by Alan Lee
Good Girl
Alan Lee
Good Girl
by Alan Lee
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 Alan Janney
First Edition
Printed in USA
Cover by Sweet ’N Spicy
Sparkle Press
Created with Vellum
Contents
Dedication
Author’s Note
A Temporary Peace
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Final Note
For Megan
Better family than I deserve
Author’s Note
Anterograde amnesia is a real disorder. Other than leveraging artistic license to extend memory loss before the incident, I’ve done my best to be true to its complications.
A temporary peace was by these means produced; but it proved only a calm before a more violent storm.
-William Russell
1
January 2nd.
Ankles crossed on the desktop.
The devil may care, but not I—I get dirt on my workspace when I please.
Steely eyes fixed on the computer screen.
Emails? Answered.
Scotch? Sipped. Barely. Then replaced in the drawer.
First day back in the office since overthrowing villainous regimes in Italy. And since recovering for a month. Because toppling regimes hurt.
I missed forty days of work and the commiserating income, but I wasn’t worried. For one thing, I was married now and my doting wife had money and no qualms about disbursement. Not the most talented nurse, perhaps, but certainly the most affectionate and lavish. And second, I won a tournament in Italy and had been promised part of the winnings. To the victor goes the spoils, they told me, even though I burned down their house.
I didn’t know how soon to expect payment, however. Just in case, I wasn’t spending any of it. But I was declining a larger percentage of requests for my services than was financially responsible.
Because I didn’t want to serve warrants.
I didn’t want to locate lost spouses.
I didn’t want to hide out in a car with a camera.
I enjoyed these and other mundane tasks to an extent. But at the moment, scrolling through my inbox, much of it struck me as banal. I could handle banality in February. Why else have a February? But not on January 2nd, for heaven’s sake. It was a new year. I required stimulation and challenge.
The stairs outside my office door groaned, wooden slats creaking with use. Ah hah! Stimulation. A man leaned into my open doorway. Couldn’t see him from the waist down. Hard looking guy, hair cut close, his face all sharp angles. Jacket but no collar. With his left hand, he knocked on my doorframe.
I stood.
“How you doin,” he said. “Looking for Mack August. Got a job I need help with. You him?”
I picked up the Kimber 1911 pistol from my desktop. Clicked the hammer back and aimed the barrel at him.
“Contract’s off,” I said.
He didn’t flinch. His face didn’t pale. But he did look…disappointed. “Contract’s off?”
“Check the database. Contract’s off.”
I referenced a bounty placed on my head by Darren Robbins. A hundred grand. He’d canceled the contract last month, but some of these mercenaries set up their account to only be alerted if the contract gets fulfilled, not canceled. Or else they miss the alert. For a hundred grand, they’ll swing by Roanoke every few days and look to see if a light’s on in the office. As part of the underworld code, a hit at home is off limits. Cause they’re sweethearts. With databases.
The guy made a sniffing noise. “How’d you know? Who I was, I mean.”
“You have a neck tattoo. No one with a heart of gold has a neck tattoo. Plus your accent isn’t from Roanoke. Plus guys like you don’t hire guys like me. Plus you hid your gun hand.”
“Son of a bitch.” He mumbled, referring to himself. I hoped. He raised up and returned the pistol to a holster behind his back. A hitman—but not a good one. “Waited all this time, got’damn it. Contract belonged to Robbins, right? Why’d that bastard cancel?”
“I told him if he didn’t, I would feed him to his cat.”
“Oh.”
“But here’s the best part—I’m going to kill him anyway."
He grinned. Wasn’t a good look. “Want me to do it?”
“Negative.”
“Why not?”
“You suck at this.”
“Hell I do.” Stood up a little straighter. “I’m a pro, guy.”
“You just put your gun away.” I waggled the Kimber. “While mine is still out and pointed at you. Kinda forecloses the pro argument. What if I was lying about the contract?”
Now his faced paled a little. “Shit.”
“Uh huh.”
“Were you? Lying?”
“I was not. But that doesn’t change facts. Which are, you suck at this.”
“Whatever, guy. I’m going,” he said.
“Tell your friends. Contract’s off.”
“My friends?”
“You’re the second today to show up. It’s not even lunch. You idiots need to do your homework.”
The guy made a sniffing noise again. Glared some. Left. The stairs groaning under his descent.
Darren Robbins. I was going to shoot him. A lot. Starting with his pinky toe. I set the gun on the desktop, feeling punchy. That was the wrong kind of stimulation.
Called for another shot of Johnny Walker Blue, though.
Thirty minutes later, as my anger burned off, the door opened on the main level and the stairs heralded another visitor. I placed my hand on the Kimber. I might just shoot this one.
A woman entered.
Gun down. I do not shoot women. Because I am a hero.
Also, for the most part, they don’t shoot me.
She looked sheepish—unsure if this was the right place and unsure if private investigators were real people and unsure how to begin. Maybe fifty, fifty-five. Strong, like she worked for a living. Twill jeans that weren’t new, weren’t old. Not tight but not baggy. A cotton v-neck sweatshirt worn under a brown cardigan. Modish leather boots, low heel. No rings or other jewelry. She had faint lines at her eyes and lips—no plastic surgery, no makeup. Her arms were crossed and she was a little hunched against the cold.
“Mr. August?”
I stood. “Yes.”
Embarrassed smile. “Do you have a moment?”
“For you, I have the best moments. Please come in
.”
She did. Glancing around, arms still crossed. A defensive posture. Looked at my bookshelves. Admired my potpourri.
I assume.
She asked, “You are for hire? Did I say that right?”
“I am and you did.”
“You do all…I mean, I guess, I should say, what kinds of things do you do?”
“Things other people would rather not.”
“Oh.”
I nodded impressively. “Think of me like a police officer. But one you can have personally.”
“Okay. That’s what I was… Okay good.” Her mind was made.
“Indeed."
“I’m Rose Bridges.” She didn’t offer her hand so I didn’t either. A gentleman only shakes if the woman offers. “I’m here on behalf of someone who would like to speak with you. Is that okay, Mr. August?”
I indicated my chair. I sat. She sat. I nodded encouragingly.
“He could probably come himself, but this way is easier,” she said. “Ulysses Steinbeck. Do you know him?”
Holy moly. What a name. Liked him already.
“Should I?”
She said, “Probably not. He was in the news a few years ago, and used to be a respected man about town. I was only curious.”
“What event warranted his appearance in the news?”
“A bad car crash. That’s part of the reason it’s easier if you go see him.” She withdrew a single check from her cardigan pocket. Didn’t know what to do with it then. Pushed some of her hair behind her ear. Red hair on the verge of gray. “We’ll pay you for your time. Of course.”
“What relationship do you have to Ulysses?”
“I…I’m his caretaker.”
“Full-time?”
“Yes. I live with him.”
“Is he paying me or are you?”
“It’s his money.”
“What for?”
“What for?” she repeated.
“I mean, why does he wish to speak with me?”
“Oh. Yes, sorry, Mr. August. He needs your help.”
“Help with…?”
“Well…” She laid the check on my desk and pushed it across. It was blank except for the signature. Holy moly, I liked him even more. Rose wore no fingernail polish. “You see, Mr. August, that’s the thing. We don’t know. He doesn’t know.”
“He doesn’t know why he needs my help?”
“No…um, kind of. See, it’s complicated. It’s…he needs help finding something. But he’s not sure why, and…”
“Am I making you nervous, Ms. Bridges? I can close my eyes. They’re steely, I know.”
“No.” She smiled and seemed to relax a little. Shoulders lost some tension. “It’s just, the situation is complex. His situation is complex, too. I’m only here on his behalf and I don’t know the best way to articulate it. And…it’d really be much better if you spoke with him. It’s not a matter for the police and it’s not a matter for us, and so…” She shrugged and almost indicated me with her hands. “Does that make sense?”
“It does. You adumbrated my entire career. How soon?”
“Soon as you can.”
“Tomorrow morning?”
She smiled. Not embarrassed. More like relieved. “That’d be great.”
“Where?”
“His home, please. I’ll write down the address.”
She did. I almost whistled. As it happened, Ulysses lived on my favorite street in Roanoke. This Ulysses fellow was hewing toward supernal.
I indicated the check. “How about I make this out for two hours of my time? Then we’ll see.”
“Yes, okay.”
“Give me a hint, Ms. Bridges. About what I’m getting into. You said the situation is complex and so is his condition. How so?”
“To put it bluntly, Mr. August,” she said. Took a deep breath. “He has a form of amnesia.”
“Amnesia,” I said.
Brilliant detectives always repeat stuff.
“He needs you to find something. A dog. But he doesn’t know why. He forgot. In fact, he hates dogs. But for reasons that you’ll discover, we both think the dog is important.”
“A dog.”
“Yes.”
“An important one.”
She nodded. Eyes a little wide. “Very. You’ll see.”
“Dogs usually aren’t important.”
“He agrees. But he writes ‘Find the dog’ in his journal every day and he doesn’t know why. If it’s a dog even a man with amnesia remembers, then maybe it is?”
“Artfully phrased.” I didn’t tell her, because it might sound perverse and lurid, but I was stimulated.
January 2nd. Looking good already.
2
That evening I made lasagna.
I used bacon and Italian sausage and ground beef. Also, and here was the kicker, I made the noodles out of mozzarella cheese and almond flour and cream cheese. No carbs that way, because my ineffable roommate was terrified of them.
Check that. Housemate. Not roommate.
We were evolving.
Kix rode in an ObiMama sling, strapped to my back. Was he too big for this? Probably. But I wanted to wring all the babyhood possible out of my son before sending him off to college.
He pointed at sizzling pans and shouted things.
You’re burning the Italian sausage.
“Yes, I see.”
Drain the ground beef, you maniac.
“I’ll drain the beef but I’m keeping the bacon grease. It’s good for you.”
That cannot possibly be true.
He threw his bottle in protest. Good thing; he’d been banging it against my shoulders.
Pick that up.
“I’m not picking it up.”
Pick that up this INSTANT.
Instead, I turned on jazz—Coltrane.
Sheriff Stackhouse arrived first, just after six. She wore official law enforcement garb today. Hard to make khaki look that alluring. Most days she looked like a soap opera star playing the role of sheriff. Tonight she looked like a soap opera star playing the role of an airplane crash survivor. Usually she kissed my cheek, which I enjoyed, but today she only squeezed my arm. Still nice. Without speaking she opened one of the bottles of wine she kept next to the fridge—red blends, under twenty dollars a bottle—poured herself a glass and sat on a leather couch in the living room and closed her eyes.
I slid two trays of lasagna into the oven. Started running hot water.
“On the bright side,” I told Stackhouse. “You still look good.”
“Not for much longer.” Eyes remained closed. She undid her belt, winced and shifted for more comfort. Drank some wine. “I’m getting too old for this.”
“Were you forced to shoot a hostage? That’d really ruin my day, I was you.”
She half-smiled. “I don’t mind the violence. It’s the political maneuverings. Nothing but meetings with do-gooders, all of whom have the best ideas how to fix crime and also slash our budget.”
“When you say best, do you mean—”
“I mean the worst ideas you can imagine.”
“I was afraid you might.”
Stackhouse said, “Free mental health care for the homeless. She’s convinced all the local counselors will do the work pro bono. My ass.”
Kix shouted for his bottle of juice. I put him in his playpen. He shouted some more. Adolescence starting early.
My old man Timothy August came next. Handsome guy, streaks of gray, could be a news anchor. All his hair, trustworthy eyes. He entered without comment, same as his paramour. Tie already loose. He sat next to her, picked up her legs, and laid them across his lap. I brought him a glass of cabernet sauvignon—sixty dollars a bottle.
He took the glass. “I knew there was a reason we birthed you.”
“Plus easing the burden of existential angst.”
I changed the channel from the news to ESPN. No reason to release more pain and animus into the house.
Manny returned h
ome soon, along with one of his co-workers, Noelle Beck. She was coming around more, though clearly proceeding on a platonic plank. Tall and trim. Light brown hair worn in a mousy bun, always. She wore black Rockports, a neat navy suit, no tie, white shirt buttoned all the way up. Good posture. Noelle was a Mormon, which came with dress code intransigencies I thought, but still I wished she spent an extra three minutes prepping in the morning. Thirty seconds for mascara and two and a half minutes for conditioner. Maybe Ronnie could teach her how a hair brush worked.
Manny on the other hand—such a handsome son of a gun it made my head hurt. Trim waist, broad shoulders, easy grace, quick smile, brilliant teeth, gah. Even Kix thought so. He shrugged out of his white sports jacket and greeted the room. The gun under his arm, the gun on his belt, and the tattoos on his arms caught the light and gleamed, which, I thought, was cool.
“Beck,” I said. “Staying for dinner?”
“Mack, thanks,” she said. She worked her phone in one hand but she glanced at Manny for permission. She wanted to. “I really can’t stay though. Just dropping Manuel off.” Their relationship was a peculiar one. Even Kix thought so.
“Stay. I made ambrosia.”
“Of course Beck is staying, amigo,” Manny announced. He opened the fridge door for a low carb beer. “Need to fatten her up.”
“Why do you get to decide?” I said.
“Because I did.”
“Do you set out her pajamas too? Enforce a strict bedtime?”