Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1) (10 page)

Gritting my teeth, I moved stiffly towards the cabinet. The mugs were there, so the bloodbath was staved off for a little while at least.

"You could at least say thank you." Snap went the linens, making me flinch.

"Thank you?" I was stiff as all get-out from the antics of the day before and wasn't a morning person in any sense of the word. Her frenetic tidying frayed my last nerve. The coffee was piping hot, though, and strong enough to crank start a Model T. I gulped, actually glad for the scalding down my esophagus. It gave me something to focus on other than her glaring.

"Yes, I unpacked all your things and am creating a system for your household. When someone does you a favor Mackenzie, it's customary to offer at least a verbal show of gratitude."

"Why?" I set the mug aside and braced my hands on the counter. "Mom, why did you do this?"
She looked at me as though I were the one out of my ever-loving mind. "Well, someone had to."

The front door buzzed, and she dropped the last towel onto the stack and hurried out of the room. "That will be my furniture delivery."

I returned to the love of my life, aka the hot pot of java. With coffee, all things were possible, including figuring out what Agnes Taylor was up to.

Of course the personal sleuthing would have to wait. I had a list of doctor's offices to visit so I could find out more about Paul Granger and the drugs he peddled. After the antics of the night before, I was fairly certain the Foxes had something to do with Paul's death, but spending a day covering my bases wouldn't hurt.

The sound of a crash from the outer hallway broke me out of my mental planning, and I hurried forward to see what was going on.

Agnes Taylor stood in the foyer, hands on hips, chewing out the no-necked goons carrying…

I blinked. "Is that a piano?"

"Yes, or it was before this oaf dropped it." Agnes glared viscously.

"What's it doing here?" As far as I knew my mother had never once sat down in front of a piano.

"I bought it, of course."

Upstairs a door creaked open, and Nona's head, sporting green curlers, peeked out over the railing. "What's all the racket, doll?"

"Oh, Nona, wait till you see!" Turning her back on me, Agnes headed up the stairs to talk to her new neighbor.

I didn't want to be a stick in the mud, I really didn't. She was so enthusiastic, so much less caustic. But there was no freaking way that thing would fit in the tiny upstairs apartment. "Mom, there's no way you're going to fit that thing in your apartment."

The movers paused, the bald one looking to the one with the porn mustache and then at me. "All sales are final."

"It won't fit," I insisted.

"That's what she said," Pornstachio snickered.

Another door opened, and Hunter Black emerged from his apartment. "What's going on, Red?"

"My mother bought a baby grand piano for her apartment." I gestured helplessly to the thing.

"So I see."

"I'm trying to explain to these, um, gentlemen, that there is no
freaking
way they'll be able to actually put it in there."

More snickering, but at least they kept the lewd sidebar to themselves.

"Sure it will. You just need to take the door off the hinges." Hunter headed up the stairs.

A moment later I followed.

"Nona, Mrs. Taylor," Hunter greeted the women waiting in the hallway. Nona was her usual Yiddish spouting self, but my mother didn't respond. At least not until I heard her screech, "What are you doing?"

I rounded the newel post just in time to see Hunter's broad back disappearing into her new pad. I gripped her arm before she could pursue. "He's just trying to help. Worry about the mouth breathers hauling all our new stuff in. Where did you get the money for all this, by the way?"

"Al's accounts. You got the car, and I got his bank balance." Her tone sounded distracted as she bent to the side to peer past me. "What's that man of yours doing in there?"

"He's not my man. We haven't even kissed. Hunter's just being neighborly. Tell her, Nona."

"Oh yeah, he's a good egg." Detective Black's number one fangirl rode to the rescue. "With Al gone, it's good to know we've got a young man who knows how to get things done around here."

"Mackenzie," Hunter called from behind the door.

"Yeah?" I stepped forward to peer around it so I could see him. "What's up?"

"In my apartment there's a toolbox. I need a mallet and a Phillips-head screwdriver. Would you grab those for me, please?"

I opened my mouth to tell him he didn't have to do this but then clamped my lips together. He was offering me a shot to see inside his apartment. "Sure. Is your door unlocked?"

"Should be."

I turned and headed for the steps. The piano still took up the majority of the space in the foyer, and the movers had returned to the van to grab a glass-topped table. How much crap had she bought?

Shaking off the unsettling notion that my mother truly intended to leave The Captain for good, I reached Hunter Black's door. Taking a deep breath, I turned the knob and pushed my way inside.

I hadn't realized I'd been expecting anything in particular until I got a good look at the apartment. Like mine, Hunter's space sported hardwood floors, though his were a much lighter shade, almost a blonde color. All the woodwork around the windows and doors was the same dark stained hardwood. Except his place had no dings and dents, no visible scuffs or stains from leaks gone by.

There was no stereotypical bachelor pad pleather sofa or big-screen TV. In fact, there was no sign of a TV at all. Just a small round kitchen table and two chairs with an all-in-one PC sitting on top. Instead, a huge pool table dominated the area beside the fireplace. Beneath it sat the advertised toolbox.

I pulled out the items he'd requested then paused. I couldn't explore the way I was dying to, but I probably had time to check out at least one of the remaining rooms. So, bedroom, bathroom, or kitchen?

The bedroom seemed too intimate somehow. If I went in there I'd be crossing a line, and if he did come see what was keeping me I'd be better off not getting trapped in his bedroom. The bathroom, well it was a bathroom and other than poking through his medicine cabinet, there wasn't much I could learn. Easy enough to pretend my own bathroom was out of order at some point and come back over to use his at a later date. That left the kitchen.

At first glance, it wasn't much different from my own. Same blue-patterned linoleum, same ancient fridge and stove. His sink had been upgraded from the ceramic country-style basin in my place to a modern double-sided stainless steel sink. His plates were the neat square kind that some fancy restaurants used, cobalt blue, no pattern to personalize them, but at least they all matched. His mugs told me nothing. They were all lined up like good little ceramic solders. Cutlery, just as nondescript.

His fridge held eggs, milk, salad greens, and bottled dressings and a marinating steak. No wine or beer, nothing other than some bottled water. Maybe he was a recovering alcoholic, or just not a drinker?

No cookies in the cabinets, though he did have a box of green tea. A health nut maybe? He was in stellar shape. It made sense that Hunter would be one of those my-body-is-a-temple
types.
Sign me up to worship
.

"Mackenzie?" my mother's voice called from the hallway.

That was my cue. After taking one last glance around to make sure I hadn't left any telltale evidence of myself behind, I strode toward the door, tools in hand.

Something stopped me at the last moment, and I turned to survey the space again. What was it?

My gaze flitted from the partially visible kitchen to the main living area. The computer was on a screensaver—nothing personal, just the little Windows icon bouncing off the sides.

He'd been working on his computer.

No, I couldn't. Could I?

Apparently I could because before I knew it, I was tapping the screen, bringing the snoozing machine to life.

The home screen was a family picture, or at least who I thought must be his family. The first thing I noticed was Hunter with his arm around a petite blonde with mischievous eyes and a ready smile. He held her tucked into his side, and she barely reached his shoulder. If not for the other people in the photograph I would have believed she was his girlfriend or maybe an ex-wife.

On his other side, a middle-aged woman who was even shorter than the blonde rested her head against his shoulder. Her hair was the same light color, though it had paled out somewhat. Next to her a ruddy-faced bald man with twinkling eyes and a nose that looked like a potato had her arm tucked through his. Beside him were two other women, visibly older than the woman beside Hunter, but all had the same strong resemblance and three children, two girls and a baby dressed in little boy clothes, all blond with the same ruddy complexion.

All the people resembled each other strongly. Except for Hunter, who stuck out like a sore thumb. From his bone structure and the fall of his unbound hair, I guessed he had at least some Native American blood. He was dark to their fair, huge to their compact builds, brooding to their effervescence.

Hunter Black was adopted.

A smart PI goes in, gets his information, and leaves. Chasing the target could get you killed.

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

After handing over Hunter's tools, I beat a hasty retreat back into my apartment. Damn, why did I have to go snooping? Or sleuthing as Uncle Al would have called it. Either way I was burdened with information about my sexy new neighbor that I had no right possessing. It wasn't like he'd told me he was adopted. Hell, maybe being adopted wasn't that big a secret, but it raised all kinds of questions. Did he know who his birth parents were? Did he even
want
to know?

Maybe I was just jumping at shadows. It could very well be that he'd picked up some sort of recessive gene that had skipped the rest of his family—the large, Native American gene that was buried under a heap of hearty Irish stock. The only way to know for sure was to ask him.

Snickers trotted to her water bowl and pawed at its empty bottom, then gave me a dirty look.
Jing jing.
Fill 'er up. I took a cup to the faucet and ran the tap, still mulling over my discovery. If I mentioned the computer he'd know I'd peeked. Had he expected me to look? He could have retrieved the tools himself. Maybe he sent me in there so that I could be nosy.

Maybe I needed to get a life. Speaking of which, I had a job to do and doctors' offices to visit. I headed for the shower, trying to focus on the snooping…er…
sleuthing
I would eventually get paid to do.

The movers had finished with my mom's stuff by the time I headed out to the car. Hunter was either locked back in his apartment or had gone to work because I saw no sign of him.

"You have to come look!" my mother called from the upstairs landing.

"Later. I need to go out." Fearing a repeat of last night, I quickened my steps until I was out under the brilliant October sky.

The first doctor's office on the list Mac had compiled was a twenty-minute drive from the villa. I parked in the three-level garage that serviced the building and strode in looking like I knew what the hell I was doing.

Technically, I did know. I was going to ask to speak with Dr. Bernard Dole about Paul Granger, who had visited this particular office along with three others in the week before he was killed. And since I hadn't been able to get in contact with anyone from Right Touch Pharmaceuticals, I was going to ask about the ED drug Paul had peddled.

Dr. Dole shared a practice with three other MDs. The waiting and reception area was painted a cheery buttercup yellow with the standard unremarkable art prints on the wall and uncomfortable-looking composite and blue vinyl chairs that looked more like modern art than seating. Ancient issues of
Time
and
National
Geographic
were stacked in tidy piles on the end tables, and harpies on
The View
blared out at a billion decibels from the flat-screen mounted on the wall.

There were two other people in the waiting area, both male, one an octogenarian and the other about two decades his junior who looked the part of the quintessential silver fox. The relatively younger man gave me a slow up and down then flashed even white teeth. Gross—he was The Captain's age if he was a day.

I offered a tight smile and made my way to the receptionist desk.

The African-American woman with bleached blonde highlights slid the window back so she could talk to me. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No. I'd like to—"

"Then you'll have to make one." She slid the window shut and turned back to her computer.

I rapped on the glass with my knuckles, lightly, not wanting to seem rude. She eyeballed me a minute and then opened the window again.

"Hi, my name is Mackenzie Taylor. What's yours?" I offered her my brightest smile, hoping I could maybe win her over with charm.

She didn't look charmed. "I'm Ruth. And I have work to do."

She made to shut the window again, but I reached forward, catching it halfway across the track. "I'm so sorry to disturb you, Ruth, but I need to ask about Paul Granger."

"We can't discuss patients with anybody. Now getchya hand off my window,"

"He wasn't a patient," I ground out. The woman was crazy strong. "He was a pharmaceutical rep. Sold an ED drug for Right Touch Pharmaceuticals. Any of this sound familiar?"

She raised an eyebrow at me. "You mean the leg-humper?"

"Um…maybe?" At this point could I rule anything out?

She stopped trying to slam the window in my face. "Hey, Kimmy, someone's askin' about the leg-humper."

A small Asian woman with chartreuse hair pulled back into a severe ponytail rolled her office chair back so she could see me. "You know the leg-humper?"

"I know a bunch of them," I said." There was a picture of Paul in the file Len had given me, and I dug it out to show to them. "This the guy?"

"Oh yeah, that's him." Ruth crossed her arms and leaned back. "Came in here every month, trying to convince one of the doctors to buy his lousy drug. They never would though."

"How come?" Hastily, I stuffed the picture back in the file folder and dug out a pen. "Didn't it work?"

"You'd have to ask the doctors about that." Kimmy blew out a breath, causing a section of her yellow-green hair to lift away from her face. "All I know is he'd come in here, start schmoozing all the men and pawing at the ladies. Didn't matter if they were eighteen or eighty, he was on them like white on rice. We had to call building security to remove him more than once. He cornered me in the parking garage once, and I dosed him with pepper spray."

Having been dosed twice in the past week, I almost felt sorry for Paul. "Did you report him?"

Kimmy shook her head. "He begged me not to, said it would cost him his job. And he wasn't scary as much as annoying."

I uncapped my pen. "When was this?"

She frowned in thought. "Not too long ago. Ruth, was it before or after the guy with the hernia had a heart attack in the office."

Ruth's hands flew to her keyboard even as she muttered. "Oh it was definitely after, the same week. Let's see, that was September seventh." She tapped what looked to be a calendar.

Hmmm, after the Grangers had filed for divorce. And he was already looking to cheat on his swinger mistress? I turned back to Kimmy. "Do you really think he would have gone through with it if you were interested? Some guys are all talk."

"Oh no, he was interested all right," Ruth spoke before Kimmy could get a word out. "I caught him whackin' it in the ladies restroom once. Damn fool didn't even realize he'd turned right instead o' left. That man had an itch he wanted scratched in the worst way."

Behind her, Kimmy nodded. "Yes, I think he really was serious, especially that one time. There was something a little desperate about him. Like an addict, you know?"

I blinked. "A sex addict you mean?"

"All men are sex addicts," Ruth interjected. "My Melvin would do nothing else but bend me over the counter if I let him. But that leg-humper man had
a problem
."

"Would Dr. Dole have a few minutes to answer a few questions?"

"Who'd you say you were?" She narrowed her eyes at me.

"Mackenzie Taylor. I'm a private investigator."

"Why you asking all these questions about the leg-humper? Is he in some kind of trouble?"

Probably best to be honest without revealing the whole truth. I didn't want to start rumors. "Not anymore. Is the doctor available?"

Kimmy leaned over Ruth's shoulder and pointed at a block on the calendar. "Yes, as a matter of fact. He's getting ready to leave for the hospital. I'll see if he'll agree to meet with you."

"Thanks so much." I smiled at her and then at Ruth. "You've been such a help."

Kimmy moved into the back, and I chatted with Ruth for a few minutes about the Celtics' upcoming season. The woman knew basketball almost as well as she knew men.

The door to the back office opened, and a tall man wearing a white lab coat emerged. He was carrying a briefcase and had a brown trench coat draped over his arm. His eyes were obscured behind thick lenses, and his hair was brown with gray sideburns.

"Dr. Dole?" I asked, extending a hand.

He took it, his handshake limp. "You must be Mackenzie. Kim said you had a few questions for me. I'm in something of a rush, but if you want to walk with me to the parking garage, I'll answer whatever I can."

Handshake notwithstanding, he seemed like a nice man, the kind of doctor you'd trust through good times and bad. He held the door for me when I remembered Helga needed to be sprung from the overpriced parking garage.

Rushing back to the window I rapped on it smartly. When Ruth slid it open I held up my ticket. "Do you validate?"

Her eyes narrowed, but she took my ticket and stamped it. "Girl, don't run around looking for validation. You're better than that."

"Tell that to my credit card company," I said and headed out.

*   *   *

"So what can I do for you, Ms. Taylor?" The doctor had a faint tinge of South Boston peppering his speech. It made him seem much more approachable than Jessica Granger's clipped consonants and perfectly accent-less manner. I smiled up at him as we waited for the elevator.

"I'm interested in your take on Right Touch Pharmaceuticals and specifically the ED drug Paul Granger was trying to sell."

"You mean Alphadra?"

I hadn't known that was what it was called but nodded. "That's right. Does it work?"

"Depends on who you ask," the doctor said. "I don't recommend it to my patients because it has some nasty side effects."

"What kinds of side effects?" I probed.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened, revealing an empty car. Dr. Dole continued as we stepped inside. "Most notably priapism, a prolonged and painful erection that lasts more than four hours and must be treated medically. It claims to work faster than the other ED drugs available, but it doesn't play well with other drugs. There have been studies indicating an increased risk of heart attack and stroke with prolonged use, more so than in the other options."

"Did all the doctors in your practice agree with your assessment?"

The doors opened, and he gestured for me to step out first. "After you."

I did and fell into step alongside the good doctor.

"To answer your question," he began, "no. But none of us will recommend the drug either."

"Why not?"

"We're a small practice in the grand scheme of things, Ms. Taylor. And we decided as a group that it wasn't worth our reputation to recommend Alphadra, at least not as it was. Your Mr. Granger was really persistent though. He insisted one of my colleagues, Dr. Yates, saw potential in the drug."

"So that's what you discussed with him during your meeting last week?"

"I'm afraid so. Right Touch had armed him with new data claiming the side effects were minimal as long as the patient is not taking any other drug long term. I agreed to look it over and come to a decision at our next staff meeting."

"And did you?"

He nodded. "Yes, but I believe the results of the study were falsified. Specifically, that Right Touch handpicked men in their early thirties to mid-forties who were otherwise in prime health."

I frowned. "What's wrong with that?"

"There were no overweight men, no men with existing chronic conditions like diabetes, rheumatoid arthritis, ADHD, alcoholism and so on. All had relatively low blood pressure indicating that they exercised regularly. In other words, the ideal physically fit man, not the average patient who walks through my door. I believe Right Touch hoped to increase their sales through underhanded means."

"Did you find anything at all off about Paul Granger, personally?"
We'd entered the parking garage where Dr. Dole rummaged for keys and then inserted them into the door of a battered blue Ford Focus. "You mean, other than the fact that he was a liar and a pushy one at that?"

"Your receptionists seemed to think he was a little too pushy around women."

"I never noticed that. Then again, I tried to spend as little time with the man as humanly possible. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to make rounds."

"Thank you for your time, doctor. I truly appreciate it."

He ducked down and folded his lanky frame into the car. I stepped back, watching as his reverse lights came on and he backed out of the space before heading down to the exit.

My phone was in my jacket pocket. I pulled it out and moved into the empty space so I could get a signal. I wished Len texted, but the lawyer had informed me the night before that he didn't go in for any of that "newfangled gadgetry." I'd have to set Mac on him.

On the other end, the phone rang twice before Len picked up. "Copeland here."

"It's Mackenzie. I may have found out a few things about Mr. Granger as well as the Foxes."