Dead Friends Don't Lie (Jake Hancock Private Investigator Mystery series Book 6)

by Dan Taylor

  “Not that. Why do people who join a gym have to give a next of kin?”

  “If I hazard a guess, will you at least think about if you know Mr. Hewter-Pickle?”

  “I would definitely give it another try.”

  “If they had an accident, say, some weights fell on their head, the gym would inform the next of kin.”

  “That makes sense. I’m going to use that excuse next time I think about gunning for a beach body.”

  There’s silence a second.

  Then the detective says, “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Do you know Mr. Hewter-Pickle?”

  “Oh, sorry. I’m a little slow today. I’m on vacation and on my third mojito. And we’re in the same time zone. Let me see…” I think a second. “No, I would remember a name like that.”

  He sighs. “Well this keeps on getting stranger by the second.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Mr. Hewter-Pickle, as well as giving you as his next of kin, looks just like you.”

  “Wait a minute? Is his name Greg Hewter-Pickle?”

  “Gregory, but yeah. I’m sorry to have to tell you he’s deceased.”

  I went into shock and started rambling. “Jesus, I never knew his last name. How could I know the guy so intimately and not know his last name?”

  “Do you want me to hazard a guess again, Mr. Hancock?”

  “What…? No. I’m in shock.”

  “Okay, I’ll be going now.”

  “Is that it, the end of the conversation?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask how I’m feeling? Maybe tell me that everything’s going to be all right.”

  “I can put you in contact with a counselor, if you’d like. But she’s more used to dealing with grieving teenagers.”

  “No, that’s fine. I’ve got my own shrink. Bye, I suppose.”

  “Okay, Mr. Hancock. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  After I’d hung up, I looked around the ocean-side paradise I was vacationing at, thinking it didn’t quite look as sunny as it did before the phone call. Then I realized why. The sun was now partially hidden by a cloud.

  As I walked to the bar to order another mojito, for the shock, I knew three things for sure: I needed to go back to Hollywood, I would never go to a gym ever again, and the next time I came to the Caribbean I would bring flip-flops with me.

  Back to now, and Greg’s insane sister still has her head resting on my crotch. I prod her.

  She was quiet while I reminisced, but she starts crying again. A couple relatives look over. I have no idea, based on their stares, whether it would be more appropriate to ask her to remove her head or just carry on consoling her.

  I decide to go with the latter.

  Until someone walks through the door, late for the funeral.

  2.

  IT’S ANNABELLE ENGLISH, Greg’s girlfriend.

  She looks around and then spots me and comes over.

  I introduced Greg and Annabelle, after I’d investigated the cover-up of Annabelle’s rape by some hick grease monkey in her hometown of Hickston. We became fast friends, Annabelle and I. They became quick lovers. He didn’t strike me as someone who could last the course in the bedroom. Anyway, we, along with another ex-client of mine, Megan Books, have been an inseparable unit most weekends, like those douchebags from Entourage, but way less annoying.

  How did I know Greg?

  He worked for me as my body double. My former employer, The Agency, keeps tabs on me, making sure I don’t blow the whistle on a shady cover-up of their star employee’s indiscretions I uncovered. Part of that cover-up was drugging a waitress whom I brought along for my investigation with a powerful memory-erasing agent. She’s someone whom I’m very fond of. Because of the drug, she doesn’t remember me, but I go and eat breakfast at the diner she works at once a week, just to see her. While I do, Greg lived my life in my apartment, making it look like I hadn’t gone anywhere. But more on that later.

  Despite her grief, Annabelle’s standing next to me, making a face that seems to ask, What the hell?

  I shrug and indicate for her to sit down. She does, looking lost. It’s the first time I’ve seen Annabelle since I got back to Hollywood, and I’d like to hug the shit out of her and tell her how much of a fucked-up world it is, maybe tell her everything’s going to be all right. But there’s the problem of Greg’s sister’s head on my crotch. For some reason, it doesn’t seem appropriate to tell her those things while Greg’s sister’s face is mere inches from my penis.

  “Annabelle, how are you holding up?” I whisper.

  Annabelle goes to answer, but Elise gets there first: “Why did you just call me Annabelle?”

  “I didn’t. I called Annabelle Annabelle.”

  “Who’s Annabelle Annabelle?”

  “The girl sitting by the side of me, Greg’s girlfriend. And it’s just one Annabelle.”

  That does the trick. Elise sits up and turns to Annabelle, and the look on her face tells me she and Annabelle haven’t been introduced.

  “Greg never mentioned a girlfriend,” she says.

  Annabelle looks hurt and then gets up, runs off.

  Elise turns back to me, and all innocently, says, “What did I do?”

  “I mean this seriously, Elise: Is this the first time you’ve been to a funeral?”

  “Eat me, jerk.” She too gets up. But before she leaves, she says, “And not even a semi, really?”

  Yep, definitely the first time she’s been to a funeral.

  I get up and go through to the funeral home foyer, and find Annabelle sitting on a chair, her little shoulders bobbing up and down as she cries into a lace handkerchief.

  I take a chair and slide it next to hers.

  I sit and wait, my arm draped over her shoulders.

  When her sobbing abates, she says, “Why didn’t that jerk mention me to his sister?”

  “In Greg’s defense, I don’t think they were close. And in defense of every man on the planet, I didn’t even tell my parents I was married.”

  For some reason, Annabelle resumes crying at the same intensity.

  “Was it something I said?”

  “No, I just can’t believe he’s gone. One minute we’re watching Grey’s Anatomy, the next Greg’s dead. How could someone do that to such a wonderful man? Just drive away like that?”

  I frown at that last question, the driving away bit. What did Annabelle expect, for the pro to have stopped and perform CPR on Greg?

  And now that I think about it, what had Greg been up to so that someone put a hit out on him?

  I loved Greg like a little brother who I suspected may have been adopted, which is to say I didn’t love him at all, but tolerated him, occasionally enjoying his annoying ways. But I can’t imagine someone hating him enough to want to have him killed.

  But now’s not the time to mention that to Annabelle.

  Instead, I say, “It’s a fucked-up world, Annabelle. And everything’s going to be all right.”

  She looks up at me, her face covered in snot and tears. “How?”

  “We’ll say goodbye to Greg today, remember our fond memories of him, and I’ll probably have to put a restraining order on his sister Elise.”

  Not even a chuckle. Annabelle’s in a bad way.

  “I don’t know why I asked you, Jake. You’re great and everything, but I think consoling me after this horrible tragedy might be a bit beyond your emotional intelligence. But thanks for trying, anyway. Just hold me, will you?”

  “I can do that.”

  Feeling like a prize ass, I hold Annabelle, providing what I can’t with my awkward words with my tender touch. Mom and Dad may have raised the emotional equivalent of a great ape—totally not their fault, by the way—but by God this great ape remembers to put lotion on his hands every morning.

  After a couple minutes of holding Annabelle, I think of something. Then I say, “Wait a minute, did you see Megan in
the funeral parlor?”

  3.

  ANNABELLE TAKES HER HEAD off my shoulder and looks at me. Says, “No. Why?”

  “I didn’t see her.”

  “Oh.”

  She puts her head back.

  Then I say, “But you invited her, right?”

  “No, I thought you did. You too are closer.”

  “Nope. Maybe that’s it, then. We didn’t invite her. In fact, I haven’t spoken to her since I went away to the Caribbean.”

  “Or maybe we didn’t see her. I was only in there for a couple minutes before I came through to here.”

  “Maybe I should go and check. Would you mind?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  I take a look.

  Then I go back to where Annabelle’s sitting.

  I say, “No, she’s not here. There’s only one person here with platinum-blond hair, but unless Megan developed osteoporosis and rubbed lacquer into her skin while I was away, it isn’t her.”

  One of the reasons I was a great private investigator is I’ve smoked way too much weed. This has made me paranoid. Right now, I’m thinking the worst has happened to Megan. While that may not be an enjoyable way to live my life, thinking that doom and gloom is around every corner, it keeps me on my toes. Sure, there are a number of benign explanations for Megan not being here—with the most likely scenario being we, in our grief, forgot to invite her or even inform her of Greg’s death and that she didn’t hear it through the grapevine—I can’t help but think Megan not being here, coupled with the nature of Greg’s death, is ominous.

  “If you’re that worried, why don’t you just phone her?” Annabelle says.

  “I’m not worried. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “Jake, you’re crossing your legs in that weird way you do when you’re worried about something.”

  I look down. She’s right. My legs look like a pair of pythons raping each other. “Okay, I’ll phone her.”

  After a couple rings, it goes to voicemail. I go to hang up, but Annabelle says, “Leave a message.”

  “No way. I hate leaving those things.”

  “Just do it.”

  “No.”

  “Just try to sound casual.”

  I put the phone back to my ear to hear Megan finishing telling the caller to leave their name and number, “As long as you’re not some kind of psychopath,” and then a beep.

  I decide to jump in and swim. “Megan, it’s Jake. Of course it is.” I laugh, having no idea why. “Anyway, Annabelle and I are at the funeral and we were just wondering where you are.” I think a second. “Shit, you might not have even heard… Greg’s dead. Is it okay to inform someone of that in a voicemail message? Jesus, anyway, just give me a call when you get this. We’re worried about you. Oh, and I’m back from the Caribbean, which you probably guessed from my phoning from a funeral. Anyway, my legs look like two pythons raping—”

  A beep cuts me off.

  I look at Annabelle, who’s momentarily distracted from her grief.

  She says, “Your legs look like two pythons raping what?”

  I put my dumb cell phone away. “Before I got cut off, I was going to say each other.”

  “You’re looking at me like that’s a totally normal thing to say.”

  “I have no idea how to finish those things. I told you it was a bad idea.”

  “Try bye next time.”

  “Can we just get back to talking about what a great guy Greg was?”

  That distraction? Yep, it no longer has effect.

  I may be a great ape, but by God I’ve got silken skin.

  4.

  I’M ANNABELLE’S SHOULDER to cry on before she musters up the courage to go to Greg’s casket and say goodbye. I accompany her, holding her hand all the way. It’s a tearful goodbye. Seeing Annabelle cry like that, as she caresses Greg’s make-up-laden cheeks, reduces me to tears. I haven’t cried this hard since the death montage in the last five minutes of Six Feet Under. And looking at Greg lying in that casket, looking fresh faced for a dead guy, makes me think that getting as old as Claire Fisher and dying in bed is the best we can hope for.

  With those happy thoughts out of the way, and with Greg’s casket on its way down to the crematorium, it’s time for us to get out of here. We take my rental.

  Annabelle wants to go back to her room on campus—she’s currently finishing up a sociology major at UCLA—but I tell her it’s a bad idea.

  “Why?” she asks.

  “The last thing you need is to be alone right now. Anyway, aren’t you Irish?”

  “No.”

  “Well wasn’t Greg Irish? Just a little bit?”

  “His mom’s Armenian.”

  “And his dad?”

  “Born and raised in Connecticut.”

  “Anyway, despite none of us being Irish, I think we should finish up Greg’s funeral Irish-style.”

  “By getting drunk in some homely pub? No way.”

  “I’m sure Greg would’ve wanted it that way.”

  “I’ll feel like shit in the morning. And there’s no way I want to erase any of my memories of Greg by accompanying you on one of your alcoholic binges. Count me out.”

  “Annabelle, if you don’t come along, I’m going to look insane hoisting my pint glass in the air, real ale foaming down onto my forearm, while I remember Greg all by my lonesome.”

  “The love of my life died last week. Making you look less insane is way down on my list of priorities.”

  “At least stay with me until Megan phones. You can drink a sparkling water and I’ll even ask the barman to put a slice of lemon in there for you.”

  “You’re really worried about that, aren’t you?”

  “The lemon? To be honest, I never knew why they put those things in there. Sure, it looks great—”

  “Not that, you doofus. This Megan situation.”

  We’ve just been to her boyfriend’s funeral, so I let that “doofus” comment slide. And now that I think about it, Megan’s most likely probably deep into a role she’s preparing for an audition. She’s an actress, and sure, the most significant role she’s had is a toothpaste commercial, but that doesn’t stop her going all method, locking herself away in her apartment, getting deep into character, like Heath Ledger as The Joker, but without the prescription pills.

  Anyway, this pet health insurance commercial came up, and we didn’t see Megan for a week. The Saturday of the same week, Greg, Annabelle, and I went for a walk around Barnsdall Art Park, stretching our legs after a Ren and Stimpy marathon—FYI, that show doesn’t have the same appeal as when you were a kid. We ran into Megan, wearing spandex pants, a high-visibility running vest, her iPod strapped to her upper arm, and with a Chihuahua on one of those retractable leashes. She refused to answer to the name Megan, and broke character for a second to inform us we should refer to her as Responsible Dog Owner Two.

  My point is, Megan’s probably perfectly fine. She’s probably just retired her phone for the time being.

  But that’s not going to stop me leveraging company for tonight on the false premise that I’m worried about her. Plus, I really would like to make sure Annabelle’s holding up as well as possible, and Annabelle, bless her, is a little too pig headed to admit she might need my emotional support this evening.

  I say, “This Megan thing has me more worried than the time I spotted that growth.”

  “Which growth?”

  “The one on that waitress’s upper-lip.”

  “Why did that get you worried?”

  “That woman was serving us breakfast. That thing could’ve been contagious.”

  Annabelle frowns. “If you are genuinely worried and not just manipulating me into keeping you company this evening, then I agree to come.”

  “You won’t regret it. We’re going to have a hell of an evening… For Greg. To remember him.”

  “Just promise me you’re not going to try to convince me it’
s okay to drive us home afterwards. Like that time you couldn’t say ‘pass me my keys’ without it sounding like ‘splash three my knees.’”

  “I’ll hand the keys in at the bar.”

  We drive to O’Irish’s Totally Authentic Irish Pub on Melrose Ave. It’s a rowdy place at night, with live music played by musicians that look like they’ve come in off a 1930s’ Irish street, and the cozy, ever-present threat of a fist fight breaking out, but at this time, a shade after four, it should be a good place to sit in a quiet corner and drink viscous British-style ales.

  I order a guest ale called Star Gazer—exciting—and Annabelle allows me to twist her arm in toasting Greg’s life with a spritzer.

  “To Greg,” I say, and lift my glass.

  “To Greg,” she says.

  I had planned on talking about Greg’s life, but talk inevitably turns to his death.

  “Bastard,” Annabelle says, then takes a sip of her spritzer. “I hope they catch him.”

  I shake my head. “So do I. But I’ve got to say, Annabelle, it seems unlikely.”

  She sighs. “I know it is, but we can hope, I suppose.”

  “We can do that.”

  “Can you imagine doing something like that?”

  I think about that for a second. Can I imagine being a professional hitman and taking someone out?

  “No, I can’t.”

  She looks at me sternly. “But even you’ve been over the limit during, I bet.”

  “Over what limit?”

  “The outer limit. What do you think? The blood-alcohol driving limit.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Please try to catch up, Jake. I’m trying to get this bitterness out of my system so we can move on and talk about our fondest memories of Greg.”

  My fondest memories of Greg are of seeing him leave my apartment, but that’s not what I’m thinking about right now. That would be why Annabelle’s implying the hitman was over the blood-alcohol driving limit.

  I ask, “You think he was drunk while he, you know, did it?” I make a putting-a-gun-against-my-head-and-pulling-the-trigger gesture.

  She frowns. “Why did you just do that?”

  I too frown. “Why are you talking about the guy that did it being over the limit?”