Tracy Hayes, Apprentice P.I. (P.I. Tracy Hayes 1) Read online

  “Boss? I don’t think we can call it a week just yet.”

  Epilogue

  It’s amazing the fuss that finding the money created. We had to call the cops, who came in, took Costa and arrested the old woman’s son too for hiding the stash—Costa ratted him out. Then we were questioned at the station, as if we’d had anything to do with the crime. It was hours later before we had time for the bail bond formalities. We got a check for two thousand dollars and Jackson gave me half of it. Yay.

  There would be money coming from the insurance company of the bank too, for finding Costa’s stash, but Jackson said that it would go to keeping the agency solvent. Since it would ensure that I had a job in the future, I didn’t mind.

  I had my first free Saturday in forever and money burning in my pocket. I should’ve rushed to the mall at the first light, but I couldn’t muster the energy to go shopping. I could barely get out of bed. I’d been running on adrenaline ever since being held at gunpoint, and now I was all out.

  So I did what any normal person would do: went to my parents’ and let them fuss over me. It especially helped that Dad said I’d done a good job. I didn’t tell him about being held at gunpoint. I’m not an idiot.

  But I didn’t feel heroic either. I felt at a crossroads. I’d successfully ceased being a waitress, but I wasn’t a P.I. yet. I wasn’t entirely sure Jackson wanted to keep me even, although he’d said “See you on Monday,” as his parting words.

  But it wasn’t solely about that either. I felt like I couldn’t properly start a new life without having closure with the old one. Not the waitressing; I was totally over that. I’d had to come to terms with my divorce.

  I would have to go see Scott.

  I really didn’t want to, but if I was brave enough to face a bank robber, I would be brave enough to do this. Though not brave enough to do it alone. So I put on nice clothes, made-up my hair and face extra carefully, and then forced Trevor to put on some proper clothes too and come with me.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked when we entered the Irish bar on 18th Street.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll just go and say hello to my ex-husband and ask how he’s been these past six years. Nothing dramatic.”

  The place was jam-packed even though it wasn’t a game night, and it didn’t take me long to figure out why. On the tiny stage at the end of the bar was a man with a guitar performing to an enraptured audience. We couldn’t get very close, but I didn’t mind. It gave me a perfect opportunity to just watch Scott in his element.

  He was still good. Listening to him brought back all the memories of why I’d fallen so madly for him that I’d left everything to follow him. His voice made me feel like the third sip of whiskey, warm and tingly; he was sexy, and incredibly charismatic. In the packed bar, where he couldn’t possibly see me, it felt like he was singing just for me. I leaned against Trevor and simply enjoyed the performance.

  When it was over I applauded wildly with the rest of the audience. The crowd began to mill, some to their places or out the door, many towards Scott. I allowed the latter crowd to pull me closer to him. I was increasingly nervous, and I had to keep repeating to myself that this couldn’t be worse than being held at gunpoint.

  Then the crowd parted before me and he was there. He looked straight at me, but it took him a heartbeat to recognize me. Then he smiled, warm and happy to see me, and I smiled back. Maybe I wouldn’t have to seek closure; maybe I could seek reconciliation. We were both different people now and might be able to make it work.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  Okay, maybe we’d need more for reconciliation, but it was a start. I was about to ask how he’d been when a leggy blonde with fake boobs came out through the kitchen door, claiming his attention. He reached his arm to her and she wrapped herself around him on his lap, and pulled him into a hot kiss. And he kissed her back.

  What the hell?

  About the Author

  Susanna Shore is a pen name for Tracy Hayes series of funny urban detective stories and Two-Natured London paranormal romance series. Susanna also writes contemporary romances with billionaires and intriguing heroines as Hannah Kane. When she is not writing, she is reading or—should her husband manage to drag her outdoors—taking long walks.

  Subscribe to Susanna’s newsletter to find out when the next Tracy Hayes book comes out. All new subscribers get a free Two-Natured London short story.

  Stay tuned for Tracy Hayes, P.I. and Proud coming up in January 2017.

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  Extract from Tracy Hayes, P.I. and Proud

  I was climbing out of a dumpster when I found the body. It was wedged between the wall and the large trash container, and couldn’t be seen except from where I was perched. A good thing, then, that I was there.

  Mind you, I hadn’t meant to be in the dumpster. I wasn’t dumpster diving—this time around. I wasn’t broke—at the moment anyway—or ecologically aware. I was a P.I.—well, an apprentice of one—and going through people’s trash was a viable method for finding evidence, so sooner or later I’d have to do that. But I wasn’t here for that either. Based on my experience today, I wasn’t looking forward to it.

  No, I’d climbed on the dumpster in order to reach the bottom rung of the fire escape ladder that was right above it. Being only five-foot-six, I needed the boost. Not that it had been easy to climb on the lid of the dumpster either, but I’d persevered.

  Then the damn thing had given up under me, plunging me into the smelly depths. The plastic trash bags had softened my landing, but quite a few of them had broken on impact. There was a wet spot on the bottom of my jeans, and what I hoped were coffee grounds in my sneaker. I really didn’t want to know what was clinging from my hair.

  Climbing out of the dumpster wasn’t any easier than climbing up on it. I’d managed to pull my upper half through the hatch and was taking a small rest, balancing on my stomach halfway in and out—not as comfortable as you might think—when I saw the dead woman. Only the legs were visible from my vantage point, but they were delicate and finely formed, and there were pretty high-heeled slippers on her feet, so I was certain it was a woman.

  I froze for a few heartbeats, not entirely believing my eyes. I’d never seen a body before, and I definitely hadn’t expected to see one here. Well, not a dead body anyway. I was trailing a cheating husband, and if I’d managed to climb up the fire escape and get a peek through the window, who knows what kind of body I might have seen.

  Then again: eww.

  More to the point, this wasn’t a back yard in a crime-infested slum. This was a respectable neighborhood, and the alley hosting the dumpster was closed in with a tall wire-net fencing and a locked gate. Dead bodies weren’t expected here.

  Recovering my senses, I dragged myself out of the dumpster, and after some maneuvering managed to drop on my feet without falling or tearing my clothes. Quite impressive, actually, for a woman with my physique.

  I took a quick stock of my appearance, but there wasn’t much I could do to improve it. I wiped my hands on the legs of my jeans—no change in their griminess—took off my sneaker to pour out the coffee grounds, picked out the icky stuff from my hair without looking at what it had been—the texture and smell made me think of fish skin—and noticed that I’d lost my butterfly hairclips in the dumpster.

  That upset me. I loved those hairclips. I’d paid dearly for those hairclips. I liked how they made my boss give me puzzled looks, as if he was wondering why he had hired a seven-year-old girl instead of a twenty-seven year old woman. But no way was I diving back in to fetch them. I’d sooner drive to Brownsville and buy new overpriced hairclips.

  Sighing for their loss, I dug my phone out of my only slightly dirty messenger bag. “I found a body,” I said the moment my call was answered.

  My boss was silent for a few heartbeats. “Did you call the police?”

  �
�No, I called you. I don’t know what to do.”

  “You call the police. That’s what you do when you find a body,” Jackson Dean said with a patient tone. He was good with that tone. I heard it often. I’d only begun as his apprentice at Jackson Dean Investigations three weeks ago, and I had a lot to learn.

  “I know that. I’m not an idiot, and I have two cops in my family. I called you because I’m not sure if I should be here when the police arrive or not.”

  He sighed. “Where are you?”

  “Somewhere in Gravesend.” It was at the southern end of Brooklyn, before Coney Island.

  “What the hell are you doing there?”

  “You told me to keep on that guy’s tail. He came here. I followed.”

  “And did you do anything illegal that would make it necessary that you’re not there when the police arrive?” I had to think about it and he groaned: “Tracy?”

  “Well, I’m in this side alley that’s closed with a locked gate,” I confessed. “But a woman came out of there and she kindly held the gate open for me.”

  “And where is the body?”

  “Behind the dumpster in the alley.”

  “The closed and locked alley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I guess you haven’t done anything illegal. Call the police. And don’t move. I’ll come fetch you.”

  The 61st Precinct wasn’t far and it didn’t take the first patrol car long to arrive. I was waiting by the locked gate ready to let the police in—and keep everyone else out. Two uniformed officers, one seasoned cop close to retirement and his much younger partner, came over to me, nodded, and then took an involuntary step back.

  “Sorry about the smell,” I said, embarrassed. “I fell in the dumpster.”

  “And how did that come about?” the older cop asked with a long-suffering voice.

  “I’m a P.I. It kind of comes with the job.” I wasn’t going to confess I’d been about to climb the fire escape to take a look through someone’s window. I was pretty sure that was illegal. Or at least seriously frowned upon.

  “Can I see some identification, please?”

  I dug out the laminated P.I. ID from my bag. I hadn’t had many chances to show it yet, so I felt excessively proud when I gave it to the cop, who studied it closely. In my current state I wasn’t sure I matched the photo.

  Then again, it was a bad photo.

  “Tracy Hayes.” He frowned. “I’m not sure I know of Jackson Dean.”

  “He used to be a homicide detective at the 70th.”

  That seemed to be good enough for him, because he gave the card back and asked me to show them the body. I took the men to the dumpster and pointed behind it, not looking myself. I really, really didn’t want to witness more than the feet I’d already seen.

  “Have you touched it?”

  “No.”

  Make that a hell no.

  It was dim in the alley, the tall buildings on both sides blocking much of the morning light. The older cop took out a heavy duty flashlight from his belt and leaned against the wall to point the beam at the body. He couldn’t get much closer than the feet without moving the dumpster, but it was close enough.

  He pulled back, looking ill. “Shit. Was the gate closed when you came?”

  “Yes.” Sort of.

  He sighed and addressed his partner. “Better call this in. Someone’s bashed the poor lady’s head in.” I fought the nausea his choice of words caused. The younger man took out his radio and the older guy gave me a grim look. “Hell of a way to start a Sunday, if you’ll pardon my French.”

  “At least you’re not covered in fish entrails.”

  That made him smile.

  He ushered me out of the alley but told me to wait for the detectives, so I leaned against the brick wall outside the fence. People were already gathering to stare, most of them in their Sunday best, having been on their way to church. No one came near me and I didn’t wonder it. I reeked.

  More patrol cars came, spewing out uniformed cops who began cordoning off the area. I showed them my P.I. card and told them I was the one who found the body, and they let me be.

  The forensics team arrived in their van. A man and a woman got out, put on their white disposable overalls, and carried their heavy kit to the crime scene. I watched them work with fascinated interest. I’d never been to a crime scene before and wanted to know everything.

  Finally a black Ford Edge pulled over behind the patrol cars, and to my utter delight my brother Trevor exited. When you’ve found your first body, family was exactly who you wanted to see. Especially if said family member was a homicide detective.

  Trevor was four years older than me, half a foot taller, and quite a bit more muscled. He also had nice strawberry-blond hair, and green eyes on a lightly-freckled, manly face, whereas my auburn hair came from a can and my blue eyes from Dad. My more feminine body came from Mom by way of various Brooklyn cafés. I’d worked years as a waitress, and free donuts had been one of the very few perks.

  The only perk, come to think of it.

  I don’t know which of us was more surprised to see the other. “What the hell, Tracy?” He looked more worried than angry when he leaned over to give me a hug, only to pull hastily back. “Whoa. What did you do, bathe in dead fish?”

  “I fell into a dumpster.”

  “Why am I not surprised. I take it was you who found the body, then?”

  “Yes.” I nodded a greeting at his partner, Detective Blair Kelley, a forty-something tall and commanding black woman, who had come in with Trevor. She nodded back from a safe distance, a small smile on her face.

  “So how come you’re here?” I asked my brother. “You work in the 70th.”

  “It’s Sunday. We don’t exactly keep homicide detectives on call in every precinct.”

  You learn something new every day.

  “Stay put. We’ll take a look at the crime scene, then you’re going to tell me everything.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Tracy Hayes, P.I and Proud is published in January 2017.

  Also by Susanna Shore

  The Wolf’s call. Two-natured London 1.

  “Are you trying to intimidate me, Mr Green?” she asked calmly, refusing to lean back.

  “Yes, I am,” he answered, his every word deliberate. He pressed his hands on the armrests of her chair and leaned closer to her face, never breaking the eye contact. “Is it working?” Closing in the short distance, he kissed her.

  Having been raised by humans-first parents, Charlotte Thornton is completely unprepared for a man like Raphael Green, a wolf-shifter. After a lifetime of controlling herself, the onslaught of emotions he causes in her, both lust and aggravation, seem like too much to handle. Unlike human men around her, Rafe is not weak. But neither is she, and Rafe is about to learn it. She finds herself drawn to him unlike any man before, only to learn that he won't date humans. But what if she weren’t a human?

  Rafe never thought he would pursue a human, let alone a woman as dominant as Charly, but his wolf side has other ideas. For a shifter, ignoring their beast’s choice is practically impossible, but he will try; his brother’s marriage is enough of a warning. But as he is drawn to her with a maddening lust, it becomes difficult to prevent his wolf from putting out its call for her. Then her life is threatened and everything changes.

  From the high-end neighbourhood of London to peaceful countryside, their enemies hunt them. Time for making up their minds is running out.

  Warrior’s heart. Two-Natured London 2.

  “Who the bloody hell are you, and why are you here?”

  When an apparent human-on-human shooting turns out to have non-human origins, vampire DI Philippa Audley is ordered to investigate. It would be easier, however, if she hadn’t been ordered to work with Jasper Grayson, one of the legendary vampire warriors of the Crimson Circle. An old-fashioned relic of a bygone era with very peculiar notions of what a woman can and can’t do is not an ideal partner for Phi
lppa who has made a life’s career of being the first vampire woman in everything. It doesn’t help either that her late father, a Circle warrior himself, was Jasper’s last partner.

  Jasper Grayson isn’t very accustomed to vampire women, let alone a woman as unique as Philippa who is used to giving orders and being obeyed. His Hunger compells him to protect her, but how is he to protect someone who refuses to listen to very reasonable commands to stay safe? And how is he to gain her trust when he is keeping a secret from her?

  Black magic is afoot and a deadly enemy to vampires forces the pair to find a way to work together. But will they be able to put aside the demons of the past for a shared future?

  A Wolf of Her Own. Two-Natured London 3.

  “You smell of pig.”

  “If you didn’t lean so close you wouldn’t have to smell it.”

  “If you didn't drive like a maniac, I wouldn’t have to lean so close.”

  When wolves kill Gemma’s sheep, she knows exactly who to blame: wolf-shifters of the Greenwood clan whose estate borders hers. But the first wolf she runs into denies their involvement. And he has the audacity to call her a liar. If she didn’t have to control her vampire nature, she would show him.

  Kieran’s brother had been shot as a sheep killer so when an enraged vampire accuses his clan of killing her sheep, he gets furious. Determined to prove her wrong, he sets out to find the killers. He has his clan to protect. But she won’t let him do it alone.

  The death of Kieran’s brother a ghost between them, their cooperation isn’t easy. As the killings continue, this time angering humans too, they have to find a way to see past their hurt to protect the clan. But it may well be that the biggest monster is already among them. Gemma’s control of her second nature is precarious. What happens when the monster gets free?

  Her Warrior for Eternity. Two-Natured London 4.

  A serial killer is on the loose in London and only the vampire warriors of the Crimson Circle know that renegade vampires are responsible. One night on a patrol, Jeremy Grayson saves a human woman from becoming the next victim. The chance meeting ignites his hunger, marking her as his mate. He needs to keep her safe, even if he can’t really explain to her why.