Tracy Hayes, Tenacious P.I. (P.I. Tracy Hayes 6)

By Susanna Shore

Brooklyn art circles are buzzing about the latest sensation, painter Joel James. But all is not as it seems with him, as Tracy discovers to her surprise. And then he vanishes.

Tracy has another case giving her trouble too. An old friend asks her to locate his missing sister, and the only lead Tracy has is the vanished artist. Is Russian mafia involved? Have they taken the missing girl too?

When a body is found, Tracy’s missing person becomes a murder suspect. Can Tracy find her before the police? Or worse, before the girl becomes the next victim of the actual killer.

On top of everything, Tracy’s going on a date—with her boss Jackson. But does it mean something, or is he just doing her a favor? And what does it say about her that she still can’t keep away from Jonny Moreira, the sexy, no-good mafia enforcer?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susanna Shore
• Release date: Nov 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9789527061381

Susanna Shore

Susanna Shore is a historian turned author. She writes Two-Natured London paranormal romance series, P.I. Tracy Hayes mysteries, The Reed Files crime capers, and House of Magic paranormal cozies, as well as stand-alone thrillers and contemporary romances.

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Tracy Hayes, Tenacious P.I.

P.I. Tracy Hayes 6

Susanna Shore

Tracy Hayes, Tenacious P.I.

Copyright © 2019 A. K. S. Keinänen

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

No part of this book may be reproduced, translated, or distributed without permission, except for brief quotations in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, dialogues and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations or persons, living or dead, except those in public domain, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Crimson House Books at Smashwords.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover © 2019 A. K. S. Keinänen

Editing: Lee Burton, Ocean’s Edge Editing

www.susannashore.com

Twitter: @SusannaShore

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P.I. Tracy Hayes Series

Tracy Hayes, Apprentice P.I.

Tracy Hayes, P.I. and Proud

Tracy Hayes, P.I. to the Rescue

Tracy Hayes, P.I. with the Eye

Tracy Hayes, from P.I. with Love

Tracy Hayes, Tenacious P.I.

Tracy Hayes, Valentine of a P.I.

Two-Natured London Series

The Wolf’s Call

Warrior’s Heart

A Wolf of Her Own

Her Warrior for Eternity

A Warrior for a Wolf

Magic under the Witching Moon

Moonlight, Magic and Mistletoes

Crimson Warrior

Magic on the Highland Moor

Thrillers

Personal

The Assassin

Contemporary Romances

At Her Boss’s Command

It Happened on a Lie

To Catch a Billionaire Dragon

Which Way to Love?

Table of 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

Epilogue

About the Author

Excerpt from Tracy Hayes, Valentine of a P.I.

Also in P.I. Tracy Hayes Series

Chapter One

You know how on TV the cops and private investigators always find a convenient parking spot in New York? That never happens in real life. Not for this apprentice P.I., and definitely not in Dumbo, Brooklyn, with its fashionable restaurants and clubs that keep the area busy late into the night.

But I really could have used that sort of luck tonight.

I’d followed my target through Brooklyn without losing sight of her cab, which was quite an accomplishment, if I say so myself, because I’m a timid driver. Mrs. Duncan, a full-time socialite wife whose husband wanted us to prove that she was having an affair, reached her destination and I watched from half a block down how she entered an art gallery that was having an opening. Then I began to look for a spot for my car.

Had this been a TV show, there would’ve been an empty space right in front of the gallery so that I could’ve kept an eye on Mrs. Duncan from my car. Instead, the streets were lined with cars as if this was peak office hours instead of seven in the evening. I was fairly sure Mrs. Duncan wouldn’t disappear on me while I wasn’t watching, but my hands tightened around the steering wheel in worry as I drove away from the gallery.

Three blocks down, I finally spied an available spot for the steel gray Toyota Camry that belonged to my boss Jackson Dean. I didn’t own a car. I could have borrowed Mom’s if I wanted, but since it was cherry red and highly noticeable, I liked Jackson’s car for surveillance.

I sped up to claim the space before a huge Mercedes SUV could edge ahead of me, parallel parked the car brilliantly—if I say so again—ignored the rude hand gestures from the owner of said SUV, took my camera, exited and locked the car, then hurried back to the gallery.

Located on the ground floor of a nineteenth-century red-brick match factory turned moneymaking retail space, Antoine’s had risen to prominence in the past three or so years. Through its huge display windows I saw that it was already full of elegantly dressed people, as if this was the Met exhibiting some long-dead artist whose works fetched millions.

Brooklyn’s finest hadn’t suddenly become art enthusiasts. The gallery had a reputation for finding the stars of the future. A thousand-dollar painting could be a fifty-thousand dollar painting in no time at all. These people might not know anything about art, but they definitely knew money.

I hadn’t suddenly become an art expert either, but I knew about the gallery because my sister-in-law, Melissa, the wife of my oldest brother, Travis, had made a few tart comments about it over a family dinner a while back. She worked in an upscale gallery in Manhattan, but they didn’t have that kind of success predicting winners.

Antoine did it once, and now everyone believes he’s the one to go to, she’d said, miffed. Half the time the artists he pushes are absolutely rubbish.

I couldn’t see what was on display tonight, as there was a wall of people standing in front of the artwork, and so I couldn’t comment on the quality. Worse yet, I couldn’t see Mrs. Duncan.

Shit.

I had no choice but to go into the gallery.

Now, strictly speaking, I should keep my distance from my target at all times to prevent them from spotting me, but there were so many people in the gallery that I’d easily go unnoticed. Besides, it had begun to drizzle, the kind of cold January rain that went through your clothes in moments, freezing you solid. I hadn’t prepared for it and wasn’t willing to endure it for the sake of handling my assignment. So, keeping Jackson’s many lectures on surveillance in mind, I crossed the street to the gallery and went in.

A wave of warm air, noise, and perfumes hit me, pushing me briefly off balance. I lowered the hood of my black sweater and ran fingers through my shoulder-length hair. It was currently a striking teal color after a visit to Shakeia, my excellent—and inexpensive—hairdresser two days ago. She’d declared that the fire-engine red I’d finally grown accustomed to was so last season, and promptly dyed my hair greenish blue.

The end result had shocked me, but the comically stunned look on Jackson’s face when he saw it made up for it.

It wasn’t exactly an inconspicuous color, and it made me self-conscious as I took in the crowd. But it turned out I didn’t have to worry. Not everyone here was a candidate for The Real Housewives of New York. There was a large gathering of artists, art and art history students too, and with my hair and black clothing I looked exactly like them. My camera didn’t look out of place either, and I could take photos without hiding my actions.

More confident, I took a leaflet from a table by the door and skimmed the contents, mostly to look like I was here for the art. The artist’s name was Joel James, which sounded assumed, but who was I to judge. He was my age, twenty-seven, which both impressed me and made me envious. I’d never had artistic aspirations, but if I had, I probably wouldn’t have made it yet. Let’s face it, I was a college drop-out turned divorcee turned waitress who’d become an apprentice to a P.I. because she’d been fired from yet another waitressing job.

Not exactly the stuff success is made of.

I scanned the artistic crowd and spotted the likeliest candidate for Joel James in the thick of them, completely ignored by the paying audience. He was tall and scrawny, with a mop of unkempt black hair and soulful brown eyes that the women around him seemed to find irresistible. He clearly enjoyed the attention, judging by the smug smile on his fairly handsome face, and who could blame him. He’d probably worked hard on this exhibition. He deserved to bask in their admiration.

A gap finally opened in the crowd, giving me the first glimpse of the paintings on display. My breath caught.

The walls were lined with huge, insanely colorful paintings of what appeared to be fantasy animals. The style was naivist—I’d had a class in art history during my one year in college—but these paintings weren’t childish. The animals seemed threatening, or aggressive. Powerful. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I walked closer and began to take photos.

I’d wandered through pretty much the entire gallery, mesmerized by the paintings, before I remembered my assignment. Dazed, I looked around for Mrs. Duncan, not sure if wanted to find her. She had no idea her husband was about to leave her and I felt really bad for her. I’d been blindsided by my ex-husband—though not with divorce papers—and could anticipate her shock.

But as much as I wanted her to give me the slip, I couldn’t. I’d spent four days following her everywhere she went. Her husband was out of town for the week, the perfect opportunity for her to spend time with her lover. And I’d keep following her, even though there hadn’t been a single sign that she had one. She’d spent the entire time shopping and socializing with her girlfriends. No one had stayed over at her home and she hadn’t spent nights away. It could, of course, be that one of her girlfriends was her lover—my first case had provided such a twist, by my sister Tessa no less—but I sincerely doubted it.

I finally spotted her and her two friends at the back of the room and began to make my way over there. As I passed the people milling about, I overheard a couple in their sixties comment on the works on display: Let’s buy one quickly so that we can leave, the wife said. I’ll get migraine if I have to be among all this color much longer.

Yes, and before Rachel arrives. That bitch is still rubbing our noses in how we missed out on the previous exhibition.

I guess everyone wasn’t as impressed with the paintings as I was.

Mrs. Duncan and her friends weren’t much better, as I heard when I finally reached them, though I kept my back towards them and pretended to be taking a photo of a painting.

I think the prices are a bit steep for an unknown artist, Mrs. Duncan noted to a woman her age she had been hanging out with most of the week. They were both tall and skinny, with long blond hair, and flawless skin that took at least a decade off their forty-plus. They looked so alike that it was occasionally difficult to remember which woman I was supposed to be trailing. Amazing, considering they weren’t related.

All this success has gone to Antoine’s head, the friend commented with a sneer in her voice, echoing Melissa’s thoughts. Let’s hope it won’t go away as fast as it began. The women laughed, and then headed towards the gallerist with determination. They would not miss out on the chance to buy a painting here.

After the women disappeared into the office at the back, I found myself gravitating towards the artist. Not that the conversation around him was all that interesting either. Mostly it was Joel telling where he had got his inspiration from:

Dreams and such, you know, he said vaguely.

Meaning, he’d probably painted them while he was high. I could understand why he wouldn’t want to advertise that.

The crowd had begun to thin out by the time Mrs. Duncan emerged from the office, making it more difficult for me to stay unnoticed. I hid myself among the artists as she and her friends walked past. They didn’t so much as nod at Joel in acknowledgement.

I was about to head after them when a young woman entered the gallery. She was short, almost tiny, and swallowed by the large black sweatshirt she wore over her black leggings. Her hair was a long, black mess, and her face was pale. Her blue eyes were haunted.

She paused at the door and looked around as if trying to find someone. Then she marched straight to Joel, pushing past the people surrounding him, ignoring their complaints. I don’t know why I lifted my camera and began to record, but I managed to capture the moment she punched Joel in the gut with everything she had.

You utter fucking bastard! she screamed as Joel gasped for breath. Everyone around them hushed. You fucking stole all my paintings and now you’re passing them as your own? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?

Joel recovered fast and straightened up. Calm down, Sam, he said, like that ever worked with enraged women. Have you forgotten to take your medication?

Oooh!

"You mean the medication they forced me to take in the institution you put me in so you could steal my work? Is that the medication you mean?"

You’re clearly distressed and don’t know what you’re saying, Joel said, his soulful eyes full of sympathy. He put a hand on her shoulder,