“…I don’t have details yet. When I do, I’ll fill you in.” The dismissed was implied.
Once again, as if synchronized, we all stood. Manny gathered his leather folder and stood. Sadie threw him a backwards glance and sashayed out through the little lobby and into the fresh air in perfect pixie-like fashion. Neil lumbered into his lair. Reilly situated herself at her desk and immediately opened up a file and started typing. I stood in front of the white board, studying the information I’d recorded about my current case. There was nothing earth-shattering about it—it was a straight garbology, which meant I’d spent way too much time digging through garbage cans in search of financial documents in order to prove a husband was hiding money from his wife. I’d done all the garbology I was going to, had what I needed to prove the man was a snake, and just had to write up my final report. I’d have it wrapped up in the next twenty-four hours.
Before I could login to one of the communal laptops to work on my report, Manny appeared in the doorway of his office and beckoned me with a crook of his finger. “Dolores, ven aqui.”
I left my bag on the table and went to his office, ignoring Reilly as her curious eyes tracked me. I’d fill her in later.
Manny circled around his desk and sat, pointing to one of the chairs facing it. “Sientate,” he said, and I sat.
Manny was not one for small talk. As in, there was none. “Your Jack Callaghan is involved in the new case,” he said, getting straight to the point.
I caught my breath. My Jack Callaghan? It hadn’t sounded sarcastic, and yet somehow it was. And why—or how—was my Jack Callaghan involved?
He elaborated without me having to ask him for more information. “The client’s son took his life a few weeks ago. The deceased left a note.”
“Okay,” I said slowly, waiting for him to connect the dots for me.
“There doesn’t appear to be any foul play, although drugs may have played a part. It has been ruled a suicide. Case closed. Enter Callaghan. His mother knows our client. Callaghan referred her here. To you.”
My heart did a little flip. Jack referring someone to me as a PI was way more romantic that a candlelit dinner at a restaurant on the river. He knew the way to my heart.
Before I could ask anything else, Reilly appeared in the doorway and ushered in a middle-aged woman who looked a little worse for wear. She was short—maybe five foot three—and petite. She’d pulled her graying dark hair into a ponytail, but strands had slipped free and hung haphazardly around her face. She wore sweatpants, a baggie sweatshirt, and slipper boots. One pant leg was tucked inside, but the other was bunched up. The only word I could think of to describe her was frumpy, but if she had just lost her son, I could understand it. If I lost someone I loved—from one of my brothers or my sister to my parents or grandparents or anyone in between—the last thing I’d care about was the state of my clothes or hair.
I jumped up from my chair, moved behind it, and pulled it out for the woman. She dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled tissue, gave a big sniff, and sank into the chair. Manny stood to greet the woman, then came around to the front of his desk and leaned back against it. “Mrs. Haskell,” he said in his husky voice, “I am very sorry for your loss.” To me he said, “Dolores, this is Marnie Haskell. Ma’am, this is Dolores Cruz, one of our top investigators.”
My outstretched hand froze. Had I heard him right? Did he say I was one of the firm’s top investigators? For a second, I felt like I was floating. Actually levitating off the ground and hovering midair. But then reality hit. There were only four investigators total, so the truth was, we were all at the top. As my feet hit the ground again, I smiled, clasping her hand in a strong handshake. Or what I’d hoped would be a strong handshake, but Mrs. Haskell’s hand was limp in mine. There was nothing I could do to rescue the power. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Haskell.”
Reilly had disappeared for a minute, but now she was back. This time, instead of a tiny grieving woman in her wake, a man followed her. A man with smoky blue eyes, tousled dark hair, and a devilishly magnetic grin. Jack Callaghan, the man who’d haunted my dreams for the past decade and a half. Jack Callaghan who had recently been filling those dreams in the most tantalizing ways imaginable. Jack Callaghan, the man I had every intention of spending the rest of my life with.
“Jack’s here,” Reilly said, her slight double chin on display thanks to her mischievous smile. She thrived on drama, and drama was in abundance whenever Jack and Manny shared the same space.
I braced for the tension, but today there was none. They advanced toward one another, arms outstretched, and clasped hands. The handshake may have been a little bit aggressive, but Marnie Haskell’s pained whimper followed by her trembling fingers touching Jack’s hand stopped it short. “Jackie,” she said, her voice trembling right alongside her hand.
Jack instantly released his grip from Manny’s hand and bent down, brushing a light kiss on Marnie Haskell’s cheek. He whispered something in her ear—a reassurance, I thought—then stood and laid a protective hand on her shoulder. He met my eyes and gave me an almost imperceptible nod before turning his attention to Manny. “Like I told you on the phone, Mrs. Haskell has some concerns about her son’s apparent suicide—”
“He didn’t kill himself,” she said. “He simply did not kill himself. The police said he might have been on drugs. Not possible. Philip did not do drugs.”
I frowned. Mrs. Haskell was adamant, but was she seeing things clearly? Saying in no uncertain terms that her son did not do drugs meant, to me, that she was seeing her son through rose-colored glasses. Drugs may or may not have been part of his death, but the odds were that he’d done them at some point in his life.
Manny pushed himself upright from where he’d been leaning on the desk. He pulled the extra chair that sat angled in the back corner of his office up next to his black office chair before he sat and interlaced his hands in front of him, tapping his thumbs together. “Have a seat, Callaghan,” he said to Jack with a nod of his chin, indicating the chair facing his desk next to Marnie Haskell. Then he pulled the extra chair he’d moved a little closer to his and said to me, “Sientate aqui, Dolores. Take notes, por favor.”
Here was the drama I’d been expecting. Jack’s jaw tensed, anger bubbling up inside him. He was convinced that Manny harbored secret feelings for me—that he didn’t actually keep all that secret. Manny was my boss and mentor, and nothing else, but even I couldn’t deny the smoldering tension that emanated from him when we were together. I knew Jack was right, but I also knew that Manny was a professional. He’d never do anything to compromise our working relationship. At least I hoped not.
I took up the yellow legal pad and poised my pen, ready to write down every bit of pertinent information Marnie Haskell shared, but it was Jack who started. “I’ve known Philip Haskell since I was a kid. My mom and Mrs. Haskell were friends. Still are. Phil and I used to…hang out.”
I read between the lines. What he meant was that they’d had mother-arranged playdates. I stifled the grin tickling my lips at the image and wrote the information down.
“Phil died a week and a half ago. He hanged himself—”
“He did not!” Color had risen up Mrs. Haskell’s neck and had settled on her cheeks. “He wouldn’t do that to himself. He couldn’t.”
I remembered reading about the death, and I remembered Jack telling me about it being his old friend. Hanging in McKinley Park. He hadn’t said much more, instead swallowing the emotion I detected bubbling up inside of him at the loss of an old friend. “There were no witnesses—”
“That we know of,” Manny interrupted.
Jack leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms on the tops of his thighs. “The police haven’t found anyone who was there. No one has come forward.”
I didn’t want to discount whatever Mrs. Haskell was feeling, but I had to ask the obvious question. “Why are you s
o sure it wasn’t suicide?”
“Because I know my boy. He’d been preoccupied, lately, but he wasn’t suicidal. He didn’t agree with those people who take their lives. He always said he couldn’t see how they could do that to the people they left behind. That it was a selfish act.” Mrs. Haskell shook her head with such vigor that I thought she might knock her brain loose in her cranial cavity. “He would never do that to me, or his father, or his friends. He just wouldn’t. He was supposed to come over that night. Why would he tell us he was coming over—and that he had a surprise—only to then kill himself? It doesn’t make sense. He wouldn’t do that.”
I had to agree. If what she said was true, it was very odd. “What was he preoccupied with?” I asked.
“Could have been work, or, I don’t know, his personal life, I suppose. He didn’t tell me anything, but I knew. I could tell. Something was on his mind. I asked him, you know. I said, ‘Philip, I can tell that something’s bothering you. What is it? Just tell me.’ But he always just patted my head. I hated that. As soon as he grew taller than me, he would pat my head. He’d just pat my head and say it was nothing.”
“He didn’t want you to worry?” Jack asked.
“Right. He said everything was fine. Clearly everything was not fine. That is why I’m here. It’s why I came to see you.”
“Mrs. Haskell knew you were a private investigator, Lola,” Jack said.
Ah, claro que si. Of course she did, through Jack’s mother. They’d probably discussed Jack’s romantic life, namely me, and dissected me down to every last detail from my highlighted hair, curvy hips, and favorite color lipstick (MAC Amplified in Brick-O-La) to the fact that I still lived in the flat above my parents’ house and risked my life, and Jack’s by association, with my PI career.
“She called me and asked that I set up an appointment,” Jack finished.
“Somebody did this to him,” Marnie Haskell said, her voice gaining power. “Do you hear me? Someone killed my son.”
Jack met my eyes again. I could tell he wasn’t sure what to believe, but he didn’t want to disappoint his mother’s old friend. The woman was trying to make sense of what had happened to her son, which meant we had to do our best to get to the truth of the matter.
“Dolores will look into it, Mrs. Haskell,” Manny said.
Normally, I would have given myself a mental high five at Manny making me lead on a new case, but this one was personal to Jack. There was no celebrating. “What can you tell me about Philip, Mrs. Haskell?” I asked. “Do you have any ideas about what he may have been involved in? If he didn’t take his own life, then someone wanted him dead.”
She clutched her tissue against her nose, shaking her head. Her voice was strained with grief. “He was a good boy. A hard worker. Followed in his dad’s footsteps. He was an electrician. People don’t kill electricians.”
I jotted this down, then asked, “Where did he work?”
“He has—had,” she corrected, “his own company. Haskell Electric.” Her voice shook with emotion, but I could still detect her pride in him. Her son had been living the American dream by starting his own business.
“Was he married?” I asked.
“No wife. No kids.” She shook her head, fresh tears flowing over her cheeks. Was she realizing that she would never have grandkids? My mother hadn’t stopped smiling since Gracie had had her baby—my parents’ first grandchild. I felt for Mrs. Haskell.
“Girlfriend?” I asked. Or boyfriend? I thought.
She swept away the tears streaking her cheeks. “Yes, yes. Gemma. I actually thought they might break up, but then the surprise he wanted to share with us. I think they were going to get married.”
If that were the case, I couldn’t see an obvious motive for Gemma to kill Philip. Still, the word flashed in my mind like a neon sign: motive, motive, motive.
I wrote down Gemma’s name, followed by the word “fiancée” and a question mark.
I asked Mrs. Haskell for Gemma’s information. The grieving mother pulled out her phone, scrolled through her contacts, and a few seconds later, she handed me the device. Gemma Ramsey. Manny asked Marnie Haskell about Philip’s other friends while I copied down her name and number, automatically pressing the off button when I was done.
“He played baseball with a men’s league. He used to date a lot—”
“Besides Gemma, you mean?” I clarified.
She drew her lips in and her eyes fluttered closed as she nodded. “Besides Gemma. He was thirty-one. Time to settle down. He was finally ready, but lord it took him a long time. Poor girl hung on, though. She waited him out.”
“Do you have other children, Mrs. Haskell?” I asked.
“George. He’s two years younger than Philip. And Anne. She’s the baby.”
Philip, George, and Anne. Seemed like a safe bet to say that Mrs. Haskell had a thing for the royals. If she were having children now, she’d probably have named them William, Harry, or Archie, and the daughter would have been Kate, or Meghan, or Charlotte.
“Was Philip close to either of them?” I asked. “Was he close to you?”
She shrugged. “As close as most adult siblings, I guess. They all had their own lives. Philip and George don’t keep in touch as much as Anne does. You know, you spend your best years raising your kids, and then when they grow up, the relationship you have with them changes. They go off and leave you. Maybe, if you’re lucky, they call you once a month. If you’re really lucky, they’ll stop by for a visit. They say that daughters are better about keeping in touch. In my experience, that’s true. Anne makes more of an effort to stay connected to my husband and me. She tries with Philip and George, too, but I don’t really know.”
She got me thinking. Were Gracie and I closer to our parents than Tonio, Ray, and Beto were? I didn’t really think so. Our relationships had different dynamics, but even with Ray living in Southern California and Roberto just home from his last tour in Iraq, we were a close family.
“Is there anything else you can tell us about Philip?” I asked. From where I stood, she hadn’t given us much of anything to show why she suspected her son hadn’t actually committed suicide.
“It’s a mother’s instinct. I just know. Something about Philip’s death is not right. It’s just not right.”
Mother’s instinct. If my mother was any proof, that intuition did exist. She seemed to know if any of her kids were in any kind of trouble. Mrs. Haskell may not be able to explain it, but if she thought something smelled off about her son’s death, I was inclined to believe her.
Her phone, still in my hand, dinged and a new text message appeared on the screen. “Oh!” I said, glancing at it out of habit before I handed it back. It was from someone named Tim who wanted to know which casserole he should take out of the freezer. I filled in the blanks, surmising that Tim was her husband and that they had a freezer full of food that friends had provided after their son’s death.
Marnie Haskell read the message but didn’t respond. “My husband,” she said. “I’m constantly sick to my stomach. I can’t eat without getting nauseous, but he wants to eat everything in sight. I can’t sleep through the night, but he passes out like a rock.”
The poor woman was grief-stricken.
“People grieve differently,” Manny said.
“I guess. I thought Gemma would come around, but aside from the funeral, I haven’t seen her. Some of Philip’s old girlfriends were there and Gemma saw them. I think it unsettled her a little bit. Rightfully so, I’d say.”
“What about Philip’s other friends?” I asked, but Mrs. Haskell waved them away with a flick of her hand. “They’re drinking their way through their grief.”
“It helps them numb the shock,” Jack said in a way that made me think he spoke from experience.
Mrs. Haskell grabbed a fresh tissue from her purse, pressing it against her eyes.
“I guess.”
I got the contact information for George and Anne Haskell, as well as the name of one of his baseball friends, Ricky Naughten. “Ricky and a few of the other guys used to come over with him every now and then. Michael. Seth. Aaron. I don’t know their last names, though.”
I gave her my contact information, then took her hand. “If you think of anything else…” I said, leaving the sentence hanging there.
“I’ll let you know,” she said.
She put the phone back into her purse, which sparked a question. “Where’s Philip’s phone?” I asked.
“We haven’t been able to find it.”
“It wasn’t on his body or in his car?”
She shook her head. “And not in his apartment.”
That was curious. So where was it?
Jack helped Mrs. Haskell up from her chair. I left the yellow pad of paper with the notes I’d taken on Manny’s desk and joined them. Jack held open the door to the street, letting us both pass through. We flanked Marnie Haskell as we walked to Jack’s silver sporty Volvo. “I’ll be in touch,” I told her after he’d helped her into the passenger seat.
She nodded succinctly then pulled the door closed, leaving Jack and me alone in the parking lot. The sun had started to set. As we walked to the driver’s side of the car, he took my hand. “She needs to let her son go,” Jack said. “She’s been so insistent that someone was behind the accident. This is all I could think of to help her accept what happened.”
I squeezed his hand.
He leaned in to kiss my cheek, letting his lips linger. Then, instead of pulling back, he slid his arms around me and held me tight. “So much death,” he said, his voice low. “I feel for Mrs. Haskell. I can’t imagine what she’s going through.”
I couldn’t either. When Roberto had gotten back from his last tour, the relief I’d felt didn’t compare to what my parents had experienced. Their son was alive and back in their arms. War meant death. Things could have turned out differently for us all. “We’ll do everything we can,” I said.
Drop Dead Lola Page 2