Jake Hancock Private Investigator mystery series box set (Books 1-4)

by Dan Taylor

  I get out of bed, pull on the suit I had been wearing. Jane starts getting dressed, but slower.

  As she’s putting on her bra, she says, “I was just going to say that I think you’re right. We should wait and see what happens before we commit to it.”

  I’m putting on my tie, but what Jane said interrupts me. “So you think we can see other people until then?”

  I think, Now that you know I’ll be staying in an underground bunker, but I don’t say it.

  “I was acting like a schoolgirl with a crush over this thing.”

  “After this evening, I was starting to think it was a good idea, the exclusivity thing.”

  She comes over to me, presses her breasts into my chest, smiles, and says, “Well, if you think it’s a good idea.”

  “You know what? I see what you did there. The whole reverse psychology thing, but I don’t care. It is a good thing.”

  “Good.”

  “But there’s one thing you should know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your bra’s inside out.”

  She looks down at her chest, says, “It is. Silly me.”

  I collect my things, and pass Jane’s handbag to her, making a joke of it.

  The intercom buzzes. I look at the screen and see a burly man in a suit two sizes too small for him.

  I press the button, say, “Hello.”

  “Mr. Hancock, I’m your driver. We need to leave immediately.”

  “I’m on my way down.”

  “If that were the case, you wouldn’t be speaking to me right now.”

  Jane and I rush down the stairs, go through the building’s front door, and are presented with a fancy-looking black car with blacked-out windows. Jane takes it in, along with the burly driver, who’s stood by the rear right-side passenger door.

  She says, “So you were telling the truth.”

  “There’s no way I would lie to you.”

  “Oh, Jake.”

  We kiss, and the driver shifts from one foot to the other, clears his throat.

  She asks, “How long will you be gone?”

  “It’s difficult to say.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you when you get out.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing you. Do you want me to phone you a cab?”

  “Nah, I can do that all on my own.”

  The driver says, “Mr. Hancock, we really must leave.”

  We kiss one last time, and Jane sets off down Hollywood Boulevard, glancing back at me every so often as the driver puts my suitcase in the trunk.

  He opens the door and I get in.

  He says, “Quite the looker you have there.”

  “You should see my psychiatrist.”

  He shakes his head dismissively.

  A couple minutes into the drive, my phone starts to ring.

  The driver says, “Mr. Hancock, you received clear instructions to remove the battery from your phone, did you not?”

  “I forgot.”

  He shakes his head again.

  I go to answer it, but the driver tries to interrupt me, “Don’t answer the phone, Mr. Hancock.”

  But he’s too late. “Jake Hancock, PI.”

  A voice speaks, and it sends chills down my spine.

  But I play it cool, “Oh hi, Scuba Joe.”

  The battery in the voice-modulator must’ve been replaced, because when he speaks, the watery sound has gone. But it’s the same guy. “I have your sister and her kid, Jake.”

  “Nice try, asshole.”

  “It’s true. I took them while she was watching a crappy Steven Seagal movie and he was playing with an old train set.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  The End

  Prologue

  “SO WHICH IS IT? You looking to kill a guy or scare a guy?” Walter Smithwick asks.

  Nine times out of ten, the guy looking to buy the gun answers in the latter. But Walter isn’t that gullible. He knows that nine out of the ten people that come to buy a gun from him will be using it for the former.

  The guy in front of him—who’s thoroughly inspecting a SIG Pro semi-automatic pistol with his eyes, though he didn’t take it when Walter offered it to him—looks up at him like Walter just asked him if he’d like ketchup in his milkshake.

  Walter says, “The reason I ask, do you want your weapon of choice to look deadly or actually be deadly?”

  That look again. Though at least he answers his question this time. “I want it to look deadly and be deadly, kid.”

  “Then you don’t want this, oh no.” Walter takes the SIG Pro from him, puts it back in his duffel bag. “Hold up a store with that, any attorney in the state could get you off with strong-arm robbery.”

  Walter takes the duffel bag down from the dining room table, slides it underneath, then takes the second duffel bag he took out of his walk-in wardrobe, and puts it on the table. Inside it is an assortment of automatic weapons. “Then you probably want a submachine gun. You’ll look the part with one of these, and if need be, you could put down a randy bull.”

  The customer turns to him, looks at Walter through narrow, skeptical eyes.

  Walter doesn’t like the guy. He knew that as soon as he opened the door to him, held out his hand, only for the guy to push past it and invite himself in.

  He says, “Why would I want to put down a randy bull?”

  Walter stutters, then says, “What? No, it was just a figure of speech.”

  “Not a very good one. Why would you want to kill a bull if it’s randy? Bulls are supposed to be randy.”

  Walter doesn’t know whether the guy’s fucking with him. There’s a funny little smirk on his face, which he doesn’t like. And he’s got this weird-as-fuck way about him.

  Walter says, “Never mind. Sorry about the music, by the way. I got thin walls and neighbors with long ears.” He turns his attention to the second duffel bag, takes out one of the submachine guns. “This here’s the Big Mac and fries of the submachine world. Watch any action movie from the eighties or nineties, at least one of the bad guys has one of these babies. Blowback-operated, open-bolt, originated in Israel, funnily enough. The Uzi.”

  The guy looks at it. “You can spare me the cute descriptions. I’m more of a man of science—rate of fire, muzzle velocity, effective firing range. That sort of thing, kid.”

  “Well, you should have just asked. Let me see…well, the rate of fire is six hundred rounds per minute. Muzzle velocity is—”

  “Four hundred meters a second.”

  “Right. What was the last one again?”

  “Effective firing range.”

  “Right. Well that would be—”

  “Two hundred meters under moderate wind conditions.”

  “Right…”

  “Walter, let me tell you right off the bat, this isn’t the gun I want. When I was referred to you by my associate, I was told that a) you wouldn’t try and sell me a potato gun, and b) you wouldn’t act like a back-alley gun salesman from some Tarantino movie. The latter I specifically asked for. My time is precious.”

  Walter waits for the guy to continue, but he doesn’t. He just stares at him, keeps that smug little smirk on his face.

  Walter goes to zip the bag up, but stops himself. Says, “Should I assume submachine isn’t what you’re looking for.”

  The guy’s smirk widens into a grin, and the son of a bitch almost looks friendly. Almost. “You can go ahead and assume that, Walter.”

  Walter zips up the duffel bag, places it next to the first duffel on the floor. Then goes over to the sofa. He pushes back the backrest, as though it’s a sofa bed, but instead of it converting into a bed, a draw reveals itself from the front seat panel.

  He takes out a briefcase, goes back to his customer, and sets the briefcase down on the table.

  With deft thumbs, he completes both three-digit codes on the latches, and opens it up to reveal an assault rifle. “The AK is your go-to choice. But in my experience, they jam too often. Plus,
you look like a guy who buys American. Am I right?”

  The guy’s grin widens further, and he pats Walter on the back, almost congratulating him. “You’re right, Walter.”

  After wiping away the sweat on his upper-lip with his sleeve, Walter continues, “I’m not going to offer you the meat and potatoes of the American assault rifle—”

  Walter turns to the guy, who has his eyebrows raised, and Walter utters a sheepish sorry. Wipes the sweat away again. Continues, “This here’s a variant of the M16A1, the—”

  “MK 4 Mod 0. Continue.”

  But Walter stutters, turns to the guy, whose grin has widened still. “It was produced for the U.S. Navy SEALs during the Vietnam War. It can be carried to the depth of two hundred feet in water and still be operational afterwards—”

  “That sounds good, Walter. I’ll take it.”

  Walter puts the assault rifle down, turns to the guy. “Don’t you want to hear about its…technical capabilities…muzzle velocity, the, mm, what-cha-call-it?”

  “Effective firing range?”

  “Yeah…”

  “There’s no need.”

  Walter chews on that comment for a second, then looks into the man’s eyes. It occurs to him that he doesn’t know his name. So as he packs the rifle away in its case, goes to the bookshelf, on which rows of various rounds of different calibers are hidden behind the classics, Walter says, “Say, I didn’t catch your name, partner.”

  “Why do you want to know that? Is there some bureaucratic documentation you need to fill out?”

  Walter doesn’t turn towards him this time, but carries on looking for the rounds he needs. But he can feel him smiling in that creepy way.

  “Ha, no, no, we both know I won’t be doing that. It’s just…and this is going to sound silly…I sleep better at night knowing the names of the men I’ve sold firearms to.”

  There’s silence a second. “I get it. And the name’s Theodore Francisco.”

  Walter takes a second from his searching to turn around, takes a look at Theodore. As with Walter—and his ex-wife attests to this—he says what he thinks without thinking first. “You don’t look much like a Francisco. Theodore, maybe, but not Francisco.”

  Theodore doesn’t reply, just nods.

  Walter realizes something. During the whole time that Theodore has been in his apartment, he hasn’t taken his hands out of his pockets. Not once. Even—now comes his second realization—when he’d walked up the small flight of stairs to enter the apartment. And they’re steep, those stairs. Can easily surprise a man’s usually sound balance.

  Walter turns back round, carries on searching, though this time he just covers the classics he pulled out before, doubling back on himself, despite the shelf below.

  Walter says, “Nope. I think I’m all out of the 5.56s.” He pulls out a few more books, just as the final act to his pretense, then begins to turn back around as he says, “Definitely out. Do you want to take the rifle now or—”

  Theodore whatever-his-name-is is no longer smiling. His hands are no longer in his pockets. Trained on Walter, the muzzle with a direct line to his forehead, is the MK 4 Mod 0.

  Walter smiles, despite himself. “She feels great, doesn’t she? Perfect balance.”

  “She sure does, partner.”

  “I was just saying, do you want to take the rifle now, or come back when I have rounds?”

  “I’ll take it now.”

  “Sure. Do you want to pay cash or check?”

  They both laugh, but only Walter throws his head back. Theodore stays rock-steady.

  When Walter stops, so does Theodore, and heavy realization dawns on Walter. Thick, smothering. He speaks slowly and quietly. “We both know that rifle isn’t loaded. I packed it in the case myself. I couldn’t even have made a mistake. I’m all out.”

  “It’s time for me to say some things we both know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you looked behind those books like a fingerless man picks his nose for boogers.”

  “Right…”

  “And that I only came here with the intention of buying this rifle.”

  Walter gulps. “Right…”

  “And that I loaded the rifle when your back was turned.”

  Walter goes to speak, maybe say right again in that way his ex-wife hated. Maybe to tell Mr. Theodore Francisco that he can take everything, except his life. Maybe to lie and say he has children.

  But he doesn’t get the chance.

  1.

  I’M JAKE HANCOCK, private investigator to the stars, part of an elite private investigation organization called the Agency. This is a bad time to tell you about myself, as some psycho has just told me that he has kidnapped my sister and her son. But I will, anyway.

  Wait, let’s back up a bit.

  It’s Monday, and during the weekend I was sent by Gerry Smoulderwell, my immediate boss, to Rodeo, Texas, to investigate the parentage of Megan Books, an actress. I’ll spare you the details. Upon returning to Hollywood, where I’m based, I found out that the Agency has been compromised. One of our private investigators has been kidnapped, and we’re receiving phone calls from a man I named Scuba Joe, on account of the voice-modulation device he uses being low on batteries, lending his voice a watery effect.

  Which brings us to now.

  He told me he has them and I believe him. This is because he stated what they were doing at the time of the abduction. Randy, my nephew, was playing with the train set I bought him to make up for me being a shitty uncle; and Mary, my sister, was watching a Steven Seagal box set I bought her, which was how I made up for me not being mature enough to help her cope with her multiple sclerosis, despite my thirty-seven years.

  Scuba Joe says, “Oh boy?” repeating the response I gave him.

  I say, “Wait, let me just think a second.”

  “Mr. Hancock, I implore you to put down the telephone,” my driver says.

  We’re on the way to an underground bunker, which the Agency team will be staying in until they can get Cole Baxter, the missing agent, back. I’ve been under strict instructions to not have my battery in my cell phone, as Gerry Smoulderwell thinks that’s how they found Cole.

  To Scuba Joe I say, “Will you just hold on a minute?”

  He sighs, but it sounds like he’ll wait.

  I put my hand over the microphone end and turn my attention to the driver, who’s glaring at me in the rearview mirror in between glancing at the road.

  I say, “Scuba Joe has my sis and her kid.”

  He says, “Who’s Scuba Joe?”

  “The terrorist guy—whoever he is—who captured Cole Baxter and is compromising the Agency.”

  He breathes in deeply, processing what I said, before saying, “The protocol is still the same. I’m under strict instructions to make sure you don’t use your phone.”

  “It’s not like I’m ordering a pizza. They’ve got my sister and her kid. That changes things, don’t you think?”

  I hold my finger up to the driver, indicating that I want a second. The driver rolls his eyes. I put the phone to my ear. “Scuba Joe, are you still there?”

  “Why do you keep on calling me that?”

  “On account of the battery…wait, never mind. How do I know they’re still alive, my sister and her son?”

  He sighs. “Why would I kidnap them, kill them, and then start making demands? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It doesn’t now that you said you’re making demands. But you hadn’t said that before.”

  “You didn’t give me the opportunity.”

  “Let’s just stop bickering, shall we?”

  “Okay.”

  “Let me speak to them and then we can start with your demands.”

  He sighs again, but after a moment’s silence, I’m speaking to Mary, “Jake?”

  “Hi, Mare. How are you?”

  “I couldn’t be better.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “I wa
s being sarcastic! I’ve been kidnapped!”

  “I’ll get you back. I promise. We’ll watch those Steven Seagal movies I sent you. And we can talk about…your illness.”

  My psychiatrist, who started out as a classy hooker specializing in role-play experiences—and was just playing the part of a Sopranos-style shrink before becoming my real-life shrink—pointed out this as an area for development. That it might help to make me a happier person, being there for my sister, instead of trying to distract her from her struggle with the disease.

  She hasn’t responded, so I say, “Mare?”

  “Uncle Jake?”

  It’s Randy.

  “Kiddo!”

  “Uncle Jake, I’m scared.”

  “I know you are. But hold tight. I’m coming to get you.”

  There’s silence a moment before Scuba Joe comes back on the line. “Happy, now?”

  “No, I feel worse. What are your demands?”

  “You need to meet me and an associate of mine at Denny’s—6100 Sunset, Hollywood. You’ll find out there.”

  “I know that’s in Hollywood, stupid—”

  “You’re not in a position to be calling people stupid, Jake.”

  I sigh. “Okay, I’ll meet you. When?”

  “Now.”

  “You realize I’m not in the parking lot, right?”

  “I meant as soon as possible.”

  “Okay. What do you and your associate look like?”

  “Doesn’t matter. We know what you look like.”

  The driver starts beeping the horn. He’s pissed at me.

  I put my hand on the microphone end of the phone again, address the driver. “Nearly finished, boss. Hold your horses.”

  I put the phone back to my ear. “Where were we?”

  “I said we know what you look like.”

  “So you’ll wave me over when I get there?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Something like that?”

  “Okay, that…We’ll do that.”

  “This sounds like a setup.”

  “Of course it’s a setup, Jake.”

  I think a second. “So why would I come?”

  “You have no choice, stupid, if you want to see Mary and Randy again.”

  The driver starts beeping his horn again.