Sounds Like a Plan

I’m not accustomed to leaving a woman unsatisfied, especially an attractive woman who’d already shown me a great deal of generosity. Still, it couldn’t be helped. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t catch Mrs. Green’s cheating husband in the act.

My name is Jackson Jones. I make my living sticking my nose in other people’s business. In other words, I’m a private investigator. I work out of a respectable-sized office suite twenty-seven stories above Century City. My picture-window view of Beverly Hills is pricey, but never fails to impress my well-heeled clientele.

J. Jones Investigations, Incorporated, specializes in servicing everyone from the well-off to those wealthy enough to have POTUS on speed dial. Truth be told, it’s been a while since a substantial case crossed my threshold. I try to pass on the routine gigs, so I’ll be available for the high-dollar cases. But if I’m going to keep the lights on, I may have to rethink that strategy.

Mrs. Allison Green, my latest client, fell squarely in the comfortably rich category. She was blonde and fortyish, but with a twentyish face and body that were miracles of modern science. She always dressed stylishly, yet strategically to display her goods. A former wanna-be actress, Mrs. Green shelved her dreams of stardom eighteen years ago when a loaded producer slid a diamond onto her finger. Now, a mansion and a yacht later, Mrs. Green suspected said producer of stepping out on her and scheming to trade up. Shrewdly, Mrs. Green wanted to get the goods on her husband so she could, well, get her husband’s goods.

It was for this reason Mrs. Green loomed over my desk, manicured hands planted on her hips, blue eyes drilling into me. She had the demeanor of a woman accustomed to getting what she wanted.

“Well?” she demanded. “Why is this taking so long?”
I ignored the heat of her stare and gestured casually to the chair facing my desk. “Mrs. Green, please. If you’d just have a seat I can explain.”

Except for the narrowing of her eyes, she did not budge. “I told you, Mr. Jones, I don’t want to sit. Stop asking me to sit. I didn’t come here to sit. I came to get answers.”I flashed a smile in an attempt to cool Mrs. Green down. “That’s what I’m here for. To get you answers.” I’m tall. A fit thirty-one years old, and Denzel handsome–and I’m talking Denzel from back in the 90s. My smile’s world famous for its soothing effect on the fairer sex. But on this white lady hovering over me, flashing my pricey dental work evoked the opposite effect.

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Green snapped. “I’ve been standing in this office for five minutes and you still haven’t answered a damn thing. Why is it taking you so long to get me the proof I need? You told me you’d have a photograph in two weeks at most. That was two months ago.”Knowing Mrs. Green wouldn’t like what I had to tell her, I was trying ease into it. Clearly that wasn’t working.

“Okay,” I said, raising my hands. “It’s like this. Your husband is not a stupid man.”
Her perfectly micro-bladed eyebrows clenched. “Excuse me?”
“I suspect he knows he’s being shadowed so, of course, he’s being extra careful. I must ask. Did you let anything slip about hiring a private investigator? Like maybe during an argument?”

“Mr. Jones, you’re right. My husband isn’t stupid. And neither am I. In fact, I’m smarter than he is. So, don’t insult me. Of course, I didn’t let anything slip. Maybe he spotted you following him because you’re incompetent. That would explain your failure to meet your guaranteed deadline.”Although I still wore a pleasant smile, I was quickly losing my patience. I’d come to expect a certain level of superior snarkiness from these high-net-worth types, but a brother can only take so much.

Maintaining my cool, I said, “I assure you, I’m the best at what I do. Also, I never guaranteed anything. I gave you an estimate and nothing more.”

“Then what’s your explanation?” she said. “How does he know you’re following him?”

“Like I said, he’s smart. If he is having an affair, he’s being extra careful. Behaving as if he’s being followed. That makes my job much more difficult.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, catching him in the act could take a few more months.”

“Months? Not at the rates I’m paying you.”

“I think my rates are more than fair.”

“I want a discount.”

“As I said, my rates are fair.”

“You’re a crook! I want my money back. Every last dime.”

I shouldn’t have laughed, but I couldn’t help myself. I was done with Mrs. Big Mouth. I stood, forcing her to look up at me. “I’m terminating our agreement. Go find someone else to yell at. Goodbye.”
For a moment she just glared, trembling, as if she were about to blow. Finally, she took a deep breath and said, “You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”
With that, Mrs. Green was gone. The fact that she didn’t slam the door told me she’d probably never call her lawyer. It’s been my experience that rich folks love to brandish lawyers, but seldom pull the trigger.

I sank back into my seat feeling a twinge of regret. Customers who paid well and on time, like Mrs. Green, were hard to come by lately. On top of that there was a notice on my desk from the landlord informing me that my million-dollar view was about to get even pricier. I was seriously considering intercepting Mrs. Green at the elevator when my assistant poked her head into my office.
“Whoa,” Nadine said, a smirk on her face. “Mrs. Green sure looked pissed.”
“She’s no longer a client. And, oh yeah, she’s suing us.”
“Us? I just get coffee and answer phones. Don’t get it twisted.”
We traded smiles.

Nadine’s my cousin. She’s a few years younger than me, “put-together plump,” as she likes to say, and funny as hell. We were crazy close as kids, then lost touch for a bunch of years. When we reconnected as adults she was fresh out of rehab and needed a break. For years, I worked without an assistant but decided to give Nadine a shot. Now I don’t know how I ever managed without her.
“Guess what.” Nadine gestured to the reception area behind her. “You have a walk in.”

“Okay. Just give me a couple of minutes. I need to make a few quick calls.”

“Are you sure? This is a new client. Very nice suit. Slick shoes too. Oh yeah, and a briefcase that probably costs more than my car.I put down the phone. “Briefcase, huh?”

She nodded.“Lawyer?”She nodded again. “Big time from the looks of him.”

“Wait. Are you trying to tell me Mrs. Green came with her lawyer?”

Nadine laughed. “No. He’s someone else’s lawyer. Should I send him in?”

“No. Send him on a sandwich run to Subway.”

“Ha-ha. Fix your tie.”

Yes, I wear a tie. Suit too. Sure, I’d be more comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt like the PIs on TV, but this is real life. The type of clients I cater to don’t do business with black men in T-shirts.
I straightened my tie as Nadine disappeared then reappeared moments later ushering in a man in a finely tailored suit. He looked to be in his sixties, maybe even early seventies. His polished appearance, refined posture, and air of confidence brought the word dashing to mind. And Nadine wasn’t kidding about his briefcase. My visitor clutched a black Dunhill Heritage, definitely pricier than Nadine’s eight-year-old Corolla.I rounded my desk and greeted him with a handshake.

“My name is Raymond Patterson,” he said.

“I’d like to discuss engaging your services. The matter is quite urgent and will require your immediate and exclusive attention. Of course, your compensation would be commensurate with the level of dedication I’m requesting. Are you interested, Mr. Jones?”

“You definitely have my attention.”

I gestured to the visitor’s chair and returned to my seat.

“Please, tell me what I can do for you.”

Chapter 2

Mackenzie

“Are you Mackenzie Cunningham?”

The first thing I noticed about the white guy standing in the doorway of my office was his suit. It was an Italian cut. Blue-gray fresco mouline wool. I knew men’s clothing. My dad is a lawyer who never buys off the rack. Although my father was too busy working to spend a lot of quality time with me as a kid, hugs were never in short supply. The soft feel of his pricey suits was practically imprinted on my cheeks. I almost wanted to leap across my desk and brush my face against this guy’s lapel.

So far, my day had been a complete crapshoot. I’d gotten burned earlier that morning and my screw-up might cost me the first decent client I’ve had in a while. And by decent, I mean a client whose check wouldn’t bounce its way back to my office the moment I deposited it.

I’m a PI, and I’m good at my job. That’s why today’s mishap stung so much.A target I’d been surveilling for several hours—a gambler with a very unhappy bookie—rushed up to my Jeep Grand Cherokee and started banging on the window. My trusty old Jeep was more old than trusty and didn’t need the battering. He drunkenly demanded to know why I was following him. It took me a few tries to crank up my engine, as usual, and speed off.

And for the record, I’ve never been made on a stakeout before today. Being a woman in this business, I can’t afford to let that happen. It was frustrating that most guys don’t take me seriously. At least not at first. My capabilities are repeatedly questioned because of my mellow mocha skin and unstatuesque height—I’m five-four in heels. A few knuckleheads learned the hard way, though, that my quick wit, lightning speed, and black belt in Krav Maga render me far more dangerous than a man twice my size.
My company is called MC Investigative Services. I run my business out of a shared office space above a Chinese takeout restaurant in a strip mall in Inglewood. My office mates—a workers’ comp attorney and a chiropractor—are model candidates for a future FBI raid. In the five years that we’d been cohabitating, I’d only accepted one job from them. I’m bright enough to know a fraud ring when I see one.

When I’m feeling stressed, I like to gaze out onto Manchester Boulevard. Watching traffic soothes me. Go figure. I was engaged in this form of self-therapy when the uninvited visitor showed up at my office.
Normally, I’d be annoyed that Joy, the receptionist I shared with my two suite mates, allowed this guy in without buzzing me first. It was her job to keep out the riffraff, aka, angry clients, cheating spouses and process servers. At least he wasn’t setting off any red flags. Yet.

“Yes, I’m Mackenzie Cunningham,” I replied to the distinguished-looking older gentleman. I found it odd that he was carrying a leather briefcase. Most people stored all their essentials on an iPhone or iPad. I certainly did. “How can I help you?”

“I have a case I’d like you to handle,” he announced closing the door behind him. Somehow, my trespasser looked at me without actually looking at me. He set his briefcase on the floor and took a seat in front of my desk before I could invite him to do so. “And it’s quite urgent.”

All clients acted as if their cases were fires that needed to be snuffed out yesterday. I grabbed a notepad and pen from the corner of my desk. “Let’s start with your name and the nature of your case.”

The man held up a masculine but manicured hand. “My name is Raymond Patterson. Before we proceed, I’ll need your agreement to a couple of stipulations.”

I’ve never been one to let a client take control of the conversation or define the parameters of my engagement. But as Mr. Well-Dressed White Guy spoke, I found myself rocking back in my leather chair and giving him the floor.

“First, this case will require your immediate and exclusive attention,” he said in a commanding voice. “That means you’ll be prohibited from handling any other cases for the duration of our engagement.”
I raised an eyebrow. Yeah right. As if I could just drop everything I’m working on. Anyway, how would he even know? But instead of arguing the point, I tilted my head and locked my arms across my chest. “And the second stipulation?”

“There’s a very urgent deadline that you’ll need to meet.”

I didn’t accept or reject his stipulations. I simply let him keep talking.

“I need you to find someone,” he said, placing a five-by-seven photograph on my desk.

“Her name is Ashley Cross. She’s been estranged from her family for the past four months. Her mother—my client and her only real family—is terminally ill and is desperate to reunite with her only child. I need you to find Ashley before her mother dies.”

As I stared at the photograph, I tried to keep my face emotionless as my brain registered the first shocker: the missing girl was black. Perhaps that explained why he had chosen me for the job. Did he think a black female PI would have a better shot at tracking down another black woman?
“How much time does the mother have?” I asked, still mulling over why this guy wanted me for the job.
“A couple of weeks at best. Maybe even days.”

“Is there an inheritance involved?”

Patterson nodded. “I’m the executor of her mother’s estate. Ashley will soon be a very wealthy young woman. Here’s some background information I was able to gather.”

He handed me a folder with several pages inside. The first page included many of the PI essentials. Ashley’s Social Security number, last three addresses, high school, college, best friend, last known boyfriend and a few other tidbits.

“And, oh yes, Ashley is Mrs. Cross’s adopted daughter. Her adopted father is deceased.”
I find a photograph of the happy threesome inside the folder. Yet another shocker: Ashley’s adoptive parents are white.

“Do you have any information about her biological parents?” I asked.Patterson shook his head. “Those records are sealed. Ashley never knew them and never expressed a desire to know them.”

I continued to peruse the folder. “I don’t see any information about the Crosses.”

He shrugged. “There’s no reason you should need any background information on them. As I said, her father is deceased, and her mother is extremely ill. So, it’s imperative that you refrain from contacting Mrs. Cross for any reason. She’s in a very fragile state and I don’t want to put any additional stress on her. Whatever you find out about Ashley should only be reported to me.”

Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding. Alarm bells started wailing in my head. There was likely more to this story than the scant facts Patterson had just revealed.

I stared into Ashley Cross’s wide brown eyes. She was petite, almost doll-like, with a long mass of thick, kinky hair. According to the background sheet, she was just twenty-four years old, a decade my junior.

Her most recent address was Rancho Palos Verdes, about thirty miles south of here. But in economic terms, a galaxy away.

I wasn’t in the habit of turning down gift horses, but I couldn’t help wondering what Raymond Patterson wasn’t telling me and why he’d descended from his tower of power to go slumming in Inglewood. Even if he wanted a black PI, I wasn’t in the top echelon of that list. Not yet.

“Does Ms. Cross have some connection to this area?” I asked.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then why hire me for the job?”

“You came highly recommended.”

“By whom?” I pressed.

“I’d rather not say. But I’ve done my homework. You’re very good at what you do. You have superior internet tracking skills and extensive expertise in finding missing people.”

All true. Perhaps I shouldn’t have played the race card so quickly. It was nice to know my rep traveled far beyond my limited sphere. But what was the real deal? Why was Patterson so insistent that I shouldn’t contact Ashley’s dying mother? Was there a reason other than her health for the stay away order?
Neither of us spoke for a long beat. I’m good with silence. Most people aren’t. The man crossed his legs in that self-assured, manly way—ankle resting on opposite knee—and made extended eye contact for the first time.

“So, Ms. Cunningham, is this case something you’d like to take on?”

Although he was requesting my consent, his assertive tone conveyed that he assumed he already had it.
I’ve learned to trust my intuition and there was something not quite right about Raymond Patterson or his urgent matter. I briefly glanced at the parking lot below. The burgundy Jaguar taking up two spaces no doubt belonged to him. He obviously didn’t understand that hogging two spots in an overcrowded, urban strip mall was an invitation to have your car keyed.

I turned back to him. “If I’m required to put my existing clients on the backburner, I’ll have to ask for a lot more than my normal retainer.”

“I don’t think you’ll have an issue with the retainer I’m offering.” He retrieved a thick, rectangular envelope from his briefcase and slapped it on my desk. “Hopefully, this should be sufficient. It’s twenty grand. Cash.”

Despite the rush of exhilaration I felt, I displayed no outward emotion. That was more than six times my regular retainer. Enough to put a dent in my credit card bills and cover the mortgage on my townhouse for a few months. My attempt at emotional restraint wasn’t quite strong enough to keep a smile off my face.
And just like that, my day had gone from downright miserable to absolutely marvelous.