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

by Dan Taylor

“A school drama project?”

  “Times have really changed since we went to school, Denk.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “I can do it.”

  “Great.”

  “One more note. There’s a bit at the end, my nephew saying, ‘Please come and get us, Daddy!’”

  “You want that bit removed?”

  “No, I want that to be the final part of the montage, and for it to fade out, as though whoever’s keeping them captive in the dungeon is shutting a door.”

  “I can do that. But won’t it scare the crap out of the rest of the school children?”

  “It’s just a fun play about kidnapping, with a nice theme about Stockholm syndrome that doesn’t feel heavy handed or preachy.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Should I email it over?”

  “Sure, when do you need it for?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “As in the day that comes after today?”

  “Right.”

  “No can do. I can do the day after tomorrow.”

  “We’re not negotiating, Denk.”

  “It’s my first day on a new job tomorrow, and I’ve already taken a sleeping aid so that I’ll get a good night’s sleep.”

  “How long ago did you take it?”

  “Just before you phoned.”

  “Then vomit it up. If you work fast you won’t be drowsy.”

  “I haven’t thrown up since I was eighteen.”

  “And why is that relevant?”

  “I’m kinda proud of that record.”

  “More proud than you are of your career?”

  “Hold on a second.”

  Denk puts the phone down and comes back two minutes later.

  Then he says, “It’s not working.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “My gag reflex.”

  “Then you just have to drink some coffee, work tirelessly through the night, and hope that my nephew and his drama partner get an A-plus.”

  “I can’t ensure that.”

  “You can do your part, which should be enough. They’re working with a great script and they’re good little actors. Not De Niro good, but cute.”

  He sighs. “This is the first and last thing I do for you, Hancock.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “I mean it.”

  “And I’m a reasonable man. If it sounds great, you can live your life safe in the knowledge that your perceived sexual appetite among the film making fraternity isn’t anything more than adventurous missionary every Friday evening with Gwen.”

  “Just send it over.”

  He tells me his email address and I tell him I’ll send it in a few minutes. I pull over to the side of the road and use the voice recorder app’s built-in editing function to cut off the end of the sound clip, the section where the babysitter bursts through the living room door and accuses me of being an intruder.

  I also cut off the section where I tell them about the bogeyman, the Easter bunny’s sick little habit, and my saying I’m not their Uncle Bobby.

  With that done, I send it over to him, putting a note about not falling asleep on the job and a smiley face in the message body.

  It’s just a short drive from here back to Hollywood. With my plan in place, I pull off the side of the road and carry on driving.

  A couple minutes later, Brian Cannon phones for an update. “Hancock, have you made an honest woman of my sister yet?”

  I’m right about Cole being incommunicado. He hasn’t spoken to her, and probably won’t.

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Michelle says you haven’t done anything apart from sit in a bar.”

  “There are these things called cell phones, Brian. In fact, we’re talking on one right now.”

  “You and my sister?”

  “No, Brian. We are. But a couple hours before I phoned your sister and arranged to go out on a date with her tomorrow.”

  “So you’re really going through with it?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised, Bri, especially not in front of your sister.”

  “Don’t make me phone my sis. If I find out you’re lying I’ll do more than fondle Megan’s breasts over her bra.”

  He’s bluffing.

  “There’s no need to do that. As long as Julie doesn’t stand me up, I’ll be fake laughing at her jokes and agreeing that in the pictures she’ll show me that John and Joe have in fact gotten cuter since last time I saw them.”

  “Where?”

  “Where what?”

  “Where are you going on a date?”

  “Lounge 9. They’ve got a nice beer garden.”

  “Nice place.”

  “I agree.”

  “When?”

  “It’s a lunch date. We agreed on twelve.”

  “A lunch date? That doesn’t sound very romantic. It sounds more like a business meeting.”

  I refrain from saying, “And you’re the majority shareholder,” but instead say, “It’s during the daytime for practicality. John and Joe will be in daycare.”

  “Practicality?”

  “Practicality.”

  “Then how are you two going to schmooze and flirt over a glass of wine?”

  I want this conversation to be as quick as possible, so I don’t mention that Julie intends to drink. Instead, I say, “We’ll flirt and schmooze over a club soda.”

  He sighs, then says, “I suppose it’ll have to do.”

  If Cole has had a similar role in Julie’s other relationships, it’s difficult to understand why she’s a single mother.

  “Do you want to play quarterback on how I’m going to get her into bed, too?”

  “Ew! Don’t talk about that.”

  “I was being facetious, Brian. How’s Megan?”

  “Tied up. I didn’t get the dose right in her last cocktail. I’m in the doghouse at the moment, but she’ll come around.” He laughs. “Looks like our little vacation is ruined for the time being.”

  “Can I speak to her?”

  “Why?”

  “To make sure she’s okay.”

  “I don’t see how that’s appropriate.”

  “Because if you want me to play ball, I’ll need to know that you haven’t accidentally made Megan overdose.”

  “Don’t forget I also have the device and that your ass is grass if you don’t marry Julie.”

  “How could I forget something like that? And anyway, you kill me, I won’t exactly be marriage material, Bri.”

  “Stop calling me Bri. It’s not good etiquette to choose by what name you refer to someone. And you think I’m bluffing?”

  I sigh. “No, Brian. But it’s not difficult to punch holes in your logic.”

  “The logic is this: If Julie can’t have you, she wants no one to have you.”

  “She said that?”

  “No, but it makes sense.”

  “It makes about as much sense as the rest of this, I agree.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I’d really like to speak to my friend, who you’ve kidnapped.”

  He sighs again. “If you must.”

  A couple seconds later Megan comes on the line, after calling Cole a sick fuck and what sounds like kicking him in the shins multiple times, if his shrieks of pain are anything to go by.

  She says, “Jake, some psycho called Brian has kidnapped me. And I’m not too sure, but I think he might have raped me.”

  “Relax, Megan. I know who it is, and he assured me he just fondled you over your bra.”

  “If that wasn’t just like the kind of insensitive, flippant thing you’d say in a situation like this, I’d think this is all a bad dream.” She groans. “I don’t feel too well.”

  “He’s been drugging you.”

  “Ya think? And what do you mean you know him?”

  “He’s an ex-colleague, and hasn’t he told you why he’s kidnapped you?”

 
“No, he just keeps saying he loves me.” There’s a pause. “So why am I sitting here, tied up, not knowing whether I’ve peed myself or not, Jake?”

  “Megan, listen to me. He doesn’t love you.”

  “Don’t change the subject.” She sobs. “This is because of you, isn’t it?”

  “It might be because of a tiny, teeny thing I did.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you want to hear how I’m going to get you back, first?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “What did you do?”

  “I might’ve fucked his single-mom sister and never called her back.”

  “If Brian wasn’t holding the phone to my ear with his creepy, shaky hand, because, you know, I’m kinda tied up, I’d throw the phone across the room.”

  I try Andre’s trick. “Would a sorry suffice?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m leaning towards no.”

  “All I want to hear is how you’re going to get me out of this mess.”

  Assuming A) I’m on speaker, and B) that Megan might not be the best actress in the world after being fed a cocktail of date-rape drugs the last couple days, I say, “I’m going to do what I should’ve done in the first place: marry Brian’s sister.”

  There’s a pause. “You’re going to marry someone.”

  “Not just someone, Megan. I’m going to marry Julie.”

  “And then what, Brian’s going to let me go?”

  “Yep.”

  “But you said you’d rather get mauled by a gang of black bears than ever get married again. In fact, you said that if some girl who you took on a camping trip proposed in a black bear-populated camping area, that’s literally what you’d want to happen to you the moment she popped the question.”

  “I’m pretty sure a group of black bears isn’t called a gang. And would I say black? Because I’m pretty sure if I said that, which is a big if, I wouldn’t have been concerned with what color the bears are. Brown bears or polar bears are just as likely to attack.”

  “You said it all right. And another time—”

  I interrupt her before she can put any more doubts in Cole’s mind. “Okay, Megan, I now know you’re alive and well. I’ve gotta go.”

  “Don’t hang up!”

  “I think there’s bad reception. I better hang up.”

  “You better hang up? I can hear you perfectly fine.”

  “But I can’t hear you perfectly fine.”

  “That’s funny, because you just heard me say perfectly fine perfectly fine.”

  “What did you say?”

  She sighs. “You heard me, Jake. Quit playing around.”

  “Okay, I’m going now, Megan. I’ve got to take a right pretty soon anyway.”

  “What the hell does—”

  Leaving my friend tied up and probably scared and confused, although she didn’t sound it on the phone, I hang up.

  As I drive the short way home, I think about if Brian’s thought about the fact that the person he’s kidnapped has seen his face, that he could’ve used a voice-changing device while speaking to me to avoid the aftermath of kidnapping someone, and that now that Megan isn’t so out of it she thinks she’s on some romantic getaway she’ll be quite the hostage.

  If she isn’t kicking the shit out of his shins right now, calling him names that could bring most grown-ass men to tears, I’m not dressed as a psychotic clown. He better hope he’s got forgiving neighbors at the hotel.

  When I pull up to my apartment building, Michelle Trueheart’s waiting for me, sipping a tall cup of take-out coffee as she leans on her moped.

  I slow down and give her a wave as I drive past.

  She doesn’t wave back at first, only looks at me like I’m mentally ill, but then she catches on it’s me.

  I park the rental in my spot, and then walk back to the front of my building, choosing to go through the apartment building main door instead of taking the elevator straight up to my floor.

  Picking up where she left off with the zingers, she says, “The circus in town?”

  I stop a few feet from her.

  Then say, “For my nephew, it is. It was his birthday party tonight.”

  “I could’ve sworn you dressed like that to give me the slip.”

  “This?” I glance down at my clown shoes, which are around twelve inches long, despite being only a size ten. “I would’ve worn practical shoes if I wanted to do that.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Your nephew’s birthday?”

  “Yep.”

  “Some guy came out of your apartment building parking lot, riding in the cab you took there.”

  “And you followed him?”

  “I did.”

  “Bummer.”

  I walk up to the main door of my apartment building, take out my keys, and turn around before opening it. Michelle’s still waiting there, sipping her coffee like she might be there all night.

  I ask, “You’re not staying in a motel or whatever?”

  “Nope. I couldn’t find one with cable.”

  “You’re just going to stay there all night?”

  “I was planning on it.”

  As pleasant as this section of Boulevard is during the day, it’s no place for a lady at night, not even one who’s armed and can competently shoot with her toes. So I say, “You can stay on my couch under two conditions.”

  Eyebrow raise again. “What makes you think I’d want to?”

  “Never mind then.”

  I put the key in the lock and start turning it.

  Then she says, “What are the two conditions?”

  “The gun doesn’t come into my apartment.”

  “Where would I put it, under your doormat?”

  “I’m sure it wouldn’t mind staying the night in my mailbox.”

  “Postman will get a helluva surprise in the morning.”

  “We’ll take it out before he comes.”

  “Okay. What’s the next condition?”

  “You don’t try to seduce me. Tomorrow I’ll be an engaged man.”

  24.

  MICHELLE’S ZINGER IN response to condition number two? “You’re not my type.”

  Even through the heavily applied makeup, Michelle can see the disappointment on my face.

  So after she’s parked her moped in the apartment building parking lot, we’ve locked her ridiculously small pistol up in my mailbox for the night, and have gone into the elevator together, she asks, “What?”

  “You can do better than that, Michelle.”

  She looks hurt. I had no idea she takes such pride in her zingers. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

  “A C-minus. And I’m being really generous.”

  “Okay, what would you have said?”

  “I don’t use zingers. I take more pride in my banter.”

  “That’s a cop out.”

  “It’s true, but I could still think of a better one. I just won’t.”

  “You know what I think?”

  “No.”

  “I think you consider yourself the zinger king of Hollywood, and that if you were pressed to think of one, you’d choke.”

  “I see what you’re doing, despite that goofy zinger king of Hollywood comment.” But I think a second, anyway. “I would’ve said, ‘It’s past my bedtime.’”

  She puts her hand to her mouth, suppressing laughter.

  I say, “See?”

  “That was terrible.”

  “It wasn’t my best effort, admittedly.”

  “What’s your best, then?”

  I get to thinking again, but I’m saved by the ping of the elevator as we reach my floor.

  Both at the same time, we say, “Saved by the bell.”

  The door opens and we make our way to my apartment.

  I say, “Jesus, we’re lame.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  I run the apartment rules by her before we enter, all the while conscious of the f
act that I’m bringing what looks like a cheap hooker wearing badly applied makeup into my apartment for what would be reasonable for my neighbors to assume is hot, sweaty clown sex.

  Why didn’t I just bring her inside straightaway, saving myself the potential embarrassment of Margaret Hammer in 5J spotting us through her peephole? It relates to rule one.

  To which Michelle replies, “I would’ve taken my shoes off anyway.”

  “Then I think your brief stay in my apartment won’t grate on me as much as I thought it might.”

  Michelle says what most of my guests say upon entering my apartment: “Holy shit! How many dicks did you have to suck to afford this place?”

  “I managed to get this place without sucking even one dick.”

  She looks around, unable to keep her eyes off my impeccable taste, and I follow her, for some reason looking around the apartment I see every day.

  We finish up in the living room.

  Despite the woman in my apartment having pointed a gun at my balls a mere four hours ago, I automatically go into host mode.

  I indicate for her to take a seat on my designer couch with an open palm, and say, “Please. Take a seat.”

  She does and then looks at me funny. She says, “I don’t get it.”

  “What?”

  I walk over to the kitchen.

  Then she says, “You and this place.”

  “What’s not to get?” I open the refrigerator. “Do you fancy a night cap?”

  “I wouldn’t say no.”

  “I don’t drink wine, but I keep some around the place for guests.”

  “Wine’s good.”

  “Red or white?”

  “Pink.”

  I go through the theater of looking in the refrigerator, then say, “You’re shit out of luck.”

  “White or whatever.”

  As I’m pouring her a glass of white or whatever, she says, “What are you, a PI?”

  “Was.”

  “And that paid what?”

  “Decently, but pocket change.”

  I take the glass over to her. Before she takes a sip, she weighs the crystal glass in her hand, and then looks at me and giggles. I have no idea why.

  “So how does that explain all this?” she asks as she raises the glass. I go ahead and assume she means my extravagant lifestyle and kick-ass level of disposable income as opposed to just a drinking vessel.

  “Let me just slip into something more comfortable and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  As I take off my clown makeup and costume and put on my silk pajamas and fur-lined slippers—in the bathroom, not in front of her—I think about her interest in my lifestyle and apartment. It’s just a niggle. But it’s gnawing on me nonetheless.