Dead Friends Don't Lie (Jake Hancock Private Investigator Mystery series Book 6) Read online

  Contents

  Copyright Info

  Acknowledgements

  Personal Message from the Author

  Start of Story

  Personal Message from the Author

  About the Author

  Jake Hancock Private Investigator series

  Copyright Info

  Dead Friends Don’t Lie

  Dan Taylor

  Copyright © 2017 by Daniel Taylor

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Elise Hewter-Pickle is especially a work of fiction. I mean, come on…

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to beta readers Sally, Horace, Ben T, and Elly with a Y. Your enthusiasm is much appreciated. And welcome to the editing team, Elaine. She’s new, so if you spot a comma out of place, it’s definitely her fault. Thanks to Siri, the person who reads these books first and loves them.

  Personal Message from the Author

  I hope you enjoy this book or any other of my books as much as I love to write them! If you have, click this link and tell me. I personally respond to each email I receive, and love reading what fans of my books have to say.

  I also keep in touch with my readers on my Facebook page, informing them of my new releases and blog posts. Head on over and like it and say hi.

  Alternatively, you can sign up for my newsletter to find out when new books are released. You’ll also receive a discount on the latest release.

  Thanks for taking a chance on my writing.

  Dan Taylor

  Prologue – The Date

  THE WHOLE TIME they’d been sitting at the table, she could think of only one thing: What kind of a man wears a tie on a date?

  She checks her watch. It’s too early to be checking it, but she takes the opportunity when a waitress walks past with her black skirt seemingly vacuum-sealed onto her bubble butt, drawing the eyes of her date.

  After he takes his eyes off the waitress’s ass and she off her watch, they make eye contact and probably think the same thing. Did I get caught? He smiles, she smiles, and then conversation turns to a topic she’s expecting.

  “So, you’re an actress. Have I seen you in anything?” he asks.

  She sighs, but he doesn’t hear it, because she does it with her vagina. A technique she learned in yoga class.

  “Do you watch daytime TV?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Then you probably haven’t.”

  “Oh.”

  They sit in silence a second or two. The awkward kind. Despite his tie, she almost feels sorry for him, having struck out with the first topic of conversation.

  Tonight she’s feeling generous, so she says, “I was in a toothpaste commercial once. And a few other commercials of late.”

  “Cool.” His eyes brighten and he leans forward, relaxing into it a little. “Was it fun?”

  “The toothpaste commercial?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I played a mistress who nearly gets caught brushing her teeth in her lover’s bathroom,” she says.

  He laughs. And she tries to.

  “Wait a minute. How is that an endorsement of the brand of toothpaste?”

  “I’m like two seconds into brushing when his wife pulls into the driveway. He comes storming in, tells me I have to hide in the wardrobe. When I smile, despite having only brushed them for two or three seconds, my teeth light up the wardrobe.”

  He puts a napkin to his mouth when he laughs this time. A strange gesture. Then he says, “Why did you smile?”

  “To show how brilliantly white my teeth were.”

  “No, not you, the character you were playing.”

  “The wife catches him anyway. I left a pair of panties hanging on the doorknob. He sees them at the last second, but it’s too late. She comes in, shuts the door, and knows immediately that they’re not her panties. At least that’s what it said in the script. The finished product was a little unclear on that.”

  “So your character wanted him to get caught?”

  “Yeah.”

  He thinks a second. “And what came before the teeth brushing scene?”

  She takes a sip of her cocktail. “I think you’re thinking too deeply about it. It’s a commercial.”

  “Maybe I am. Do you want to talk about something else?”

  “And deprive you of probably the only conversation we’ll have tonight that involves my panties?” She raises an eyebrow, not sure if she’s toying with him or not. He’s kinda cute, in a goofy sort of way.

  He blushes. “In my defense, they’re not technically your panties, but the character’s.”

  “What would you say if I told you I swapped the ones the director put on the doorknob for my own?”

  “I’d say holy shit and ask if it was okay to YouTube it.”

  She frowns.

  He’s embarrassed.

  “Shit. Can I take another run at that? I thought it would make you laugh,” he says.

  Again, she’s feeling generous. “Take off the tie, loosen up your top button, and then try it again. Same script.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m curious about something.”

  “Okay…”

  He looks put out, like the tie might have been a gift from his mom, but he takes it off anyway. He shoves it into his pocket, loosens his top button. He looks down at how much of his chest undoing the top button has revealed and then starts on the second-from-the-top button.

  She leans over and stops him with a caress of her hand. He looks up at her, startled slightly. Then he glances at her cleavage, and his clean-shaven Adam’s apple bobs up and down.

  Bunching up her lips seductively, she takes a sip of her cocktail.

  Then she says, in a voice she could charge a premium to hear, “What would you say if I said they were my own?”

  He leans back in his stool, takes a deep breath, relaxing into it, and says, “I’d say, ‘That’s a hell of a do-not-disturb sign.’”

  She comes out of character. “Hey, you cheated. I said the same script.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And do-not-disturb signs tend to be hung on the outside doorknob.”

  He shrugs.

  “Anyway, it satisfied my curiosity nonetheless.”

  “Which was?”

  “You do look better without that goofy tie.”

  “Thanks.”

  She met the guy on a dating site. She’s about to move the conversation on to how many dates he’s gotten from it. But he says, “So, in this commercial. What happened before you—sorry, I mean the character—starts brushing her teeth?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “I want to know why the mistress smiled when he got caught.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she thought he might leave his wife when she found out. Maybe she thought she might leave him, making him available. Or maybe she was just a spiteful bitch who wanted him to get what he deserved.”

  He smiles creepily, no longer looking be
tter without the tie. “Spiteful bitch… I like that one. Is it what he deserved?”

  She shrugs. “They were both at it.”

  He takes a drink. Thinks a second. “What about the character you played? What does she deserve?”

  She looks at him curiously. “Why does that matter? It’s just a commercial.”

  He shrugs it off. Tries to act like he’s not that interested. But for some reason he is. “I’m just a little curious, is all.”

  “She’s as guilty as him, I suppose. Look, are we going to talk about this all night? I appreciate you asking a lot about me. God knows I’ve been on a few dates with a few self-centered assholes of late, but why all the questions about the shitty TV commercial I was in?”

  He holds up his hands, showing his palms in a gesture of mock surrender. “Hey, whatever you want to talk about we’ll talk about.”

  She thinks a second. “The website we met on. This the first date you’ve been on?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “The last time a guy showed up with a tie on to a date with me it was my high school prom.”

  Guy goes redder than a baboon’s ass. “I thought it looked smart.”

  “Geez, don’t I sound like a bitch.” She bites her lip, feeling bad. “Sorry, that was uncalled for.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Really, it looked cute. I was flattered you’d made such an effort.”

  “Should I put it back on?” he says, clowning her.

  “I wouldn’t want to put you through the effort of clipping it back on.”

  “Nice. Got any more?”

  “If my friend were here, he’d tell you 70s’ Bill Cosby phoned, said it don’t matter much about returning it.”

  “These are zingers. Keep on going.”

  She takes a second to think of the next one, but not before thinking that this guy is all right, with the way he’s taking this ball busting so well. “I’ve got one, but I’ll save it for later. How about you? Any bad tie jokes?”

  “I think I’ve got one.” He pauses for dramatic effect, then smiles as he says, “That bitch from the commercial? What did she deserve?”

  “Okay, asshole. That’s it.” She downs the rest of her cocktail and stands up to leave. “And a little bit of advice for your next date, you misogynistic ass wipe: Don’t wear a tie your blind five-year-old niece designed as a kindergarten project.”

  She takes two steps away from the table before her date says, “Are you leaving?”

  She can’t believe the gall of this guy. “Of course I’m leaving, asshole.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “Huh?”

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t leave.”

  “Why not?”

  She’s about to tell him to go fuck himself, until she starts to feel drowsy.

  1.

  I’M JAKE HANCOCK, former private investigator to the stars…and I’m pretty sure someone just pinched my ass.

  I turn around, to ask the offending ass pincher, Really, at a funeral? Until I see who it is.

  “Elise Hewter-Pickle?” I recognize her from her eulogy.

  She should be wiping tears away, at least sniffling, as we’re standing next to her dead brother’s body. Open casket. But she’s only got eyes for me. The worst part? Her brother’s the spitting image of me. At least he was.

  “That’s me. Are you Jake?” she asks.

  “I am. And did you just—” I look over her shoulder, seeing that there’s a queue forming to pay their respects to Elise’s brother. “Never mind. We should get moving.”

  I take her by the arm and lead her away from the casket. She giggles or sobs as we go; I can’t tell which. We take a couple of the chapel floor seats. I leave one between us.

  Then she says, “Pinch my ass?”

  “What?”

  “Before you got distracted and looked over my shoulder, you started asking a question. I finished it for you.”

  “Oh. And did you?”

  She looks around, making sure no one’s within earshot. Then she giggles. Definitely a giggle this time. “I kinda did.”

  I lower my voice. “Will you stop doing that? We’re at your brother’s funeral.”

  “I know. That’s why it’s so bad.” She smiles seductively.

  “That’s a good thing? That it’s bad?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Well duh!”

  Then she closes the gap between us. I move one seat along, putting distance between us again.

  She says, “I think it’s so sexy you paid for my brother’s funeral. He would’ve liked that.”

  If someone offered to pay for my funeral, I would not approve of my sister thinking it was sexy.

  I say, “It’s the least I could do.”

  “He talked about you all the time, you know.”

  “Nothing bad, I hope.”

  She giggles again. I wish she’d stop doing that. “He really looked up to you.”

  “Well, I was a couple inches taller.”

  “Not like that, dummy. Not literally.”

  This woman’s obviously insane. I have no idea why I’m bantering with her. It’s time to steer the conversation back to the usual funeral chit chat. Whatever the hell that is. I say, “Your brother was a good man.”

  “Hardly, but thanks for saying so.”

  “He talked about you all the time too, you know.”

  “I think that unlikely, but I appreciate your saying so. Gregory and I didn’t get along that well. Were you and my brother friends for a long time?”

  “Not too long.”

  “Good.” She closes the distance between us again, this time putting her hand on my knee.

  I take it off, then say, “Long enough for this to be really inappropriate.”

  She acts like a kindergartner after she’s found out she can’t have another cup of milk. She turns away from me, her arms crossed over her chest, and I try to make a quick exit. But before my ass has left the seat she puts her hand on my shoulder and says, “Don’t go! I need someone to comfort me in my time of…in my time of—”

  “Grief?”

  She shrugs. “That’ll do.”

  Then out of nowhere, a Grammy-worthy performance, she bursts into tears. She opens her bag and starts rifling inside it, all the while saying, “Why, God, why? Why did you have to take him from us so soon?”

  Eventually, after giving me a can of mace, a rape alarm, and what looks like a dildo to hold, though it could be some sort of truncheon-like weapon, she finds what she was looking for: a small rotating fan. She takes the things from me, puts them back in her bag, and turns it on, puts it in front of her face, drying what I’m sure are fake tears. Okay, maybe I spoke too soon. Not exactly a Grammy-worthy performance.

  She gestures at my shoulder. I’m sure it’s my shoulder. And then she says, “Do you mind?”

  I look around at all of Greg’s grieving relatives. A few are keeping tabs on the situation with their peripheral vision. There’s no way I can get up and leave, so I say, “Be my guest.”

  She starts lowering her head onto my shoulder, but at the last second, she goes past it and lowers her head onto my crotch. The fan? It’s still running. I can feel the breeze making its way through my zipper.

  Anyway, before this insane woman, who is more likely to be a rapist than the victim of rape, pinched my ass, I was about to introduce myself.

  I’ll try again.

  I’m Jake Hancock, and I’m at the funeral of my only employee: An actor named Greg. A couple days ago, I was vacationing in the Caribbean with my ex-wife and her husband when I got a call from an LAPD detective. I was lounging on the beach, having reneged on my acceptance of an invitation to go to some goofy water park with them. I draw the line at seeing my ex-wife’s new husband go down a water slide in his Speedo. Anyway, I was sipping a mojito, wondering if the twenty-something swimming in the ocean was doing so naked, when my cell phone started to vibrate. When I answered, the
conversation went something like this:

  “Hancock, Dukes,” the caller said.

  “Hancock dukes?”

  “Mr. Jacob Hancock, this is Detective Dukes.”

  Detective Dukes and I are acquaintances, but he’s speaking to me in a tone that suggests we’re not. But I’ll get on to the reason behind that later on.

  “Hey, Detective. I was confused for a second, with you having just said two names at me, one of which is also a verb.”

  “Never mind that. Are you sitting down?”

  I glanced down at my lounger. “Technically I’m lying. Why?”

  “I have some bad news, and you’re not going to like it.”

  A few thoughts raced through my mind: Had my sister had an accident? Had something happened to my nephew? Or had that time when I unknowingly paid for a lap dance with counterfeit ten-dollar bills finally caught up to me?

  I said, “Hold on. Let me prepare myself.”

  I downed the rest of the mojito and waited for the swimmer, who was nearing the shore, to get out of the water. She emerged from the water wearing a bikini, and she wasn’t nearly as attractive as I’d hoped. Only now was I prepared for what the detective had to say. Failing that, at least I wasn’t distracted.

  “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “Mr. Hewter-Pickle was found dead yesterday afternoon. Gunned down. Looks like it was a pro hit. Though the word on the vine is it was a 480, if you know what I mean.”

  I ignored that stuff about it being a 480, whatever that meant, as I didn’t know who the hell he was talking about. “Never heard of the guy. You sure you got the right number?”

  I looked down at my empty mojito glass, thinking that the walk to the bar, on that hot white sand, would be a bitch.

  “He gave you as his next of kin on his gym membership. Are you sure you haven’t heard of him?”

  “Is that something people have to do, give a next of kin when they join a gym?”

  “It is, but that’s not really the point.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t have any suspects or a motive.”