Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1) (19 page)

"Excellent," I said taking the dish from her. "Mac's never had them, so this will be a treat."

I set the plate on the table and opened the aluminum foil to let the fragrant steam wash over me. "These smell delicious."

"I'm out of sour cream, but there's apple sauce for dipping. I really should have gone to the store, but my knee was bothering me," Nona fretted.

I debated offering to go get the ketchup, but didn't. "Maybe I should run upstairs and see if Mom has any sour cream?"

Nona sagged in relief. "Oh, that would be great. I was gonna knock on her door but my hands were full."

"I'll do that then. Mac, you're in charge till I get back."

I shut the door behind me a second after hearing Nona whistle and say, "Well, hell-o, handsome." I smiled to myself. Somehow I had a feeling they'd hit it off.

I took the stairs and knocked on my mother's door.

"Go away, Mackenzie," she called.

"Is that any way to talk to your only child?" I called.

There was a pause and then the door opened a crack, the chain still in place.

"Seriously?" I asked, waving at the chain. "Do you really think I'm going to bust the door down?"

"I never know with you," my mother replied tartly. "You run hot and cold."

I bit my tongue. Hard enough to taste blood. Getting her downstairs to see dad was the goal, and me losing my temper wouldn't help. My root beer float would be well earned. "Didn't you get my note?"

"You think I'll come down only to go through the humiliation of having you kick me out again? This time in front of witnesses?"

"I won't. Look, for what it's worth, I'm sorry I made you leave last night. You have the right to your opinion."

She didn't say anything, and I sighed. "Mom, I wrote you an apology note. I'm here groveling right now. Judas Priest, what do I have to do, order a singing telegram?"

"Don't be ridiculous." She spoke without venom. "Well, I didn't make anything."

"That's okay." My mother's contribution would probably contain kale or some other superfood and ruin my theme. "If you have any sour cream though, could you bring that? Nona's plotzing because she made latkes and didn't have any."

"Let me check the fridge." The door shut, and a minute later the chain rattled, and she reopened it.

"I'm not really dressed for a dinner party." She fussed, plucking at her navy sweater and taupe slacks.

At least she was worrying about her own clothing instead of mine for a change. "Trust me—it's a very casual affair."

She went to her stainless steel fridge, opened the door, and pulled out a container of light sour cream. "Will this do?"

"Perfect." I could always put it in a bowl and try to forget that it was low fat.

"Do I need my purse?"

"Yes, because Mac's carding and charging a five spot at the door."

"Oh, you and that smart mouth." She swatted my arm then turned to lock her door.

We were headed down the steps when the front door to the building opened and The Captain strode in and marched toward my door.

"What's he doing here?" my mother hissed. Loudly. She'd never gotten the hang of volume control.

My father froze mid-step, then looked up, his expression blanking as he looked at the woman he'd been married to for thirty-five years.

"Dad wanted to see our new place." I looped my arm through my mother's so she wouldn't get away. "And meet my boss. Just like you."

"Agnes," my father said curtly. "Mackenzie. Good evening."

"This isn't a good idea." In spite of my grip, my mother tried to pull back, to retreat back up the stairs.

"I should go." The Captain was also backing toward the exit.

"Now hold on one minute," I snapped. "I've gone to a lot of trouble to get the two of you here. The least you can do is tell me what the hell is going on."

"Language," Agnes chastised, but it was a reflex more than anything else.

"You have bigger problems than my language," I said. "Can you two look me in the eye and tell me that after spending half your lives together you can't play nice for one dinner?"

My mother didn't move. Neither did my father.

I threw my hands up in the air. "Did one of you have an affair? Is there another man? Another woman? Both?"

"Don't be lewd," Reg Taylor barked.

I stared at him. Maybe it was my newly emerging PI skills or women's intuition, but I heard what he didn't say just as loudly as what he did. "You didn't answer the question. Is that it, Mom? Did he screw around on you?"

My father's face darkened to a blotchy red-purple. "How dare you? How dare you stand there and let her accuse me of throwing it all away when you're the one who's leaving."

"No one's accusing anyone—" I interjected, but he ignored me.

Coming closer one slow, menacing step at a time, he glared at his wife.

My mother had her arms wrapped protectively around herself. "You gave me no choice."

He laughed, totally without humor. "You disgust me anyway. I can't even look at you without thinking about his hands all over you."

My mouth fell open. My mother had cheated?

"Who would want you now anyway? You're nothing but a dried-up bag of used goods."

"Hey!" I came back to life and stepped between my advancing father and my silent mother. "Hold on here. I don't care what she did! You can't talk to her that way."

His attention snapped from her to me, and then he shook his head and headed for the door. He pushed it open so hard it slammed against the outer wall with a deafening bang.

Without a word my mother handed me the sour cream and disappeared up the stairs.

I let her, my head swimming as I replayed the scene from the last few minutes, shaken to my core.

My own door opened, and Mac's head popped out. "Everything okay out here? I thought I heard shouting."

My lips parted, but I didn't know what to say.

The front door opened and I blinked, dreading it would be The Captain all wound up for round two. Instead, Hunter stood there, filling the doorway, the western sun backlighting him like some romantic movie hero.

I rushed down the steps, eager to run into his arms, to let him hold me while I quietly put myself back together in the safety of his embrace. I was so focused on him that I didn't notice the swarm of uniformed police following hot on his heels.

"Hunter?" I asked.

"Mackenzie Taylor, you are under arrest."

"What did I do?" I barked, outraged, gaze locked on Hunter, demanding an explanation. Seething at the betrayal. If he was going to arrest me, he could have least sent me a heads up text.

"Not you," the uniform said and then broke my heart when he pointed at my wide-eyed daughter. "Her."

Felony—A crime of a more serious nature than a misdemeanor; generally, a criminal offense punishable by death or imprisonment in excess of one year. Depending on the state, the judge and how much your lawyer charges by the hour.

From the Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living
by Albert Taylor, PI

"What did you do?" I asked my daughter for the zillionth time. We were shut together in what I could only assume was an interrogation room—no windows, no mirror, just a video camera in the corner above the door. We were waiting for Len to get the 4-1-1 on why Mac had been arrested.

"Nothing." My daughter sounded offended that I'd even asked.

"You know the drill. You're not supposed to get incarcerated unless I'm sitting in the cell beside you." It was a lame joke, but admittedly I wasn't on my A-game.

"Len will find out what the deal is, and we'll get you out of here." As a parent, there's no worse feeling in the world than watching your only child being led away in handcuffs by the police. Except maybe being physically restrained by the sexy traitor you'd been running to for comfort only moments earlier while watching your only child be led away in handcuffs by the police.

My knee was bouncing spastically. I wanted to pace in the worst way but was afraid to telegraph my nervousness, lest it worry Mac more. She looked thoroughly freaked out. But the damn knee had a mind of its own and jiggled away.

"There has to be something. They wouldn't drag you down here in handcuffs for jaywalking."

Mac shook her head. "I really don't know. Hunter didn't say anything to you?"

"No," I snapped, the rage building to toxic levels. "He didn't."

"It's not his fault, Mom. He was just doing his job."

I didn't acknowledge her logic. My mind was preoccupied with one glaring fact: Hunter Black worked
murder
investigations. There was no way Mac could have anything to do with a homicide case.

The door opened, and Len shuffled in, followed by a glaringly handsome man in a rumpled suit.

I hopped out of my chair, ready to block my offspring bodily if necessary. "What's going on?"

The stranger was young, only a few years older than Mac. His hair was slicked back, revealing high cheekbones, a sharp blade of a nose, and piercing blue eyes. His body was lean and athletic. He looked more like a displaced surfer dressing up in his father's wardrobe than a cop. When he spoke I noticed the distinct lack of accent. "Ms. Taylor, Ms. Taylor, I'm Detective Carson with the Cyberterrorism Unit."

"Cyberterrorism?" Mac and I said in unison. We exchanged a look, and I swallowed hard before adding, "There must be some mistake."

"Hear him out, girls," Len advised.

"I'm here to offer Miss Mackenzie the Second a deal."

"We still don't know—" I began.

"I hacked into the police database," Mac confessed as though someone were holding her feet to the fire. "It was me. Well, Pete helped."

Carson nodded. "You did a damn good job of it, too. Left virtually no tracks. If it had only been the once, I might not have caught on."

Mac blushed and looked away as though he'd told her she was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.

I'd known she'd accessed Hunter's files, but I hadn't realized she'd hacked into the police database to do it. And she'd done it more than once? A sinking feeling took up residence in my stomach. For me—she'd broken the law for me. I must be the worst mother on the face of the planet.

"How bad is this?" I turned toward Len, but it was Detective Carson who answered.

"It's not good. The Commonwealth could ask for the maximum. A three thousand dollar fine and up to two and a half years in prison."

Prison was on the table? I swallowed hard. "But she's only sixteen."

"Cybercrimes are different." Len patted my hand. "They could try her as an adult."

My heart was pounding, and I had the urge to confess, to tell them it wasn't Mac, that I had done it. It was unlikely anyone would believe me. My chest tightened, and I couldn't seem to get enough air.

Just when I was sure the terror would drown me, Detective Carson tossed me a life preserver. "That's if we pursue criminal charges. We don't want to do that, however. What we want is for Mackenzie to work for us."

"Work for?" Mac asked.

"Technically volunteer for. We can't afford to pay you. Or Pete, we want him too. I'll be speaking with him in a few."

"But how can she? She's only in tenth grade," I reminded them.

"Mo-om." Mac's tone was incredulous.

I gave her a palms-up gesture. "Well you are. He can't expect you to quit school for this." I looked over at the cop for verification.

He shook his head "The position is as a consultant only. Think of it as a part-time job—after school, weekends, holidays."

I looked to our attorney. "And they'll drop the charges, all the charges?"

Len nodded. "That's what he claims. If Mac agrees, they'll go ahead and draw up the paperwork, and I'll go over it with a fine-tooth comb before she signs it."

"Mac?" I asked. It didn't sound like we had much of a choice. Either agree to the deal, or roll the dice with a court case and risk her having to do jail time.

"I want to do it." She wasn't looking at me. All her attention was fixed on Carson.

"Excellent," he said and grinned, flashing even white teeth. "You'll start tomorrow. I'll email you with details of your first assignment."

"Will I need to come here?" she asked almost eagerly.

"Only on occasion. We have a closed circuit network that you can access with any top-secret information. I can show you the lab if you'd like, Mackenzie."

"I go by Mac." My daughter leapt up like an eager puppy, ready to follow wherever Carson went.

He opened the door.

"Carson," I called when Mac was out in the hall.

He looked back at me, his charming grin fading.

"Keep in mind that she's sixteen, and I have an awesome attorney. No funny business."

Carson blanched visibly but nodded. "Nothing like that, ma'am."

"I think you scared the poor boy." Len chuckled.

"Not nearly enough. Did you see the way she was looking at him? Computer geeks aren't supposed to look like that," I grumbled. "And he called me ma'am."

"He's also the reason your daughter isn't facing criminal charges," Len pointed out.

"You'll have to forgive me. I'm a little soured on cops at the moment."

He tucked an arm through one of mine. "I'll say this for you Miz Mackenzie. You throw the most entertaining dinner parties."

*   *   *

Later that night, I peeked in on Mac, sleeping soundly in my bed. When she was a baby, I used to sleep in the same room with her, lying awake, listening to her rhythmic breathing. After tonight's scare I might just renew the habit.

Restless, I prowled through the apartment, looking for something—anything—to take my mind off the awful events of the day. First finding out Brett was the same lying bastard he'd always been, then The Captain berating Agnes, Mac getting hauled out of our home in handcuffs, and Hunter's hands on me, keeping me from launching myself at the police.

Brett was who he was. The same went for my parents, and the Mac situation had resolved itself, at least temporarily. I paused and turned toward the door, my blood boiling with the urge to settle a score.

I locked the apartment and crept across the entryway until I was standing in front of Hunter's door, knocking before I'd even thought it through.

He must have been standing on the other side of it because the door swung open immediately. I waited for him to say something. He didn't.

"Can I come in?" I asked. "I really don't want to say what I came here to say out in the hall where anyone can hear."

He stood aside, and I marched in, trembling with rage.

"Before you say anything," Hunter said. "I found out about the charges at the last second and asked to come with the team."

If he thought that would somehow diffuse me he was dead wrong. "Why?"

"Because I didn't want you to go through that alone."

"You held me back," I accused, stepping closer to him, lifting my chin.

"Because I didn't want you to get arrested for obstruction of justice or assaulting a police officer," he responded.

The reasonableness of his answer pissed me right off. "You could have told me."

"How? Telephone? Text? I could have lost my shield."

Hot tears were stinging behind my eyes. I blinked them back, furiously. "You have an answer for everything don't you?"

"Red." He didn't move any closer. "There's nothing I could have done to stop it."

"That's what Mac said."

He tipped my chin up "But you don't believe it?"

I jerked my face away. "No, I don't. You don't just sit on the sidelines when people you care about are in trouble."

"She broke the law."

"Because of me!" I shouted. "Because she was trying to help me with a case."

Hunter was quiet.

"Don't do that," I snapped. "Don't just stand there and say nothing. It makes me want to hit you."

"Go ahead." His tone was flat, his stance stoic.

"What?"

"I said go ahead and hit me."

I stared at him, searching for the trap. "So you can arrest me for assaulting a police officer?"

"I'm off duty. If you need a punching bag, I'm volunteering. It wouldn't be the first time." A faint tinge of bitterness crept into his tone.

"You mean on the job."

He didn't answer, but something shifted in his dark eyes. The mood between us altered, the air ceased crackling with heat, and instead chilled me to my core. I recognized a deep pain, something that stretched out over years that took root in childhood and that, even as a fully functioning adult, you never managed to completely shake off. I saw that same nebulous something in my own eyes at times.

My rage dissipated, and when I stepped closer it wasn't to strike but to soothe. "Tell me."

He looked away first. "I don't talk about it. Ever."

I chose a line Mac sometimes used to bait me. "You wouldn't have brought it up if you didn't want to talk."

He glanced back at me, then, "What did you see when you were in here last time? You never said."

I hadn't. He knew I'd snooped, had probably invited me in for that very purpose. "I saw your screensaver, if that's what you're asking."

Hunter nodded once. "You saw my family then, probably noticed the lack of resemblance between me and anyone else. To answer your unspoken question, yes, they adopted me."

I reached out, took his hand in mine and squeezed once. "How old were you?"

He squeezed back and didn't let go. "Eight. They found me on the side of the road in New Mexico, covered in blood. Put something of a damper on their family vacation."

The lack of comfy furniture in the small space bothered me. This wasn't the sort of story a man should stand through while reliving. For lack of anything else, I pulled out one of his massive dining table chairs and guided him into it, before settling in across from him.

"My dad, Mr. Black, I mean, was a police officer. I think that's the only reason he stopped. A cop can't ignore a child covered in blood, even if the rest of the world could. And his wife was a nurse so out of all the people who could have picked me up, they were the best. It was the best and worst day of my life."

"How badly were you hurt?" I had images of an eight-year-old boy flung from a moving vehicle and left to die alone and scared.

"I wasn't hurt. It wasn't my blood."

I blinked but didn't say anything. I could pull the story out of him, one back and forth question at a time, but he needed to open up on his own timeline.

"My father, my biological father, I mean, he was a drunk. A mean drunk. Alcoholism is very common on Native American reservations, especially impoverished ones."

"I've heard that."

His gaze slid to mine. "We didn't have to live in squalor. My father was a big man, like me. When he wasn't lost in a bottle he was a hard worker. There were some good times. But that was almost worse. You can get used to any kind of ugly situation, but when you believe it to be over and think yourself safe—" he broke off, shaking his head.

"Did your mother know? That he hit you?"

His hand had been resting palm down on the glass-topped table but at my question, he clenched it into a fist. "She knew. Usually she patched me up after he passed out, if she wasn't too badly hurt herself. Before you ask, she stayed because she had nowhere else to go, no family, no friends who would take us in. The situation escalated, but she was trapped. We both were at his mercy. And he had very little of that to spare."