Tracy Hayes, P.I. and Proud (P.I. Tracy Hayes 2) Page 5

  “At…” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Six-thirty in the morning? Are you insane?”

  Having managed to pull the reverse of my nightmare, I beamed at him. “If I don’t do it early, I’ll never do it.”

  “This is somehow my fault, isn’t it?” he asked, rubbing his face with both hands, which only managed to make him look more bleary-eyed. I’d never seen my boss so out of balance before.

  “Sure is. You shouldn’t have given me those condemning glances whenever you spoke of running.”

  Since he couldn’t deny he’d done that, he retreated to the foyer and disappeared upstairs. Five minutes later we were out the door—men could dress up really fast when they had to—and heading on foot to Marine Park that started right at the southern end of his street.

  “You’re not wearing spandex,” I observed when we reached the park and the path that started at the corner there. He had opted for more traditional light grey sweatpants and a cotton T-shirt—white, to my surprise. I wouldn’t have thought he owned shirts in other color than black. His running shoes were similar to mine though, but well-used. He must run often.

  “Or whatever this material is,” I added, tugging my shirt.

  “God forbid.”

  “Pity. Look how nice that guy’s abs look in it.”

  And the back view was even better, I noticed, after he’d passed us, the tight shorts giving him a nice butt-lift. Or it could be his muscles were actually that tight. Maybe there was something to be said for jogging after all. And definitely for spandex. Or whatever.

  Jackson only huffed. “Have you done any exercising lately?”

  “Define lately.”

  “O-kay…”

  He started to run, setting a pace that was easy for me to keep up with, despite the fact that his legs were much longer than mine. But I managed maybe five hundred yards before I had to cry for a pause. Black spots were dancing in my eyes and I leaned my hands against my knees, but he wouldn’t let me stop.

  “Keep walking until you can breathe again.”

  I groaned but obeyed. Another five hundred yards later he began to run again, and I followed. We kept alternating between walking and running, although the running bits were getting shorter and my groaning louder whenever I had to switch from walking. With me bitching the entire time, threatening to do bad things to him the moment I caught my breath, we rounded the park—or the shortest path there.

  “Okay, great start,” he told me when we reached the corner of the park where we’d started from, smiling, as if I hadn’t made the exercise a hell on Earth for him. “Tomorrow we’ll do this again.”

  “Nooooo…”

  “Do I have to come and fetch you?” he asked sternly. Now that I’d opened this particular Pandora’s Box, there clearly was no closing it. But I was sorely regretting my initiative already. Not even spandex made the exercising fun.

  Fine, Lycra.

  Having him fetch me would be too much like in my nightmare, so I shook my head. “I’ll be there.”

  “But maybe after seven?” I agreed to that, willingly. “Now, since I’m here, I think I’ll run a few rounds more. You can find the way back to the car?” He pointed toward his street.

  “Of course.” I waited until he had disappeared around a bend—running three times faster than with me—before limping to my car.

  Jonny Moreira was leaning against it.

  My determined limping didn’t falter I’m proud to say. It should’ve though, because he was intimidating. He was in his early thirties and six-foot-three of looming muscle. His shoulders were almost too wide for his tailor-made suit jacket; his black hair was combed back and his dark eyes were set deep in an angular face. He looked like a mafia goon, which in itself wasn’t a reason to be wary of him.

  That he actually was a henchman to a New Jersey drug lord who’d recently set shop in Brooklyn, however, was.

  “Did you have a good run?” he asked with a hint of a smile, straightening up when I reached him. He had a deep voice and a slight Jersey accent.

  “How do you know I’ve been out running?” When he gave a meaningful look at my outfit, I amended: “How did you know I’d be running here?”

  “I followed you from your home.”

  The matter of fact statement froze me. “I didn’t notice you.”

  “I’m good.”

  “Right…” He actually was though. This wasn’t the first time he’d managed to follow me without me being any wiser. “Then why didn’t you talk to me there?”

  “You were too busy getting into your car. I wasn’t fast enough.”

  “It was cold.”

  That made him smile. “I didn’t take you for a runner.” Since he’d actually witnessed me chasing after a fugitive, he made a solid point.

  “I wasn’t. But then I learned that my ex-husband is married to a Barbie doll.” I don’t know why I confessed him that.

  He snorted a laugh. “That would do it. Get in the car, we need to talk.”

  “I’m not getting into a car with you ever again.” The last time I’d been held at gunpoint. Not a fond memory.

  He shook his head, exasperated. “You’ll freeze to death in that outfit. Get in the car. I’ll stand out here.”

  That sounded better, and since I was actually getting cold—the morning hadn’t warmed yet and I was sweaty—I did so. I lowered the window. “What do you want?”

  He leaned against the hood, idly scanning the street for threats. He likely couldn’t help it.

  “I want to know who killed Sheila Rinaldi.”

  “What?”

  He gave me a calm look. “I’ve seen the police report. You were there.”

  “With the risk of repeating myself … what? How?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “There are more crooked cops than Lonnie Peters?”

  Lonnie had actually been fired when it turned out he’d been working for Craig Douglas, and the previous drug lord too. He was awaiting trial.

  He huffed. “He was nothing.” I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Well, if you’ve seen the reports you know more than I do. I only found the body.”

  “You were in her apartment. What was in there?”

  His voice was really intense, so I frowned, curious. “Why do you want to know?”

  “She was my cousin.”

  I pulled back in surprise. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said automatically.

  “Sorry doesn’t bring me her murderer.” His dark brows furrowed in sorrow and anger.

  “Can’t you just let the police do their job?”

  “I don’t trust the police.”

  “Not all of them are in the pocket of the mafia.”

  “I’m not in the mafia,” he said, exasperated.

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “Craig Douglas is a legitimate businessman.”

  “Who just buys cops for fun?”

  “Lonnie Peters was MacRath’s man. We just took advantage of him.”

  “Right…”

  “Will you help me or what?”

  “I don’t know what you think I can do that the police can’t. And it’s my brother in charge of the investigation. He’s good.”

  Moreira growled. “Was it her husband who killed her?”

  “Larry Williams?”

  “How many husbands do you think she had?”

  “I don’t know. But Larry definitely had more than one wife.”

  He pressed his fists against the hood and pushed with such angry force I feared he’d dent it.

  “I’ll kill him.”

  “There’s no killing of anyone if you want me to help you.”

  “Was. It. Him?”

  “No.”

  He pulled back. “Just like that? Even though the police have him in custody?”

  “We have his whereabouts for most of the night, but it’s more a gut feeling,” I confessed. “Couldn’t it have been one of your people?”

 
; “My people?”

  “You know, mafia. Isn’t yours a family business?”

  “I’m not in the mafia, for fuck’s sake.”

  “You’re not exactly a Boy Scout either. You’re a drug dealer.” And I’d do well to remember it. “Maybe you have an uncle or a cousin who got her involved in something she shouldn’t have and this was payback?”

  Moreira pinched the bridge of his nose, curbing his anger. “Sheila was a good girl. She worked at the Aqueduct Racetrack booking office and didn’t have so much as a speeding ticket.”

  “Is that where she met Larry?”

  “What?”

  “His wife—the other wife who hired us in the first place—told us he liked to go to the racetrack, but she didn’t believe him.”

  “I don’t know how they met.”

  “How long had they been married?”

  “Six months or so.”

  “Was there anyone significant before Larry?”

  “Why, you think the previous guy would’ve killed her? After all this time?”

  “I’ve been divorced for six years and I still want to kill my ex. Although I’d much rather kill his current wife.”

  A smile ghosted on his lips. “I guess it’s worth checking out. I’ll let you know.”

  He turned to leave, but paused and then straightened to his full height. I reached my head out of the car window to see what kind of threat he had spotted and all but hit my head in my haste to pull back. Scott. He was in a bathrobe that gave me a glimpse of his sculpted chest, and wearing slippers, and his hair was messier than ever. He looked good enough to eat.

  “Is everything all right, Tracy?” His voice was full of concern and he ignored Moreira completely. Impressive and foolish.

  “Of course,” I snapped, annoyed both for his interruption and my reaction to him. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I thought maybe he wouldn’t let you leave.” He nodded toward Moreira, straightening and assessing him. Moreira just smiled.

  “We were having a chat. And he may be big, but even he can’t win against a car. If I wanted to leave, I would’ve.”

  “You two know each other?”

  “Yes, we do. He’s my…” And again the urge to flaunt a nonexistent boyfriend before Scott was almost a physical force. But I rallied. “Client,” I managed to say. “And this is a private conversation, if you don’t mind.”

  Scott shot a searching glance at me, and then Moreira, who had resumed his calm pose against my car. “Okay. Yell if you need help.”

  I made a face at his retreating back. “You’re the last person I’ll need for anything,” I muttered.

  “Let me guess. The ex-husband?” Moreira asked, amused.

  “Yes.”

  “I’d want to kill him too if I were you.”

  “There’ll be no killing of anyone.” But he just grinned and turned to head to his car. “Thanks for the lockpicks,” I shouted after him, and he lifted his hand in acknowledgement.

  Chapter Nine

  After the encounter with Moreira, I couldn’t just leave, so I settled down to wait. Jackson returned a few minutes later, jogging at a steady pace, but he almost tripped in surprise when he saw me on his porch.

  “What are you still doing here?” He went past me to open his front door. He wasn’t even winded after his run, the showoff. I made to follow him in.

  “Moreira was waiting for me.”

  That made him pause on the threshold, blocking my way so suddenly I almost bumped into him. “Ah. I’d hoped he’d left by then.”

  “You knew he was there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And didn’t tell me?” I asked incredulous. The two of them didn’t exactly see eye to eye, and I would’ve thought he’d warn me.

  “I thought you knew.”

  “Well, I didn’t. But never mind that.” I waved my hand dismissively to get back to business. “We need to talk.”

  He cocked a brow. “Is it the kind of talk that can’t wait until I’ve showered and maybe had some breakfast?”

  Since I desperately needed both myself, I shook my head. “I guess we can talk at the office.”

  “Excellent. See you there.” And he disappeared through his door.

  “Nice abs,” I yelled after him, having spied them through the sweaty T-shirt that hugged his stomach. In a considerably better mood, I got into my car and drove home.

  After the shower and breakfast I’d regained enough energy to tackle Jarod out of bed. I’d never had to wake him up before—he seemed to get by with a minimum of sleep—but the first day of the term turned out to be different. I couldn’t really blame him. The mere thought of returning to college, like my family wanted me to, was enough to break me out in hives.

  “I don’t want to go,” he groaned as I pulled him up by his arms.

  “Tough. Now put on your nice new clothes, comb your hair, and get going.” If I sounded like my mother, I couldn’t help it. It took some more coaxing and an extra-large mug of coffee, but I managed to push him out of the door in time.

  Wiping my brow, I was leaning against the closed door, catching—figuratively—my breath, when an envelope was pushed underneath it. I stared baffled at the white rectangle at my feet for so long that when I finally thought to check who had delivered it, the hallway was empty.

  I picked up the envelope and opened it. I read the contents, and my entire being froze and then boiled up. I read it again, getting even angrier on the second go. Furious now, and in desperate need of a clearer head, I called my brother Travis.

  Travis was the oldest of the four of us, eight years older than me. He was the most successful of us too, or would be once he got his political career going. For now he was a defense attorney at the Brooklyn Defender Service, helping criminals without means. He wasn’t a philanthropist by nature, but he’d married rich, so he could afford it and still have the lifestyle of a business lawyer. Plus, it would look good in his resume when he entered into politics.

  “Are you busy?”

  “I’m always busy, you know that,” he said slightly irritated.

  “But can you talk?”

  “Yes, I’m at the office.” It was only a little past eight, but I wasn’t surprised. On top of being overworked he had four-year-old twin boys at home. I’d spend as much time at work as possible too if I had to live with Damiens 1 and 2.

  “What’s up?”

  “My landlord just sent me a notice that the rent will go up by five hundred dollars.” Saying it aloud made my blood pressure rise.

  “That’s excessive.”

  “And also, you know, illegal. This is a rent stabilized apartment.”

  “Did he give you a reason?”

  “Yes. Because there’s a new tenant in the apartment the old lease isn’t valid anymore. But this is my apartment. The lease is in my name. Aren’t I allowed to decide who lives here?”

  He sighed. “I’ll look into it, though this isn’t exactly my area of expertise. Can you get the notice and your current lease for me?”

  “I can drop them on my way to work.”

  Driving in the Monday morning rush was a less pleasant experience than cruising on the Sunday-empty streets. It didn’t help that I was seething already when I got in the car. I was yelling profanities and making rude hand gestures before I was past Prospect Park, and my shoulders were so stiff from angrily squeezing the steering wheel I feared I’d lose blood flow to my brain.

  Brooklyn Defender Services was in Downtown, on the seventh floor of an ordinary office building. Parking was in a multi-story garage across the street, so I didn’t have to stress about that, although the line into the garage at that time of morning was staggering. It took me a while to find a free spot.

  It wasn’t yet nine when I arrived at the Defender Services’ offices and found the doors locked. I called Travis, and a moment later a secretary in her early forties came to let me in. She gave me a curious look, took in my jeans and T-shirt, and all but rolled her
eyes. She did roll her eyes when she checked my P.I. ID. I got the notion that my showing up hadn’t improved Travis’s standing in the office.

  I hadn’t been here before and I studied the place curious when I followed the woman to Travis’s office at the other end of a long hallway. It was bland—beige walls and vomit color carpets—and Travis’s office was small—and bland. This was a government agency, after all. What space there was in his room was crammed with bookshelves full of ring binders and law books. It was impossible to see the top of his desk for all the papers on it.

  “I guess you weren’t kidding when you said you’re overworked,” I said dryly when the secretary had left us, getting in.

  He rounded his desk to come and give me a hug. He was tall, with a lean, athletic body—he’d put himself through college with a varsity scholarship—and Dad’s looks and dark coloring—well, before Dad went gray. He took himself a bit too seriously for my tastes, and the age difference had ensured we weren’t terribly close, but he was my brother and I knew he’d stand up for me.

  “I only have a moment before my first client shows up.”

  “I don’t need long. Here are the documents.” I handed him the papers and he gave them a cursory look. “Do you think you can make him change his mind?”

  “I can’t say until I’ve looked these through.”

  “Just don’t lose them in all this,” I said in mock horror, waving at his desk, and he smiled.

  “I have a system.”

  His intercom beeped and the secretary spoke: “A Mrs. Williams for you.”

  I perked. “Hannah Williams?” Williams was a common name, but surely they wouldn’t all need legal assistance at the same time.

  Travis checked his appointment book. “Yes. Do you know her?”

  “She’s our client. Or was, until her husband we were hired to track was arrested for murder yesterday. And possibly for bigamy too. But she doesn’t know about the latter yet,” I added hastily, “so don’t tell her.”

  Travis frowned and then pressed the intercom button. “Five minutes,” he said to his secretary. And then back to me: “Talk.”

  I gave him as concise a version as I could of what had happened the previous day. I left out the unfortunate incident with the dumpster though—to save time, naturally—even if Travis could probably have used a good laugh. He listened attentively and only asked questions when I’d finished.