Jacked Up! (A Lt. Jack Daniels/Leah Ryan Mystery) Page 2

  I gingerly ran a finger under each eye and brushed my fingers through my hair, trying to lose the ‘just nailed’ look. Frankly, I think it’s becoming. But I was working, after all.

  There were several valets at the entrance of the building. One came jogging over. This was Fred’s friend, Teddy.

  “You must be Wilma,” he said, leaning down to talk to me. He had a friendly and open face. Boy-next-door freckles across his nose. Not a single blond hair out of place.

  “That would be me,” I said.

  “Park around back and I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”

  I found the employee parking area behind the building and parked next to the other, more common cars. I missed my Jeep Wrangler. They hadn’t had any of those at the rental place.

  Within minutes the back entrance opened and Teddy came walking out. I leaned over and opened the passenger side door for him.

  “I appreciate you talking to me,” I said, when he slid onto the seat. He smelled of peppermints and Axe body spray.

  “No problem. Fred said you’re looking for a Bentley GT? A purple one?”

  “Yeah. You know it?”

  “There are a lot of Bentleys that make the rounds. But the only purple one I know belongs to Stanley Carey.” His eyes scanned the area. Talking to a shady looking chick in the parking lot wasn’t part of his job.

  My heart picked up speed. “That’s the one I’m looking for. What do you know about Stanley Carey?”

  “He owns a dealership. Carey’s Luxury Cars. He does a lot of charity work. Word is that he’s running for Mayor. He’s from out of state, only moved here a few months ago.” He shrugged. “Just do an internet search. You’ll see his face plastered all over the news. He’s starting his pre-campaign, so he’s trying to get himself out there, let everyone know what kind of guy he is.”

  “What kind of guy is he, Teddy?”

  “He’s a good guy. Always nice. Always polite. Some of these guys are dicks. But not Mr. Carey. He’s always been cool. Big tipper too.”

  The kid looked a little uncomfortable. I knew I was about to lose him. “Has he been around?”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t seen him around in the last few weeks. But I think he mentioned going on vacation for a while. He took a lot of vacations.” He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “Look, I gotta get back to work. I don’t want them to come looking for me.”

  I wondered if he meant his boss or somebody else, but didn’t ask.

  “I understand. But this is really important to me, Teddy.”

  I gave him a light stroke on the arm. Most people responded positively to touch. Apparently Teddy did, too, because he kept talking.

  “I feel weird about telling you this. We’re supposed to keep our mouths shut about things we might see or overhear, you know?”

  “Mum’s the word. I won’t throw you under the bus.”

  I gave him my full wattage smile, hoping I didn’t have any cold hamburger still stuck in my teeth. I also gave him a squeeze on the shoulder. Teddy wasn’t my type, but I’ve found over the years that everyone has something sexy about them, if you look closely. I focused on his freckles, thought about his innocent little face between my legs, and that was enough to give him just a small glimpse of my inner slut.

  The word slut, by the way, has always been pejorative. I’m taking the word back and making it empowering. A woman with a healthy sex drive should be admired, not feared or despised. If women didn’t enjoy it there would be a lot less people on the planet. And if used properly, making guys think you want them can be a lot more effective than a cash bribe or a punch in the face.

  Teddy blushed a deep red, a good sign, but he still stayed quiet.

  “So he’s got political aspirations,” I said. “And there’s something you don’t want to tell me. Is it a woman?”

  He didn’t answer, but I saw it in his eyes.

  “Tell me about the woman, Teddy.”

  He chewed his lower lip.

  “I’m not trying to hurt Mr. Carey. I just want to find him. And no one will ever know you told me.”

  Another arm squeeze, but he didn’t melt like butter.

  “No one but Mr. Franklin,” I added, hoping I had a hundred dollars on me. I’d taken some petty cash along in case I needed to grease wheels, but couldn’t remember if I’d changed it when buying coffee at the airport.

  “Okay. I know he has a favorite lady whose services he pays for.” He dug a silver card from the shirt pocket beneath his vest. “When he first came to Chicago he asked me for assistance in finding an escort service. Of course, we know of the best services in the city. I arranged for a lady to meet him. I assume she gave him her contact info from there.”

  I lifted my brows and nodded, looking down at the card. It was blank, with only a phone number across the front. “Gotta keep the clients happy. Keep them coming back, right?”

  “We try to. Tips are better that way.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know who his favorite lady was, would you?”

  “Lauren met him here a few times. She’s the only one I saw with him. I see other ladies from the service here on a regular basis. They all drive nice cars. Porsches, Mercedes. You wouldn’t believe the gifts they get from clients who really… appreciate what they do for them.

  “No kidding.” I was in the wrong business. “Do you happen to know any of Mr. Carey’s hangouts? Somewhere maybe not everyone knows about?”

  Teddy’s face scrunched up. “I’ve heard him talk to Lauren about a cabin on the lake somewhere.”

  The back door to the club opened and a couple of young women in black skirts and white blouses came out, each carrying a pack of cigarettes. They both eyed the Focus, noticed Teddy, then one whispered something to the other. Shit. I was getting him in trouble already.

  Teddy said. “Those two are chatterboxes. This little rendezvous will likely be all over Facebook now. Look, Wilma, I really have to go.”

  “Thanks, Teddy. Hang on a second.” I reached into my back jeans pocket and pulled out my crumpled bills. No hundo. Only about eighty bucks, which was all I had. Goddamn caffeine habit. I gave it to him in a roll, hoping he wouldn’t embarrass me by counting it. “I appreciate your time.”

  He nodded once and within about half a second he was gone.

  • • •

  “I’m looking for a particular girl,” I told the woman at the escort service. My cell reception was shitty and I was hearing an echo. “Her name is Lauren.”

  The woman paused. “Lauren doesn’t work here anymore.”

  My turn to pause. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Do you have her contact information?”

  “No,” she said in a tone that suggested that Lauren didn’t leave on good terms.

  “Well, that’s too bad, because I’m a pissed off mistress, and if you don’t tell me how to find that bitch, I’ll bring your entire fucking operation down. Savvy?”

  There was another long pause, then a lengthy, put-upon sigh. “Bartending Beauties.”

  “Got a number?”

  She read off a phone number and gave me an address. I fished out the pen I’d taken from the hotel and scribbled the info on my hand in purple while steering the rental car with my knees.

  Leah Ryan: master of multi-tasking.

  “Thank you. You’ve been very—”

  The line went dead.

  I dialed the phone number the woman at the escort service had given me. I was at a red light, and a cop had pulled up alongside my vehicle, sizing me up. I smiled and winked at him.

  “Bartending Beauties Entertainment Services, Mandy speaking.” Her voice was sweet and full of enthusiasm.

  “Hi, Mandy. I’m a legal secretary for Smelt, Fine and Gorged. We’re having an event for one of the attorneys who just made partner. He’s also getting married, so they’re making it a bachelor party. They want it to be really special.”

  “Oh, we can make it special for
you. What will you need? We have ultra-fit, gorgeous bartenders that I’m sure your guys over there would adore. We also have go-go dancers, and masseuses.”

  “Well, that all sounds fantastic. The senior partner said he wanted to choose his entertainers. Do you have a website he can look at, then I can get back to you on that?”

  “Oh yes. It’s Entertainment Services Ltd. dot com.”

  “Not Bartending Beauties?”

  “No, that domain name was already taken by another service provider.”

  “Okay, I’ll give him your website. He did mention a girl a friend recommended to him. Her name is Lauren. Does she still work there?”

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  Shit. This Lauren chick was hard to find. “Look. I’m trying to locate a guy Lauren hangs out with. Owns a Bentley. I need to find that car.”

  “That’s Lauren’s car.”

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “He gave it to her as a gift.”

  Lauren must be a talented young woman. I was definitely in the wrong business. “Do you have an address for Lauren?”

  “She lives with Stanley now. I don’t know the address. Really. She never gave it to me.”

  Mandy was being awfully helpful.

  “You sure are giving a lot of information to a stranger on the phone,” I said, following a hunch. “What’s up?”

  A pause. I may have pushed too far. Or lost reception. Or…

  “I’m worried about her.”

  And Bingo was his name-o.

  “Why?”

  “She quit a few weeks ago. Bubbling about settling down with Stanley. I haven’t heard from her since. I knew it was never going to work out between them.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because… well, just because.”

  So she wanted to confide, but not all the way.

  “Do you think Lauren might be in danger?” I asked.

  “What? No! I mean, why would… I… um…”

  “I’m a private investigator, hired to find Stanley Carey,” I told her, which was sort of the truth. “I can find your friend, and help her if she needs it. But I need you to level with me.”

  The silence lengthened to the point where I wondered if the call had been dropped, and just when I was ready to ask if she could hear me, she finally replied.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  And then she hung up.

  Huh. There was something going on here I wasn’t getting. Guy meets girl, buys her a car from another dealership rather than his own, and then they both disappear. The other dealership part made sense—if he had political aspirations, he wouldn’t want anyone at his place of business to know he bought a car for a call girl. So did they run off somewhere to live happily ever after? Or was there something else going on?

  They’d been gone for a few weeks, but in order for a repo to happen, Stanley must have stopped paying on the car months ago. Cash flow problems? Foul play?

  I frowned. The more I thought it over, the more I thought this would end up with me finding a couple of bodies. Which was something I didn’t enjoy.

  I wanted to go back to the hotel and meet Fred for his dinner break. Or even his fifteen minute break. I doubted it would even take me five. Stress makes me frisky.

  But I decided to swing by Stanley Carey’s house first. I was in Chicago for a specific reason, and it didn’t involve shagging hot young bartenders. I set the GPS and let it take me to his place in Roscoe Village, on Diversey.

  Stanley Carey’s house was three stories high, brick, thin with a small walkway between the equally impressive houses on either side. One big push and all the houses on the block would tumble like dominos. It had a wrought iron fence around the front, gate locked, fleur-de-lis spikes on top a FOR SALE BY OWNER sign sticking on it with his phone number listed below. I found parking a block away and took his walkway to the alley in back, past the small back yard, to a stand-alone garage with tinted windows.

  Luckily, my former life as a juvenile delinquent had left me with some valuable skills. I looked around the area, then tugged my set of lock picks out of my pocket. I chose a tension wrench and a proper tool, tucked the picks away, and managed to open the garage door.

  Ta-da!—a purple Bentley was parked inside.

  Maybe this would be easier than I thought.

  “Hey!”

  Or maybe not.

  I startled, spinning around.

  “I’m pretty sure this isn’t your house.” It was a woman, older than me, dressed in a pantsuit that looked designer. I was pretty sure it wasn’t Lauren. This woman was attractive, but not like a call girl.

  If I knew my shit, this was a cop.

  “Because of the way I dress?” I asked. “That’s style profiling.”

  “Most people don’t enter their garage by picking the lock.”

  “I’m doing a repo.” I hadn’t noticed her approach, and I was normally pretty good about scoping out my surroundings while on a job. “You a cop?”

  “Yes. Do you have paperwork?”

  “Do you have a badge?”

  Her face twitched slightly. “It’s in my bag.”

  She wasn’t carrying a bag. I raised an eyebrow.

  “My bag is in my car. I saw you scoping out the house, and stopped to check it out.”

  “Without your badge.”

  She sighed. “It’s been one of those days.”

  “I’m not convinced you’re a police officer. Your suit is too nice.”

  “Thanks. It’s Armani. I can arrest you even if I left my badge in the car.”

  “You mean you can try to.”

  “Don’t go that route. My car is in front. Let’s walk, nice and easy, to the street, and then we can sort this out.”

  We played the thousand yard stare game for a few seconds.

  I didn’t need this. I was anxious to end this adventure, and eager to get back to the hotel to see what Fred was up to.

  “Look, lady. I need to repo this car. I have papers, just not on me.”

  “If you don’t have the papers, I can’t let you take it.”

  “If you don’t have a badge, I don’t know for certain you’re a police officer. Lots of people impersonate cops.”

  I was packing. A boot knife. I hated to check my luggage, but it was the only way I could travel with protection. But the cut of the cop’s Armani jacket told me she was packing, too, and something with more oomph than my Uberti Bowie.

  “If you go for your boot, I will shoot you,” she said.

  Her expression left no doubt she was serious.

  “Did I telegraph that?” I was normally better than that.

  “A bit.”

  I thought about offering my name, giving a more in depth explanation, but she hadn’t asked for it yet, and I made it a habit not to volunteer information. I left my ID in my rental car for that very reason. I wasn’t sure if Illinois, like New York, was a stop and identify state, which meant you needed to identify yourself when an officer asked.

  “I’m here to repossess a purple Bentley Rolls-Royce. The owner, Stanley Carey, has defaulted on his loan.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Daniels, Homicide. We can straighten this out. But I’m going to need you to raise your hands and place them on the garage door.”

  “Is that an order?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not yet. But I don’t have to arrest you to be able to detain you. Now lift up your hands and—”

  Her nose wrinkled. I smelled it at the same time she did.

  Death. There was something dead in the garage.

  “Hands above your head, on your knees!” Daniels said, drawing a .38 revolver from her shoulder holster.

  Shit. A delay to sort this out had just become a murder rap. I didn’t want to spend a few days in the slam, didn’t want to blow a lot of money on a lawyer to prove my innocence, and really didn’t want to hear the lectures from Callahan and my partner, Jackso
n, because I fucked up.

  I raised my hands and got down, kneeling on the lock pick I dropped when she approached. Daniels frisked me, taking my knife, and then produced a pair of handcuffs from her sholster. She cuffed my right wrist to the garage door handle. I watched her walk cautiously into the garage, but couldn’t see anything from my vantage point. Curious as I was, I had a chance to get away clean. The Uberti was expensive, but by habit I always kept it well-oiled and unless I needed it I only held it by the crossguard above the grip. So it wouldn’t have my prints on it. She had no way to ID me.

  So I decided to save the Illinois taxpayers the money it would cost to prosecute an innocent woman, and I quickly picked the handcuff key and stood up just as the cop came back out.

  “Give me your lock pi—” her voice ended when she saw I was free, and she brought up her gun.

  My Doc Martens met her Colt, and I knocked it to the side but she didn’t drop it. Then she did a hip pivot so fast it was a blur, and barely managed to get an arm up in time to protect my face.

  She connected hard with my forearm, and as the pain registered I couldn’t help but notice she was wearing a really adorable pair of black pumps.

  I didn’t know shit about martial arts, but I’d learned to take a punch as a kid in juvee, and could give as good as I got. But I didn’t think it was wise to trade blows with a cop. Even if I got the upper hand, I didn’t want to add “assaulting a police officer” to my growing list of charges.

  So I rolled with the kick and came up into a dead run, figuring she couldn’t catch me in heels, and wouldn’t shoot a fellow girl in the back.

  The first shot made me almost wet my pants, but it didn’t hit me.

  “I didn’t kill him!” I yelled. “I’m a repo chick!”

  I turned the corner and tossed away my lockpicks into a nearby Dumpster because I’d used them in the commission of a crime (repossessors aren’t allowed to break in to take cars) and sprinted up the walkway, running straight into a bear of a man. I literally bounced off of him, landing on my ass, and when I looked up I saw he was wearing—no shit—a ninja outfit. Straight out of a 1980s chopsocky movie, from the black hood down to the shoes that had a split in the toes. He was tall, and thick around the middle, and carrying—

  Jesus, were those nunchucks? Seriously?