Private Investigation Page 4

  She drove by so slowly that I wondered if she saw me. But it’s unlikely. My windows are tinted too, way past the legal limit. There’s a reason for that. Even though I get pulled over often because police can’t see inside, it also keeps anyone I’m investigating in the dark.

  I followed her to the school, where she dropped off her two sons, but once I got there, I was denied entry. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t leave without me seeing. Then I followed her back home. The garage door opened, she parked inside, and the door went down, hiding her from sight.

  That was an hour ago.

  Mr. and Mrs. Cage’s single story house is located in an average middle class neighborhood where all the homes look nearly identical—tan stucco and red roof tiles. It’s the kind where kids play in streets lined with perfectly manicured lawns without too much care. There aren’t overly expensive vehicles in the driveways, but they’re nice enough where I can gauge an average salary. It’s the type of place where the husbands make enough to provide for the family while the wives stay home and take care of the house and kids.

  Like I said, average. Unexceptional.

  An older woman walks by with a little white ball of fur attached to a leash. She stares at the car suspiciously, craning her neck as she passes, trying to see inside. Probably the neighborhood gossip. They all have one.

  At nine o’clock, the garage door opens, and moments later, Mrs. Cage drives by me again.

  Through my rearview mirror, I watch her make a left. I head out, keeping her in my sights. Contrary to what most people think, it doesn’t take much stealth to follow someone. Most people are too self-involved, too concerned with everyday life to notice a stalker.

  Ten minutes later, she pulls into Terry North Mall, an upscale shopping and dining center where the vehicles in the parking lot alone tell you that unless you make a six-figure salary, you’re in the wrong place.

  I park in a space two rows over, far enough away where she won’t pay attention to my Charger, which now stands out amongst the Rolls-Royces and Maseratis, but near enough that I can see her clearly.

  She steps out of her car and goes in. I’m not too far behind. Not once does she look back, completely oblivious to the fact that someone is so close. It makes me shake my head at the complete lack of sense, the lack of awareness for her surroundings. If she were my wife… I shut down the stupid thought before it begins.

  The entrance to the mall is marked by a wrought iron gateway that arches high above, serving as a sort of trellis, with jasmine trailing through the laced metal. Travertine floors made up of large tiles are dotted here and there by copper and marble inlays. Storefronts sport marble walls with modern lines and large windows to display their expensive wares.

  Most stores have just opened, and the shopping center is still quiet but for a few women in tight pants and sneakers walking and enjoying the cooler morning weather, the deep blue skies, and the faint mist from large fountains placed at every sidewalk junction.

  I widen the distance between Mrs. Cage and me and watch as she enters an accessories boutique named The Ember Jewelry Company and then vanishes from sight.

  There’s a coffee stand directly in front of the store. It’s the perfect spot and I have the perfect excuse.

  “One large cup, please. Black, no sugar,” I order from the barista. She looks at me as if she’s surprised I didn’t order something from their fancy menu. “Do you have plain coffee?”

  “We do. No one ever orders it, though.” She hands it to me, observing me with fascination as I take a sip. “How is it?”

  I lift the cup to her. “It’s good enough.”

  Taking my drink, I sit facing the floor-to-ceiling glass wall of Ember Jewelry and observe Mrs. Cage.

  If she’s here to meet someone, her plain white T-shirt, black sweatpants, and pink sneakers certainly don’t reflect it. Her hair’s up in a bun that she didn’t seem to put much effort into. Though she’s undeniably beautiful in spite of her outfit, she’s definitely not here to see a lover.

  However, shopping also seems unlikely. I’d believe it more if she were here to exercise. But even then, the women who are walking in the area are in workout clothes more expensive than any tuxedo I’d ever rent. So the only other reason she might be here is to work. Behind the scenes, I’d guess.

  Mr. Cage did say she helped a friend with her jewelry business. And at that thought, I see her speaking with a redhead at the counter. She laughs at something, making her messy hair bounce. A strand falls over her face, and she slowly pushes it away. My eyes follow her hand almost hypnotically. The delicate, graceful way she moves reminds me of Lena. She used to say that the girl was taken out of dance, but dance was never taken out of the girl.

  Taking surveillance pictures is much easier these days when everyone and their mother has a phone out. No one ever questions it. I snap a few with mine, making sure to capture the company name on the storefront that’s done in big gold letters, her interaction with the employee there, and of her face as she speaks.

  She grabs a few things off the counter and disappears somewhere toward the back.

  I wait patiently.

  Twenty minutes pass. The woman at the counter takes a call, gazing in my direction while she talks.

  Now it’s been forty minutes. Two customers have come, explored the spinning shelves, and left. Mrs. Cage is still nowhere to be seen.

  Cold coffee has never appealed to me, and mine’s like ice. After tossing it into the nearest garbage can, I go into the store.

  Lavender and citrus permeate the air, wafting over from the lit candles on a table in the center of the room. Knickknacks, frilly things, and shiny and glittery accessories hang from every corner, line every shelf, and fill every bin to the brim, and I have no idea what any of it is for.

  It’s a bit shocking to simply stand in the room, and I have to fight the urge to close my eyes and flee.

  “Let me guess, you need a gift for your girlfriend.”

  I turn to find the redheaded woman standing beside me. “What gave it away?”

  “It’s the look. I’ve yet to see a man come in and not go completely blank. Besides, I noticed you sitting out there earlier. Wondered when you’d build up the courage to come in.”

  “Yeah, it’s slightly overwhelming,” I admit.

  “Well, you’re in luck because I’m great at picking out just the right item. So what can I help you find?”

  Scanning the area, I say the first thing that I see. “She likes little purses.”

  “Ah, a clutch girl.” She chuckles when I shrug my shoulders. “That’s a small purse. Here, let’s take a look. What’s her favorite color?”

  “Yellow.”

  “Then this might work. It’s actually one of my favorites and it goes with formalwear, but if you take this off”—she removes the faux diamond strap—“it can be used with casual outfits too.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Great, I’ll ring it up.”

  As she’s charging me for the overpriced purse, I gaze around, trying to figure out where Mrs. Cage could have gone. There’s a door that I assume leads to a space in the back, but I can’t see it well from my position.

  “Do you own this place?” I ask the woman whose name I’ve now learned is Betty.”

  “I run the store.”

  “Are you by yourself?” When I see her worried expression, I backtrack. “I mean, is it busy enough where you need more than one employee? The reason I ask is because my wife is searching for a job. She’d love working at a place like this.”

  “Ah.” Relief that I’m not a psycho evident on her face, she continues packaging the gift, placing the small purse in a gold bag, tying a ribbon around it, and then putting it in a box full of golden tissue. No wonder they charge so much. It’s always the packaging. “There are two others, but they don’t come in until later. I could use the help in the mornings. Especially Saturdays. Is she available weekends?”

  “I believe so.”
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  “Wonderful. I’ll put one of our business cards with our email address inside the box in case she’d like to check us out. She can apply there. What’s her name?”

  That’s a question I’m not prepared for. If I were, I would have made up a name. Instead, I blurt out, “Lena.”

  “Okay, I’ll keep an eye out for her application.”

  “Thank you.”

  I head for the door, glancing back before I leave and wondering where the hell Mrs. Cage went before I leave.

  Her car is still in the parking lot. That means that wherever she is, she’s around here somewhere. Hours pass, and when it remains there, so do I, thinking about the three-hundred-dollar purse I’ll be expensing. If Justin denies it, my wallet will be taking a big hit for my mother’s very expensive birthday gift.

  It’s nearing one o’clock and there’s no sign of her. I pull out my laptop and upload the photographs I took earlier of her vehicle in front of the mall and her inside the store.

  My phone buzzes, interrupting the process. “Mom” my screen tells me. Rolling my eyes because the woman has the worst timing in the world, I answer.

  “Hey, Ma. Can I call you later?”

  “That’s what you said last week. If it weren’t for your brother calling me, I’d be afraid you were lying in a ditch.”

  Wiping my hand down my face, I sigh. “There you go with the ditch again. I don’t think there are many ditches here. The ones they do have are full of water, so I’d be washed away, not lying in one.”

  “Liar. Have you forgotten who took that horrible call?”

  “No. I haven’t. In my defense, I wasn’t in the car when they found it.”

  “Regardless, there’s no excuse to abandon your mother this way.” She sounds indignant and hurt.

  “Sorry. I’ve been working long hours.”

  “I know, Matty. Why don’t you take a break? Come stay with us for a few days.” She’s softened her tone, trying her best to sound sweet.

  “You live ten minutes away from my place.”

  As if she doesn’t hear me, she continues. “You could stay in the guest room. Stay up late to watch the games with your dad. Lord knows I can’t stand hockey. And he could certainly use your help with that damned shed. Can’t go in there without getting whacked by a damned rake. But you know how it is; he’s in so much pain…”

  As I listen to my mother go on and on about my father’s gout, I observe shoppers as they exit with their large purchases—if not in size, definitely in value—and take them to their cars. One woman in particular comes out with a teenage girl beside her. They’re both carrying bags and are completely absorbed in their phones, unaware that there are others around them.

  The younger one is so distracted that she doesn’t realize her proximity to a car parked at the curb. She crashes into it, hard, bouncing off and falling to her butt.

  An elegantly dressed woman gets out of the back seat of the gold Bentley, distressed over the accident. I watch as she helps the girl to her feet. From my vantage point, I can’t see their faces, but their body language says it all. The mother is apologizing as she scolds her kid, when all the while, she too was in another world. It was sheer luck that saved her from the same fate.

  They leave and by the looks of it, they’re unharmed, other than their egos. The elegant woman adjusts her form fitting black dress and smooths her slick dark hair before going into the back of one of the shops, and in the meantime, the Bentley takes off.

  Just as I type up the information for Justin’s report, Mrs. Cage walks out in a rush to her car. I shove my laptop to the passenger seat and follow her.

  Per her schedule, she should be picking up her children about now, and that’s exactly what she does. Again, I wait outside the school gates until she emerges. Then she drives straight to her house, parks in the garage, and the door closes.

  Chapter 7

  Three Years Ago…

  Bang!

  Lena’s body presses against me as the loud sound cracks through the air. Her hands squeeze my arm tightly, her eyes darting around the gun shop, searching for the source.

  “It’s okay, babe. They’re on the other side of the glass.”

  “What about when we’re on the other side with them?” Lena’s eyes bounce nervously from me to the folks inside the shooting range. Another bang makes her jump, and her nails dig harder into my skin.

  I pry her off, doing my best to sound calm. “The chances of getting shot here are like zero. You’ll be fine. I promise.”

  She nods, pushing her hair behind her ear. “Okay.”

  “So how about this one. It’s a 9mm SIG Sauer.”

  “Isn’t it kind of big? I was thinking something dainty. And pink.”

  Chuckling, mostly because I believe she really saw herself with a pretty pink pistol, I say, “You don’t want it to be too small, or the kickback will be bad.”

  Shrugging, she says, “I guess. Whatever you think.”

  “Sir, could we see this one here?” I ask the gentleman behind the counter, pointing to the gun in the glass case.

  The man pulls it out, inspecting the open chamber before handing it to me. After checking the chamber myself, I hold the firearm, pointing it to the floor, even though I know for a fact that it’s empty. “It feels good. Here, try it.”

  Lena hesitates, as if touching it will burn her hand. When she does take it, she holds it away from her body. “It’s heavy.”

  “It is if you hold it with two fingers. Try using both hands.” I stand behind her, putting my hands around hers and helping her hold the gun properly.

  “It’s a perfect fit,” the salesman says. “I carry a SIG.” He grabs his holster, showing us the much larger gun.

  “I don’t know, Matthew. I’m so scared of it. What if it goes off on its own?” She turns to me, still holding the gun, her face a mere inch from mine.

  “It can’t. And the reason we’re here is to learn the proper way to handle it. Once you do, you’ll be comfortable. Babe,” I say, looking into her eyes. “This is for protection. It’s meant to keep us safe. But it can’t do its job if we don’t know how to use it.”

  “If we weren’t moving to New York, I wouldn’t need to learn.”

  “There are bad people everywhere.”

  As I tell her that, another bang claps, and she jumps. “Here, you hold this for now. I’m scared I’ll accidentally shoot myself.”

  “It’s not loaded.”

  I know she hates this. The night we met, she told me she didn’t date cops. Didn’t want to be around guns and the constant threat of losing her husband. But I craved her sweetness, so I pursued her until she gave in. She accepted me, though she’s never accepted the badge.

  I gear her up with thick ear protection and glasses. We walk into the range, and I can tell she’s nervous. Frightened even. I tell myself it’s normal since it’s so foreign to her.

  It’s like that first breath under water when you go scuba diving. Terror fills your veins. Your body seizes with the expectation that it will be water you breathe in, even if you know there’s a tank attached to your back full of precious oxygen.

  But once you take that first breath and you see that everything’s okay, you take another, this time a little less shaky. Then another and another, until it becomes second nature.

  This is no different.

  Lena stands behind me, watching as I load the magazines we’ll use. I give her a reassuring pat.

  “I’ll shoot the first few rounds so you can get used to the sound of the shots being so close. Then if you’d like, you can do a few,” I tell her.

  She nods, giving me a thumbs-up.

  I turn away, shooting the ten bullets I loaded. When I turn back to her, she looks white as a ghost. But she tries to be brave. After taking a few deep breaths, Lena wipes her hands on her pants and steps up to the stand.

  “It’s okay, babe. Take your time.”

  She takes the gun in her hands. “Like this?”
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  Pushing her hand down a bit, I say, “The first rule of safe firearm handling is, never point at anything you don’t intend to kill. Second, keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.”

  She takes her finger off the trigger immediately. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You’re learning. Now, when you’re ready, point the barrel at the target. Put your finger to the trigger and pull only once. I’ve only loaded one bullet in case your finger twitches. I want you to feel that first kickback so that you’ll know what to expect.”

  Taking several more deep breaths, Lena faces the target with her legs shoulder width apart. I see she’s ready when her finger moves over the trigger, then slowly, she pulls and fires a single shot. The gun rears back and she yelps. But when the adrenaline of her first shot dissipates and she sees she’s hit the target in the chest, she turns to me with a huge proud smile. “I did it!”

  “You did. You’re good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you want to do a few more?” I ask her.

  “I don’t know.” She looks at the target with indecision. She liked it but isn’t sure how she feels about liking it.

  “If you’re going to have access to this, you have to practice handling it.”

  “I agree. I’ll do another.”

  I load the magazine with three shots. She shoots all three, jumping less and less with each. She may not love coming to the shooting range as much as I do, but with every shot, her confidence will grow. Her confidence in herself. In her ability to keep herself safe. Here or in New York.

  She sets the SIG down. “Will you teach me to load it?”

  Happily, I do so, helping her load five shots. She aims and fires.

  Present Time…

  Bang!

  My eyes burst open as the echo of a shot that was fired three years ago ricochets off the walls in my head.