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

by Dan Taylor

  She answers on the third ring.

  “Go fudge yourself, Jake!” she says.

  There might be hope, if her swapping the expletive for the word fudge is any indication.

  Then she says, “John, stop putting peas up Joe’s nose. Last thing I need is a trip to A and E tonight.”

  I say, “Julie, hi. Look, before you put the phone down, I just want you to know that I don’t want to speak to you as much as you don’t want to speak to me.”

  “Jake, I’m putting down the fudging phone.”

  “Okay, but if you do, I’ll have to come to your apartment and look for my wallet myself, which we both don’t want, believe me.”

  “What?”

  “My wallet. I left it at your place.”

  “That was like months ago. Why have you only just noticed now?”

  Good question. But I expected it.

  “I got robbed on the way back.”

  “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, but what’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I thought I handed it to the robber, in my panic. I was convinced of it, until I was at a hypnotherapy session to get over the trauma of being robbed. When the hypnotherapist brought me round, he told me exactly how the robbery had gone down, at least according to my subconscious. My unconscious, tapped into by my hypnotherapist, made no remark of panicked me handing over a wallet. So it must be at your place.”

  “If it were here, don’t you think I would’ve found it by now?”

  Good question. And I was not expecting it.

  “You looked everywhere? Whenever I lose it around my apartment, it turns up in the strangest places. One time I found it in my date’s handbag while she was taking a pee.”

  She says, “No, it’s not here, Jake. And even if it were, I would’ve taken a big dump on it and never returned it.”

  “Okay, Julie. Sorry for disturbing you. I guess I’ll never know what happened to it. Bye.”

  I wait two seconds, pressing a few keys on the keypad, as though fumbling for and missing the End Call button. Just as I think I’ve messed up, and should have taken a more direct approach, she says, “Wait, I can take a look around for you. You never know, John or Joe might have taken it and put it in their toy chest.”

  “Nah, it only had a few bucks in it and had pretty much no sentimental value. But thanks anyway. Bye, Julie. It was nice to hear your voice.”

  A long pause.

  “Wait. It was?”

  “Geez, sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean, it wasn’t prudent of me. I blew it. I’ve just got to accept that and move on.”

  “You did blow it. But that doesn’t mean we can’t chat for a couple minutes.”

  “You should probably get back to John and Joe.”

  “They’re eating right now, and as long as they don’t try to force vegetables up each other’s nose I’m good for the next five minutes or so.”

  I laugh, and I hate myself for doing so.

  When I’ve stopped, she says, “So, how have you been?”

  Most guys, if this were a sincere conversation, would tell her some sob story about how they’re unable to cope without her in their life. But as I’m not most guys I figure the last thing Julie would want is to feel emotionally blackmailed into giving me another chance. Even if that weren’t true, and Julie were desperate enough to fall for that old chestnut, would she want some blubbering baby back into her life? Hell no. She’s got enough on her plate with John and Joe.

  So I say, “I’m great, as it happens! I’ve just got back from vacation. If you haven’t been to the Caribbean you really should. I don’t know if it was the sunshine, the mojitos, or relaxation, but I’m in a really good place right now. I’m learning to love myself before I go jumping into anything else, you know…?”

  Right now she’s imagining me on a beach with a tan and a big I’m-really-content-with-the-way-everything-in-my-life-is smile. Oh, and I figure she’s the kind of girl that likes a challenge.

  “I totally get that. Last thing I need in my life right now is another man,” she says.

  “Good for you, Julie!”

  “Thanks.”

  “Here we are talking about me and I haven’t even asked how you’re doing.”

  “That’s kind of you to ask.” There’s a pause. “Oh, you know, I’m just focusing on John and Joe right now. There’s not much me time, but I’m happy.”

  “You deserve it and they’re lucky to have such a devoted mom! Okay, I’ve got a yoga session in ten. Nice speaking to you, Julie.”

  “You know, even though we’re both content and not looking for anything at the moment, it doesn’t mean we can’t go out for a drink or two to catch up on old times, as friends.”

  “Uh, I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  Long pause.

  “But I suppose if you promise nothing’s going to happen, I can’t see any harm in it.”

  “Great. I’ll get phoning around for a sitter.”

  “And I’ll get looking for the ugliest shirt I have, to help you keep your hands off me.”

  She laughs.

  “Okay, Jake. Tomorrow night okay with you?”

  I think about Megan unconscious, Cole peeking down her panties.

  “Or how about a lunch date, while John and Joe are in daycare? Save you the money you’d spend on a sitter.”

  “That works. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve rocked up smelling of chardonnay to pick them up.”

  “It’s a date!”

  We arrange where and when, say goodbye and hang up.

  Despite that chardonnay comment, I think she is a great mom. Far removed from the Julie I knew who showed me her Pokémon card collection and love triangle. Come to think of it, she probably just couldn’t handle drinking that bottle of Belgian beer I brought around. Devoted mom like that probably rarely drinks.

  And I actually enjoyed bantering with her.

  Michelle interrupts my thoughts: “So, you’re really going through with this?”

  “Of course, I’d do anything to get Megan back.”

  “Would it weird you out if I said that’s the sexiest thing ever?”

  “A little.”

  “Then it wasn’t.”

  “Are we done here?”

  Michelle Trueheart, parodying the act she put on to lure me out here, comes close, grabs me by my shirt collar, as though she’s playing that British game rugby, and pulls my face into hers so she can plant a big, awful kiss on my cheek.

  Then she says, as she breathes heavily onto my face, “I’ll be in touch, stud.”

  “Is that your way of saying you’ll be keeping tabs on me?”

  “It is.”

  “Then I’ll see you around, Michelle.”

  With our conversation over, Michelle leaves. I stand there, in one of the alleyways flanking O’Irish’s Totally Authentic Irish Pub, thinking about how I can make this end happily for everyone except Cole, aka Brian Cannon.

  And then I remember something he said during our phone call conversation that’s a seed from which a great plan will grow.

  15.

  I’M A DETAILS MAN. Someone’s trying to screw me over like Cole is, the best thing I can do is to get them to talk, a lot. Where you may have heard arbitrary conversation, I heard possible details I can use to think of a way of making this end well for me. That means not marrying Julie Fox and adopting John and Joe—for their sakes, as well as mine—and at the same time getting Megan back. If I can work it so that Cole gets screwed over in a greater way than none of it going to plan, then I’ll put in the extra yards to do so. And I’m in a vindictive mood. As it so happens, he provided me with a detail that not only provided the groundwork for a plan to avoid marrying Julie, but also to screw him over in the most satisfying way I can think of. Julie and her boys might even make it out of this thing the happier, too. Probl
em is, that detail hasn’t provided me with a plan to get Megan back. But I’ll get working on that.

  I glance at my watch. Five-thirty.

  The conversation with Cole also elucidated what probably happened to Greg. The Agency no longer has the power to kill me whenever they like, as Cole now possesses the remote control for the souped-up pacemaker in my heart. I figure that after it got stolen by Michelle, The Agency killed off Greg, thinking he was me. Tying up loose ends and protecting their asses from me blowing the whistle on their cover-up.

  The smart thing to do, ostensibly, would be to let The Agency think that I’m dead. But I’m not going to do that.

  Because the smartest thing to do involves letting them know I’m alive and well.

  16.

  I GO BACK INSIDE, figuring I’ll drink a few pints at O’Irish’s before I go and meet Detective Dukes, who’ll probably confirm what I already learned.

  Once seated, I get to thinking about how I can get Megan back.

  Easiest way would be to phone world-renowned hacker and researcher Scottie McDougray. Using only a child’s toy laptop, he could find out where Cole and Megan are before Cole has a chance to peek into Megan’s panties. But Scottie’s been indicted for white-collar crime and is being investigated by the FBI. Which means, even if he wanted to, he can’t come anywhere near this gig.

  Currently I have a number of options without him, none of which seem workable:

  One, I could kidnap Julie and the boys, forcing Cole’s hand. I’m sure he’d trade Megan for them. The only small problem with that plan is I’m about as competent at kidnapping as I am at knitting a woolen sweater for myself.

  Two, I could go through with marrying Julie and adopting Joe and John. The snag there, as I’ve mentioned, is that isn’t what’s best for them. I may have screwed Julie over once, but I’m not about to make it a lifetime-spanning endeavor by marrying the poor woman.

  Three, I could rent a horse from a stable for the afternoon, transport it to Hollywood, and gallop up and down Boulevard while drunk on bourbon and singing ‘Country Roads’ by John Denver. Sure, it wouldn’t get Megan back, but I’d feel a whole lot better.

  This situation reminds of something my dad used to say: “You can’t look at tits and ass at the same time, son. Always remember that.”

  I do remember it.

  And it’s never been more relevant than at this time.

  Of course, my dad’s metaphor was proven incorrect one time when I was at a titty bar and they had a girl from out of town performing, one who was a contortionist. But still, right now I’m looking at ass, and later I’ll get to looking at tits.

  I take out my cell phone and dial my herbalist, Deus, putting my plan in motion. I only hope he’s not out of town, on a “field trip.”

  He answers after the fifth ring: “Tom speaking.”

  Deus, aka Tom John, uses a sole cell for both personal and business calls. And even though I’ve phoned him numerous times, I hear in his tone every time that he hasn’t saved my number.

  “Tom, it’s Hancock.”

  “Hancock?”

  “Jake Hancock.”

  “Jake Hancock?”

  “Jake, short for Jacob. Hancock, my surname. I’m a regular cu—”

  “Dammit, Hancock. I’ve told you not to use the C word while speaking through this channel.”

  “Oh, sorry. Should I make small talk?”

  “That’s what acquaintances do, isn’t it, when they speak to one another on the phone? And who’s Tom?”

  Before I get a chance to reply, he says, “Just fucking with you, Hancock. You dry already? I wasn’t expecting a call from you until Easter.”

  We go through this weird wind-up every time. He pretends to be a paranoid weed dealer and treats me like a naïve teenager whose lack of discretion could land him in lockup. I put up with it because he sells the best grass in town.

  “Why Easter?” I ask.

  “No reason. I just thought as much. What do you need?”

  I tell him, to the best of my ability.

  “I know I call myself an herbalist, but there’s only a few types of herb I prescribe. And that isn’t one of them.”

  “So you can’t get it?”

  “I don’t know what it is you want, exactly. So it’s difficult to say. Hold on a minute and let me make some calls.”

  He comes back in five.

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Okay?”

  “I know what it is you want. But it’s going to cost you.”

  “How much?”

  “Just fucking with you again. It’s cheap, but it’s not something I sell on the regular, so there’ll be a markup because it’s a specialty item.”

  “So you were only kinda fucking with me?”

  “Ten dollars fucking with you.”

  “That’s the markup?”

  “No, that’s another ten.”

  “So twenty?”

  There’s a pause. “Right.”

  “You good to drop it off tonight?”

  He makes a sound I hear regularly, that of sucking his air through his front teeth. Then he says, “I don’t know about that. I’m a third of a way into a Lethal Weapon marathon.”

  “So you’re what, a movie and a third into it?”

  “No. I’ve just finished the first film.”

  “There’s a fourth one. You know that, right?”

  I have no idea why we’re discussing this.

  “Not in my box set.”

  “Anyway, can’t you stretch your legs after the second movie, get what I need and drop it off?”

  “Not worth my time.”

  “What would make it worth your time?”

  “Upsells.”

  “Okay, but don’t bring anything exotic. I’m a chill-out-in-my-slippers-while-watching-Frasier kind of toker.”

  “And do you have the fourth Lethal Weapon?”

  “I’ll take a look for you. Eight do you?”

  “Eight it is.”

  “Oh, and don’t wear the T-shirt you wore last time.”

  “Which T-shirt?”

  “The one that reads ‘I’m with fuck face.’”

  “Which one?”

  “The one I just said.”

  “I have two of those. One with the font in green, one in red.”

  “Neither. Don’t take the elevator, either. Take the stairs.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want my neighbors, or anyone else in my apartment building, to see you.”

  “Don’t you like live on the ninth floor?”

  “Tenth.”

  He groans.

  I say, “And one more thing. If you go past anyone, say there’s a bitchin’ party up on the twelfth floor you’re here for.”

  “Bitchin’?”

  “Is that not fashionable still?”

  “It was like two years ago.”

  “Okay, swap that adjective for a word someone like you would use.”

  “Adjective?”

  “A word that describes something, in this case the party on the twelfth floor.”

  “There’s a party going on in your apartment building? Are you invited?”

  “No. That’s your excuse for being in the building, should anyone see you and get suspicious. Should this occur when you’re on my floor, look around while pulling a confused face, asking yourself if it’s the twelfth.”

  “Okay, I think I’ve got it.”

  Knowing Deus, he doesn’t, so I run it past him again. Then we end the call.

  The kids of today… doesn’t even know what an adjective is.

  17.

  IT’S AMAZING HOW fast a couple hours go past when your friend has been kidnapped.

  Before I know it, I only have ten minutes before I need to go and have nearly a full pint of something called Turkey Tickler left. Anyway, I don’t want to offend the barman—he looks like a mean son of a bitch, when I think he glances at me with his wonky eye—so I down it in the tim
e I have left.

  When I stand up, I realize that I haven’t eaten since lightly snacking from Greg’s wake buffet and that driving my rental back to my place isn’t an option. Had I known how I was going to spend my time, I would’ve thought to hell with what I perceived as being wake-buffet dining etiquette and eaten more than an egg mayo cut into a tiny triangle.

  I stagger as I leave, find a cab in no time. Cab drivers love a drunk guy in a nice suit.

  When I tell him my address, his eyes light up and he starts making small talk. What kind of business I’m in. The tastiest falafel he’s ever eaten and if I tried the place. Stuff like that.

  Five minutes in he runs out of topics of conversation. Goes quiet for a minute, until he says, “There’s a lady behind us. Taken every turn we have. Even slowed when we were at the lights and stayed five cars behind, which she could’ve weaved through.”

  I look out the rear windshield to see Michelle on a moped.

  She waves.

  Cab driver says, “You know her?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He thinks a second. I catch him glancing at her in the rearview mirror a few times, like he doesn’t want to be caught doing so.

  Then he says, “That insurance, what type is it you sell?”

  “Supplemental health insurance.”

  “Business good?”

  “People always need health insurance.”

  We’re getting close, a couple minutes off, if the lights are kind. I think about what Cole said about no police, and what Detective Dukes said about postponing if I’m followed by “you know who.”

  I got the “you know who” part covered, assuming that The Agency are still following me. Come to think of it, I saw them this morning when I left.

  Assuming the black car with the blacked-out windows across the road from my apartment building was them.

  Which would blow away my theory that they were the ones who killed Greg.

  I think a second. Come up with a plan to potentially lose both tails, assuming The Agency tail’s back there somewhere.

  To the cab driver, I say, “Any gig after this one?”

  “Nice part of town, lots of tourists. I should be good.”

  I take out my wallet, count out his fare and tip. Then I say, “When you drop me off, it’ll be worth your while if you drive into the basement parking lot, drop me off there, and keep the meter running. I’ve got some place to be after I’ve gotten changed.”