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

by Dan Taylor

His butler answers: “Andre’s residence.”

  “Hancock here. Is the chief around?”

  There’s a pause.

  “Jake Hancock?”

  “No, Herbie.”

  “I’m a refined enough man to know that’s a reference to an American post-bop jazz pianist, sir.”

  “Does that mean you’ll go get him?”

  “He’s sleeping at the moment.”

  “Then wake him.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”

  “It’s urgent. He’ll understand, I’m sure.”

  “No, I mean I literally can’t do that. Andre’s a heavy sleeper. The heaviest. One time there was a fire in the kitchen, and the firemen had to wake him up by blasting their fire hose into his face. Said it was the damndest thing they’d ever seen.”

  “I don’t care. Wake his ass up. Carry him to the phone if you have to.”

  He sighs. “Can’t I just take a message?”

  “Sure, the message is this: If he doesn’t get up and speak to me this minute, I’m coming to the mansion with every intention of breaking into his wine cellar and smashing every bottle of vintage wine he owns.”

  He asks something that sounds like “Including the Pap du Nerf Non Plum ’89?”

  “Including that.”

  He sighs again, and says, “Okay, I’ll go get him. But don’t expect to get a coherent conversation out of him.”

  “You do that, Jeeves.”

  A couple minutes later I hear bickering between Andre and his butler. Andre’s scolding him, accusing him of mentioning the “Pap du Nerf Non Plum ‘89” himself and unknowingly upping the stakes.

  When Andre picks up the phone and starts talking to me, it’s clear the heaviness of his sleep has drastically affected his ability to play it cool in regard to having lost the device that could be used to kill me at any second. As he says, “Jake Hancock, you’re alive! How nice to speak to you.”

  “Nice poker face, Andre.”

  “Shit, I meant, Jake Hancock, of course you’re alive. Why wouldn’t you be? And how nice it is to speak to you.”

  “I told you not to let it get into the wrong hands, Andre. What the fuck?”

  “Would a sorry suffice?”

  “No, a sorry would not suffice. You owe me, and big.”

  “Now you hold on there, Mr. Hancock. Remember who’s holding all the cards.”

  “You’ve got a busted flush, Andre. That device was all you had over me.”

  “And my resources.”

  “Your goons, the Snooze Twins? When I went out for breakfast a week ago they were cuddled up next to each other on the backseats, practically drooling on each other’s faces. It was kinda cute, actually.”

  “I might have just misplaced the device. Maybe if I take another look around the billiards room?”

  “No, you haven’t. An ex-colleague has it.”

  “Who?”

  “Cole Baxter, but now he calls himself Brian Cannon. And he sounds like he’s a few thousand bubbles short of a properly carbonated bottle of champagne. Cole having the device means you don’t have shit, and maybe I feel like spilling the beans on Gerry before he presses the button and sends me to hell, which means bringing down The Agency. And you bet I’ll go squealing to the FBI, who will be all over your organization like diaper rash on a fat kid’s ass. I bet this isn’t the only cover-up. There’s at least one more I know of. How many times has your organization committed federal offenses? Or offenses involving national security?”

  Andre tries to play it cool. “Okay, go running to them.”

  “Okay, I’m hanging up.”

  I do that trick with the keypad again.

  Until I hear Andre say, “Wait, Mr. Hancock. Let’s not be too hasty.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Maybe there’s some sort of agreement we can come to. Can I interest you in a bottle of Pap Du Nerf Non Plum ’89?”

  “You have to be kidding me.”

  He sighs. “Okay, ’86?”

  “It’s going to take more than that.”

  He sighs again. “You’re really twisting my arm here, Mr. Hancock. I’m willing to go ’83, which was a fantastic year. Take the offer, before I change my mind. No actually, I take it back. Okay, I changed my mind again, but this is your last opportunity before I change it back again, and for good this time. You’re practically robbing me of house and home if you take that tipple.”

  “I don’t care about wine.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “The pacemaker removed from my heart. You still got the surgeon on staff who put it in there?”

  “I have, but I wouldn’t advise that.”

  “Why not?”

  “If the device in your heart is tampered with, it sends a message to the hand-held device, letting the person who has the device know that it’s most likely in the process of being removed.”

  “Maybe Cole doesn’t know about that.”

  “There’s the small matter of the instructional manual having been stolen by that ghastly woman to consider.”

  “Shit.” I think a second. “Then we’ll have to go with Plan B, which involves what Cole’s trying to manipulate me into doing.”

  “We won’t have to go with anything, Mr. Hancock. Good luck.”

  “On top of the FBI investigating your organization, think of the civil suits when all those people find out they’ve been drugged as part of a cover-up. We’re talking millions of dollars, maybe even billions. For the people who can’t afford attorneys, I’ll gladly pay their legal fees.”

  “Plan B, you say?”

  I tell him what Cole wants and that he’s kidnapped Megan and taken her to a warm, nondescript country to use her as leverage.

  He says, “Then marry the damn woman, for Christ’s sake, Mr. Hancock. You’re of marrying age. If that’s what it takes to get her back.”

  “I’ve been married once. There’s no way I could go through it again. Anyway, you’re going to help me get out of this arranged marriage.”

  “How?”

  I tell him.

  “How do you know she’ll go through with it?” he asks.

  “Huh, that was not the response I was expecting. Sure, I expected you to go through with it eventually, but I also expected you to at least feign reluctance, maybe even flat-out refuse a couple times, even though you secretly liked the idea.”

  “What can I say? I’m old, and opportunities like this don’t come around every day when you get to be my age.”

  “She’ll go through with it. I’ve got that part covered. And in regard to you being old and desperate, my heart bleeds for you, maybe literally someday.”

  Andre’s old school, so instead of saying zing! or some shit like that, I hear him put the phone down and start clapping.

  This goes on for a minute, and I fear he may have forgotten he’s having a phone call conversation, or even that he’s clapping.

  “Andre?” I shout.

  A second later he comes back on the line: “Sorry, Hughie Buckwood just hit a sixer in the ninth while the tenth was on point and the third gully was manning the willy.”

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Yes, of course. Why?”

  “I literally didn’t understand a word you just said.”

  “That was cricket speak for a homerun. I’m watching it on the box as we have this conversation.”

  “Oh, I thought you were clapping because of my zinger.”

  “Come again?”

  “Zinger is post-90s for a striking, amusing, or caustic remark.”

  “Which was? I didn’t hear it.”

  I roll my eyes. “I said, ‘My heart bleeds for you, maybe literally someday.”

  He slow laughs. “Good one, Mr. Hancock.”

  “Well, the delivery was better the first time around.”

  “I’m sure it was.”

  I feel the need to steer the conversation back to this little problem with my maniac arc
h rival having the ability to kill me at any second.

  “Before I run you through the finer details of the plan, I think it important we get the terms of our deal laid out,” I say.

  “What deal?”

  “Try to keep up. The deal where you help me out and I don’t destroy the organization you and your father spent your whole lives building up.”

  “Oh that. Shoot.”

  “One, I want at hand any resources I’ll need to get Megan and the device back from Cole. None of this means anything if I can’t get Hollywood’s most-promising TV commercial actress back safely to Tinseltown.”

  “Whatever you need.”

  “Two, as much as I enjoy being followed around by a pair of silverback gorillas in suits two sizes too small for them, this thing where you make sure I don’t go running to the people you drugged as part of the Cole Baxter/Gerry Smoulderwell cover-up is over. You’re just going to have to trust that your secrets are safe with me.”

  “How do I know they are?”

  “That’s not for me to worry about.”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “Exactly. Three, I don’t give two hoots about any of those other people who lost whatever memories they lost, but I do care about Grace Black, the waitress. I’m going to see her and tell her everything.”

  “She goes running to some law agency and I’ll have you and her killed faster than a five-month-old baby sitting in an ill-fitting and ill-installed baby booster while involved in a head-on collision with an eighteen-wheeler.”

  “That’s a sick analogy, but understood.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, this deal only covers me turning a blind eye to cover-ups predating when the deal was made. I hear about anything else, I squeal. It’s time for you and The Agency to go legit.”

  “The cover-ups you know about are the only scandals The Agency has been involved in.”

  “Of course they are.”

  I run him through the plan for tomorrow, right down to what aftershave he should wear and whether or not it’s a good idea to polish his shoes. Instead of me going to see Julie, Andre will.

  “You got it?” I ask.

  “I think so. No splashing on bottom-shelf colognes I’d find in a mom-and-pop pharmacy.”

  “Right. Okay, it’s time to get thinking about how we can get Megan back safe and sound.”

  “Who’s Megan?”

  “The girl I told you about, the one who Cole has kidnapped.”

  “Oh. I could pull a few strings with Interpol for you?”

  “He said no police.”

  “I don’t suppose he’s a sucker for semantics, is he? Interpol isn’t technically the police.”

  “I think we can go ahead and assume getting any law enforcement agency involved might trigger him to do something crazy and stupid.”

  “Then I’m stumped.”

  I think a second. “If you were a maniac and wanted to go somewhere, and not have the locals and tourists notice you were escorting what possibly looks like a date-rape-drugged girl around with you, where would you go?”

  “I’m thinking probably one of Spain’s party islands. Ibiza, maybe. Magaluf, Majorca.”

  “Europe?”

  “Spain’s in Europe, yes, Mr. Hancock.”

  “What makes you think there?”

  “He could dress her up as a man and drag her around by a leash while he himself is dressed as Adolf Hitler and not one of the locals or tourists would bat an eyelid.”

  “Sounds like a good start.”

  “It isn’t a start at all, Mr. Hancock. We only have until tomorrow, and then the game’s over, if what we have planned goes to plan. Trying to find them there using the intel we have by tomorrow would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. And that’s assuming that I wasn’t just grasping at straws when I suggested those locations. And there’s also the fact that Cole Baxter is a highly trained detective who knows how to stay hidden. I’ve been trying to find him for months and haven’t got anywhere.”

  He’s right.

  So I say, “Is it hopeless?”

  “It’s ambitious, at best, under our current circumstances.”

  I think of something. Something I thought desperate before, but necessary now. “I’m feeling ambitious, Andre. Are you?”

  “I’m a little tired, if truth be told. It’s way past my bedtime.”

  I sigh. “Just say you’re feeling ambitious.”

  “Okay, I’m feeling ambitious.”

  “Good. Now, am I right in assuming The Agency still has Cole’s details, like his last known address and whatnot?”

  “You would be right in assuming that.”

  “I need Cole’s last known address and telephone number.”

  There’s a pause. “What are you going to do, Mr. Hancock? Nothing reckless, I hope.”

  “Relax, I’m not going to do anything The Agency wouldn’t do.”

  Andre sighs. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that. I won’t be party to breaking the law to get this actress of yours back.”

  “I’m not asking you to be party to any law breaking. You’re just going to accidentally tell me his last known address. A slip of the tongue.”

  “I don’t have it memorized. Will logging on to The Agency database and retrieving that data also be part of this slip of the tongue of yours?”

  “It will.”

  Andre sighs. “I’ll be right back.”

  He comes back five minutes later. “I’m back, and my tongue’s all slippery.”

  “Spare me the imagery.”

  Andre starts making small talk, and goes through the theater of putting Cole’s telephone number, house number, street, city, state, and even country into the conversation as code, which I write down on a notepad and pen the barman begrudgingly handed to me while Andre was away.

  He finishes by saying, “I hope this girl is worth whatever it is you’re going to do.”

  “She’s the best.”

  He sighs again. “I hoped you weren’t going to say that.”

  21.

  TAKING A CAB TO Cole’s last known address is a no-go, so I take a cab back to O’Irish’s and collect my rental. I don’t change, because there’s the matter of staying hidden from this hitman who’s no doubt somewhere in Hollywood, looking to put a bullet in my head.

  Anyway, I figure being dressed as a clown, which I noticed looks psychotic when I glanced at myself in the bar’s bathroom mirror, fits for the gig I’m about to do.

  I’m still a little drunk, so I buy a double espresso and a pack of gum from a gas station, and plan to drive to the address I was given while sticking a couple miles per hour above the speed limit and while supporting the arm I’m using to steer on my thigh, stopping myself from swerving all over the road.

  I phone ahead, checking something. A girl answers: “Hello?”

  I affect a salesman’s voice for the conversation. “Hi, this is Hugh Vox. Calling from your cable service provider. Could I speak to the lady or man of the house?”

  “She’s not home at the moment.”

  “Any idea when she’ll be back?”

  “Umm, before midnight, I hope.”

  “Shoot. That’s after my shift has ended. I’ll phone back tomorrow.”

  I hang up.

  The adult of the house is out. Bingo.

  The address I was given is in Beverlywood, West L.A. It’s the whitest neighborhood in L.A. So Cole. I only hope his ex-wife and his kids still live there.

  I park on the corner of Bagley Avenue and Duxbury Road. The latter is the street on which Cole’s home is. Or at least was.

  The street is quiet, but many of the lower-floor lights of the homes are on. Including what I think is still Cole’s family’s living room.

  It’s about a forty-yard walk back to my rental, which might be too far to avoid being spotted on my way back. It’s too risky to park any closer. Someone might spot my license plate.

  Figuring I have no o
ther choice but to leave it where it’s parked, I walk up to the building and go around it to the backyard, but only find a patio door. Knocking on that, especially with how I’m dressed, might spook whoever’s inside, prompting them to phone the LAPD.

  I go back around to the front, take a deep breath, and then press the doorbell.

  Just as I think no one’s going to answer, through the frosted glass of the door I spot a figure making their way to it.

  Whoever it is hesitates, and then I see a small face press up against the glass, peeking at me.

  Not knowing what else to do, I wave.

  A muffled voice says, “Who is it?”

  “Your uncle visiting from…” I think a second, and then say, “Jacksonville, Florida.”

  “My uncle?”

  “Yeah, for a visit.”

  “You don’t sound southern, and why would my uncle be visiting me at my place of work. And are you dressed as a clown?”

  Place of work? A babysitter, a precocious one.

  “I am, and that’s because I just came from my place of work.”

  “The circus?”

  “Right. And I’m not your uncle, at least I think I’m not. This is the Baxter residence, isn’t it?”

  “I work for a lady called Ms. Karen George. She told me I shouldn’t answer the front door to strangers.”

  Shit. Looks like Cole’s wife might’ve moved. But that’s not the greatest worry on my mind. That would be that this is starting to look like an episode of Dateline NBC.

  “Would Karen happen to have been married to a man named Cole Baxter?”

  “An uncle would know that already. I think I’m going to phone the police now.”

  Her face moves away from the glass.

  “Wait! I wouldn’t do that.”

  It comes back.

  “Why not?” she says.

  Good question.

  “Because… I really am the uncle of two or three little angels who live on this road. You see, I just found out a week ago that I have a sister, that she lives in L.A., and that she has some nephews and/or nieces I’d like to meet. I should’ve phoned ahead, but I wanted to surprise her. You like surprises?”

  “I do.”

  “And how do you feel if they get ruined. Imagine opening a present on Christmas Day already knowing what’s inside.”

  “You don’t look like a Christmas present. You look creepy.”