Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1) (5 page)

"And you're not," she answered, gaze glued to the screen.

"Right." I set the other half of my pizza slice down, my appetite gone. Snickers stood on her hind legs, paws in the air.

"No," I told her sternly. She was cute, but I didn't want this to become a regular thing.

She barked at me.

"Mac, don't feed the dog from the table anymore. She's turning into a pest."

"Sure." My daughter's tone was absent.

"Does she have any actual dog food?" I peered around the half unpacked explosion that was our kitchen and dining area.

"Hunter left some. It's in the bottom of the pantry." Mac didn't even glance my way.

I rose. She was gone again, lost to cyberspace. After stretching out the kinks that had developed from too many hours sitting in the car, I nudged her arm. "Hey, you know what would be fun? If you came in and hung out with me in your new room while I go through stuff."

"You have an odd definition of fun." She waved me away.

"You sure you don't want to come? I haven't seen you all day." And after the one I'd had, I didn't want to be alone to think.

She blew air out between clenched teeth. "Mom, I have work to do. We'll hang later."

"Guess I'm on my own." Exactly what I'd been hoping to avoid. My mind kept going back to that cute little girl playing in her back yard after school. Was her dad home safe and sound, or was it really Paul Granger dead in that alley?

Mac had never known her dad. It was better that way.

Instead of dwelling on things better left in the rearview, I popped in my earbuds and then scrolled through my iPod selection, looking for the right sort of music to help blot out my thoughts and motivate me to pack up Uncle Al's office. Angry female rock? No, too judgey. Oldies? Nah, I needed some pep.

I settled on lost hits from the nineties and kicked it off with Chesney Hawkes' "The One and Only." Perfect.

I've always been a firm believer that every moment in life has a perfect theme song. Every connection, be it between parent and child, friends or lovers should have musical accompaniment like in the movies. My mother's theme song is Sir Elton's "The Bitch is Back," which pretty much summed up our whole relationship in a three minute and forty-one second musical interlude. Mac, who was born in August of 2000, owned Macy Gray's "I Try." It was either that or Christina Aguilera's "What A Girl Wants," but I never had been a fan of
The Mickey Mouse Club's
girls grown and gone wild. The song said more about me at that point in time as a sixteen-year-old single parent than it did about my newborn infant. Trying was the best I had to offer her, even a decade and a half later.

Uncle Al had been something of a packrat, though it could have been worse. His desk was jammed with receipts, old bills, newspaper clippings, and photographs. The kind of crap most people in the year 2016 kept on their phones.

A pang went through me as I thought about my phone. Stupid sexy neighbor cop man.

I sorted the hodgepodge of paper into three piles: crap to be tossed, important stuff to be saved, and curiosities to comb through at my leisure.

I had lost all track of time when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

"Hey, I think I made a good dent here," I said, thinking I was talking to my daughter and then let out a yell at the massive shape looming there. "Judas Priest! You scared me half to death. Again."

"Sorry," Hunter—no, Detective Black (I was going to stick with his official title so I didn't forget again)—murmured.

I looked him over and saw the strain on his face. Maybe it was kismet that Sarah McLachlan's "Building a Mystery" started the moment our gazes locked.

"I brought your phone back." Hunter held the device out to me.

I blinked, a little taken aback. "Did you get whatever you needed off it?"

"We got everything we could." Hunter scanned the office, his steady gaze assessing my progress. He moved back to the door and closed it before turning to face me. "If I say something, do you promise not to take it the wrong way?"

"No," I said. "But tell me anyway."

A ghost of a smile slipped over his face. "At least you're honest. Okay, I want you to quit your job as a private investigator."

I stared at him for what must have been a full minute. One would have thought I'd spend time coming up with a scathing reply, but all I managed was a choked, "Excuse me?"

"You're not prepared or skilled enough. Private investigation can be dangerous, as you witnessed firsthand tonight. Being a PI isn't like joining a spin class. It takes dedication and intuition, and even if you had those tools in your arsenal, you'd still be risking your life."

His words stung, mostly because they were true, but the fact that he would come into my home and say them to my face had anger blotting out the hurt. "What gives you the right to have an opinion on what I do for a living? Did I march into your home and tell you that your job was too dangerous?"

"I don't have anyone depending on me." He chucked his thumb at the closed door. "And I am trained as a police officer. You don't know what you're involving yourself in here, Mackenzie. You aren't prepared for the things you'll see."

My molars ground down, and between clenched teeth I hissed, "I am so tired of people telling me I'm not good enough."

Hunter frowned. "That's not—"

I poked him in the chest, effectively cutting him off. "You just said that I'm unskilled. And maybe I am, but that's something I can change with practice. Was I unprepared to witness a murder? Yes, but who exactly
is
prepared for that?"

He remained silent, those dark eyes fixed on my face.

I spun on my heel and marched toward the door, yanking it open so hard it smacked against the wall. "Thank you for your concern, Detective. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

Hunter studied me for a moment longer then shook his head. "I've made it worse, haven't I?"

I offered him a tight-lipped smile but didn't say anything.

He sighed. "Have it your way, then. But please, be careful."

My rage simmered as he moved past me into the hallway. I hated that he saw me as weak, fragile, even, and sneered when I remembered how much I'd wanted him to comfort me earlier. Best way to end an inappropriate infatuation? Find out that the individual you've been crushing on thinks you're a total loser.

Well, I'd show him. As soon as the door to the hall shut, I pounded my fist against the frame and whirled to face Mac.

"Problem?" she asked with a raised brow.

"Contact Pete the Pervert. I want to know everything about the shooting tonight."

Mac grinned and then began typing furiously. "I'm on it."

"As a private investigator, your word is all that you have, so it better be solid."

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

I kept Mac up far past her bedtime Skyping with Pete the Pervert and was able to access the details on the shooting I'd witnessed. Sure enough, the victim was Paul Granger, who was supposed to be at home with his kids. His parents had been questioned as well as his ex-wife, aka Len's client. Jessica Granger admitted that her divorce was messy, and that yes, she'd wanted primary custody of her children, which was why she'd retained a lawyer and sanctioned a PI. According to her statement, she hadn't recognized the man driving the Escalade or known why he was staking out her former in-laws' home.

Over coffee the next morning, I studied the pages Mac had printed for me, complete with my own interview with Detective Black. His report was brief and succinct. I was a PI who had been hired to find evidence for an ongoing child custody case and had followed a suspicious-looking vehicle to the crime scene, where I'd witnessed the murder. I hadn't caught the license plates with my grainy photos and hadn't bothered to note them either.

"Mistake number one," I muttered into my steaming cup of java. Note to self: take pictures of license plates from here on out.

"What was that?" Mac appeared fresh from the shower. She didn't look as if she'd spent half the night up to her cute little earlobes in the dark corners of the internet.

"You're sure you won't get into trouble for this?" I tapped the pages.

She shrugged. "Nah, Pete's the one who did the hacking. Besides, I'm a minor. It's not like they'll throw the book at me even if they did find out."

With my temper cooled, my guilt over asking my child to help me do my job grew and made my insides feel squishy. "Still, from here on out, we keep things above board."

She popped a piece of wheat bread into the toaster. "Mom, relax. We aren't going to get caught."

"Just promise me, no more hacking. It's not worth the risk."

She poured herself some OJ. "And what happens next time you get all hot under the collar over Detective Hottie?"

"Ignore me." I grumbled and refocused on the pages. "Is it just me, or does it sound like they are focusing all their efforts on Jessica Granger?"

Mac buttered her toast and then plopped onto the barstool next to me, Snickers hot on her heels. "You've seen crime-time dramas—it's always the spouse. Plus it doesn't help her case that she threatened to kill him in open court in front of a judge." She tapped the page with the judge's statement.

"Another stellar reason to stay single." I snitched the other half of her toast slice and dunked it in my coffee. "But it's not her. She has an alibi."

Mac quirked a brow. "Mom, you never even met Jessica Granger. How can you be so sure she wouldn't hire someone to off her ex?"

"Just a hunch."

"Well you can't take that to the cops." She fed her crust to the dog, who then started eye-humping my piece.

"Hey, what did I say about feeding the beastie from the table?"

Mac grinned. "That it's a bonding routine."

"Yes, but my exact phrasing included the word
don't
."

Snickers was tugging on the edge of my bathrobe and doing her little
grrr ruff
thing.

"What's the point of this?" I yanked my robe back.

"Just keep an open mind about her," Mac advised. "She knows you don't like her."

"Trust me, the feeling is mutual. I'm going to hop into the shower. Lock up when you leave."

"Will do. What's on your agenda for the day? Other than crime solving of course?"

"I plan to finish clearing out your room, then check in with Len and find out if there's anything I can do."

"My mother, the crime fighter. You always did love high-heeled boots. Hey, I forgot to ask, but how did it go with Grams yesterday?"

"You remember the end of
Braveheart
, where they're yanking out his insides? Like that only bloodier."

"Chin up. You only need to meet with her once a month."

"It's like the menstrual cycle from hell," I whispered in horror.

Mac laughed. "Only no menopause to get you out of it. Next time set it up on the weekend so I can run interference."

"Good idea. Have a good day at the office, dear." I dropped a kiss on her head, inhaling her strawberry scent, and shuffled off to the bathroom.

The hot water helped relax stiff and aching muscles, and I lingered longer than I'd intended. One of the tough things about the PI business, at least according to Uncle Al, was the irregular hours. I would have to build my schedule around other people's habits and lifestyles, and that would change from case to case. But there was an innate flexibility in that kind of schedule that appealed to me. Punching a clock was so last decade.

After I dried my hair I braided it to keep it out of my way, then donned jeans, sneakers, and an MIT sweatshirt I'd snagged from my last boyfriend. We'd split due to irreconcilable differences, since he had an opinion on everything and had somehow gotten the impression that I wanted to hear them all. His stance on toll roads was fine if boring, but I drew the line when he suggested Mac and I add more vegetables to our diet. As if ketchup wasn't good enough or something. He had taken the two of us on a tour of the MIT campus, and I had my fingers crossed that Mac would get in. Moving six weeks into the start of the new term had put her at a disadvantage, but I had every confidence she'd catch up quickly and once again be at the top of her class.

Once I got a system going with Uncle Al's office, I had boxes packed and ready for hauling down to the basement. I put my hands on my hips and stared at the massive pile. It was times like these that I thought maybe my mother was just a little bit right—it'd be nice to have a man around to haul heavy stuff down the rickety basement stairs. Of course then I'd probably be expected to feed him and pay attention to him and all that other nonsense people in romantic relationships had to deal with.

"And I have you for all that. Don't I, you raggedy little dust mop?" I cooed at Snickers.

She let out a low level whine and put her head on her paws, eyes on the door. Probably willing Mac to come back and save her from my company.

"I know. I miss her too." I hefted the first box and made my way out into the hall. I strode purposefully to the stairs, not allowing my gaze to drift toward Hunter's door. My mind wasn't nearly as obedient, and I couldn't help wondering if he was inside. Maybe still in bed after his long night of work, sleeping in the raw…

"Damn it," I muttered as I almost missed a step. "Down, girl."

"Mackenzie?" I heard Nona's nasal voice from the bottom of the stairs "Is that you, bubala?"

"Yeah," I grunted as I navigated the stairs to the bottom. In addition to the fuse box, the ancient water heater and a bunch of old hockey equipment, the basement of our house held the laundry facilities. Nona sat in a metal folding chair in front of a small card table with a game of Solitaire spread out in front of her, the dryer tumbling away behind her.

"I was just gonna knock on your door and see if you wanted a cup of coffee."

"Always." I set my box down next to the hockey stick corner. "Do you know who all this belongs to?" I asked, gesturing to the stuff.

"Oh, that's Hunter's." Nona collected her cards and struggled to get up. Moving swiftly to her side I offered her my hand, and she took it with a brief flash of her dentures. "Thanks, doll. I can't sit in that metal chair too long without my sciatica acting up."

"So Hunter plays hockey in his spare time?" I asked as I helped her up the stairs. She was winded by the time she made it to the first floor, and I paused to let her catch her breath.

"Oh, not anymore. I guess he played in college. I don't know much about it, but Al said he was real good, and he could have gone pro. You should ask him about it." Her tone turned sly.

I made a noncommittal sound. "I have a few more boxes to drag downstairs. Do you want me to pull your laundry out before I come up for coffee?"

"That would be terrific. I can only handle those stairs so often, you know. Damn knees ache like you wouldn't believe."

She headed up to her apartment, and I scuttled back into mine for the next load. By the time I was finished, the dryer had quieted, and I pulled Nona's warm laundry out into her small basket, trying not to stare at her supersized underwear.

I was on the top step when I heard Hunter's lock tumble. Frantically I looked for a place to hide, if not myself then the giant bloomers. Unfortunately, the hall was empty, and I didn't have enough time to dash either into my apartment or up the next flight to Nona's.

"Hi." Hunter looked fresh from the shower, that river of midnight hair slicked back in a ponytail. He sported the leather trench he'd worn the day before, this time with jeans instead of a suit. He looked scrumptious.

I, on the other hand, was sweating like a pig from my many trips up and down the stairs and in possession of what had to be the largest load of delicates on the face of the planet. "Um, hey."

To my horror, he moved closer. "I'm glad I ran into you. I was up half the night wondering how best to apologize."

I shifted the laundry onto my hip, trying to block his line of sight with my arm. I didn't want to draw too much attention to the laundry lest he wonder why I was acting weird about it. "Oh yeah?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I mean, you can be a PI if that's what you want. I just want to make sure you know some of the basics and minimize the risk."

I thought about the
Working Man's Guide,
full to bursting with Uncle Al's tips and tricks of the trade. "I have a mentor of sorts."

"Good, that's good." His dark eyes grew warmer, and he moved close enough that I could breathe in his unique scent. "So, am I forgiven?"

"Yeah. I'm a true redhead." He smelled almost…primitive. Earthy. Like pine, wood smoke, and male musk, aromas so foreign and alluring to my city-girl senses. I swayed a little, all my aggravation forgotten in a sensual fog.

His gaze dipped downward, and I blushed all the way to my roots when I realized how suggestive that last comment had sounded.

"What I mean is, I have a short temper, but I get over it quickly too. What's your superpower?" It was a stupid and inane remark, and I wasn't sure why I said it.

A slow wolfish grin spread across his face, and he leaned in close to whisper, "It's a secret."

My breath caught, and I almost collapsed right there in the hallway into a puddle of goo. The man had
game.
And judging by the light in his eyes, he knew it, too.

"Maybe I can take you out sometime? Dinner? Or coffee?" The dark promise in his eyes suggested other sorts of nocturnal activities.

I wanted to say yes. Something about him made me want to take a risk. Mac would understand—men like him didn't come along every day. Hardworking, honest, sweet, and sinful all wrapped up in a big sexy package. He made my blood run hot and my knees go weak. When was the last time that had happened?

I remembered exactly when, and that thought made me hesitate.

Nona's door creaked open before I could get a word out. "Mackenzie? You still coming up, doll?"

"I have to go." I chucked a thumb to the stairs.

Hunter reached into my basket. "Nona'll be wanting her bloomers."

I snorted. "I should have known better than to sneak something by a detective. I'm just glad you didn't think they were mine. Or Mac's." Though my daughter was a string bean, she could have pitched the underwear and used it for a tent.

"Anytime you want to show me your underwear is fine by me. Though I'd appreciate them more if you modeled them for me, Red." he murmured. "Think about dinner and get back to me."

I sighed as he turned and headed toward the front door. He wasn't the first person to call me Red, though it was a far better nickname than Carrot Top or the much-hated Ginger. Something about the way he said it, though, made a traditional nickname sound so much more…intimate. Alluring, even. Shaking myself free from the sensual spell, I hefted the laundry and headed up to Nona's.

Her apartment was considerably smaller than ours—one bedroom instead of two, no fireplace, and a tiny bathroom with a shower stall instead of the cast-iron tub downstairs. I'd peeked into the unoccupied unit across the hall, and it was as sparse.

I set Nona's laundry by the door. "Just so you know, Hunter was fingering your underwear."

She waved a hand in front of her face. "I think I'm having a hot flash."

"Join the club." I took the small mug of coffee she offered me. It was a sad little thing, almost a baby mug, and would barely contain six ounces of the elixir of life. Maybe one day it would grow into a full-sized mug, but for now it was the little cup that couldn't. I'd need four of them just to make the stairs worth it.

"So did he ask you out?" Nona lit a cigarette and eased herself down onto one end of her uncomfortable-looking sofa.