Shifting his aging Taurus into Park, Jack left the engine running and snagged an equipment case from the backseat. While the building's height shaded the asphalt for a few yards behind his car, air-conditioning wasn't optional when midday temperatures flirted with the century mark.
He snapped photos of both vehicles with a still camera, then switched to a digital. Elbows propped on the steering wheel, he aimed the telephoto lens at room 266's plate-glass window and adjusted the zoom.
The miniblinds were closed, as always, with the slats tilted down, rather than up. From Jack's or anyone else's ground-level vantage point, the interior view was akin to lurking at the bottom of a stairway to peek up a lady's skirt.
Motels and hotels provide drapes for a reason, and it wasn't just to give the bedspreads something to match. If married couples hot for a nooner with someone other than a spouse knew how the law defined an expectation of privacy, Jack would have to find another line of work.
Domestics weren't his specialty. Maximum sleaze factor and aggravationminimum challenge. But it'd been a slow summer and a guy's just gotta do what a guy's gotta do to cover the rent. Whether Cherise believed his excuse for canceling their date tonight or not, Jack hadn't lied about meeting a client for dinner. Hopefully there wouldn't be a scene, until after he'd polished off his steak and steamed veggies. Either way, he'd leave the restaurant with a check in his pocket and craving a long shower.
A couple more shots of the lovebirds' striptease were all Jack needed and all he could stomach. The camera was whining its second electronic high C when the Taurus's passenger door swung open. The young man tilted the whole car as he crammed himself into the seat. "Mr. McPhee," he said, huffing a bit from the exertion. "This is your lucky day."
A fleshy inner tube oozed from under his rock-band T-shirt and spilled over the waistband of his jeans. He smelled like a deep-fried
Esquire
cologne sample. Two days' growth of stubble fanned from a goatee and bristled his chins. A ham-sized knee, then the other, wedged against the glove compartment. The .38 Police Special inside might as well have been in a bank vault in Wisconsin.
Then again, if Moby Dick was a carjacker, he'd need the Jaws of Life to stuff that gut behind the steering wheel. Jack eyed a manila folder clutched in the man's fist. A process server would have shoved a subpoena at him and waddled off. There'd be balloons and a camera crew if the dude was with that magazine outfit's prize patrol. Besides, you had to enter to win.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Brett Dean Blankenship." He offered his hand. Jack didn't take it. Nonplussed, he went on, "Pleasure to meet you, sir, but who
you
are is why I'm here."
A smirk exposed teeth not many years removed from orthodontic appliances. Attention turning to the folder, Blankenship recited, "You'll be forty-one on October 4. Married once, divorced, no kids" he glanced sideward and
heh-heh
ed "as far as known. You've got a B.S. in criminal justice, graduated from the Park City Police Academy, then resigned two years later. You bounced around from rent-a-cop to long-haul trucking, dabbled in auto repair, retail sales and telemarketing. For the past fifteen years, you've been a marginally successful private investigator."
Jack took exception to "marginally successful." He'd had many a good year and a fair share of great ones. Self-employment ordained lean ones proportional to sweet ones. It kept you humble and out there hustling. Or it should.
"Not too shabby for a one-man operation." Blankenship handed over three sheets of paper. "But it's safe to say, you ain't setting the world on fire."
The pages' bulleted lines noted Jack's Social Security number, previous and current home and office addresses, savings and checking account balances, registration info on the Taurus and his pickup, average utility bills at his office and apartment
Junior G-man stuff either in public records or easily obtainable if you knew where to look.
What raised Jack's hackles was an account of his activities over the past week. Blankenship had tailed him and Jack hadn't even noticed. Which explained the Lexus driver's sudden hinkiness last Friday.
He balled the sheets and tossed them into the backseat. "Whatever your game is, sport, I'm not playing. Now get outa my car, before you void the warranty on the shock absorbers."
Blankenship blanched, then exhaled, as though a lung had collapsed. "I worked like a dog on that report. I thought you'd be
impressed.
" He stretched a shirtsleeve to mop the sweat trickling down his muttonchops. "The correspondence school instructor said that showing we can run background checks is the best résumé we can have."
God deliver Jack from schmucks with matchbook private-detective-school diplomas. And from the Missouri law mandating a year's apprenticeship with a licensed investigator. That and a written exam weeded out the wanna-be overnight Sam Spades, but presented certain liability issues. Like mentorship being a pain in the butt for a working, marginally successful P.I.
"I live with my mom, so I can work for free," Blankenship wheedled. "Double the manpower, double your billable hours. Maybe triple 'em."
Halve them was more like it. Jack needed Baby Huey under his wing like a duck needs a concrete flak jacket. "Sorry, but like you said, McPhee Investigations is a one-man agency."
"It wasn't when it was Gregory, Aimes & Watkins." Blankenship shrugged. "Okay, so Watkins was dead and Aimes's wheel was throwing spokes before Chuck Gregory took you on. If it hadn't been for him, you wouldn't have a license, much less your name painted on the window."
With uncustomary patience, Jack said, "I was in the right place at the right time." His inflection relayed
as opposed to you.
"Chuck wanted to retire and he loved showing rookies the ropes. Me, I'd rather hang myself with them."
Desperation edged Blankenship's laugh. "Come on, gimme a thirty-day trial. If it doesn't work out, no hard feelings. At least I'll have a month's experience to add to my résumé."
Jack's eyes rose to room 266's window, then lowered to the dashboard clock. By the time Blankenship extricated himself from the passenger's seat, Mr. and Mrs. Smith could waltz out arm in arm from the building's rear entrance.
He'd also bet McPhee Investigations hadn't topped Blankenship's list of employment prospects. The Park City telephone directory's business pages advertised about two dozen agencies, including a pricey nationally franchised outfit. If the kid had a brain, he'd started there and worked his way down.
"What I will do," Jack said, stashing the camera equipment on the floorboard, "is give you some friendly advice, while I drive you around front to your vehicle."
"It isn't here." Blankenship yanked on the shoulder harness. "I took a cab so I wouldn't blow your surveillance."
Well, well. That hiked Jack's previous estimation a few notches. Not enough to hire him, but maybe the kid had a brighter future than he thought. Wheeling around the motel's east side, he said, "Where to?"
"1010 West Danbury."
Jack gripped the steering wheel tighter1010 West Danbury was his office address.
"I can't wait to show you what I can do with a computer. The background check on you? Just a warm-up." Blankenship played an air-piano solo. "Finger exercise."
Jack reconsidered a long-held supposition about predestination. To wit, days that started off swell were fated to free-fall into the toilet. Conversely, days beginning with a cosmic swirly would inevitably improvethough the increments ranged from microscopic to worthy of a parade with lots of tubas, bass drums and scantily clad majorettes.
So far, this one was a crapper with an automatic flush.
He didn't need a computer geek. A trusted subcontractor provided information above and beyond Jack's expertise or time constraints. Much as he sort of admired Blankenship's chutzpah, he'd sabotaged his fledging career from the get-go. Ditto, no doubt, at every other agency in town. Giving him the hows and whys wasn't Jack's purview, but if the kid listened, he might wise up.
"You'd do about anything to score an apprenticeship," he said.
"Yes, sir." Blankenship grinned. "As long as it's legal." The latter inferred illegal activities weren't off the table, depending on the likelihood of police involvement.
"Then make a list of everything you've done to impress me, then do the opposite when you apply somewhere else." Jack braked for a traffic light. "Starting with your wardrobe."
Blankenship looked down, thoroughly bewildered. "I paid a bundle for this shirt at a Sister Hazel concert. It's a collector's item."
"Frame it and hang it on the wall. The grungy jeans and tennis shoes? Garbage." Jack adjusted his tie, a maroon silk with understated silver threads. "You want to be a professional, dress like one. Buy a razor and get a haircut. Want to work at a car wash? You're all set."
"Easy for you to say. Got any idea how much clothes cost when you're my size?"
"So drop a hundred pounds." Jack reassessed the belly garroted by the lap belt. "Make it a hundred and a quarter. Big as you are, one foot pursuit and you're DOA from a massive coronary."
Blankenship's face flushed beet red. "Sure, I'm a little overweight, but I was born with a really slow metabolism and"
Jack plucked two sesame seeds from his chin whiskers. "How many Big Macs did you slam for lunch?"
"Three, but"
"Large fries?"
"Yeah, but"
"Here's a guess. You chased it down with a diet soda."
A horn honked behind them. Jack accelerated a half block, then joined the queue in the left-turn lane. "This is America, kid. Eat whatever you want, whenever you want, but find a desk job. Investigating's too physical for a guy your size."
He hooked a right off First Street onto West Danbury. "Voice of experience. I stacked on seventy, eighty pounds driving a truck. Losing it was a bitch, but eating half as much, half as often did the trick. To put some distance between you and the fridge, sign up for some college coursespsychology, criminology, basic photography, Finance 101. Computers are fantastic, but not the be-all, end-all."
Another stoplight allowed a sidelong look. Blankenship glared out the windshield, as if picturing Jack's entrails smeared like a dead june bug's.
"You think I'm an asshole," Jack said. "Fair enough. I'll stake tomorrow's lunch money that I'm also the first one who's taken the time to tell you what you're doing wrong. Which is just about everything."
He ignored the tacit "Go fuck yourself" radiating from the passenger's seat. "Don't ambush a prospective employer when he's working. Don't background-check him, either. It screams zero scruples about running anybody and everybody through the mill just because you can."
The seat belt latch clicked open. Blankenship pushed himself through the door with considerably more grace and speed than he'd entered.
Jack called, "Hey, I'm just trying to" a slam juddered the window glass, then reverberated through the chassis "help," he finished, watching Blankenship jaywalk around an adjacent delivery truck.
Gee, that went well, he thought. Evidently honesty really wasn't always the best policy. It had, however, shored up the contention that mentoring wasn't one of his specialties.
On the other hand, the kid's eight-block hoof to his car wouldn't hurt him. Maybe allow pause for thought, not to mention counteract his six-thousand-calorie lunch. Or would, if Blankenship didn't salve a wounded ego with a banana split at the diner next door to Jack's office.
The pedestrian crossing light flashed "Hurry up or die." Blankenship materialized in the intersection, seemingly oblivious to the warning and the vehicle cranking a last-minute turn on yellow. The car's tires whinnied on the pavement; its driver saluted Blankenship with an extended middle finger.
The kid didn't notice. Didn't flinch when the car gunned past him, fortunate the side mirror didn't pick his pocket as it roared by. Still walking, closing the distance to the curb, Blankenship's eyes locked on Jack. His head turned, then tipped slightly forward when his neck craned too far for comfort.
His unblinking stare didn't project anger, defiance, disdain or the type of pity bestowed on those who've cast aside a golden opportunity.
Stone-cold hate, Jack said to himself. And a promise to make good on it. He looked away, confused and a little unnerved by its intensity. Keeping his own expression impassive, he glided forward with traffic.
He put a block, then another behind him. And couldn't shake the feeling that Brett Dean Blankenship still had him in the crosshairs.
2
D
ina Wexler dropped the box of macaroni and cheese on the counter and shut the cupboard door. She stepped down from the wooden stool, then side-kicked it in front of the refrigerator.
Someday she'd have a kitchen where all the food, especially junk food, lived on her level. For her, using drawers as ladder rungs to reach the cereal and a bowl to put it in was a climbing stage you never outgrew. Not when you'd stopped at four feet ten.