Hancock P.I. (Jake Hancock Private Investigator series Book 1) Read online

  Hancock P.I.

  By Dan Taylor

  Contents

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  35.

  36.

  37.

  38.

  39.

  40.

  41.

  42.

  43.

  44.

  45.

  46.

  47.

  48.

  49.

  50.

  51.

  52.

  53.

  54.

  55.

  56.

  57.

  58.

  59.

  Personal Message from the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright Info

  1.

  “SO, WHAT MAKES you tick, Jake?”

  “What makes me tick? Seriously? That sounds like a question you learned in psychiatry 101, Doc.”

  “Let me rephrase the question.”

  “Please do.”

  “What motivates you in life?”

  I turn to a reclined position on the leather sofa, sitting lengthways, using my interlocking fingers as a headrest. “I suppose it would have to be fast cars, big boobs, and a base instinct to spread my seed.”

  “I’ll take that as sarcasm.”

  “Oh, and one more, a need to destroy the lives of my loved ones through gambling, sex, and hard drug addictions.”

  “I feel like you’re mocking me.”

  She’s right. I am.

  I make a quick judgment about Dr. Hannah Rogers: she isn’t much of a shrink, but I’ll probably come back for a second session. Why? She’s got that older lady, slightly nerdy thing going on.

  She’s noticed me looking at her in that way, and she’s pretending she hasn’t caught me. She’s distracting herself with writing notes. But I know that writing ‘sarcastic jerk’ doesn’t take that long.

  She asks, “As this is our first session, I’ll keep it simple: are you happy, Jake?”

  Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve got a job that most people would kill for: I work as a private investigator to the stars, and in Hollywood, no less. On top of introducing me to an endless stream of young, sexy starlets and wannabes—the latter being my favorite—my job affords me a dream home and lavish lifestyle.

  I give her the short version. “Who wouldn’t be, with what I’ve got?”

  “That was an evasive but telling answer.”

  “I gave a plain answer.”

  “Yes or no would’ve been plain.”

  “I implied yes.”

  “No, without knowing it, you implied that most people would be happy with your material gains and lifestyle, and that you’re not. Your answer was an introspective one. It asked: why am I not happy when I have everything I seemingly want?”

  Okay, so she’s better than I thought.

  My cell phone interrupts us. Upholding my superstition, I answer it between rings. “Jake Hancock, P.I.”

  “I have your wife and kid, Jake,” a voice says.

  He’s using one of those voice-changing devices, like the one from that slasher movie. But this guy must’ve dropped his in the can while he took a piss. It sounds like Joe Cocker singing a chorus underwater.

  I wait for a laugh, but none comes.

  “Nice try, asshole,” I say.

  Silence, breathing.

  “I don’t have children, and if you have my wife, be my guest. We’re separated.”

  A gargled sigh, then he hangs up.

  I’m not alarmed. Nuts like that ring from time to time.

  “Sorry about that, Doc.”

  “If I could ask you to refrain from taking any phone calls during our sessions.”

  “You can ask.”

  She’s silent a second or two, has this funny look on her face, as though she’s just read the text messages on my phone.

  Then she says, “We’re making progress.”

  “What? Because I may or may not answer my next phone call.”

  “No, because you revealed why you’re here when you attempted to answer my last question.”

  “I’m happy. Seriously, Doc.”

  My phone rings again. I take it out of my pocket, then look up at my shrink. She raises an eyebrow, and I reject the call and put it away. She has an effect on me. I’ll give her that.

  “Where were we?” I ask.

  “We were discussing whether or not you’re happy.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “And I told you your answer revealed that you’re not content.”

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Doc.”

  “Then why are you here, Jake?”

  I let the question hang in the air. It must be getting warm in here, because Dr. Hannah Rogers adjusts her shirt collar. And I’m pretty sure she’s blushing. I was right. She has got that older lady, slightly nerdy thing going on.

  “I guess I’m just lonely.”

  “Are you being sarcastic again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s explore a different question.”

  “Explore?”

  She ignores my sarcasm, adjusts her glasses.

  “Why did you specifically choose me to be your shrink?”

  I don’t answer the question, hold her eye contact a little longer than what’s considered appropriate.

  After making her squirm, or at least attempting to, I say, “You’re the first one I came to on Craigslist.”

  “Are you always this flippant, Jake?”

  I don’t answer the question, and there’s an awkward, silent couple minutes, as though she’s expecting me to advance the conversation.

  What she does next surprises the shit out of me: she puts down her notepad, gets up, adjusts how her shirt hangs on her, as though to leave, but comes over to the sofa, and perches herself on the edge.

  She says, “I think I know why you’re here, Jake,” then strokes my thigh. “And why you chose me.”

  Okay, I admit it: she isn’t a shrink. Dr. Hannah Rogers is actually a high-class hooker called Jade, who offers role-play experiences. I’m her most loyal customer. I asked her on the phone if she’d ever seen The Sopranos, and the arranging of the date went from there.

  She takes off the glasses, which are a prop, and then kisses me.

  Between kisses, I say, “What makes me tick?” and then we both laugh.

  She stands up, starts getting undressed. “I thought you’d like that one.”

  “I did. But your transition from sensible professional to wanton cougar who’s about to fuck me despite her strict ethical code could’ve been smoother.”

  She ignores my critique, and I just watch her undress.

  Now that she’s naked apart from a pair of stockings and stilettos, she asks the question again, “So, are you happy, Jake?”

  2.

  I’LL GO AHEAD and say it was a successful first session with my shrink. She really got me to open up, at least by my standards.

  I take out my phone and return the call I rejected during the session.

  “Gerry Smoulderwell,” she answers.

  “You’ve got a new number.”

  “Every three months. It’s regulation.”

  I’m not just any P.I. I mentioned that I’m one to the stars, but there’s more to it than that. I’m part of an elite private investigation organization called the Agency. Basically what I’m saying is, if I were heroin, I’d be the white-as-driven-snow shit, the kind that if your regular street junkie got a hold of it, he’d OD…okay, think of your own simile.

  Gerry Smoulderwell is my immediate boss.

  An enigmatic man called Andre heads up the Agency. I’ve never seen or spoken to him.

  Gerry says, “Why didn’t you answer?”

  “I was with my shrink.”

  “As your boss, is this something I should worry about?”

  “What? No…she’s actually just a hooker.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  “Why did you phone?”

  “I have a job.”

  “What kind of gig?”

  “Can’t you just say job like the rest of us?”

  “Gig sounds cooler.”

  She sighs. “I’ll brief you on it tomorrow. Midday, Basil Bush.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Oh, and Jake, park in the long-stay parking lot two blocks away.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “If I wanted you dead…”

  “I would be already. I get it.”

  I hang up.

  Noting the time, I say, “Shit!” rush to my car, drive across town.

  I pull up beside a brightly colored building. The sign on the facade reads ‘Big Hugs
Kindergarten.’ Formerly it was Little Rascals, but a group of parents banded together, complained that the title suggested their little ones were misbehaved. Between you and me, Rascals was a befitting title.

  Uttering “sorry” as I go past, I weave a path through children and parents exiting the kindergarten.

  When I reach the door, an overweight middle-aged lady, who I recognize, is waiting not far from the entrance in the main play area. She has her hands on her hips, looking theatrically up at the clock.

  She comes over, checking her watch as she walks. Now that she’s close to me, I notice her unsightly amount of nostril hair.

  “Are you picking up Randy today?” she asks.

  She knows damn well I am.

  “Sure am.”

  I look over to find Randy playing with a wooden train set. Pretending to be as excited as him about pushing one of the trains ‘round the track is one of the assistants, wearing a rock band T-shirt, on which it reads “Slave to the Slaughter.”

  “He’s over there,” she says.

  I’ve been here more than my fair share of times, and I’ve spoken to this lady a few times. Her pointing out Randy is her snide way of highlighting that a) I’m late, and b) his mother isn’t picking him up, again.

  I ignore her and make my way over.

  I didn’t lie to the nut on the phone, who I’ll call Scuba Joe: I don’t have children. At least any that I know of. My sister was diagnosed with progressive-relapsing multiple sclerosis two years ago. She experienced a whole heap of shitty symptoms—blurred vision, dodgy balance, tingling sensation in her extremities—which went away before she got around to arranging a doctor’s appointment. She put it down to stress and got back on with her life, but they came back. To cut a long story short, out of the different types and grades of the disease, she’s got the bitch of the bunch. Her symptoms are getting progressively worse. They go away once in a while, giving her a bittersweet taste of how life is as a healthy woman, before coming back and fucking with her again. Her long-term boyfriend and father to Randy left her when the going got tough.

  Which brings us to now. Yesterday her symptoms came back with vengeance, so she’s not up to picking up her bundle of joy today.

  I kneel down next to Randy, and the assistant nods at me, and slinks off. Randy is so fixated with the train set that he doesn’t notice me. Or at least I think he hasn’t.

  “Hey, Uncle Jake,” he says, without looking at me.

  “Hey, kiddo.”

  “Mom too ill to pick me up again?”

  He sighs and it breaks my heart.

  Another kid goes past, one of the older ones. His dad is ushering him out of the door, choosing the pushing-between-the-shoulder-blades method, as opposed to risking using the arm-pull method that would most likely get him the raised-eyebrow scorn nose-hair lady dishes out. The snot-nosed kid whispers in his loudest voice: “That’s Randy. His mom’s a cripple.”

  As with my entrance, Randy pretends not to hear, but his hearing it is given away by a momentary lapse in his playing.

  Kids can be harsh, and I don’t care for most of the brats, but I’m a big fan of Randy. He’s got a heart of gold, he says please and thank you like a pro, and when he kicks you in the balls, he holds back.

  “Time to go, kiddo. We’re late.”

  He sighs again, and we attempt to leave.

  “Excuse me. Sir.”

  Randy and I are walking hand in hand, making a beeline for the exit, when I feel a prod in my back.

  I turn ‘round to find nose-hair lady stood with her hands on her hips. “It’s our policy here at Hugs that all the children tidy up after themselves.”

  I look ‘round to find that she’s right. The place is immaculate.

  She nods at the train set. I give her a look that says “come on!” but she remains indignant.

  Leaving Randy where he is, I start pulling apart the train set and shoving pieces of track and painted trees and bridges into a plastic box by the side of it.

  “That’s not really the point, sir.”

  I ignore her, having learned that trick from Randy.

  With it packed away, surely now we can leave.

  I’m wrong.

  “By my watch, you’re ten minutes late. I’m going to have to charge Ms. Hancock,” she says.

  We’ve nearly made it out the door. I kneel down next to Randy, say, “Go wait outside, will you, kiddo.”

  He walks outside, his chin resting on his chest.

  I turn towards the battleaxe. “Not in front of the kid. On top of his mom becoming a ‘cripple,’ he’s got to put up with his shitty uncle arriving late to pick him up. I’ve made my peace with those two things, but I won’t make my peace with you making him feel shittier.” I take out my wallet. “How much is it?”

  She looks ‘round innocently, as though without provocation I had a go at her.

  She says, “I suppose I can let you off this time.”

  “I don’t want you to. How much is it?”

  “$50”

  I count out the cash, but then think of something. I count out another $2000, hand it to her. “Here’s the tuition for the next however many months. Don’t let my sis know I gave it to you. If she asks, make out it’s an accounting error, something you can’t rectify, despite your best efforts. Having met you, I’m sure she’d believe the story.”

  She utters a sheepish thanks as I go.

  $2000 doesn’t go far when it comes to my sis and her hospital bills. I’m no hero, but I try my best.

  As we walk to my car, Randy says, “Why’d you give her all that money, Uncle Jake?”

  “Told her it was a down payment for an appointment with a beauty therapist.”

  Randy laughs, and I’m happy to have distracted him for a couple seconds. Then he says, “Luke said he saw a lion jump out of her nostril hair one day.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “Tell Luke he’s got a future on the comedy circuit.”

  Randy thinks for a second.

  “Where have I got a future, Uncle Jake?”

  “Wherever you want, kiddo. Wherever you want.”

  I’m no hero, but I try my best.

  3.

  I DROP RANDY off at the house, but don’t go in myself. I’m not able to face going into the house to meet his mother, so I watch him walk towards the door with shit posture. I can’t stand seeing the progression of the disease, but that isn’t the whole reason. She’s prone to fits of violence, and swears like an out-of-work whore. It’s better for all involved if I avoid the whole messed-up situation.

  Besides, I’m late for my date, so I go home, shower and change, then head out.

  I pull up beside the restaurant, and a valet wearing a funny little hat—one that would look better placed on a circus monkey—comes up to the car. He finds a nice little spot for me as I make my entrance.

  I nearly forget, then I remember to put my wedding ring on, taking it out of my suit jacket’s breast pocket.

  “Reservation, sir?” the maitre d’ asks.

  “Berrygood.”

  I’ve been too busy to book the place myself, so my date has done it. My job brings me into contact with a whole host of attractive women. Dance instructors, personal trainers, those bubble-brained women that paint complicated designs on rich women’s nails. The classless ones, at least. Jane Berrygood is in a demographic of women that is usually the exclusive club for chubby, bedraggled women: the makeup artist. Jane isn’t those things. She looks magnificent: fake breasts that defy gravity, perfect skin, and hips that have C-section written all over them.

  There’s only one flaw that I saw when I first met her, but I won’t ruin the surprise.

  The maitre d’ points me in the direction of the table.

  I walk through the dining area. As I scan the crowd, I decide instantly that I don’t like them. Hollywood serves three categories of people at restaurants: the dumb, the rich, and the rich and dumb. As I look around, I see that most of this restaurant’s clientele is made up of the latter.

  Jane clocks me, or at least I think she has, though she doesn’t get up from her seat as I approach.

  She has that vacant Hollywood smile plastered on her face as I sit down. “Jane, nice to see you,” I say.

  She turns to me, surprised. “Oh, there you are.”

  When I asked her out on a date, I noticed that one of her eyes wasn’t quite right. But now I can see that both eyes are lazy. One eye stares off at the kitchen, while the other looks over at the entrance. I sigh, knowing it’s going to be a long evening. I think about putting my wedding ring back in my breast pocket, but I’d have to slip away to the can, which would look weird after having just sat down. I’m content with being the shitty uncle who accepts dates with women with lazy eyes, but I’m not happy about looking like I have a weak bladder.