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

by Dan Taylor

  “Foster sister?” the barman at Loaded asks.

  “He was ten and I was eight when he moved,” she says, figuring foster kids would remember stuff like that.

  “You got a picture?”

  “No.” She goes red. “But I know he has a scar on his butt if that helps.”

  He looks around, and then says, “I know the guy. Comes in here most Friday nights. Haven’t seen him this Friday, though.”

  “He live around here?”

  “Never takes a cab home.”

  She puts on a sad face, says, “Okay,” and starts to walk off. Thinking, Aunt Trudy’s chemo’s not working, and where else are those kids gonna go when she loses her battle?

  Then she turns around to glance at him, wiping away a tear with her hand.

  “Wait, wait. Hancock lives on this road. The Drexler building. You know it?”

  “I think I can find it, thanks.”

  Hancock lives in apartment 3J, says so on the button for his intercom. She looks at the rest, finding the other Js, the apartments on floor ten. Mallory, Fairfax… Hammer, apartment 5J. Most likely the one opposite it. She buzzes it once, waits, not wanting to seem desperate or to get off on the wrong foot with his neighbor.

  A lady answers, saying hello like it’s the first time her intercom has ever buzzed.

  She gives her the short version of her story, doesn’t mention any illness.

  “And you’re his sister?” she asks, skeptical.

  “His foster sister.”

  There’s a pause.

  “Come off it, honey. I’ve lived across from Mr. Hancock long enough to know when he’s getting a booty call. If he’s not buzzing you in it’s because he doesn’t want you there. Which is a blessing from God.”

  “I’m not—”

  “At least be honest with me, if you can’t be honest with yourself. However much he’s paying you isn’t enough. It’s never enough.”

  Jenny thinks a second. “It’s not like that. I’m not a whore.”

  “So you’re what, a girlfriend?”

  “Was.” A little sass.

  “I hope I’m not prying, but you’re not looking to try and talk him ‘round, are you?”

  “Don’t worry about that, sweetie. You’re not prying. And I wouldn’t take that man back if he won the sweepstakes.”

  “You go, girl!”

  “Well, you know, whatever.” Showing her mean side. “Anyway, if he’s around, would it be imposing to ask you to let me know? I’d like to give that jerk a piece of my mind.”

  “Are you kidding? I’d jump at the chance.”

  She gives Mrs. Hammer her pre-pay cell number and tries to thank her, but Mrs. Hammer has some sage advice before she can escape. “Honey, if he walks like a ladies’ man, talks like a ladies’ man, then he’s an asshole.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Awaiting Mrs. Hammer’s call, Jenny checks in to the Hollywood Guest Inn. She smiles at the receptionist, not holding it too long, and the only small talk she makes is about the long day she’s had. When she’s found her room and gone in, she folds her clothes neatly, lays them on the bed, places her G43 in the bottom dresser drawer, and then takes a shower.

  The next day, when most people are in bed, and when Jenny is strengthening her shoulders by walking around on her hands in a handstand position while balancing the motel room Bible on the sole of her right foot, her phone starts to ring.

  She propels herself two feet in the air, lands in a tactical stance, and catches the Bible in her left hand without having looked at its trajectory. She then picks up the phone. When she answers, Mrs. Hammer says, “You won’t believe who’s just walked into his apartment wearing a classless Hawaiian shirt, a sombrero, and carrying one of those blow-up camels children play with in pools.”

  “Is it Jake, by any chance?”

  “It is! I could hear his flip-flops the moment he made it into the hallway. I think he might’ve been on vacation.”

  “I think it’s a reasonable assumption.”

  “Does that make you madder than a hornet’s nest?”

  “Why?”

  “You know… On vacation, probably flirting with the locals. A man like that doesn’t go on vacation to go sightseeing.”

  “Not really. I’m over Jake.”

  “So, are you going to come ‘round, give him a piece of your mind?”

  “I don’t know. Been thinking of taking the high road, not giving that jerk the satisfaction of seeing me all mad at him.”

  “That’s a shame. I really wanted to hear him suffer.”

  “You never know. That might happen down the line. Bye now, Mrs. Hammer.”

  Just before eleven a late-thirties male wearing a black suit and wearing wayfarer sunglasses leaves the Drexler apartment building. She’s waiting twenty yards away from the building, like she’s waiting for a cab. She holds up her hand, signaling the bum she paid.

  The bum, who’s waiting in front of the apartment building door, walks up to the man, says, “Hey, Jake Hancock. You got some spare change?”

  The man who’s presumably Hancock stops, taken aback, and says, “How do you know my name?”

  Game on.

  Then Hancock says, “Wait a minute,” and then lowers his wayfarers, to peek over the lenses. “Is that you, Kevin Adams?”

  The bum doesn’t say anything, just stands there, holding his hand out, a blank expression on his face.

  Hancock continues, “Shit. It is you!” He laughs. “I didn’t recognize you for a second there with the matted, filthy beard, but fuck, it is you.”

  The bum doesn’t say anything.

  Hancock starts making small talk. “So, how are you getting on since college?”

  But the bum isn’t having any of it. “Do I get some change or not?”

  “Shit, yeah, of course. Where are my manners?”

  Hancock takes out his wallet, looks in it, and then says, “I don’t have any change. Can you break a five?”

  “No.”

  Hancock thinks a second, looking around the street, presumably for a tourist with a noisy fanny pack. And then says, “Fuck it, Kev. You can have this.” He presents it to him as though the bum has never seen a five-dollar bill before. “Do you need money for wine, too?”

  The bum mumbles something in the affirmative.

  “Here’s a ten. Don’t go spending all that at once.”

  The bum takes the money and starts to walk away, with the fifty he got from Jenny and the fifteen from Hancock making it a nice little score.

  Hancock, shaking his head, watches him walk off. Then says, “Well I’ll be dammed. He was such an overachiever…”

  Hancock goes into the basement parking lot and drives out around a minute later in what looks like a rental.

  She follows him, keeping four cars behind. They head down Boulevard, make a right at Ivar Avenue, make a right as though heading to Vine, but then turn left onto the Hollywood Freeway.

  A couple miles later, Jenny notices a moped hanging back. She doesn’t think anything of it, until the moped takes the same exit, following them turn for turn until they arrive at Cozy Slumber Funeral Home, which is on an embankment, overlooking Hollywood Reservoir.

  She parks up, two rows away and four spaces down from where Hancock parked, and then watches him walk across the parking lot with pace and posture that suggests he only casually knows the person who’s being laid to rest. When Hancock has made it to the path leading into the funeral home, Jenny gets out of the car, starts walking over to it. When she gets to the edge of the lawn surrounding it, she reads the sign standing by the path, which reads “The funeral of Gregory Hewter-Pickle.” She then walks over to where the moped is parked, finding the woman who was riding it leaning up against it and smoking a cigarette.

  The woman glances at her, and then goes back to staring at the reservoir.

  Jenny goes up to her, says, “Can I bum one of those before I go in? I hate these things.”

 
“Sure.” She takes one out, hands it to her along with a lighter. While Jenny lights her cigarette, the moped lady takes in her appearance anew. Then delivers a zinger. “Your pantsuit at the dry cleaners?”

  Jenny laughs, despite the bitchiness in the comment. “I made it two steps out the apartment building and wham, a bird shat on my shoulder.”

  “I hate it when that happens,” as though it does all the time.

  Jenny asks, “What’s your excuse?”

  “Me? Never figured I’d go in there. Just wanted to be here without anyone seeing me, you know?” She glances down at the lighter. “You going to hand that back or did you plan on keeping it?”

  “Oh, sorry.” She does, and then takes a long drag of her cigarette. “So, how did you know Rick?”

  “Rick?” she says, then thinks a second. “Oh, Ricky? Sounded weird to hear someone calling him that.” She pauses. “Ricky and I go way back. How about you?”

  “My boyfriend knows him. Jake Hancock. You know him?”

  Not placing the name this time or trying to find relevance. Just a minute closing of her eyes that most people would miss. But Jenny doesn’t.

  “I’ve heard him mentioned in passing.”

  “Jerk didn’t even wait for me, so we could go in together.”

  “What are you guys planning on doing after?” Casual.

  “We’ll hit up the wake and then, if I know Jake, we’ll go get drunk.”

  “He a big drinker?”

  “Nah, he’s not too bad. He just doesn’t handle death well.”

  The woman takes one last drag and then throws the butt on the floor. “Well, it was nice speaking to you…”

  “Jade.”

  “Jade, right. I think I’ve heard you mentioned. Anyway, I better get going.”

  The woman gets on her moped.

  “Say, I couldn’t bum another one of those cigarettes before you go, could I?” Jenny says.

  The woman looks put out a second, but then takes out her pack. Gives one to Jenny, which she then fumbles onto the floor.

  “Me and my clumsy fingers…” Jenny says.

  She only takes her eyes off Jenny a second, glancing down at the cigarette, but it’s enough time for her to precisely deliver an open-palm strike to the woman’s windpipe. Had the woman seen it coming, she might have moved slightly, making it miss the pressure point. The thirty or so pounds of pressure she put into the blow wasn’t enough to crush her windpipe, but it was enough to send the woman into a debilitating state of shock. Her eyes bug out and she grabs her throat, panicking as she tries to take a breath. She’s physically able to, in Jenny’s experience, if she could calm herself down enough. But she isn’t. She’s looking at Jenny like she’s trying to work out whether the blow came from her.

  About five seconds after the blow was delivered, the woman falls forward, unconscious, and Jenny catches her. She spins her so she’s facing away from her, and then hooks her hands under her armpits and starts dragging her—the back of the woman’s head resting on Jenny’s chest—towards her car, which makes the moped fall down hard.

  When she’s between rows of cars she hears footsteps behind her. She turns to see a gangly guy in a pinstripe suit. He runs up to her, asks the obvious: “Geez, is she all right?”

  “She just fainted, is all,” Jenny says, not missing a labored step. Then she sighs. “This happens all the time.” She increases the pitch of her voice, says, “Sarah, honey, everything’s going to be all right.”

  “Are you sure? She looks out of it.”

  Jenny turns to address him this time. “As long as I get her in the car and crank up the A/C she’ll come to in no time.”

  He stands there, thinking.

  “Well, are you going to help me or not?”

  He hesitates. “Sure.”

  “Grab her legs. Just don’t look up her skirt. Sarah didn’t wax for the funeral.”

  Pinstripe grabs her legs, making sure he keeps his eyes skyward, and they haul her into the back of Jenny’s rental.

  With the woman lying on the backseat, legs and arms splayed, only showing the whites of her eyes, Pinstripe asks, “Should we phone an ambulance?”

  “By the time they get here, Sarah will have come to.”

  “Are you sure? Is she breathing?”

  “Why don’t you look at her chest and find out. Or better yet, start giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I’m sure Sarah will go easy on you and will in no way assume you’ve forced yourself upon her when she wakes up.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. I better get going.”

  Pinstripe leaves, running for some reason.

  After patting the woman down for weapons, Jenny goes around and gets in the driver’s side, starts the car. She drives out of the cemetery parking lot, takes a right onto Lakeridge Drive, and then carries on to the end of it, where she finds a dirt road that leads into woodland.

  She drives until she finds a clearing and then parks up, hoping that no dog walkers come by.

  She gets out and goes around to the trunk, opens it, where she has a duffel bag, inside which are 12” cable zip ties, smelling salts, a pair of pliers and wire clippers, the G43 she picked up, and a Taser.

  She takes out the duffel bag, goes around to the right passenger door and opens it, to find the woman looking at her, wide-eyed.

  She pulls out the pistol, turns off the safety, and points it at her. Says, “Don’t move, bitch.”

  The woman says nothing, doesn’t move a muscle.

  “This is the point at which you put your hands up and get out of the car.”

  The woman nods, does as she says, shuffling on her butt across the seats as she has her hands raised.

  Jenny puts the bag down, bends down and takes a cable zip tie out of the duffel bag, all the while keeping the gun trained on the woman.

  She tosses it to her, says, “Tie this around your ankles.”

  “W—why?”

  “So it will make it easier for you to run away into the woods.”

  “If you could just tell me what this is about.” No longer a tough bitch smoking a cigarette as she leant up against her moped.

  Jenny raises an eyebrow. “What this is about is I’m starting to think it might be easier to just shoot you and bury you somewhere, instead of first finding out why you’re following Jake Hancock.”

  “I never heard that name in my life.”

  “Well, we both know that’s not true. He’s my boyfriend, remember?”

  The woman mutters under her breath, “Shit…” And then reaches down and, after some difficulty, ties the zip tie around her ankles.

  “Name?” Jenny asks.

  “What?”

  “What’s. Your. Name?”

  “Michelle.”

  “Michele what?”

  “Trueheart.”

  “That’s your surname?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why were you following Hancock?”

  “I wasn—”

  Jenny cuts her off by firing a bullet into the ground, a couple inches from her toes, spraying mulch up onto her.

  Jenny says, “Fire a weapon in a wooded area, people assume hunting or kids’ target practice, when there’s no scream afterwards, which I wouldn’t recommend.”

  They’re silent a second, listening to the birds.

  “Would you like to try again?” Jenny says.

  “I—I’m just getting paid to follow the guy.”

  “I assumed that much. Carry on.”

  “Carry on?”

  “May I suggest now talking about why or who paid you.”

  “M—man.”

  “A man paid you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was he a man with a name?”

  “Y—yeah.”

  “And can you remember it or do I have to jog your memory?”

  “Brian Cannon.”

  “Good girl. Why does Brian Cannon want you to follow Hancock?”

  Jenny lowers the pistol so th
at it’s pointing at the ground, helping her relax.

  “He wants me to make sure he does something.”

  “What something?”

  “He wants me to make sure Hancock marries someone. I’m supposed to follow him and get him to talk on the phone with this Brian guy. And then I’m supposed to keep tabs on him, make sure he’ll go through with it.”

  Jenny frowns. “Why not just phone Hancock on his cell phone?”

  “He doesn’t have his number.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In my moped storage box.”

  “What’s special about it?”

  “Nothing I guess. It’s just a storage—”

  “Not the box. The phone.”

  “Nothing, as far as I can tell.”

  “What’s Hancock’s relationship to this Brian?” Jenny asks, trying to get a feel for the situation.

  Michelle’s hands lower, and Jenny points the pistol at her face, making her put them up again.

  “He never said… Ex-colleagues, if I were to guess.”

  “Why would you guess that?”

  Michelle shrugs. “Just would.”

  Jenny thinks a second. “What does it matter to Brian that Hancock marries some woman… Wait, it is a woman, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. And it’s his sister. Brian’s, I mean.”

  Jenny processes everything she said in her freakily fast mind, committing much if not all of the dialogue and Michelle’s speech pattern and Midwest accent to memory.

  Then she says, “And lastly, what’s in it for you?”

  Michelle shrugs again. “Money.”

  Jenny reaches down into the duffel bag, takes out the wire clippers, and tosses them to Michelle. Says, “Okay, you’re free to go.”

  “I am?” She glances down at the wire clippers, unsure.

  “You are. Go ahead, pick them up.” Jenny lowers her pistol, aiming it at the ground.

  Michelle bends down, picks up the wire clippers, starts to say as she’s cutting the cable zip tie, “There are no hard feelings. I don’t want to step on your toes for whatever reason—”

  But she’s cut off by a bullet entering the top of her head. She didn’t see it coming. No scream.

  26.

  Present time…

  IN MY KITCHEN, I have a full knife set. I’m not exactly a whiz in the kitchen, but I’m no slouch, though I’m way too busy to keep them properly sharp. Included in the set is a meat cleaver, a 3.5-inch paring knife, an 8-inch breadknife, a 6-inch utility knife, and what is comically named a chef’s knife, which is also eight inches long and predominantly used by chefs, seeing as though it’s part of a kitchen knife set. Not part of the set, and barely used, long and skinny with an upward curve, serrated, and with a forked tip, is what I think is a knife used to prepare fish.