Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1) (14 page)

"No particular reason." Hunter was in his thirties like me, so that wouldn't be any help. "I better go. I want to try to corner someone at Right Touch Pharmaceuticals if I can. The weekend staff might not be as cagey. And I think maybe I should look into any history of violence with Robert Fox."

Len pointed at me. "You're one smart cookie, Mackenzie. Come back to my office, and I'll front you money for your first few weeks' expenses."

Other than a tank of gas for Helga and a crumpled convenience store receipt with snack cake filling smeared on it, the only other expense I had so far was the internet search. But I felt kind of silly for using it now that Len had explained more of the ins and outs of PI work.

Len handed me two fifties.

"That's way too much," I protested. The man was an unbelievable soft touch.

"You'll earn it quickly," he said.

Though I was too proud to take money from my mother, I agreed with Len. No one would work harder for that hundred dollars than I would. "Thanks for the tutorial. I feel more confident going forward."

"We all need to start somewhere. I've worked with enough bad PIs to know you're going to make a terrific one."

His confidence was humbling. "And on that note, I better get to it."

My phone rang right as I pulled out into Saturday traffic. "Hello?"

"Mom." It was Mac, and she sounded out of breath. "We found him."

"Found who? What are you talking about, babe?"

"The guy in the Escalade. We have a photo." The pitch of her voice was practically giddy.

"Who's 'we'? And why are you so sure it's the same guy?"

"I called Pete, and he came over to help me. We've been going through the traffic cameras surrounding the warehouse all morning, but finally got a clear shot of his face and his license plate. Do you want me to text you the photos?"

"Yes, absolutely. I pulled over into a laundromat parking lot. "You guys aren't going to get in trouble for this, are you?"
"No, we covered our tracks. Texting the photo now."

"I have to hang up. I don't think I can talk and read a text at the same time."

Mac said good-bye, and I waited for the damn text. As soon as I verified it was the same guy, I'd pass the photo to Hunter and let him go and question the man. Of course since I hadn't seen his face there was no way to be one hundred percent sure I even had the right man. Maybe I'd use some of my newfound detective skills to track the creep down, just to make sure.

The first image pinged through with the Massachusetts license plate. I jotted it down in my little notebook while waiting for the second image to load.

It finally did, and I stared at it, unable to blink, or draw breath. No, it couldn't be.

The box of stuff I'd picked up at The Captain's was still secured in the passenger's seat. Ripping the lid off, I dug through photos of friends long forgotten until my fingers brushed the spine of my yearbook.

My hand shook as I pulled it free and opened it to the sophomore class. A small white rectangle slipped out onto my lap and I picked it up and turned it over. It was one of those photo booth prints that had been popular back before everyone had camera phones. A series of four images with the same two laughing faces.

I ignored mine and stared at the other. Young, tanned, blond guy, with all-American good looks and mischievous blue eyes. Captain of the sailing club, the debate team, and the swim club—the high school heartthrob. Something in my chest squeezed tight.

My gaze shifted back to the photo Mac had obtained. Same strong jaw, though now covered with stubble. Same sharp nose and full lips. He wasn't smiling in the highly pixelated image, but I recognized him all the same.

The man who drove the Escalade was Mac's father.

"The first rule of lying—stick as close to the truth as possible. The second rule—don't get caught."

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

My phone was ringing again. Ignoring my daughter's image flashing on the screen, I opened up Google and typed in a name I'd done my best to forget over the last sixteen years. Brett Archer.

Several thousand hits came up. The first several talked about some former track and field star, so I knew even without looking at the photos I had the wrong guy.

"I only run when I'm being chased by something," Brett had said to me and a bunch of our friends one day at our lunch table. "A grizzly, a mountain lion, maybe a mob boss."

"You plan on delving into organized crime, do you?" I'd teased him.

"I'm keeping my options open," he'd muttered and kissed me.

Blinking, I pulled my attention back to the present. Ignoring all the websites that didn't end in
.gov
, I hunted for any mention of Brett in public record. I found his driver's license, complete with a photo of the older Brett, stubble and all. The RMV image also offered an address that I scribbled down. No criminal charges but an eight year old record of marriage to a woman whose name didn't ring a bell. Two years after that, a petition for divorce had been filed. I couldn't find a record of employment, and he seemed to be the last holdout on social media because there was no way to friend or follow him that I could see.

Mac could have done more, but there was no way I was going to ask her.

I shifted my focus to maps and typed in the address listed on his license. It was down near the harbor in Southie.

I drummed my thumbs against the steering wheel as I debated what to do next. The Brett Archer I'd known wasn't a killer, and there was nothing in any of the surface intel I'd dug up to indicate he had a motive to off Paul Granger. The way I saw it I had three options: call Hunter and tell him what I'd found, investigate Brett myself, or sneak home and eat a pint of ice cream until I came up with a way to tell Mac that her father was part of my ongoing investigation.

Both plans A and C had their high points, but my jeans were feeling a wee bit snug, and I didn't really want to talk to anyone about what I'd discovered. Decided, I shifted into drive and merged with traffic.

The drive didn't take too long, and soon I was parked across the street from Brett's house. It was a shingle-style duplex, finished in dark gray naturally weathered shingles. Very quintessential New England. Too bad I wasn't here for the architecture.

The address I'd found listed Brett as side A. There was no garage and no sign of an Escalade anywhere on the street. A big blue Cadillac DeVille was parked in the driveway by side B, though.

Talk to people.
The same advice Uncle Al listed in his book time and again. A good PI knocked on doors and asked questions. If I wanted to know about Brett, I should speak to his neighbors and hope they were in a chatty mood.

The concrete steps leading up to the small stoop on side B were crumbling a bit, and the railing looked like a tetanus hazard. Careful to choose my footfalls, I slowly made my way up the walk. When I looked up again, an older lady with white hair wearing a garish floral dressing gown was standing just inside the storm door, watching my slow progress.

"Whatever you're selling, I don't want any," she informed me in a thick Southie accent marred with two packs of unfiltereds a day.

I hopped over the last step and offered her my most winning smile. "Actually I'm here about your neighbor. We went to high school together, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

She didn't invite me in, but didn't slam the door in my face, either. "Can't say I know him very well. He's only been here for a few months. He's single if that's what you want to know."

I hadn't realized I did want to know until she'd said as much. "Does he have any kids?" More importantly did Mac have any half brothers or sisters running around?

"Not that I've seen." She shook her head, and I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

"Do you know where he works?"

"He doesn't, so far as I can tell. At least nothing legitimate. Doesn't keep a regular schedule at all. Though he's got people from all over tromping in and out of here at all hours of the day and night. They don't stick around long at least, and thankfully they aren't loud. These walls are paper-thin. My best guess is he deals drugs. If you ask me, you're better off letting the past lie."

"Thanks," I said and turned to go, just as an Escalade pulled up to the curb behind Helga.

I swore long and loud. For the second time that week I was tempted to duck down and hide from a man, but there was nowhere to hide.

I turned back to his neighbor. "May I use your restroom?"

She scowled. "That's your guy now. You change your mind about talking to him?"

"Yes, and I don't want him to know I was here either. So is it all right if I come in until he goes into his place?"

"You don't got a gun, do you?" she asked. "I'd hate to be robbed at gunpoint in my own home."

"Just pepper spray," I admitted.

"All right. You look harmless enough I suppose." She unlatched her door, and I practically ripped the thing off the hinges before diving inside for cover.

The storm door led to a small mudroom and into a kitchen at the back of the house.

"You want some tea?" my hostess, whose name I still didn't know, asked grudgingly.

"I'm fine, thanks." There was a small window to the left of the storm door, and I pulled it aside to get a clear view of the street. The Escalade's driver's side door was open, and I saw Brett emerge, his head down, a cell phone glued to his ear. The conversation ended, and he snapped the phone shut. He didn't look over at his neighbor's house. His gaze remained focused on the sidewalk.

I watched him for a minute, searching for signs of the carefree boy I'd loved. He'd filled out, especially in the shoulders, and he moved with the same confident stride I remembered. How could I not have recognized him?

And how could
he
not have recognized
me
?

Brett stalked up the stairs and into his own place. I closed my eyes, imagining him dropping his wallet and keys, maybe going through his mail. Maybe he was tying off his arm and looking for a vein. Or, maybe he was unlocking the woman he kept chained in the basement for a round of tickle the pickle.

I didn't want to think of Brett as a criminal, but I needed more information.

"Loo's first door on your right," my hostess gestured.

"I actually just didn't want him to see me." Dropping the curtain, I turned away from the window and asked, "Does he live alone?"

The sour neighbor was perched at her kitchen table, a cigarette hanging from her mouth. She didn't bother to remove it before answering. "Sure does. He had a girlfriend for a while with a great big dog. Pooped all over the yard and neither of them bothered to clean it up."

"But she's gone now?"

"Oh yeah, left before Labor Day."

So, Brett was in there alone, doing whatever it was he did that got him involved with murders. What sort of man had Mac's father become?

Speaking of the devil seed, my phone lit up yet again with her face. "I better answer this," I told Brett's sour neighbor, "before my daughter sends out a search party."

She didn't look impressed as she stubbed out her cigarette. "I've gotta poop. Lock the door behind you when you leave."

"Will do," I called faintly. She was a tough old bird, oversharing notwithstanding.

I slid the green phone icon over and held it to my ear. "Mac?"

"Oh my God, what happened to you?"

"My phone died," I fibbed. If Brett happened to be looking out his front window, he probably had the same view of his neighbor's stoop as I had of his. There had to be a back door around here somewhere. "I had to wait for it to recharge."

"Bull," Mac called me on the lie. "If your phone died, it would have gone straight to voice mail instead of ringing through. What's going on? Are you in danger? Should I call Detective Black?"

"No!" I paused halfway through the kitchen and scanned the area, looking for any alternate exit and finding none. "Mac, please. I'm fine, nothing to worry about, okay?"

"It's not okay." She had steel in her voice. "You tell me everything."

"No, I don't." No door, but the kitchen window was large and missing a screen. The place reeked like an ashtray. Placing the phone between my ear and shoulder, I used my hands to shove the window up. Cold air rushed in.

"Mom, you text me like seven trillion times a day. You ask me when you're thinking about buying a new nail polish."

"This is different." The ground sloped up toward the window so the drop was only a few feet. If I went out legs first, I was pretty sure I had enough upper body strength to dangle until I could successfully drop to the ground. Then it was just a matter of cutting between houses and heading back to Helga. "My job requires me to keep secrets sometimes. Other people's secrets. Now I'm fine, but I have to go. Love you."

I hung up and stowed the phone before crouching low and slinging one leg over the windowsill. After securing my grip, I ducked my head through and then followed with my remaining leg. The track cut into my palms as my full weight was suspended from them, the force of gravity yanking me down urgently. My palms started to sweat, and my grip grew precarious.

"That's it," I huffed, trying to straighten my legs so I landed on my feet. "No more snack cakes. For at least a month."

"Now that's just crazy talk," a male voice said from behind me.

Surprised, I yelped and tried to turn and see who it was, moving my palms to the right. My precarious hold had enough of my antics, though, and decided to give up the ghost. With a yell, I tumbled backward and hit the ground hard.

No, not the ground, but something equally unyielding.

Brett?" I panted, scrambling off of him. "Are you okay?"

He blinked and then turned his head to meet my gaze. "You always knew how to make a grand entrance. Or exit in this case."

"What are you doing here?" I asked before I thought it through.

He sat up, blond hair roguishly tussled, and quirked a brow. "In case it escaped your notice, we're in my back yard."

"Technically, it's your neighbor's back yard. And I hear you don't clean up after your dog."

He grinned. "It was my ex's dog, and therefore her crap to deal with. I see you've been chatting with Doris. She's a pip, isn't she?"

"Not the word I'd use." I could see why his girlfriend had left him—he hadn't matured at all since high school.

He gave me a slow once over. "You look great, Mackenzie. Haven't aged a day."

I snorted. "Must be all the preservatives in my diet. Better than Botox."

"Can I ask why you felt the need to climb out her window instead of using the perfectly acceptable door in front?

My jaw dropped. "You knew I was here all along, didn't you."

He picked up a tendril of my hair. "It's like a beacon on a sunny day. I knew it was you the second I pulled up."

"And the other night, when you dosed me with pepper spray? Did you know it was me then?"

Brett stood in one fluid motion and pulled me to my feet. "Sorry about that. I couldn't take the chance you'd recognize me and give my name to the cops. You do like chatting with them, and my client is paying me a lot of money to keep this investigation under wraps."

I let go of his hand. "Your client. Please tell me you're not a contract killer."

That goofy lopsided grin stole across his face. "Of course not. I'm a PI like you."

*   *   *

Brett, it turned out, wasn't a PI like me, mostly because he knew what the hell he was doing. "I knew you were tailing me the second you started." He opened the side door to his house and ushered me inside.

"Was it that obvious?"

"Don't feel bad. It takes practice to tail a car right. And it's definitely easier to go unnoticed without driving a sixty-five-thousand-dollar vehicle."

"I should have thought of that." I grimaced and checked the scrape on my left elbow that had impacted the ground.

"Let me see that." He pulled me toward the window and bent my elbow until he could examine the scrape.

"It's not bad," I said through clenched teeth, trying to ignore the stinging sensation.

"This needs to be washed out. I have some disinfectant and bandages in my bedroom. Hold on a sec." He sprinted off in what I could only presume was the direction of his bedroom.

While he was gone, I looked around the space. It was what I thought of as lived in. No art, but plenty of photos. I recognized Brett's older sister and brother in a group shot, a picture of his parents at a barbeque, Brett aboard a sailboat, looking all wind tousled and happy. A lump formed in my throat. Mac would love to go sailing, to know another set of grandparents, aunts and uncles she didn't have on my side.