Our Little Secret (Jake Hancock Private Investigator Mystery series Book 5) Read online

  “That you’ll stop busting this guy’s balls when I find out it’s nothing.”

  “Deal.”

  She smiles and hugs me, pushing her newly augmented breasts into my chest. And I barely get a semi. And did I just recommend she stop busting her boyfriend’s balls? When this night’s over, I’m going to apply for sainthood, as long as the forms to fill out aren’t too much of a bitch.

  When Megan’s finished hugging me, she says, “I knew you’d come through for me.”

  I smile weakly, thinking that she might come to regret those words when I find out what the guy’s done.

  Then I say, “Remember you said that when I find a dead hooker in his trunk.”

  She punches me on the arm and giggles. “Stop being sarcastic.”

  Again, I wasn’t.

  4.

  OVER DINNER, MEGAN lays out some rules for the investigation. One, I’m not to interact with her boyfriend at any time or be spotted by him. Two, I’m not to do anything illegal. Three, I’m not supposed to involve any third party in the investigation—especially a female third party. Four, if she tells me to pull the plug at any time, I pull the plug—no questions asked. And five, if he’s done anything really bad, I’m not to reveal any details of what he’s done. If it is bad, Megan and her new boyfriend will go their separate ways, and she’ll make up some excuse for breaking up with him.

  “What do you mean by bad? It’s important we define that,” I say.

  “Murder, for example.”

  I look at the photo of him she gave me. It’s a selfie taken from his Facebook page. “I think we’re safe on that one. He doesn’t look the type.”

  “I can’t believe I’m asking this, but why not?”

  “He’s taken the picture from a high-up angle, looking down on himself. Guy wanted as flattering an angle as possible for his man cleavage. No, I don’t think we’re dealing with a stone-cold killer.”

  She snatches the photo out of my hands and looks at it. “He did not. And I think he could definitely pull off the sexy death row type.”

  “My apologies. He could definitely be a murderer.”

  “Thanks.”

  She holds out the photo to me, and I snatch it back theatrically, mirroring Megan.

  “You’re welcome,” I say.

  Phew. Dodged that bullet. I wouldn’t want to offend Megan by claiming her boyfriend doesn’t look the murdering type. It’s time to get on to the really important matter.

  I ask, “What excuse will you give for breaking up with him?”

  She looks at me skeptically. “Is this part of your pre-investigation assessment?”

  “Totally.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second.”

  “The information might be important later on.”

  That skeptical look again. She ignores me and gracefully places some pasta in her mouth, without getting any Alfredo sauce on her chin. Classy lady. “Bullshit. You just want pre-gossip.”

  “Pre-gossip?”

  “You know, gossip before it happens.”

  Fashion magazine columnists should really work on their grammar. Throwing around prefixes like they’re bubbles in a kindergarten. But now’s not the time to get into the complexities of the English language.

  “I admit it, pre-gossip is my agenda,” I say. I lean in close, giving her an opportunity to whisper it to me. “Go on, tell me.”

  She sighs and rolls her eyes at the same time. Megan’s going to make a great Hollywood actress. Then she says, “Will it convince you to move far enough away from my face so that I can’t smell the garlic on your breath?”

  So that explains the Alfredo sauce, “Easy on the garlic.” Never bring a girl with an aversion to garlic to an Italian restaurant. That’s like bringing a date who has an aversion to hookers to Charlie Sheen’s house.

  “You’ll never smell garlic on my breath ever again if you tell me,” I say.

  She looks at me strangely. I have no idea why. “Truth is, I haven’t thought about it. I figure the whole excuse thing is a worst-case scenario.”

  “Just hazard a guess.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Has your life gotten so boring, Jake Hancock?”

  Last night, a Thursday, I rented a limousine and brought along a B-plus call girl on a date throwing rotten fruit and vegetables at Bel Air heirs and heiresses from inside the safety of our plush transport. All the while we were as stoned as Snoop Dogg on New Year’s Eve, and drunker than a Japanese businessman who’s just found out the merger he’s been working on for months has gone pear-shaped. I lie: “I admit it. My life’s a little tedious at the moment.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why not?”

  “You have a funny smirk on your face.”

  I can’t stop thinking about when April, the call girl from last night, got so drunk she accused our driver of being Bill Cosby. Let’s just say she didn’t leave him a tip. Oh, and she brought an empty bottle of champagne with her when I dropped her off, for “Forensic lab stuff or whatever.”

  “Do I? It must because it’s so nice to see you after all this time. Friends are important, don’t you think?”

  She looks at me strangely again. Then draws out her saying of, “Yeah…” She pauses. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Anyway, we’re getting off track. Hazard a guess or I’ll die from boredom, I promise.”

  “Don’t make promises you won’t keep.”

  “Okay, don’t tell me.”

  I know Megan well enough to know that she’ll want to do the opposite of what I suggest.

  She takes her time replying. “Reverse psychology, Jake, really?”

  “That’s totally what I was doing.”

  “Again?”

  Unable to get my head around triple reversing, I say, “Okay, I’ll suggest some things, and then you can say if I’m warm or cold.”

  She doesn’t reply, just looks a little bored.

  “You could say that you have a rare hereditary gene that you’ll likely pass on to your children, and that you couldn’t put him through the heartache.”

  “He’s already spoken of his not wanting a family.”

  I nod my head in approval. Credit where credit’s due. “I’m impressed. What about, you could say having a large family is a deal breaker.”

  “Can we just drop this, okay? I don’t want to think about having to break up with him.”

  I only kinda heard that, because I’ve thought of a homerun: “You could say that—”

  “Jake?”

  “Okay. It was probably a bad one, anyway.”

  We eat in silence a couple minutes. I avoid eye contact the whole time.

  Then she sighs. “Okay, tell me the reason.”

  “You’re joining the circus, and long-distance relationships aren’t your thing.” I raise both eyebrows, then say, “Hah? Right out of the park.”

  “Remind me again why you’re not married.”

  5.

  I WAS JUST FUCKING with Megan. She should totally go with the whole “it’s you, not me,” spiel. Either that, or tell him she doesn’t think he’s got big enough feet to fit her father’s shoes. Wow, I just made myself cringe. A personal best.

  Megan and I discuss her pragmatism towards her hoping to gain a career in Hollywood. Sorry, did I say Megan and I? I meant just Megan. During the conversation, I hone my verbal nodding skills.

  I often talk with actress wannabes at bars, and there’s one common thread connecting all of them. They practically all try to convince me they’re not naïve, they know it’s a long shot, and that they have another career in mind if it doesn’t work out. I’ve proven myself to be popular with these types. How? For one, I’ve got movie star looks, but that’s not enough. The main reason is that, when this discussion inevitably comes up, I don’t insult their intelligence by telling them, “What? Of course you’re going to make it! Why would you even doubt yourself, even for a second?” Or words to that effect.

&nbs
p; I tell them I admire them for reaching to the stars, and that they’re right to have gotten a decent college education beforehand. Before you call me a dick, I mean those things when I say them.

  I’ve just said the same things to Megan.

  She’s looking at me like I’ve just spat in her cocktail.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  I feign thinking for a second. “Oh, the ‘college education’ stuff? I meant that actresses who have a degree also have more credibility. People respect it more, you know. And you’re totally going to make it. You’ve got no reason to doubt yourself, not even for a second.”

  Okay, now you can call me a dick.

  "You really think so?”

  “Of course.”

  “Just fucking with you, Jake. I think we’re on the same page, but thanks for lying.”

  Did I convince you that I understand women, if only for a second?

  No, I didn’t think so.

  The rest of the night I’m not allowed to drink, “Because I’ve got to be sharp for tomorrow.”

  I switch to mocktails and Megan carries on drinking.

  Which is why I plan on doing the talking when we go back to my apartment building and see there’s a Jules and Vincent waiting outside. Looking real pissed.

  They spot us. Jules says, “Hey, man. We looked all over town and couldn’t find that three-breasted stripper you told us about.”

  “I just remembered she’s got the night off. Silly me,” I say.

  They look at me skeptically, or in a very drunk manner. It’s hard to tell the difference.

  Then Vincent says to Jules, “Come on, man. We’ll come back tomorrow night.”

  They head off up Hollywood Boulevard, and Megan and I watch them a second.

  Then Megan says, “Jake, you need better friends.”

  6.

  MEGAN STAYS IN my bed, and I stay on the sofa. It’s impossible to lie comfortably on this thing.

  Which provokes Megan’s reaction when she comes out of my bedroom, looking fresh: “You look like shit.”

  “Was my mattress comfortable?”

  “I slept like you’d slipped a Rohypnol in my drink.”

  “Great.”

  I stumble towards the espresso machine. Megan’s getting instant.

  During breakfast, we make small talk and I tell her that I’ll be heading to Hickston, to see what’s up. After, she leaves, but not before saying, “And remember the rules we laid out, Jake Hancock.”

  “No interacting, the plug pulling thing, no third parties, and no law breaking. And something about if it’s really bad.”

  “Good.”

  She kisses me on the cheek and I promise to keep her in the loop.

  The moment she’s left I take out my cell phone and break two of those rules right off the bat.

  7.

  I DIAL WORLD-RENOWNED hacker and researcher Scottie McDougray.

  “Jake Hancock, have you butt-dialed me?” he says upon answering.

  “Why would you ask that if you thought I had?”

  “I heard someone say it the other day, and I wanted to take it for a spin.”

  Scottie’s Scottish, which explains his ridiculous name and his amazement at a term like “butt-dial.”

  “Oh, okay. I’ve got a gig for you.”

  “No can do, my little Scotch bonnet.”

  “Bummer. Why not?”

  “I don’t know what a gig is.”

  “Scottie, are you feeling okay?”

  “For some reason, my computer hardware has been seized by the FBI, and I’m pretty sure I’m under surveillance.”

  “What did you do?”

  He says the next bit slowly and clearly. “Absolutely nothing. They have the wrong guy. I don’t even know why you’re phoning me.”

  I’m confused a second, then I realize what he’s doing. “Did I say ‘gig’? I meant tidbit. Me and my syllables.”

  “Small talk, that’s why you phoned, isn’t it, Jake Hancock?”

  “It is. For a friendly chat. And Scottie, you’ve got my name wrong. It’s…Snake Adcock. They sound similar, but I said that name, not the one you heard, which probably isn’t even a person.”

  “Snake Adcock is definitely a name with which I’m familiar. And you are my friend, which is to say we have no professional relationship.”

  “No we don’t. And that I am. Bye for now, Scottie.”

  I hang up.

  A couple seconds later my cell phones rings. I answer.

  “Jake, it’s Scottie.”

  “Don’t you mean Snake?”

  “This is a pre-pay mobile. You can drop the Snake stuff.”

  “Oh, okay. What the hell did you do, Scottie?”

  “Just a smidge of white-collar crime. Victimless stuff.”

  “Did you mean what you said about not being able to help me?”

  “Aye. It’s probably best I lay off it for a while.”

  “I’m tracing the whereabouts of a certain individual last weekend. Can you recommend anyone that could help?”

  “What information do you need?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Okay, I know a guy. Do you have a pen and paper ready?”

  “Wait a sec.”

  I gather a pen and paper.

  Then I say, “Back.”

  “Okay. I’ll spell his name for you: G-O-O-G-L—”

  “Scottie, the next time you politely tell me to fuck off, don’t make me get a pen and paper first.”

  I hang up.

  Damn Scotsman. I’m on my own.

  Google’s all good and well, if you know what you’re searching for, but I don’t have much to go on. Plan B is to find out what’s up in Hickston, the place Megan’s boyfriend visited.

  I don’t own a car, so I’ll have to pick up a rental. But there’s something I need to do first.

  I dial Greg, the actor who I hire to act as my double from time to time. He’ll be over in twenty, if the lights are kind to him.

  While I wait I’ll explain the story behind him, and the complexities I mentioned about my retirement from the private investigation game. Up until three months ago, I worked for elite private investigation organization the Agency. I learned of a shady cover-up, and our professional relationship soured. I know some secrets that their boss, Andre, is intent on keeping that way. Poisoning me with a powerful memory-affecting agent didn’t work, so they made sure I’d keep quiet by operating on me and installing a souped-up version of a pacemaker, which they can activate anytime, killing me almost instantly. On top of that, they’ve got a couple goons who keep me under constant surveillance. Every time I go out to a bar or to pick up groceries, they follow me in a black car with blacked-out windows.

  Part of their cover-up was drugging a waitress with the same memory-affecting agent, who tagged along for my investigation into the Agency. We got on really well before the Agency made her forget everything we’d uncovered together, including meeting me. Occasionally I go to see her and need a decoy. That’s where Greg comes in.

  I promised Megan I’d be discreet, and I’m getting the impression having some Agency goons following me around and watching my every move might not fit her definition of that, so it seems only prudent that I hire Greg to live my life as usual while I’m away investigating. While I’m in Hickston, he’ll live in my apartment, drink the cheap beers I bought in for the party, and venture out now and again, go to titty bars and jazz bars, living just like I would.

  A second later the intercom buzzes.

  I go over to it and see Greg, wearing shades and a realistic-looking fake beard and dressed as a pizza delivery guy.

  “Gary, come on up,” I say, before pressing the button.

  He sighs and doesn’t time opening it with my pressing the button. Just stands there holding the pizza.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Just Greg’s fine.”

  Despite it being goof
y, Greg insists on me calling him by his Christian name. Gary is who I’ve cast him as when he comes around for his gig. Gary the pizza boy. Then he’s Proxy Hancock. He doesn’t care for either of those names and isn’t fully committing to his gig.

  I buzz him in, and this time he plays ball.

  I appraise his appearance when I open the apartment door to him. “You been working out, Gary?” I ask.

  “Can I just come in?”

  God knows what my neighbors would think if they saw me letting Gary the pizza boy into my apartment.

  I step aside and take the pizza box from him. Inside, as well as a shirt, is the same pair of pants he’s wearing, just with a thirty-four waist. Which used to be only a couple inches broader than his pants, at least until this visit.

  He takes a seat on the sofa without asking, and I go over and sit on the recliner opposite him.

  Then I say, “Ever seen a pizza boy with rippling abs and a waist like a sixteen-year-old boy?”

  He takes the shades off, so I can see the apathy in his eyes.

  He says nothing.

  “Well?” I ask.

  “No…”

  “That’s because pizza boys tend to eat pizza more often than your regular stick-thin struggling actor.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is, Gary, that in order for you to play the role of Gary the pizza boy effectively you have to look the part. The people who have me under surveillance aren’t playing around. I come out looking fifteen pounds heavier, waist bulging slightly, people tend to notice things like that.” I glance down at my waist. “I’m doing my part to play Gary, and let me assure you, it’s a sacrifice I don’t relish. Now it’s your turn.”

  “So what do you want me to do about it?”

  “Lose the Atkin’s and drop the gym routine.”

  He looks butt hurt.

  “Can you do that, Gary?”

  “But I’m keeping myself in shape in case a proper role comes up.”

  “Greg, what’s between your ears really matters, not above your waist line.”

  “My face?”

  It’s my turn to sigh. “No, Greg, your brains. And your talent.” I smile, glossing over my mistake of implying talent’s home is between one’s ears.