“Yeah, I popped home in the early hours of the morning.”
“Is it far?”
“Marine Park.” It was southeast from Midwood, right by Jamaica Bay. “I own a small semi there, not far from the park. Good place for running.” He gave me a meaningful glance, which I took to indicate he intended me to take up running too.
Maybe tomorrow. Or next week.
“What else do we have scheduled for today besides this delivery?” I asked, ignoring his hint.
“Mr. Jenkins is coming over this morning.”
I remembered Tessa’s call. “My sister asked that we don’t show the photos to Mr. Jenkins after all.”
“Oh?”
“Apparently Angela, Mrs. Jenkins, wants to deal with the matter herself.”
“What does she suggest we tell our client? We have to eat too, you know.”
I gave it a thought. “The truth. That we kept an eye on the house and didn’t see any man go there while he was gone.”
Jackson blinked. Then he started laughing. “That might actually work. I’ll think about it.”
After about a week in traffic, we reached the huge modern skyscraper in Downtown, Brooklyn, that housed the DA’s office—and a Marriot hotel too, of all things odd. Jackson drove us into the parking garage underneath the building. It was pretty full already, even that early in the morning, so it took us a while to find a free spot. Then it was a matter of locating Cheryl and Pippin, which Jackson handled by calling her.
“Tracy, you take Pippin, and Cheryl, you go back to the office,” Jackson instructed us when we reached her car. “Someone needs to keep an eye on it until the door repairmen come.”
I rounded Cheryl’s car to the front passenger seat, where Pippin was sitting, wearing some sort of neoprene harness—pink, naturally—that secured him to the seatbelt. He looked satisfied with himself. Maybe his owner wouldn’t let him sit in the front seat.
He was delighted to see me and expressed himself with jumping and barking, which echoed loudly in the garage. I feared that the bad guys would hear us, so I tried to quiet him. Moreira hadn’t followed us—that I’d noticed—but you never knew with these things. Fortunately Pippin calmed down quickly.
“It’s so sad to see him go,” Cheryl sighed, tears in her eyes. “We had such wonderful times together, didn’t we.” She leaned over to pet and kiss Pippin one more time.
“I’m sad too, but we can’t let the bad guys win.”
I extracted Pippin from the seatbelt and lifted him in my arms. He wasn’t happy about being carried, but I wasn’t going to take any risks. Glancing left and right, certain that we’d be ambushed, I hurried side by side with Jackson to the elevator. I would see Pippin to his owner even if was the last thing I did.
Chapter Twenty
The elevator filled already on the next floor, pushing us to the back of the car. I held Pippin tighter, but these people were only interested in their phones and morning papers, not in him. No one even noted how cute he looked.
Pippin, for his part, was infinitely curious about everyone and everything. Especially interesting was the long, flowing hair of the woman standing right in front of us, which he kept nibbling the whole ride. I didn’t have enough room to pull him away, so perhaps it was for the best that the people ignored him.
We reached the correct floor and were spewed out at the bland government-style lobby of the district attorney’s offices. People were still arriving to their stations and we slipped in among them, skipping the reception desk, and headed down a long hallway pretty much unnoticed. I would’ve expected slightly tighter security.
There were offices on both sides of the hallway and we read the nametags to locate the correct one. But before we’d found it, Pippin became really animated and managed to free himself from my arms. He jumped down and in through the door of the nearest office. Trying to catch him before he did any damage, I dove after him.
Only to bang my head against the stomach of the person about to exit the office.
“What the hell?” a man exclaimed, not even slightly winded for the contact.
I rubbed my forehead as I took a look at who I’d smashed into. A furious man, for one; fit, for another. Those abs hadn’t given an inch. Tall. Even after I straightened I had to keep looking up. Incredibly handsome. Pretty almost. There was a slight curl to his short, light brown hair and his bright blue eyes were framed by lashes so long I’d need falsies to achieve the same.
“Sorry.” I had to blink. “I tried to catch the dog.”
Pippin was ecstatic, running a tight circle around the man’s legs and yapping. He gave the dog a baffled look and frowned.
“Is this my dog?” He realized that underneath all the pink was his pet and a smile lit his face, melting what few brain cells I had left after the impact he’d made, both physical and mental.
“There you are.” He leaned down and lifted Pippin into his arms, allowing the dog to lick his face. Yuck. “Where have you been all this time, you naughty boy? I’ve been so worried.”
The man and the dog spent a few moments happily reuniting. Then he shot a piercing glance at me that wasn’t dampened by the pretty lashes.
“What are you doing with my dog? And what the hell is he wearing?”
I wanted to answer him. I really did. But for the life of me I couldn’t make my scrambled brain restart. Jackson cleared his throat.
“This is your show, Tracy.”
“Huh? Right…” But all I saw were the pretty eyes of Daniel Thorne, Assistant DA. Because that’s who he had to be.
“I found your dog a couple of days ago,” I managed to say.
“Couple of days? Where?”
“He showed up at the Café Marina in Prospect Heights.”
“Prospect Heights? I don’t live anywhere near there. And why did you wait this long to bring him back?”
“He wasn’t wearing a collar so we didn’t know who he belonged to.”
He gave me a slow look. “He has a microchip.”
“A what?”
“An identification chip planted under his skin. Any vet could’ve checked him for you.”
I looked at Jackson again, who shrugged. “He looked like a mongrel so I thought he wouldn’t have one.”
“You’re Jackson Dean, aren’t you?” Mr. Thorne asked. “What do you have to do with this?”
Jackson wasn’t as taken with Thorne’s pretty face—go figure—so he just nodded. “It’s a bit of a story, and it has to do with the MacRath case.”
“MacRath case? I’m not on it.”
We were both stunned by his statement, but it was Jackson who spoke. I still hadn’t found my tongue. “You’re not? Then why the hell was your dog stolen by his brother-in-law?”
Thorne was utterly bewildered. “What? I thought my ex had taken him to put pressure on the settlement negotiations we’re starting today.” He blushed lightly, which I found adorable. “I guess I owe her an apology.”
“May I ask who your ex is?” I was proud it came out clear and without sighs.
He frowned at me. “Why?”
I fought the brain-melting effects of his face to gather my thoughts. “It makes absolutely no sense for anyone to steal an assistant DA’s dog to put pressure on him in a high-profile case, especially if he’s even not on it. Even less so if that someone is about to take over the drug business left vacant by said case. But it does make sense for your ex to steal him.” I’d have done the same if Scott had had anything worth fighting over.
“So is she by any chance from New Jersey?”
“Are you saying Patricia would’ve hired someone to steal Mac?” he asked incredulous.
“Is that his name? I call him Pippin,” I said, delighted, and felt a poke in my side. Jackson.
“Concentrate.”
“Right. Yes, that’s what I’m saying. Craig Douglas, or someone working for him stole him for her.”
“Allegedly stole.”
That’s lawyers for you.
/>
Daniel—I’d definitely call him by his first name, or Danny—blinked his beautiful lashes at me. “Yes. She’s from New Jersey. But it’s really farfetched.”
I shrugged. “Worth checking out, I’d say.”
He got a gleam in his eyes that didn’t promise anything good for his ex-wife. “I believe I shall.”
“We’d be happy to offer our services,” Jackson said and I nodded eagerly. Daniel ran his fingers through his hair, and I’m not entirely sure what was said after that.
Jackson snapped his fingers in front of my eyes. “Earth to Tracy.” I blinked. Daniel and Pippin—Mac—had disappeared without me noticing. They’d even managed to strip the dog and Jackson was holding the pink accessories. He snorted a laugh. “Man, the pretty boy really got to you.”
“Sooo pretty.” I followed him down the hallway and back to the elevator. “Where are we going?” It made him laugh harder.
“You didn’t hear a word, did you?”
“Nope.” And I wasn’t even embarrassed.
“First we’ll go to the office to meet with Richard Jenkins.” The reminder was like a cold shower and brought me back to reality. “Then we’ll have a chat with Daniel Thorne’s soon to be ex mother-in-law.”
“In New Jersey?”
“No, luckily she’s staying with her daughter during this ‘trying time.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. “Her words, not Thorne’s.”
“But won’t the daughter be there?”
“She’s at work.”
The drive to the agency was short. Cheryl got tears in her eyes when I gave Pippin’s leash and collar back to her. “He looked so pretty in them.”
“I know. But he was very happy to stay with his owner. His name was Mac.”
“I’ll always think of him as Pippin.”
“Me too.” I told her what we had learned and she immediately began searching for everything she could find on the soon to be former Mrs. Thorne’s mother.
I left her to it when my phone rang. It was Tessa again.
“Angela changed her mind. Show Richard the photos.”
“Are you sure? He’ll be here any minute now and then it’ll be too late.”
I heard her relay my words to Angela, and her answer too, but it was Tessa who spoke.
“Yes.”
“Okay. He’s here now,” I said, spying him entering reception. “I got to go.”
Jackson gave me a questioning look. “We’ll use the photos?”
“Yes. Angela changed her mind.”
“Very good.”
I studied Richard Jenkins as he entered the office, feeling curious and apprehensive. He was the key to my sister’s happiness. He was in his mid-thirties and wore an expensive business suit. He looked uptight, but so would I if I were about to hear whether or not my husband was cheating on me. Or wife, in his case. It didn’t help my mood that she was, and that I’d provided the evidence myself.
This would surely be the first of many similar meetings to come, so I settled in to watch how Jackson handled it. He greeted the man as he did everyone, with a firm handshake and a direct look in the eyes, not indicating in any way what was to come.
“Well?” Mr. Jenkins asked the moment he had sat down—on the edge of his seat. This mattered to him, and I felt for him. I glanced at Jackson, hoping he had noticed the same, and he nodded calmly at me.
“My apprentice and I spent three evenings outside your house while you were gone. Your wife was home every evening, and there were no men visiting her.”
Mr. Jenkins relaxed visibly and I wasn’t sure if it was good after all. It would make the truth feel that much worse. Jackson seemed to agree, because he continued:
“However, she wasn’t alone.” Mr. Jenkins stiffened again. “Each night a woman came to visit, and she stayed the whole night.”
“How would you know?”
“I returned every morning to wait for her to leave.”
I hadn’t known that.
“A friend of hers?” Mr. Jenkins asked hopefully. He glanced at me, as if seeking for confirmation.
“I think you need to prepare yourself for the idea that your wife is having an affair with another woman,” I said as kindly as I could. He pulled back, stunned.
“How dare you say that?”
“Would it be any different if it were a man?”
“Yes, of course it would be. I’m sure the woman is just a friend and you’re trying to slander my wife. I will not have that.”
He was furious now, a disproportional reaction to our news, as if it mattered more to her reputation that she was gay than whether or not she was having an affair. Or maybe he feared that it would reflect more badly on him that she was having an affair with a woman and he wasn’t strong enough to handle it. There was barely contained violence in him even, and I debated the wisdom of showing him the photos after all. What if he attacked us? But it would be better if he did it here, than with Angela later. Jackson could defend us.
Besides, I still hadn’t had a chance to use my pepper spray, which I’d itched to do these past two days.
Jackson turned his computer screen around so that Mr. Jenkins could see. “I have photos that will shock you, so, please, prepare yourself.” But he didn’t give Mr. Jenkins a chance before opening the first photo.
“What … no, that’s not my wife.” But he took a closer look. After seeing all of them, he had to admit defeat. He looked deflated and a bit gray. “Who is she?”
“Her colleague from the hospital.” I didn’t want to admit the family connection.
“I see…” He seemed lost for a moment, but pulled himself together. His anger had returned, evident in how his fists kept opening and closing. “Thank you. Send me your invoice. And destroy those photos.” He headed out of the door without a glance back.
I slumped in relief. “That went well enough.”
“Yes.”
I took out my phone and texted Tessa to tell the outcome. Then I called Trevor. “Can you do your sister a favor?”
“Which one?” he asked, teasing.
“Tessa. Her girlfriend’s husband just learned about the affair and it might be good if Angela wasn’t alone when he comes home.”
“Is he violent?” he asked in a very different tone. It didn’t promise anything good for Mr. Jenkins should he take his anger out on his wife.
“On the edge of it. Call Tessa.”
I was exhausted, as if I’d been put through a wringer and stretched thin. “Any chance we can call it a day early?”
Jackson smiled. “No, but we’ll have an early lunch. And then we’ll go to meet Mrs. Allen.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Patricia Thorne—and her mother, Mrs. Allen—lived in the couple’s apartment in Brooklyn Heights, in a Victorian townhouse with an unobstructed view over the East River to the skyline of southern Manhattan. It was as prime a spot as you could get in Brooklyn, and I didn’t wonder that the divorcing couple was fighting over the apartment.
Cheryl had dug up some details and we’d learned that the apartment had belonged to Mr. Thorne’s family for ages—he came from old money—but since he’d cheated on his wife—which immediately doused my undying love for him—she had a good basis for claiming the place.
Though not good enough if she’d had to steal the dog.
The quiet street outside the building was empty, but Jackson chose a spot a little away from the house for the car. “We’ll observe for a moment.”
I sighed internally and settled to observe.
We observed a nanny leave the building with a toddler in a stroller—with great difficulty, as the granite steps up to the front door were steep and there was no ramp—and head toward the end of the building and the playground with the best view in all Brooklyn there. We observed a bus pull over and spew a horde of Japanese tourists with cameras from its guts to go take a few photos of Manhattan from the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. We observed a delivery van for an Italian restaurant
pull over, the driver take a large box of food from the back and head with it to the house we were keeping an eye on.
“Is it just me, or does the delivery guy look a bit old?” I asked Jackson, having observed the curious detail.
“And is it just me, or is he trying really hard not to be recognized?” Jackson asked in return.
“I’d go even so far as to say he’s embarrassed to be a delivery guy, or maybe it’s just me again.”
“It could be you, yes,” Jackson said nodding, his sharp eyes trained on the man as he disappeared into the building. “But I’d say the guy looked a lot like Craig Douglas underneath that ball cap and fake mustache.”
My heart skipped a beat. “What do you think this is about?”
“I have no idea, but it’s not a coincidence he’s here. He knows Mrs. Allen.”
“But why the disguise?”
Jackson shrugged. “Maybe he’s trying his best not to be connected with Mrs. Allen. He must suspect we’ve taken Mac to his owner, which means their game is up.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to stay away then?”
“Yes it would. So the question becomes, what was in that container.”
“Awful lot of food for just two people, that’s what.”
He grinned. “Let’s go find out.”
“How do you want to play this?”
“All we need is a proof that Douglas knows Thorne’s mother-in-law.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we’ll take a photo of the two together.”
Jackson took out a compact but effective-looking camera from the glove compartment. Then we got out of the car and crossed the street to the house. The front door was locked, to the surprise of no one. I sort of expected him to pull out lockpicks like Moreira had the previous night, but instead he turned to the buzzers by the door.
However, before he could select one, the nanny returned with the toddler, who was in the throes of an epic tantrum. Jackson hurried down the steps to carry the stroller up to the door and the grateful nanny opened the door without asking why we were there. Not that she would’ve heard the answer over the child’s screaming.
She thanked us profusely as she crammed the stroller into the tiny, retrofitted elevator. “I’m sorry, but we can’t all fit in.”
Tracy Hayes, Apprentice P.I. (P.I. Tracy Hayes 1) Page 11