Tracy Hayes, P.I. to the Rescue (P.I. Tracy Hayes 3)

by Susanna Shore

  “Would that have been enough to make her leave home?” Jackson probed on.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you have any idea where she might have gone to?” I asked.

  Alysha’s face closed. “No.”

  “If she’s in contact with you, could you please call us?” I gave her my card too, just in case.

  “Sure.” But her tone didn’t give me much hope. Their falling out must have been bad.

  “Would you like us to tell your mom where you are?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Since she was better off here, we just left. But I wasn’t happy. “Why do I have a feeling she knows more than she says?” I asked the moment we were in the elevator.

  “Maybe because you have good instincts,” Jackson said, looking grim. “I think we have to face the possibility that the reason Deanna disappeared is more Alysha than JT.”

  My heart plummeted. “Do you think Alysha knows where she is?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think she would’ve hurt her friend, at least.”

  But there had been hardness about Alysha that made me fear she actually could.

  “Did you notice Alysha had brand new clothes?”

  Jackson gave me a sharp look. “No, but you’re right. But it could be her grandmother who bought them for her.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Because I didn’t want to believe that she would’ve started dealing drugs to pay for them. Or betray her best friend for such a selfish reason. “So what do we do now?”

  “We’ll just have to wait and hope JT will talk.”

  “Before he’s bailed out.”

  Fortunately it was Friday, and the court date wouldn’t be set until Monday, so he’d be behind bars until then at least. Maybe that would soften him up.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jackson’s phone rang as he took a seat behind the wheel. He checked the display and lifted his brows. “Hi, Emily. Sure, I’d love to. Where? At eight?” He exchanged a few more words with her and then hung up. He flashed me a smile. “I guess you were wrong about her not wanting to go out with me again.”

  “I guess I was.”

  We drove in silence after that.

  “What are your plans for tonight?” Jackson asked when we approached Kensington and my parents’ house forty minutes later. I’d been deep in my thoughts, so it took me a moment to answer.

  “Shopping for a TV with Jarod. We got a new couch, a kitchen table, and a bed for him from IKEA, but no TV.” The table and couch would be arriving sometime next week, so until then we’d have to make do with the furniture we had. But Jarod wasn’t willing to live without a TV. The past month had been torture enough. “I’ll just borrow Mom’s car and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Have you heard anything from Jessica?”

  I frowned. “No, but Travis pressed charges, so it’s only a matter of time.”

  “Is that what you wanted?”

  “What I want is to face her and ask what the hell was she thinking, throwing away years of friendship. But for that I’ll have to find out where she lives.” I’d made a search with the agency’s resources, but it only gave me Harris’s address. I could go ask Harris, but I doubted he’d know where she was either.

  “Don’t do anything rash.”

  “When do I ever?”

  Smartly, Jackson didn’t answer that.

  TV shopping with Jarod was an amazingly simple operation. He had already compared the models he wanted, made a spreadsheet of their specs, chosen the best, and located the store that had it in stock. That it was in Greenpoint, a neighborhood about as north as you could go and still stay in Brooklyn, was neither here nor there for him; he wouldn’t wait for a closer store to order one for him. So we drove to the store and came out less than twenty minutes later with the TV.

  Really, not a shopping experience worth the hour and a half it took to drive there through the evening rush.

  The drive home took us through Williamsburg. I had normally nothing against the place, even though it had more than an acceptable number of hipsters living there. But the café Jessica worked for was located there and it made me resent the entire neighborhood all of a sudden. As we neared it, I remembered what I’d told Jackson.

  “I want to go talk to Jessica. Her shift should end in less than half an hour.”

  Jarod gave me a baffled look, most likely because he didn’t know we were near her workplace. “Why?”

  “Maybe we can clear this mess up amicably.”

  I found a spot near the back door of the café and pulled over. I was debating whether to go talk to her in the café or wait until she came out, when she exited through the back entrance, all dolled up and with a spring in her high-heeled step. She headed straight to a car that was waiting for her and got in before I managed so much as a twitch.

  “Shit. She’s got a date.” I felt miffed, mostly because of the lost opportunity, but a little for the fact that she’d already found someone new. I don’t know why the latter bothered me when I hadn’t even tried to date in years, but it did.

  “Or she’s moved in with that guy and he’s taking her home,” Jarod suggested.

  “Dressed like that? I don’t think so.” But I turned on the engine again and went after the car—a Lexus no less.

  Jarod had his phone out and he was checking the license plate. “Thomas Thane Westley,” he declared the result of his less than legal search. You needed a license to access the DMV database, but he wasn’t concerned with trivialities like that.

  “Quite a name.”

  “Quite a guy. Owns a tech startup that’s been recently listed for millions. Lives in Dumbo.” He sounded admiring.

  My brows shot up. “Jessica’s done well for herself. What the hell did she have to steal my furniture for?”

  “Maybe this is their first date,” Jarod suggested. “And since they’re headed to Dumbo, we’ll soon find out.”

  Dumbo was an area by the East River that had been through a facelift in the past decade, now a home for artists and tech startups alike—including Lexton Security, the firm Jarod worked for. There were also some fashionable restaurants there.

  Thomas Thane Westley—I wondered if everyone called him by his full name—pulled over outside one such place, a converted warehouse with a grungy look and an exclusive clientele. Which, come to think of it, described every restaurant here. I slowed down until I was sure he was taking Jessica to the restaurant and not to his home, before finding a spot for my car.

  “Now what?” I asked. “It’s no point for us to wait, is there? They’ll eat three courses and then he’ll take her to his place. And we can be pretty sure that however evolved their relationship is, that’s not where she lives. She wouldn’t have taken our secondhand furniture there. And she’s not taking a tech millionaire to her place.”

  “Maybe we should talk to her in the restaurant,” Jarod suggested.

  I pulled back. “And ruin her date? I’m not sure I’m that vicious.” I wasn’t so angry with her that I’d destroy her chance with a tech millionaire by barging in on her date. “Besides, we won’t be able to get in.”

  “They’re likely waiting in the bar for their table. If we hurry, we’ll catch her there.” In a rare show of initiative, he got out of the car and headed to the restaurant, leaving me no choice but to follow.

  We were neither of us dressed for a fancy restaurant, but I hadn’t been a waitress for years for nothing. I knew it wasn’t about the clothes, it was about the attitude. If you acted like you belonged there, you did. And Jarod never let clothing slow him down. It most likely didn’t even occur to him he’d need a suit and a tie in a place like this.

  We were already at the door when a male voice calling my name halted me. I turned to look who it was and my stomach fell. Harris, of all people.

  Jessica’s former live-in partner was a nice man about my age, a software engineer and a neat dresser. He was a bit boring for my tastes, but reliable and good, an
d I was secretly happy that things hadn’t worked out between the two of them, because he could do better than Jessica.

  His first words were a kick in my guts, though: “Is Jessica in that restaurant?”

  “How…”

  He frowned. “I saw you follow her from the café. I followed you here.”

  I’d had no idea I was being followed. Some detective I was. But the more important question was:

  “Why were you there?” He didn’t seem the stalking type.

  “I was supposed to be working late, so she said she’d work late too, but then I got out early after all and thought to surprise her—and saw her go with that guy.”

  You could’ve knocked me over with a feather. “Are you two together again?”

  “Yes. Didn’t she tell you? She moved back in a couple of days ago. I thought we’d make it work this time.” A bitter look twisted his face. “I guess not.” Then he pulled himself together. “Why did you follow her?”

  “She took some of my furniture when she moved out and I wanted to ask why.”

  He frowned. “She didn’t bring any furniture with her.”

  Jarod and I exchanged baffled glances. “Then where the hell did she take them?”

  “Maybe to that guy,” Harris said, sounding bitter again. “Let’s go ask.” He made to open the restaurant door, but I stopped him by placing a hand on his arm.

  “I think Jarod and I should handle this. You’re too angry and it might not end well.”

  He sneered but pulled back. “Just the same. I have to go home and pack her things anyway. Let her know her bags will be outside the door and she needn’t bother to knock.” I watched him walk to his car, his back stiff.

  “I think I lost my need to be nice to Jessica,” I said to Jarod, entering the restaurant.

  “I never had that need,” he said, which, coming from the perpetually mellow Jarod, was pretty vicious.

  As Jarod had assumed, Jessica and her date were by the bar, drinks in hand, talking to a couple in stylish clothes—making me feel drab in mine. But I pulled my back straight and walked over to them as if I belonged. My focus on Jessica, I didn’t pay attention the man her date was talking with until it was too late. My step faltered.

  Jonny Moreira, of all people. He noticed me and smiled.

  “Are you following me?” he asked, amused. He had fairly harsh features, and I hadn’t often seen him amused, but it suited him. Or perhaps this was an affable public persona he showed to people who didn’t know what he did for a living.

  “I swear, every time I’m on a date you two are there.”

  On his other side was a stunning woman—a different stunning woman than the last time we happened upon his date. Where did he find them?

  “This is only the second time in one month,” I managed to say, hiding my dismay.

  “And this is a second date in a month.”

  I found that hard to believe. He might be a bit scary—not to mention a criminal—but he was tall, well-built, and knew how to dress. The suit he was wearing tonight was an exercise in tailoring, and since he’d left his shoulder holster and weapon home for once, it fit perfectly too.

  He leaned closer to me with a curious frown. “What happened to your hair?”

  “I needed a change,” I said, fluffing the hair. He grinned.

  “Suits you.”

  Thomas Thane Westley, a passable looking man in his late thirties and wearing a suit even more expensive than Moreira, offered me his hand and introduced himself. Neither of the men bothered to introduce their dates—both of whom were ignoring me. “Are you a friend of Jonathan’s?”

  I blinked. Who was Jonathan?

  Moreira flashed me a grin behind Westley’s back and spoke: “Tracy’s a private detective. She helped to solve my cousin’s murder.” Westley looked both stunned and impressed hearing this, but Moreira wouldn’t elaborate. “So what brings you here, if not me?”

  I gathered my courage that had faltered during the exchange. “I have a message for Jessica.” I nodded at my erstwhile roommate, who was busy trying to look like she’d never met us. I didn’t hesitate; I didn’t want answers from her after all.

  “Harris asked me to tell you that your bags will be waiting in the hallway for you and don’t bother knocking. Oh, and you can keep the furniture you stole from me. Something tells me you’re going to need it.” Message delivered, I took Jarod by the arm and led him towards the exit.

  An angry shriek behind me made me halt and stiffen in anticipation of an attack, but it never came. When I glanced back, Moreira had Jessica in an effortless hold. Her face was distorted in rage.

  “You bitch!” she spat. Moreira nodded towards the door, and heeding the command, Jarod and I fled the scene. Moreira caught us by my car a few minutes later—without Jessica. I don’t know how he’d calmed her down. Maybe he’d left the task for Westley. That spelled a wonderful date.

  “What was that about?” he asked, fairly amused.

  I sighed, spent now that it was over. “She was my former roommate. We had a bit of a falling out when she left with my furniture.”

  “Quite a public payback.”

  I was mortified. “I didn’t mean to do it, but then I learned she’s cheating on her boyfriend with Westley. Was he angry?” I didn’t mind upsetting Jessica, but Westley hadn’t done anything to merit such a public embarrassment.

  “No, but my date will be if I don’t return.” He made to head back in, but I placed a hand on his arm and stopped him. Jackson had told me not to start a drug war, but I was out of options.

  “Does the name Brody Transportations mean anything to you?”

  His face hardened. “What does it mean to you?” His reaction told me all I needed about his drug connections, and Brody’s.

  “I’m looking for a missing fourteen year old girl.”

  “In connection to Brody?”

  “Could be.”

  He nodded. “I’ll look into it.” He headed back in and Jarod and I got into my car.

  “That went well,” Jarod said.

  We burst into hysterical laughter.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A phone call woke me up at around eleven the next morning. Since we’d stayed up late with Jarod, watching his new TV, I wasn’t happy about it. I was even less happy when I saw it was Scott calling.

  “What?” I croaked into the phone.

  “Did I wake you up? Long night with Jackson?” He sounded genuinely curious.

  “Why would I have a long night with him?”

  “Aren’t you two together?”

  His question caused a weird sensation in my stomach, as if falling. “No. He’s my boss.”

  “I could swear I caught a vibe.”

  “Why are you calling?” I ground from between my teeth. “More specifically, why are you calling me?”

  “I tried Jackson and he wouldn’t answer.”

  “Yet you called me, even though you thought I’d be with him?”

  “I guess I didn’t think it through.”

  “Do you ever?” I was annoyed by this conversation already and he hadn’t even told me why he was bothering me. “Why are you bothering me?”

  “Turned out you were right.”

  That cheered me up a bit. “I always am. What about specifically?”

  “It was Nicole taking money out of the cash register.”

  I snorted a laugh. “I knew she didn’t look intelligent enough to grasp the concept of accountability.”

  “She’s not stupid,” he said, annoyed. “Something else must be going on.”

  “Have you talked to her about it?”

  “No.”

  I refrained from rolling my eyes, then realized he couldn’t see me and rolled them after all.

  “Shouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  I groaned. Just yesterday I’d thought he’d grown more assertive, and now this. “It’s not that complicated. You sit her down and tell her
that you know she’s taken the money and ask her why. And then tell her to stop it.”

  “Couldn’t you do it?”

  “Hell no. This is a domestic matter. We don’t get involved in those.”

  “But what if she really needs the money?”

  “Can you afford it?”

  “No.”

  “Then she can’t have it,” I stated.

  “I can’t tell her she won’t be able to use money like she’s used to.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “It was her father’s business.” He sounded like he had hang-ups about it.

  “And now it’s yours. I take it you handle the finances?”

  “Yes. I’ve learned a few tricks since we divorced.”

  Of course he had, along with all the other things that made him a better husband now.

  “Maybe you should involve her, then. Go through with her how much the bar makes, how much is your take a month, and how much she has at her disposal after the necessities have been paid. Or you could try paying her hourly wages.”

  Sorting out my ex-husband’s marriage hadn’t exactly been on my agenda for today—or any day. If anything, ruining it had, just out of principle. Who knew I was better than that after all—especially in the light of last night’s events.

  “What if it’s not enough for her?”

  I wanted to slap him. He’d never made that sort of effort for me. “Then make changes to make more money. Cut costs at the bar or something.”

  “How?”

  “Who am I, Gordon fucking Ramsey? How the hell should I know? It’s your bar.” I drew a deep breath, calming down with effort. I thought of what I’d seen on TV. “Cut the menu to the most popular dishes and simplify them.”

  “That might lose us customers.”

  “I doubt it. Most order the same every day.” His place was a favorite among the cops in the nearby precinct and they didn’t have time for fancy stuff, like, reading the menu.

  “And if it’s not enough?”

  “Then you tell Nicole to stop spending.”

  “I guess.” He sighed. “It’s just not that easy.”

  “Marriage isn’t. Which you’d know if you’d paid attention to ours.”