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

  “You really think I have talent?” He leans forward, awaiting my answer.

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it? How could you doubt yourself, even for a second?”

  “Wow, thanks, Jake! That means a lot.”

  I wave it off. “Don’t worry about it. I was just speaking the truth. Now go and get changed. I keep my belts in the second drawer of my dresser. Don’t take the Brunello.”

  Greg runs off to get changed into Proxy Hancock’s outfit, which he’ll select from my wardrobe. He always chooses badly, but style is instinctive, unlike Greg’s “talent,” which he learned as a drama major in some non-Ivy League college.

  I go into my bathroom and change into Gary the pizza boy’s attire. Finishing up with the stick-on beard.

  When he comes out for me to appraise his appearance, I lie. “Not a bad choice this time, Greg. You’re getting the hang of this.”

  He beams. “Thanks.”

  Greg looks just like me, though he’s prematurely thinning at the temples a little, and he’s slimmer, which I’ve mentioned. He refused to grow a handlebar mustache, so I had to shave off mine, leaving us both looking like bald-lipped jerks. I’ve never seen him in action, though he tells me he was great in a dog food commercial this one time. Doesn’t matter. He’s under strict instructions not to talk to anyone who recognizes him as me, and to stick away from my haunts. Which leaves the less desirable lounges and titty bars in Hollywood.

  I run the rules by him again, and he goes back to acting like I’m a hard taskmaster.

  Before I leave, Greg says, “Don’t forget to take the pizza box with you.”

  I turn around to look at Greg. “Think about it for a second, Greg. Who’s eating the pizza if Gary the pizza boy comes out with the pizza box?”

  He thinks about the logic of that a second. He seems unsure of his response as he says, “Hancock would be eating it?”

  I smile, despite myself. “He would, if Gary doesn’t take the pizza box with him.”

  I wish him luck and leave.

  Greg was right the first time. The only thing between his ears is his face. His dumb, handsome face.

  8.

  I TAKE GREG’S Saturn Ion and head east, up Hollywood Boulevard, making sure the black car doesn’t follow. It doesn’t. I park Greg’s car in long-stay parking, a couple miles away from my apartment building, and climb into the backseat, where I find the holdall containing my clothes. I gave them to Greg a couple months ago. I change, leaving Gary’s costume neatly folded on the backseat.

  It’s just a short walk to Hollywood Car Rentals, but I take a cab, as I don’t want to be spotted as me and not Gary.

  From the showroom, I choose the full-size option, which is a Ford Fusion.

  It’s around a seven-hour drive to Hickston, according to Google maps, but I’ll do it in five, and still have time to stop and grab a bite to eat.

  During the drive, I’ll catch up on podcasts, listen to jazz radio, and try to formulate a plan to find out what Megan’s boyfriend has been up to in Hickston.

  An hour into the drive, I decide to give my dad a call. Just to catch up.

  Sticking to his routine, he answers after about thirty rings.

  “Jake, I can’t talk right now. I’m on the can,” he says.

  “Dad, no you’re not. I can hear people.”

  “Well, I’m on the way to the can.”

  My dad’s a Florida retiree. He also thinks he’s retired from parenting, which is a reasonable assumption, given that all his children are grownup. But I’m not letting thirty-eight measly years let him off the hook.

  “We can talk while you’re on the can. I don’t mind.”

  “I do. Can’t you phone your mother?”

  I hear Ma in the background, playing around, saying she doesn’t want to speak to me. I roll my eyes. Parents…

  “It’s kinda you who I wanted to speak to, Dad.”

  “How long are we talking?”

  “How long have you got?”

  He sighs. “I can give you five minutes.”

  I make small talk the first minute, and we both pretend to be interested. Then I get on to my agenda. “Dad, when you were about my age, did you have many friends?”

  “Who do you owe money to?”

  “What? No one. My shrink told me I should have more friends. I’ve been contemplating that the last couple weeks.”

  “Don’t try to be a hero, Son. If you’re in trouble, go straight to the police. Just a second.”

  Dad hasn’t quite mastered the technique of putting his hand over the receiver, so I hear him and Ma talking about if they have money to spare. And Ma seems really worried when Dad mentions I see a shrink.

  He comes back on the line. “How long have you been seeing a shrink?”

  “That doesn’t matter. Can you just answer me one thing?”

  “Will it free up my line?”

  “It will.”

  “Then shoot.”

  “Did you have many friends when you were my age?”

  “How old are you, twenty-nine?”

  “Close, Dad. Thirty-eight.”

  “We forgot to send you a birthday card.”

  “Nine by my count. But who’s counting?”

  “Don’t be an ass, Son. You know what ass makes out of you and me.”

  “Assume?”

  He pauses a second, then gets back on track. “These friends. Are we talking apart from your mother?”

  “Apart from my mother.”

  He’s silent a second. “Do work buddies count?”

  “Work buddies do not count.”

  “Then around twenty.”

  I was not expecting his answer to be that high. Is this a normal number for a guy my age? And if it is, how do they find the time to juggle all the inevitable testosterone-filled commitments with stuff that matters? I cringe when I think about all the ball games and high-fiving, not to mention the odd, but inevitable gang rape.

  I decide to investigate further. “And would you characterize that number, based on your knowledge of other friends, as being normal or conventional?”

  “My line doesn’t sound freed up. And did you just say characterize?”

  “I’ve been watching a lot of true crime. That’s lawyer talk for describing something’s qualities.”

  “Then I guess I would have to say it’s normal.”

  “And would you speculate…” Objection! Sustained. “That your having a crazy number of friends enriched your life in any way?”

  “Your mom and I are on the way to a spa.”

  I have no idea whether that’s offered as an answer, but I know when I’ve outstayed my welcome.

  “Okay, Dad. We’ll catch up some other time. Enjoy your spa day.”

  “Tell your shrink I’ll be sending her a bill for the outsourcing.”

  He hangs up.

  Huh. Dad had a shit-ton of friends. But then again, he’s on his way to a spa day. He’s about as good a role model as Donald Trump.

  I decide to get my mind back on what really matters: thinking strategy for my investigation.That is until I see something walking by the side of the freeway that blows my mind.

  9.

  OKAY, NOT SOMETHING, but someone. But you’d understand my misspeaking if you could see what I’m seeing: model-thin female, hot despite that description, wandering with her head down, and looking barely alive. Her hair’s hanging down in front of her face and it looks like she’s trying out “no-poo” for a while. Either that, or she should reduce the amount of conditioner she uses.

  I slam on the breaks and pull over in front of her. She’s only—what?—ten yards in front of me, but she hasn’t noticed my full size. Nor does she stop and look up when I start beeping my horn.

  As a Hollywood resident, I think about driving away and phoning in an anonymous call to the cops. But I’m Jake Hancock, God damn it. So I roll down my window and lean out to watch her, with a stupid look on my face, for ten seconds or so, while I co
ntemplate doing the above. I also think about helping her, but there’s the whole “person of suspicion” thing if she turns up dead somewhere.

  My mind’s made up for me when she walks straight into my bumper and falls on the hood. Too late to phone the cops now. She’s just planted a shit-load of circumstantial evidence on my rental, which is to say bleach residue. And there’s the fuck-ton of potential witnesses driving by, which my dumbass attorney couldn’t discredit.

  I get out of the rental and do what any good citizen would do. I say, “Lady?” in a condescending tone and nearly prod her, if not for the fear of getting her DNA underneath my fingernails. Jeez, all that true crime has ruined me.

  I snap out of my paranoia and help her into my rental. While I do, she tries to fight me off. I catch a super-bony elbow in my abdomen, but manage to wrestle her into the front passenger seat, while trying to look obviously like a good Samaritan.

  First thing she does when she sits down is vomit. There goes my deposit.

  I put it to the back of my mind and run around to the driver-side door and get in. I stoop low, in a vain attempt to make eye contact. Then I say, “Are you okay?” Mr. Obvious to the rescue.

  She doesn’t respond, just starts looking around the vehicle with bugged-out eyes.

  “Lady, you could’ve been killed out there.”

  Her response is to vomit again. But she does make a gurgling sound. We can build on that.

  I’m still stooping. I look ridiculous. But now’s not about me. It’s about the girl beside me, who’s so fucked-up she’s putting her hands on an imaginary steering wheel and pumping an imaginary gas pedal with her foot.

  What the hell has happened to this girl? Where has she come from? And last and least important, why do I keep referring to her as lady?

  “Is that what you want me to do, drive?” I ask.

  She makes a gurgling sound again.

  “Two gurgles for yes, one for no.”

  Definitely two distinct gurgles, with a burp in between.

  I sit up, thinking about my options. I can’t possibly leave her by the side of the freeway. But then again, Megan did say to not get a third party involved in my investigation. She’s not technically involved, but she is female. What am I thinking? My mom raised a better Hancock than this.

  I put the car in drive and start heading down the freeway.

  She carries on with her imaginary driving.

  So I turn to her, say, “Don’t worry. I got this.”

  As I drive, I think about what to say to her next. “You just hang on. This’ll all be over soon.”

  Something tells me I’ll be hearing that last sentence read back to me in a court of law.

  10.

  A COUPLE MILES down the freeway I spot a gas station and pull into the area where you pump up your tires.

  I take a second to check her pulse, as she hasn’t said much, and check that she’s still breathing. I can feel one, and her chest is rising.

  First things first. I run into the gas station and ask for paper towels. While the clerk is in the back getting those, I grab a Pepsi for my involuntary hitchhiker.

  I pay the guy, say that I need paper towels because I tend to get nosebleeds while driving, and then I rush back to my rental.

  I get in and start feeding her the Pepsi, telling her it’ll make her all better. This would make one fucked-up Pepsi commercial.

  I’m not able to lean over and mop up the vomit without getting my face dangerously close to her crotch, so I put that on the backburner.

  A couple seconds after drinking half the can, she starts mumbling. And she asks the one question I didn’t want her to ask: “Where am I?”

  “You’re in a friend’s car, honey.”

  Honey? I suppose it’s an improvement on lady.

  “A friend’s car?”

  “Well, a stranger’s car, but a nice stranger.”

  She turns and looks at me, a dumb smile on her face, her eyelids half-mast. “You’re kind of a funny-looking stranger.” She giggles. Good to see someone’s having fun despite the sheer terror of the situation.

  “I am kinda funny looking. And you’re messed-up.”

  “Thanks.” She giggles again.

  “I meant you’re higher than Diane Schuler right now. Are you okay?”

  She’s becoming more lucid by the second.

  “You already asked that,” she says.

  I resist the temptation to ask if she heard me saying “This will all be over soon.” Instead, I say, “I did, and I didn’t get a response. That’s why I asked again.”

  “Well that makes sense.”

  “Should I drive to an ER? Are you feeling better?”

  “An ER? Are you a doctor?”

  “No, just a good citizen without a single malpractice lawsuit hanging over my head.”

  She turns and looks at me again. Her eyes fully open this time. “I am feeling better. And you’d make a sucky doctor.” She smiles meekly, her eyes welling up with tears.

  “How so?”

  “You haven’t even asked what I’ve taken yet.”

  “What have you taken?”

  Whatever it is has made her emotionally unstable, because she puts her hands over her face and starts blubbering. Then she says, “I have no idea.”

  “Then that settles it. I’m taking you to an ER.”

  While I put the car in drive she puts her hand over mine, stopping me. And says, “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “Just hold me, okay?”

  “Just hold you?”

  I don’t get a choice, as she grabs me and starts sobbing uncontrollably onto my shoulder.

  When she’s calmed down, she takes her face away from my shoulder and holds out her hand. “Where are my manners? I’m making your shirt wet with my tears, and I haven’t even introduced myself yet.”

  “That’s cool. I kinda figured you had bigger things to worry about.”

  She smiles.

  “And I haven’t even said thank you yet, for picking me up.”

  “Don’t be silly. I pick fucked-up chicks up from the side of the freeway all the time.” This gets a laugh out of her, only a soft one, but it’s a start.

  I take her hand and shake it as I say, “I’m Jake Hancock. It’s nice to meet you, fucked-up chick from the side of the road.”

  “And I’m Annabelle English, cute but a little creepy stranger who knows how to say all the wrong things.”

  11.

  “ANNABELLE ENGLISH. CUTE name,” I say.

  “Thanks. Your name’s cute too, I guess.”

  Now that we’ve introduced ourselves and appraised each other’s names, I wonder if it’s within the rules of hitchhiker-driver etiquette to ask if I can wipe up her vomit now.

  As though reading my thoughts, she looks down at her feet. “I made a mess of your car.”

  “It’s okay. It’s a rental.”

  “But still, your deposit.”

  “I hadn’t even thought about it.”

  She notices the paper towels on my lap. “Mind if I…?” She extends her hand out to grab some.

  “I do mind.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean I’ll do it for you.”

  While I clean up all that foul-smelling filth, Annabelle waits outside the rental, her arms crossed over her chest, taking the odd deep breath, and looking around… probably wondering how she got here. Which is what I’m wondering too, but in a more literal sense. I take a foot mat from the backseat footwell and put it over the wet patch the vomit has left. Then I throw away the paper towels before inviting her back into the car.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened to you?” I ask.

  She crosses her arms over her chest again. “Do I have to? I was kinda enjoying not talking about it.”

  “You don’t have to. But maybe I could help.”

  She glances at me. “What are you, a cop?”

  “Kind of. A private investigator.”

  “The
good kind?”

  Well that question came right out of left field. I take a second to think about my answer. “Ethically stringent? No. Morally sound? My ex-wife would say no, but I like to think I’m one of the good guys.”

  “Then I suppose I better tell you. But you have to promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you won’t phone the cops.”

  12.

  “DON’T PHONE THE cops in a because-you-don’t-think-it’ll-help sort of way or because…?” I ask.

  “Because I don’t think they’ll help sort of way.”

  Phew. I did not know how to finish that sentence.

  I wait for her to continue.

  Then she’s says something that surprises the shit out of me. “Jake, you ever thought a girl saying no when you were having sex with her meant yes?”

  Oh, boy. I see where this is going.

  I say, “I’ve never had a girl say no mid-coitus before.”

  Mid-coitus?

  “Oh.”

  “Annabelle, have you been…?”

  “Raped? You can say it. I won’t get embarrassed.”

  “Sexually assaulted? Have you?”

  She starts to cry again. Then she says, “I think so.”

  Over the next five minutes I coax her story out of her. Annabelle’s a college girl, having moved away from her hometown. She had gotten friendly with a guy she knew from high school. He had sent her a friend request on Facebook and they got to chatting. About school days. How their lives were going since. The guy was a dick in high school, but he seemed nicer now. Different. Guy had stayed in their hometown, working as a car mechanic, “but he didn’t seem bitter about it or anything. And seemed genuinely happy that I was making a life for myself outside of where we grew up,” she says. They decided it would be nice to meet up next time she was visiting. Annabelle hadn’t planned a trip, and wasn’t planning on one, as her parents had moved away. Expanding, she says, “I didn’t really feel there was anything there to go back to. No friends I’d like to keep in touch with, none that weren’t really bitchy behind my back. And as soon as I got into a good college and they didn’t. Well, let’s just say friendship goes only so far.”