the restaurant's bathroom before starting my surveillance. I really had to pee. Stupid lemon water. Having a kid myself, I was pretty familiar with the school schedule, so I doubted I would miss much if I drove to the nearest 7-Eleven and relieved the growing pressure in my bladder.

  Fifteen minutes later I was back and fortified with a Slurpee and a few snack cakes, grinning at the imagined look on my mother's face when she saw my actual lunch, and settled in to wait.

  * * *

  Two hours later my butt was numb, and I had to pee again when a silver Lexus pulled into the driveway. Breaking away from the riveting game of Angry Birds that had kept me from losing my mind, I cleared the screen and opened the camera app, shooting multiple shots of the three doors opening. A man, a teenaged boy, and a young girl in pink tights and a blue coat exited the vehicle. Dollars to doughnuts they were Paul, Evan, and Mary. I couldn't help but smile at Mary, who skipped up the walkway, clearly delighted to be free from the clutches of the public school system. A wave of nostalgia rolled through me as I remembered Mac at the same age. Kids grew up too damn fast.

  They all disappeared inside the house, and I shifted, trying to relieve the pins and needles feeling in my thighs. There wasn't much to document so far. Three people drive up to a house and go inside. My photos uploaded to the cloud automatically. I sent the best one to my email address just as an extra safety precaution and settled in to wait.

  No more than five minutes later, Paul reappeared, got into his car, and drove off. Okay then, maybe he had to go get gas or pick up medication or something. I should probably stick around and see if he came back. This job needed to be executed thoroughly.