You Don't Know Jack

  © 2012 Adrianne Lee. All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  For Kim, always in our hearts, never forgotten.

  Special thanks to Gail Fortune for always believing in me.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hello. My name is Jack B and I'm a recovering man-o-holic.

  My drug of choice: Wrong-for-me men.

  When it comes to the opposite sex, I haven't the sense God gave my favorite hoop earrings. In my defense, the affliction is genetic, passed down to me by my mother and two aunts, and probably their mother, and her mother. All I know is, I started kindergarten boy-crazy and reached my teens as snagged as a stiletto heel in a nylon carpet.

  Just shy of eighteen, I laid eyes on my first naked man... fully aroused... and it was then that I finally understood the power of natural beauty. I looked. I touched. I impulse-shopped like Victoria Beckham at Fashion Week — until men were credit cards I'd maxed to the limits on unwise purchases I couldn't return.

  Only when it was too late did I realize that what catches your eye isn't always a good investment of your time. Your money. Or your heart. Lesson learned: Sex doesn't guarantee a lasting relationship; sex doesn't equal love.

  But knowing the pitfalls doesn't curb the addiction any more than resolve squelches desire. I have to be pro-active. Quit men cold turkey. It's my only hope, the only thing I can think of to protect myself against my inbred bad judgment. To this end, I formed Man-o-holics Anonymous, an organization not unlike AA... except I'm the sole member.

  Whenever the temptation to indulge my addiction becomes unbearable, I hold a meeting with myself and repeat the MA mantra — I don't do men, I don't do men, I don't do men — until the itch to hunt down and bed the worst of the bad boys abates.

  I needed to get my mind off men and onto the job I was doing today. Look at my notes and the photos I'd taken. Of course, that would not get all men off my mind, only my men.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket and I jumped. My mouth dried at the readout. Private caller. Fourth such call in as many hours. Always the same. Heavy breathing. Static. Then nothing.

  Warily, I answered, studying the other passengers on this ferry traveling from Bainbridge Island to Seattle, thinking maybe it was one of them phoning me. "Jack B."

  Breathing in my ear.

  "Who is this?"

  More breathing.

  "What do you want?"

  Static. The line went dead.

  Spider feet tracked my spine. Crank caller? Wrong number? Maybe.

  As though my nerves weren't stretched thin enough, I glanced up and spied an unwelcome sight bearing down on me. A gorgeous version of some NYC fashion magazine's idea of a Scandinavian cowboy. My ex-husband. What was he doing on my ferry? I groaned and, hoping to avoid him, escaped to the wind-thrashed foredeck.

  Like the dog he is, Lars Larson heeled to my side.

  I raised my gloved hands to shield myself from the pheromones wafting off him. I was already rattled. Whatever he wanted, I wanted no part of.

  "I don't do men," I said, needing to hear the words outside my head.

  "Ah, darlin'." Lars Larson tilted his pristine white Stetson back from his brow, his tawny moustache twitching in amusement. "That's like saying I don't do men."

  That's right — my ex was deeper in the closet when we married than last year's Jimmy Choos.

  "I thought that was your old Mustang below deck," he said.

  Note to self: earn enough money to buy unrecognizable car. "What are you doing on this ferry, Lars?"

  "You don't seem pleased to see me, darlin'."

  What I was was suspicious. "Did my mother tell you where'd I be this morning? Did you follow me?

  He burst out laughing. "Good heavens, no. I'm returnin' from a research trip. Just fate that put us on the same ferry."

  "Fate?"

  "If you ever checked your voice mail, you'd see I've been tryin' to call you."

  Don't ask why. Don't ask why. "Why?"

  "I want to hire you to look into something for me."

  As desperate as I was at the moment for some ready cash, I was already looking into something for someone and working for Lars might incur a conflict of interest. "Whatever it is, I'm not interested."

  "Darlin', live up to your name, for God's sake."

  I blanched at the low blow. It's a tradition in my family for the females to be named after former first ladies. But why hadn't my mother foreseen the awful possibilities when she tagged me Jacqueline Bouviér Smart? Why not Jacqueline Kennedy Smart instead? Or Jacqueline Onasis Smart?

  Anything but Jack B Smart.

  A name like that demands certain expectations, prospects a girl needs to live up to. The scorecard tilts to the I have nots. "Go away, Lars."

  "If you don't help me, Jack B, Bruce will be murdered."

  Spider feet on my spine again. "I am not getting involved with anything to do with murder. Don't act like you don't know why."

  "But—"

  "No."

  "I'm not askin' you to interact with a murderer, darlin'. Just to do what you're good at."

  "You mean writing novels?" I asked, knowing full well that's the last thing he expected me to say. A life-long aspiring writer, I thought I'd died and gone to Heaven when I first attracted Lars' attention. He is exactly what I aim to be: a genuine, successful, published author.

  "Bruce is cheatin' on me."

  My mouth dropped open. Was this ironic, or what? Even though I'd long ago accepted that Lars could no more help his sexual orientation than I could mine, some small, petty part of me relished the thought of Bruce cheating on him.

  Does that make me a bad person?

  "At least I think he is. He's exhibitin' all the signs," Lars said.

  "You ought to know," I muttered. But there was no bite in my voice. I was over my spite. My bitterness. I no longer felt as desirable as a spat out lemon drop that landed in the dust bunny barnyard beneath our bed.

  I gazed across the dark, choppy waters of Puget Sound, grappling the urge to push Lars overboard. Okay, I still harbor a bit of animosity... probably for the agony I'd suffered worrying that his betrayals had inflicted on me the worst of the STDs.

  "Even if he is cheating, what do you expect me to do about it?"

  Instead of answering, he said, "He's not comin' straight home after the last set like he used to. He swears he's workin' on new routines, but I don't believe it. He's keepin' secrets."

  TMI. The last thing I wanted was to be sucked into Lars' love life. Didn't he get that? That would be like thinking of my parents' doing it. Ewwww. I'd need to steel wool my brain. "There are private investigators who specialize in this sort of thing. I could give you the number of—"

  Lars wasn't listening. To my horror, he began pouring out details I didn't want to hear. I tuned him out, hummed loudly inside my head. My gaze locked on the looming Seattle skyline, its familiar face never ceasing to fascinate me with its energetic mix of seaport industry and hig
h tech financial centers, from Pill Hill to the University of Washington, the Columbia Tower, the Farmer's Market, the Space Needle. A cityscape of buildings old and new rising side by side from the water's edge up the sloping hills, reaching into the gray morning, its sidewalks shared by the focused, the aimless, the homeless.

  Lars seemed disinclined to take my silence for dismissal. I supposed only the direct approach would penetrate the rock between his ears. Before I could respond he said, "I don't want a real P.I. I want you."

  Me? What? "Why?"

  "You have certain... qualities... that a stranger won't have."

  "Qualities?"

  He nodded. "Shall we call it... delving? into the lives of others and... relieving? them of their secrets?"

  Had he just called me a Class A Snoop? I resisted the impulse to knock him upside the head with the digital camera nestled in my coat pocket. I suggested he dial 1-800-MIRACLE EAR. "I'm not going to spy on Bruce. Now, if you don't mind... the ferry is about to—"

  "Would you do it if I buy you a computer and a printer?"

  The offer was incredible coming from someone as tight fisted as Lars, and I realized he was truly desperate to hire me, which again raised the question: Why me?

  "Believe it or not," I said. "I've managed to acquire those things on my own." Of course they were used, refurbished, but dear to me in a way that new, paid-for-by-someone-else never could be.

  He caught my sleeve. "I'll quadruple your usual fee."

  Air whooshed from my lungs. Now that was temptation money. I supported myself with a variety of odd jobs, and business had been off the last couple of months on all work fronts. Rent was due on my apartment. Today. I'd left too early this morning for my landlord to hit me up for it, but he'd be waiting when I returned home. Bills had gone unpaid this month. My bank account looked moth-eaten. Cold hard cash would ease my every financial worry, but instead of gratitude or acceptance, I blurted, "Why not just bribe me with a year's living expenses?"

  A shiver of alarm shot through me at the glint that flashed into his eyes. Good lord, he was considering it.

  He pulled his checkbook from inside his jacket. "It's a deal. I always felt bad that never took any alimony."

  Like hell he did.

  He dug a pen from the same inner pocket and frantically glanced around for a surface to write on. "We'll call it an old debt finally settled."

  I couldn't speak. Couldn't stop him. It was my every fantasy come true. Like being offered a seven figure book contract, and a truckload of calorie free Godivas, and the deed to my own shoe store. A strange, wonderful giddiness swept through me at the thought of all that money sitting in my bank account. At the thought of the unlimited amounts of time it would give me to stay home and write.

  In the next second, a sharp blast of wind hit like a face-slap catching me up short. Sobering me. Had I deserved more from our marital assets than I walked away with in the divorce? Probably. But that destination was crossed off my travel itinerary long ago; I didn't intend to revisit it ever again. I liked supporting myself even when times were tough. "Put your checkbook away. You can't hire me for any amount of money."

  He kept writing and cast another lure. "You have to. You're the only one I know who might talk some sense into Stone Maddox."

  Oh, shit, Stone Maddox! The name resounded in my ears as jolting as the sudden blast of the ferry horn. If Lars is the beer of my addiction, Stone is the Dom Perignon. After the divorce, Stone had salvaged my shattered ego, shown me the joys of being a sensual, sexual woman. He is six feet of mouth-watering sin.

  The one man I still want more than any other.

  He is also the reason I've sworn off men.

  "What? What kind of sense? You think Bruce is cheating with Stone?" I laughed at the absurdity.

  "God, no. Maddox is the poster child for hetero bad boys. Okay, maybe I lied about Bruce cheatin'." He sighed, his eyes going earnest. "Truth is, he's been sucked into Maddox's investigation."

  "What investigation?" But even as I asked, the little spider feet were back. Stone Maddox is a Seattle homicide detective. Bruce earns his keep impersonating Britney Spears nightly on the stage of Club Jaded Edge in downtown Seattle. Two men had recently been murdered in the gay community. I gaped at Lars. "The Black Boutonniere Murders is Stone's case?"

  Lars nodded, peering around to make sure no one was within earshot. The other passengers all had the good sense to be indoors and out of this cold wind. Heading to their vehicles. "Bruce is... helpin' Maddox... somehow."

  My heart hitched. "You mean... as a decoy?"

  Lars nodded. "Maybe. Probably. The two murdered men used to work at Club Jaded Edge."

  My eyes widened. That detail hadn't been in any of the news reports I'd read. Nor had my current client, Dinah Edger, the owner of Club Jaded Edge, mentioned it. Damn. By working for her I was already, indirectly involved in the police investigation. In Stone's investigation. Double damn. I was not getting anywhere near Stone Maddox. I was not.

  "So, will you help me?"

  "No, no, no." I left Lars standing there, check dangling from his hand, mouth agape as I hurried off chanting to myself: "I don't do men. I don't do men. I don't do men."

  I scrambled down the stairs to the car deck, shaken. Unsure what to do next. The phone rang. Private caller. I unlocked my car, answering as I scrambled onto the driver's seat. "Jack B."

  Breathing. Static. But this time a faint voice said, "Stop looking... me... you... die."

  My heart stopped, then restarted with a thud. "Endré?"

  The line went dead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Stop... looking... me... you... die..."

  I couldn't shake the chill those words brought. Was it Endré on the phone? Endré... my second ill-fated foray into wedded bliss; ink wasn't dry on the marriage license before I obtained an annulment.

  Was he the caller?

  Were unknown, unseen hitmen stalking me? I wanted to hide. Become invisible. Not something I could accomplish on the car-deck of a jammed ferry, sitting in my aged and battered Mustang, Old Yeller. Then again, I never blend in a crowd. I'm too tall, too blond, too stacked.

  I stand out like Lady Gaga in... ah, in... ah,... in anywhere.

  Oh, God, I was a walking target.

  I needed to tell someone about the phone call. But who? Not Endré's cousin. Not until I was sure the caller was Endré. Then who? Not Stone. Endré was a sore subject — and Stone didn't know the half of it. Just the mention of his name makes Stone start harping on my issues.

  He claims my inability to get my life on solid footing is rooted in the unsolved murder of my father when I was eight-years-old. He claims I need counseling. He claims I can't, or won't, give my whole heart to anyone. He claims my tattoo is proof.

  I glanced at the small red ink work on the underside of my right wrist. Downing three margaritas hadn't numbed me to the needle. I'd halted the S & M torture with only the right half of the heart completed. I bristled. Stone was wrong. The tattoo was symbolic of nothing more than my lack of pain tolerance. Nothing. More.

  I forced myself to breathe as I followed the caravan of cars off the ferry and picked my way through the heavy traffic toward the tangle of freeway ramps that led in and out of Emerald City.

  The sky was slate gray. Wind battered the car and wayward autumn leaves winged through the air like a horde of disturbed bats.

  Since Stone was not an option, what about some other cop? A scenario popped into my head of me trying to explain the call. "The voice? Well, officer, it was sort of a whisper, broken up by static."

  "Did you recognize the caller, ma'am?"

  And... we were back to square one. It might or might not have been Endré... In fact, it might have been a wrong number. After all, I wasn't looking for Endré. INS was.

  I merged onto I-5 southbound, then blue-toothed my BFF. Apollo Argus is the only male beautician at the Clip and Flip, the neighborhood beauty salon owned by my mother and my aunts, the Crai
n sisters. The clientele tips the scale on the senior side of the age charts, and though the deed claims C & F (shorthand for the Clip and Flip) is a beauty shop, anyone who has strode the black and white checkered floor, or sat in one of the pink and black chairs, and listened to the retro rock and roll issuing from hidden speakers knows it's actually where they serve a great cup of free coffee sweetened with the latest local gossip — the good stuff the Renton Gazette doesn't print.

  Apollo was the one man I couldn't give up. He was the best best friend. He said, "You sound like something a storm blew in. What's up, girl?"

  "Hurricane Lars."

  "What did he do this time?" I pictured Apollo cleaning his work station, a fuss pot by nature and energy. He's taller than me, has black hair and warm brown eyes, and the blunted features of someone who'd been slammed into a wall one too many times. Given his childhood, perhaps he had been. But as best friends went, he was the best.

  "Lars offered to pay me a year's living expenses, plus buy me a new computer and printer."

  Apollo whistled. "Who does he want you to murder?"

  "If only that was it." Now that I'd decided to vent to Apollo I wasn't sure I should mention Bruce's possible involvement in the Black Boutonniere Murders. Apollo had friends in the gay community and was constantly updating the Clip and Flip with the latest rumors regarding the investigation. Lars' interest would only pique Apollo's hyper curiosity.

  "He said he wanted to hire me."

  Silence. "Why?"

  "Why indeed." I'm not a licensed PI. I offer a service I call CHEATIN' HEARTS. If I decide a woman could be right that the man in her life is cheating on her, I look into it... for a fee. As to Apollo, I decided to keep my speculations to myself for now. "He lied. Said Bruce was cheating on him, then danced around the real truth. When I figure it out what that is, I'll let you know."

  "I hoped you were calling to tell me you'd heard from NYC." Apollo switched subjects like my mother switched hair color. He referred to the manuscript I had on a New York editor's desk, an editor who liked it enough to have passed it, with a recommendation, to a senior editor.