Booker Brothers Detective Agency Box Set

by Maisie Dean

  She shot him an icy glare that looked terrifying, even from where I stood.

  “Tippy,” Lucky finished. “Thanks, Tippy.” He flashed a perfect smile.

  Harrison shook Leo’s hand. “Mr. Fitz, we always have time to see our most valued clients. We’ll do our best, as always.” Harrison turned to the other man.

  “August Ripley,” the man said, shaking Harrison’s hand, then Lucky’s. “Don’t mind me. I’m only along with Leo for emotional support.”

  The Booker brothers nodded, then led the way through the office to the meeting room at the far side.

  Tippy scanned the room, looking for me. I held very still by the filing cabinet, wondering if I’d blend in with the mismatched office furniture. She scanned past me, then back again, her eyes narrowing when they locked onto mine.

  “There you are,” she said.

  “I’m still here.” I grinned. “No juicy auditions have tempted me away. Not yet.”

  She very nearly smiled at my joke. She plucked a legal pad and a black pen from a shelf near the copier, strode over, and dropped them into my hands.

  “Go into the meeting and make notes.” She ushered me toward the meeting room. “Or at least act like you’re making notes. That shouldn’t be difficult for you. The twins have excellent memories for details. They won’t require your notes, but it makes the clients more comfortable.”

  “I get it,” I said. “I used to waitress for a bit.”

  “You don’t say,” she said flatly.

  “I have a good memory, too, but my boss at the restaurant made all of us waitresses scribble down something at the table so that the customers wouldn’t worry about getting the wrong order.”

  She raised one impeccable blonde eyebrow. “Why, it sounds like you have an absolute cornucopia of job skills upon which to draw.”

  Her words stung, which only made it easier for me to respond to her the way I would have reacted to notes from a difficult casting director.

  “Thank you,” I said with a smile, and I slipped quietly into the meeting room.

  CHAPTER 2

  The clients, Leo Fitz and his friend August Ripley, sat on one side of a long, avocado-green, Formica table that served as a conference desk. Harrison and Lucky sat on the other side of the table with a chair between them. None of the men paid me much notice as I took the chair near a skinny window.

  The four had been engaged in a conversation about golf, but when I took my spot and poised my pen over the legal pad, the golf talk ceased.

  Harrison leaned forward. “And what delicate matter have you brought us today, Mr. Fitz?”

  Leo Fitz swished the air with one hand. “Call me Leo. After everything we’ve been through over the years, we’re on a first-name basis.”

  Lucky grinned and leaned back in his chair, taking the opposite pose of his brother.

  Lucky said to the client, “I hope nobody’s been trying to sell you swampland again.” This comment made the older men guffaw.

  “No, nothing more like that.” Leo finished laughing and rested his chin in his hand wearily. “I brought my friend August along because this new thing has really upset me.” He looked down and used his thick fingernail to pick at a dent on the table. He shifted from side to side, looking uncomfortable on the chair, which was of the decades-old stackable variety. He succeeded in lifting a chip of table material, exposing composite material beneath. A silence stretched on.

  I busied myself writing on the legal pad, starting with the date, then listing all of the people present. Whether my notes would be needed or not, I was confident they’d be good. In both high school and acting classes, people had always asked for copies of my notes. I wrote quickly, making the usual ultra-clean, crisp lettering that my roommate, Rosie, had deemed “somewhat sociopathic.” Rosie had such a funny view on things. Since when was tidy handwriting a sign of deviancy? I adored my tight, precise handwriting. Staring at the orderly words as they appeared on the page was soothing. It always had been.

  Leo finally launched into his story. “It happened at my party this weekend. On Saturday. As you might imagine, I invited the usual crowd. Fellow executives, longtime friends, and industry people,” Leo said, slowing down. “Everything was going well, but then—” He broke off and spluttered in rage. “I know who did it! I already know!”

  Harrison said, “Easy now. One thing at a time. Tell us what happened at the party.”

  August gave his friend Leo a supportive pat on the shoulder. Leo returned the shoulder pat in a mirrored gesture. The two men looked quite similar, like two peas in a pod. They reminded me of people I’d known who’d taken on each other’s styles after spending all their time together. Given their age, this pair had had quite a number of years to unconsciously fine-tune their look.

  “My painting was stolen,” Leo said. His voice was hoarse, as though uttering the words was painful. He composed himself. “It wasn’t one of the most valuable ones. The loss of those would have been covered by insurance. The person who stole this painting sure knew how to hurt me. The painting had... sentimental value.”

  “We’ll use the security footage again,” Harrison said matter-of-factly. “That worked the last time something went missing from your house.”

  Lucky chimed in. “Easy peasy lemon squeezy.” He brushed his hands as though solving the case was already a done deal. “Then we hit the golf course.”

  “You can review the security footage if you like, but that won’t be necessary,” Leo said. “And anyways, I’ve already reviewed the footage myself. That’s why I’m certain the culprit was Portia.”

  Harrison jerked his head back. “Your ex-wife Portia?”

  “Portia Fitz. The one and only,” Leo replied.

  August grinned and poked the air with one finger. “Not the one and only ex-wife,” August corrected. “You’ve got a few of those.”

  “The only one named Portia,” Leo said. “And the only one who stole my painting.”

  Harrison asked, “What makes you so certain? Do you have security footage of her taking the artwork?”

  “No,” Leo said. “But I know it was her because she’s always been a jealous woman. She took it to get back at me for how things ended.”

  August made a noise like he was suppressing a snicker, then said, “You should stop inviting Portia to your parties.”

  Leo waved a hand. “We worked side by side for so long in the business that ostracizing her now would only be shooting myself in the foot,” he explained.

  Harrison pressed on, keeping Leo on track. “Do you have an eyewitness who saw Portia take the artwork?”

  “Not exactly.” Leo winced as he smiled. “However, Portia was carrying a peculiar purse that night. I don’t normally notice such things, but it was very strange.” He used his hands to mime something long and slender. “The purse was about this long, and cylindrical. It looked like a quiver for arrows.” He shrugged. “Fashion.”

  The Booker brothers nodded in unison.

  Lucky snapped his fingers excitedly and pointed at the gentleman client. “She must have yanked the canvas from the frame, rolled it up, and stuffed it in her purse! Just like in that heist movie. What was it called?”

  Harrison put a hand on his brother’s chest to push him back into his chair. Lucky murmured movie titles under his breath and pulled out his phone.

  Harrison asked Leo, “What were the dimensions of the painting?”

  “Approximately two feet by three feet,” Leo said. “I've never seen it without the frame, and I don't know that much about the materials the artist used, but if it was canvas, she might have folded it before she rolled it.” He made a distressed noise. “I hope she didn’t damage the piece too much.”

  “Portia always had a vindictive side,” August said.

  “She’s a monster,” Leo declared.

  August gave Leo’s shoulder another pat as he continued. “At one point, I looked around the party for Portia, but I didn’t see her. That must have bee
n when she snuck off to the south wing.”

  Leo shook his head and explained to the brothers, “That’s where the painting was. The whole south wing was blocked off from the party, but it wasn’t secure. On the night of the party, some doors were missing due to the minor renovations I’m having done.”

  Everyone was quiet. The only sound was the scratching of my pen on the legal pad. I became self-conscious but kept writing, only glancing up occasionally.

  Leo broke the silence. “And that wasn’t the only bad deed that Portia did that night. She also poisoned Fiona. Poor Fiona was violently ill that evening.”

  At this news, I couldn’t help but gasp. When I looked up from my notepad, four sets of eyes were trained on me. August pushed his glasses up his nose.

  Lucky smirked at me as he asked, “Did you have something to contribute, Chelsea?”

  “It’s Kacey.” I tapped my pen on the legal pad. “I know I’m new here, but isn’t poisoning someone a serious offense?”

  “It is a serious offense,” Leo said, puffing up his chest. “That’s why I brought it up. Portia needs to be taught a lesson.”

  Lucky continued to smirk at me. “Go on, Kacey,” he said. “You were saying?”

  I glanced around the meeting room ceiling, looking for signs of cameras. If this was a reality TV show, I’d watch it.

  Since everyone was waiting for me to speak, I did. “Has Fiona reported the poisoning to the police?”

  Leo stared at me like I’d just grown a second head.

  His friend August jumped in to put me out of my misery. “Fiona is a dog,” August said.

  Oops. I felt my cheeks flush. I looked down at my legal pad and quickly resumed writing. “Fiona is a dog,” I said in a businesslike tone, channeling Tippy’s cool demeanor for a moment. “It has been noted.”

  “Portia always hated Fiona,” Leo said. “That woman’s jealousy knows no limits.”

  August sighed. “You know, you could let her keep the painting and call it even.”

  Leo pounded his fist on the table. “Absolutely not.” He looked up at the brothers, his hazel eyes blazing. “You must get the painting back. By whatever means necessary.” He looked directly at Lucky. “You must steal it back for me.”

  Lucky rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “In order to steal it back, we would need some way of accessing your ex-wife’s residence. A key. The security code.”

  Harrison immediately shot his brother a horrified look. “No,” Harrison said, shaking his head. He explained to Leo, “Yes, we do occasionally bend the rules for a longtime client, but—” he cut himself off and shook a finger at me. “Kacey, don’t write that down.”

  I stopped writing and watched with interest.

  Harrison continued. “Leo, I assure you we will find a way to resolve this matter. A way that is both ethical and discreet.”

  “That’s all I wanted to hear,” Leo said. He turned to August and said, “See? What did I tell you? These boys are the best. The best! We’ll use your fellow next time.”

  I wrote down two words on my notepad: ethical and discreet.

  Leo pulled a checkbook and fancy pen from his suit jacket. He scribbled out a check and slid it across the table. Lucky reached for the check, but Harrison was closer and grabbed it first.

  “Thank you for the retainer,” Harrison said, pocketing the check. “We’ll do our best, as always.”

  All four men got up at once and shook hands again.

  “Get me that painting back,” Leo said.

  Everyone exited the meeting room and walked toward the front door.

  I took a moment to tuck the chairs in around the meeting table before leaving as well.

  Leo Fitz seemed to be in a better mood than when he’d arrived. When I returned to my station at the reception desk, he was standing in the doorway, amiably chatting with his old friend about their plans for the rest of the day. Lucky and Harrison had already said goodbye and returned to their desks.

  Leo said, “What’s for breakfast? I haven’t eaten yet. Did you eat?”

  “Uhh.” August scratched his chin.

  Leo looked down at me in my receptionist chair. “Recommend us a good breakfast place in the area.”

  “There’s a diner right downstairs,” I said. “Doyle’s, I believe it’s called.”

  Leo snorted. “That’ll be the day!” He turned to his friend and said, “We’ll go to your house and sit on the veranda.”

  “All I have is cereal and toast.”

  “Fine by me.”

  “I can’t serve my old friend cornflakes. Tell you what. Let me treat you to Rockburger. It’s right here in Sherman Oaks.”

  “Not Rockburger. It’s such a tourist trap,” Leo said with a dismissive hand wave. “I’d rather eat at Doyle’s.”

  “You like Rockburger,” August insisted. “Their breakfast isn’t bad.”

  Leo seemed to consider this. “They do have those feisty waitresses.”

  With the matter of breakfast resolved, the two men stepped through the door. Their voices faded as they headed back down the stairs.

  I heard August say, “Leo, don’t get any ideas about the waitresses. I like Rockburger. You’d better not get us banned.”

  The two men were chuckling when the door downstairs opened, and the sound of the street drowned them out.

  I stared at the closed door as I processed everything that had just happened. I’d been at my job less than an hour, and it was already the most interesting day I’d had at any workplace. They were paying me to be there? I should have been paying them. I had worried investigative work would be nothing but credit reports and background checks—boring paperwork. But I’d just taken notes about an art heist! And now the brothers were working on some discreet yet legal scheme to get the stolen artwork back. How would they do that?

  I was in a daze, imagining the twins dressed as cat burglars, scaling a building then diving through security lasers, Mission Impossible style, when I heard my name.

  “Kacey,” someone said, not for the first time.

  I looked up to see Lucky standing next to my desk.

  “Yes, boss?”

  He tilted his head and gave me a funny smile. “Boss? I like that.”

  “I could call you Mr. Booker if you prefer.”

  “Call me boss,” he said.

  Harrison called out from his desk, “Kacey, you don’t have to call him that.”

  Lucky held one hand to the side of his mouth and stage-whispered, “He thinks he’s the boss.”

  I kept my expression stony. Brothers and their games. They could play away, but I didn’t have to participate.

  Lucky nodded at the door and pulled it open. “Grab whatever you need, Kacey. You’re coming with me.”

  I hadn’t meant to question him, but I couldn’t help but glance over at his brother for confirmation. Harrison gave me a nod, along with a smile that seemed to convey that he’d won the round by getting me to check with him.

  I grabbed my purse and my legal pad and followed Lucky through the door.

  CHAPTER 3

  Lucky drove while I put Portia Fitz’s address into the car’s GPS. My new boss’s vehicle was a luxury Mercedes that was as new and pristine as the rest of the Booker Brothers’ office equipment—minus the fancy coffee maker—was old and tired. The interior was warm from the morning sun, but the light, cream-colored leather interior didn’t hold as much heat as if it had been black. The air-conditioning system quickly whisked away the heat.

  Lucky looked away from the street and glanced down at my feet.

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “What’s interesting?” I checked my shoes to see if I’d dragged in some dirt or gravel or worse.

  “All the other girls wore heels,” he said. I assumed that by the other girls he meant the other temps.

  “These shoes are comfortable, and far more practical than heels,” I said. “I can be quite practical.”

  Lucky met my gaze. “I can see
that, Kacey with a K.”

  “If you’re looking for a fuller title to call me by, my last name is Chance.”

  “Kacey Chance. That’s pretty catchy for an actress. Is it real?”

  I looked down at my hands as I fidgeted with the too-small button on my blazer. “Real enough,” I said without meeting his eyes. I really didn’t want to dig into my history, my mother, and the whole story about my name. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  When I looked up again, Lucky was cocking his head in my direction, flicking his gaze between me and the street.

  “We both have similar names,” he said. “Lucky and Chance. Chance and Lucky. We sound like a casino.”

  “Since we’re talking about names, is Lucky your real name, or a nickname?”

  He chuckled. “You don’t beat around the bush.”

  I shrugged. He wasn’t wrong.

  “Guess,” he said. “Guess my real name.”

  “It’s probably Luke. Or Lucas. Maybe Lance?”

  He gave me an eyebrow waggle. “Maybe it’s Lucifer.”

  “That would explain a lot,” I said.

  He pulled one hand from the steering wheel, held it to his chest, and gave me a mock wounded look.

  The pleasant voice of the Mercedes’ GPS system instructed him to take the next right turn.

  Lucky turned, and we joined the endless stream of traffic that ran through LA at all hours. With Lucky focusing on the road, I had the chance to get a better look at him.

  He had a strong jawline but there was also a boyishness to his clean-shaven face. I imagined that would change if he let his facial hair grow out for a day or two. I took in the way his hair lifted up off his forehead and bent over to the left.

  He hadn’t answered my question about his name, but I wasn’t going to ask twice.

  I turned my focus to the case and asked, “When we get to Mr. Fitz’s ex-wife’s house, what’s the plan?”

  “You tell me, Kacey Chance. Tell me what your first move would be if you were in my shoes.”

  “I suppose we can’t ask her directly if she took her ex-husband’s painting.”

  “Good so far.”