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

  Chapter Twelve

  Instead of a quick bite in one of the many eateries within walking distance of the agency, we got into Jackson’s car. He chose directions apparently at random, going a couple of blocks one way and five blocks another and then turning again.

  “Do you think we’re being followed?” I asked when I finally figured out what he was doing.

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  I only recognized where we were when he drove to Kensington, past the house where Suzy Collins lived. There wasn’t a black BMW outside it, but I hadn’t expected there to be. However, in the Jenkins’ driveway there was a sporty Audi.

  “I take it Mr. Jenkins is home,” I noted.

  “He’ll be coming over tomorrow, so we’ll have until then to figure out how to break the news to him.” He looked like he wasn’t looking forward to it either.

  He drove to 18th Avenue, which denoted the southern end of Kensington, and pulled over in front of an Irish slash sports bar. As close to my parents’ as it was, I’d never been there, but that wasn’t a surprise. I’d seldom had a chance to eat out when I was a waitress.

  It was a hole-in-the-wall eatery, long and fairly narrow, with cozy booths on the left and a long gleaming mahogany bar on the right, and even a small stage at the back. Sports were on the TV’s hanging from the ceiling, and the portions were large enough to please truck drivers. At lunch time, though, the clientele looked to be cops from the 70th Precinct that was only two blocks from the bar. And since it was where Trevor worked, I wasn’t surprised to find him there.

  He was sharing a booth with Detective Blair Kelley, his partner since he’d started in homicide. She was in her early forties and the senior in their partnership, a tall and rather formidable looking woman with a dark skin and short-cropped hair. Her severe manners were a stark opposite to my fairly easygoing brother, but they had always got along well. I’d met her a couple of times and liked her. Jackson knew her of old too, so no introductions were needed when we took seats in their booth.

  “I’m glad I ran into you,” I said to Trevor after we’d received our food—fairly good but pretty greasy. “Have you kept any contact with Suzy Collins?”

  He put a hand dramatically to his heart as if I’d stabbed him. “How can you mention her name?”

  Since six years hadn’t eased the pain of my husband’s betrayal, I wasn’t entirely sure he was funning, but I pressed on. “The reason I ask is that I want to know more about the guy she’s currently dating.”

  That caught his interest, so I told him what had happened earlier and that I’d met the guy the previous evening. He frowned when I was finished.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the man yesterday?”

  “I didn’t remember him. The events that followed kind of wiped him out of my mind.”

  He shook his head as a smile spread on his face. “You heard?” he asked Jackson.

  “Yes. I’m heartbroken.” He wiped an imaginary tear from his cheek.

  Detective Kelley cocked a questioning brow at me, so I told her about the great revelation. She would hear it eventually anyway, as partners tended to share things. “No one was heartbroken when I came out,” she said, amused. She had a nice, low voice that held a hint of command even in a casual conversation.

  “That’s because no one was surprised,” my brother said rather unhandsomely, but his partner just rolled her eyes. He returned to our original topic. “You’re saying Suzy might be dating a what, dog-napper?”

  I shrugged. “Possibly. Or maybe he’s in a more lucrative field of crime. The man drove a BMW X6.” It wasn’t exactly a cheap car. “And his accent was Jersey, as was Douglas’s.”

  Trevor nodded. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she was dating a mafia goon. Her first husband is serving time for drugs. He worked for that MacRath guy.” That caught Jackson’s interest too. “I’ll ask around. But you’ll owe me. It’s my ex we’re talking about.”

  “I understand. I wouldn’t go near my ex even for you.”

  He looked amused. “Oh? Then why are you here?”

  “What do you mean? Jackson brought us.” I gave my boss a questioning glance, but he shook his head, not knowing what Trevor was talking about either.

  “Take a look there.” Trevor nodded behind me towards the other end of the long mahogany bar and I turned around to look. At first I didn’t understand what he meant. There were a couple of uniforms standing in front of the bar, chatting with the guy behind it, but I didn’t know either of them. Then the bartender threw his head back and laughed, a raspy, joyous sound that I instantly recognized. My entire body froze.

  Scott Brady, my scumbag of an ex-husband.

  Seeing him for the first time since our divorce was a shock to my system I was utterly unprepared for. I wanted to flee, or hide, but since my body couldn’t decide which, I remained petrified on the spot. “Couldn’t you warn me?” I hissed at Trevor.

  “I thought you knew,” he said, but he had the good grace to look apologetic.

  “How the hell should I know? I haven’t paid any attention to him in years.” That wasn’t entirely true. I’d followed the success of his band, but it had broken up two years after we divorced, after which I’d lost track of him. He hadn’t tried to contact me either.

  Then I smiled, satisfied. “At least he’s working in a bar too.”

  My companions cleared their throats and glanced at each other. Jackson was the one who spoke. “Actually, he owns the bar.”

  Fury surged through me, instant and irrational. “We’re leaving.” I shot up and marched out, not looking back. I was waiting by the car before Jackson reached it. He had the good sense to not speak. He started the engine and we headed east.

  I fumed the entire ride. How dare Scott be more successful than me? Ex-spouses should be miserable after the divorce. But it had been me who had slaved in minimum wage jobs for years, trying to make ends meet.

  Not that it was much different from when we’d been married. What little the band had made had gone to keeping the tour going, accommodations in cheap motels, gas, food and car repair. When we divorced, Travis had been determined to get me my fair share of what I’d put in to the band’s success with my unpaid work, but since Scott had owned practically nothing, all I’d got was his car. I’d paid the deposit for my apartment with what little it fetched me.

  We were already in Brownsville before I calmed down and was able to concentrate on the matter at hand. It was a neighborhood that consisted mostly of public housing developments. People there were poor and—quite frankly—hopeless. It used to be the crime capital of New York, and the crime rates kept high there despite declining elsewhere in Brooklyn.

  “These kinds of neighborhoods are the reason I’d have preferred a sturdy guy for my apprentice instead of you,” Jackson said to me as he drove to our destination. I could only nod in answer. The place didn’t make me feel safe. Young men were loitering in street corners, their eyes keen as they watched us pass.

  However, when we finally pulled over, it was outside a neat redbrick school with a recently refurbished kid-sized yard for track and field, on a street where cars were much like Jackson’s, only newer. Low, redbrick apartment buildings lined the street on both sides, and the couple of hole-in-the-wall businesses there were looked fairly well maintained. Not scary at all.

  We were here to see Costa’s wife. “She should be the least likely person to keep him hidden,” Jackson noted when we entered her building.

  It was a good assumption—I’d definitely rat my ex out, especially after the revelation I’d just had—but I knew women.

  “Do they have children?”

  “Two.”

  “So who’ll pay the alimony if he’s behind bars?”

  Jackson gave me a long stare. “Fuck.”

  I grinned. “Let’s hope I’m wrong, then.”

  Jackson knocked on the door of Mrs. Costa’s apartment, twice, before it opened, and then only as far as the safety chain
allowed. A Hispanic woman in her late forties peeked out through the narrow gap and gave us a suspicious look. We couldn’t see into the apartment, but we heard two male voices murmuring in the background.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Costa? I’m Jackson Dean, a private investigator. I’m looking for your husband.”

  The voices in the apartment cut.

  “He’s not here.”

  “He’s failed to appear in court. Where might we find him so he can reschedule?”

  “How should I know? But wherever he is, he’d better be getting me my money.”

  “Alimony payment?” Jackson glanced at me from the corner of his eye.

  She gave a derisive snort. “He hasn’t paid a penny in alimony. No, he’s hidden the stash from his latest robbery. He’d better stay free until he’s paid me what he owes.”

  “But you don’t know where he’s hidden it?”

  “If I did, I’d be there myself.”

  “Well, here’s my card in case he fails to find the money and you want to give us a call,” Jackson said, digging out a business card from the pocket of his jacket. I was instantly envious of it. I wanted my own business cards too. Mrs. Costa took the card and then slammed the door in our faces without a word.

  “That went well.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I take it we’re going to keep an eye on her apartment?” I said to Jackson when we were back at the car.

  “So you heard the voices too?” When I nodded, he smiled. “Good. Always keep an eye and ear on details like that.”

  “Couldn’t we just have gone in and checked?”

  “Only if we had the visual of him. Without it we only have the right to enter the home of the fugitive, not other people, unless we have a warrant. Which you would know if you’d read the material I gave you.” He shot me a meaningful look and I tried to look chastised.

  “Mrs. Costa must’ve known it,” I noted. “She stood so carefully blocking our view.”

  “Could be.”

  We settled down to wait, mostly in silence. Jackson retreated into his zone, and without anything more important to distract me, I continued my seething.

  I had a lot to seethe about, like how dare Scott look better than when we were married. He was seven years older than me, he should show it. But men only improved as they aged, didn’t they. Scott was more built now—he’d had lean, ropey muscles before—and his face had acquired rugged character, which was only emphasized by stubble on his cheeks and his mop of dark blond hair. He’d had long hair when we were married. I tried to find satisfaction in the fact that he wasn’t a successful rock star, but even that didn’t help.

  “You don’t have an ex-wife, do you, or you’d show more sympathy,” I huffed when I couldn’t keep it in anymore. “Or you have one, but you parted as ‘friends’.” The disdainful quotes were clear in my tone. “Maybe you even see each other from time to time for a cup of coffee.” But Jackson only smiled, which aggravated me more. “And how dare Trevor keep this a secret from me?”

  Come to think of it, that probably infuriated me the most.

  “He didn’t have a reason to believe you’d ever end up in that bar.”

  “That’s not the point. He had news about my ex. He should’ve shared.”

  I wallowed in my misery and anger until a more pressing topic began to occupy my mind. “What if I need to use the bathroom?”

  I probably shouldn’t have had that ice tea with lunch, or I should’ve at least used the restroom before leaving the bar. But that hadn’t been an option, had it.

  And whose fault was that? Scott’s.

  Jackson shrugged. “You suffer.” Then a slow smile spread on his face. “Unless you’re a guy. We can use empty bottles and cups.”

  Great.

  An excruciatingly long half hour later I had to admit defeat. “I need to go.” I was out of the car before he could say anything. I quick-marched to the only place nearby that I judged would have a toilet for customers, a hair salon.

  “Can I please, please, please use your toilet?” I jumped on the balls of my feet to indicate the urgency.

  The hairdresser, a large Jamaican woman in a colorful tie-dyed shirt and cornrows that reached to her buttocks, gave me a long look.

  “The toilet is for customers only. Are you a customer?” She had a heavy Jamaican accent too.

  “I could be.” I looked around. The posters on the walls showed elaborate styles for African hair that my thin hair simply wouldn’t turn to. “I might look good in cornrows,” I said hesitantly. “But I don’t really have time for them now.”

  “Perhaps you could buy a nice hairclip, then,” the woman suggested. She indicated a rack where all sorts of accessories were hanging.

  “Yes, I would like one of those. But can I use the bathroom first?”

  “Buy first.”

  My decision-making skills were at zero, all my brain-power focused on more pressing matters in my lower abdomen, but I went to the rack and scanned the wares as fast as I could.

  “I’d like that butterfly hairclip,” I said, pointing at random to a clip that had a large colorful butterfly made of chiffon and wire on it.

  “Excellent choice. Let me get it for you.”

  I swear glaciers moved faster than her. I was almost crying before she had taken the hairclip down. “That’ll be five dollars.”

  “That’s a bit excessive for a hairclip.”

  “Do you want to haggle or do you want to use the toilet?”

  I saw the wisdom of her question and dug out a bill from my pocket. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you. Now perhaps you’ll allow me to adjust it to its place?”

  “Okay, but hurry.”

  But of course she wouldn’t hurry. With deliberate movements, she lifted my bangs and secured them on my right temple with the hairclip. “There. The toilet is that way,” she drawled. She nodded towards the back, causing the beads in her cornrows to click.

  I barely smiled in thanks as I rushed to my appointment. Much relieved, I emerged a little later. “Thank you. You’re a life-saver.”

  “Am I now,” she quizzed me with a smile. “Welcome back,” she said as her parting words. I exited the salon and strode towards where I’d left Jackson.

  He wasn’t there.

  I turned around, baffled. Then I turned again, more slowly this time, but the street remained empty of a steel gray Toyota Camry and a dark-haired private detective. Just in case though, I made one more turn.

  Nothing.

  I’d been gone for longer than I’d anticipated—at the time it had felt like eons—but actually less than ten minutes. Surely he could have waited?

  Of course he could. So something must have happened.

  My stomach plunged in worry. My hands shaking a little, I dug out my new phone from my messenger bag—it was at the bottom—typical—and called him. He had the speaker on and I could hear the noise of the car engine in the background.

  “I’m following Costa. He came out and took off in a car. I couldn’t wait for you. Go back to the office. I’ll meet you there.” He sounded purposeful and not at all like he was sorry for abandoning me, but since I probably would’ve done the same to him, I shrugged it off.

  However, that left me with the daunting task of navigating the neighborhood alone—and on foot too. I had no idea where the nearest subway station was, or where the busses here would go. I was as good as lost.

  Sighing, I returned to the hair salon.

  Five minutes later, the reluctant owner of another overpriced hairclip, I was on my way to the nearest station. It turned out to be five blocks to the north through the less scary part of Brownsville, and no one gave me any trouble.

  Relatively short though the walk was, the day was too hot for it, and I was parched by the time I reached the station. So I took a moment to sit down in a café nearby and enjoyed a cold drink. I even had a muffin.

  What? I was hungry. My lunch had been interrupted.
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  That brought Scott back to my mind, but I felt too good to let him trouble me for long. I could get used to this setting my own schedule thing. Besides, I looked kind of nice with the colorful butterflies on my temple, so I had that going for me too.

  The subway train car was fairly empty when I hopped in and I got a seat. In the time-honored fashion of commute travelling, I kept my eyes at my feet or on the adverts, and not on people around me. But when the passengers milled in and out at the next station I glanced up—and saw Costa enter the car.

  I froze in baffled indecision. Hadn’t Jackson said he was following him? Was he mistaken, or had Costa managed to give him the slip? Had Costa hurt Jackson to escape?

  My gut clenched at the last thought.

  Costa didn’t look my way. He likely wouldn’t have recognized me even if he had—our encounter had been brief—but I busied myself with digging out my phone from my bag, keeping my head low. Since there was no reception, I couldn’t call my boss to ask if he was okay, so I sent him a text. He would get it as soon as there was a connection again, hopefully at the next station. Until then, I would stay on Costa’s tail.

  Costa didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get off, nor did he look like a man who suspected he was being followed. He sat at the front of the car, not looking at anyone, but his fierce face made sure no one went close to him.

  I clutched my phone, ready to send Jackson new information the moment something happened, but nothing did. At least my texts—in plural—seemed to send, so I was hopeful that Jackson knew where we were, and could follow us above ground.

  When Costa finally got off the train, it was at Bergen Street station, the station I’d been travelling to, the one right outside the agency. The destination really baffled me. Was he turning himself in? But why here, at the 78th Precinct, when there were stations closer to him?

  I kept on his tail up the stairs to the street, proud of how casually I managed it without raising his suspicions—not that it was difficult with so many people about. I was so sure he’d head to the police station that when he chose the opposite direction I almost didn’t follow. He wasn’t going far, however. I had to blink a few times to understand where he’d gone.