Tracy Hayes, Valentine of a P.I. (P.I. Tracy Hayes 7)

By Susanna Shore

The diamond thief who has eluded the police for months is back, and this time Tracy has a hunch about his identity. When she and Jackson are hired to work undercover at a diamond exhibition by Jonny Moreira, she has a chance to prove her suspicions.

And then a million dollar necklace is stolen right under her eyes.

Tracy and Jackson have to find the thief before a diamond auction takes place. A clock is ticking, but their suspect is more skilled than they expected -- and more violent too. When a body is found, the game changes to a new level. Luckily Tracy is an old hand in murder investigations.

The case isn’t the only thing giving Tracy trouble. Valentine’s Day is fast approaching, and she fears her new relationship with Jackson isn’t strong enough to survive the romantic pressure. It doesn’t help that the diamond exhibition is full of engagement rings and women throwing themselves at Jackson. What is a waitress turned apprentice P.I. to do, but to impress her man the only way she knows how: being the most Valentine of a P.I.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susanna Shore
• Release date: Jul 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9789527061411

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, Valentine of a P.I.

P.I. Tracy Hayes 7

Susanna Shore

Tracy Hayes, Valentine of a P.I.

Copyright © 2020 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 © 2020 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.

Tracy Hayes, P.I. on the Scent

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

Wolf Moon

House of Magic

Hexing the Ex

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 P.I. on the Scent

Also in P.I. Tracy Hayes Series

Chapter One

After six months as an apprentice to a Brooklyn P.I., I’d come to the conclusion that it was slow work—a lot of waiting, a lot of searches on the internet, and a lot of sitting still. I didn’t mind. I’d worked for years as a waitress and would take a job where I could sit down over other options any day.

And then there were days like today.

How … much … further, I panted into the hands-free mic of my phone, badly out of breath. I’d run two blocks to intercept a fleeing bond skip that Jackson, my boss at Jackson Dean Investigations, was chasing. It was less than half a mile, but in my current physical form, it felt like completing the New York Marathon.

Not that I had any idea how that would feel like.

He’s almost at the corner of 71st, Jackson’s low voice came to my ear, calm and assuring. He wasn’t out of breath, even though he had climbed four stories down a fire escape, run the same distance as me across backyards of townhouses, and scaled spiked iron fences and a brick wall, just to mention the few I had managed to glimpse as I ran down the obstacle-less street.

"I only need to— Fuck!"

The connection cut, but I was too busy running to worry why. If Jackson was detained, it was up to me to catch the skip.

We were in Bay Ridge, a really nice neighborhood in southwest Brooklyn with river vistas and a bridge connection to Staten Island. It was an area of large single houses and long rows of fairly new townhouses, clean parks and good schools.

Even criminals were white collar here.

The case in point: Ron Chapman. He was a forty-two-year-old accountant who hadn’t made quite enough to afford to live in this neighborhood. But instead of finding a cheaper place, he’d decided to skim the cream from the top, so to speak. He’d been stealing a little bit from all his clients, hoping no one would notice, since he was the one keeping the books.

He had been wrong.

The judge had ordered him to wait for the trial on bail. A bail bond agency had paid it, Chapman had walked free, and had subsequently failed to show up in court. That gave the agency the legal right to apprehend him.

Chapman wasn’t a large bond skip, so the reward for capturing him wasn’t enticing enough to make the bail bond agency’s usual guys go after him. He had been on the run for two weeks already—figuratively speaking. Literally speaking, he had been staying home watching TV.

An easy catch. Or so we thought.

It had been a while since we’d done skip tracing, as our workload had kept us busy. Jackson had gone alone a couple of times, but the last time I’d helped him had been when I first joined the agency in August. It had resulted in a huge reward that was still paying our expenses.

An unusual gap had opened in our schedule, however. We’d been ordered into three weeks of forced rest, also known as sick leave. Our previous case had ended in an inferno, literally—a crazy chick had lit up an art gallery—and we’d both had burns and other wounds as a memento. Not massive or life-threating injuries, but they were painful for about two weeks, and we’d been happy to take it easy.

On the third week, the pain was mostly gone, followed by itch and irritation. And we had nothing to distract ourselves from it. We’d postponed and rescheduled all the clients we could the moment we were released from the hospital, and hadn’t taken any new cases despite being in great demand after the publicity from the art gallery case.

That led to a rare sight: a restless Jackson. He could sit still for hours on a stakeout with no outward signs of boredom, as if he were some kind of Zen god. Yet by Wednesday he was pacing up and down the office like a caged tiger, occasionally pausing to stare at the traffic flowing through Flatbush Avenue two stories below, drumming the windowsill with his fingers. Misty Morning, the Border terrier-Yorkie mix that belonged to Cheryl Walker, our office secretary, ran up and down the office after him, her tiny legs inexhaustible, thinking it was a wonderful new game.

I’d been content to lie on the couch at the side of the office and admire the view of his fit form in constant motion.

There was a lot to admire. Jackson was thirty-five, had a slim, long-limbed, athletic body, dark brown hair—mostly short—and a killer smile that transformed his clean-lined face to one you took notice of when he chose to grace you with it. He liked to dress in black jeans and a black T-shirt, and just because it was February and he had burn scars on his right bicep wasn’t a reason for him to cover up.

On Thursday, he’d begun a manic spring cleaning of the office, starting with the filing cabinets that contained cases from decades past when his uncle had owned the agency. I’d been ordered to participate too, which I had done with pleasure, until his irritated barking had driven me out to find coffee and donuts.

On Friday, Cheryl gave him the file for Ron Chapman in an act of desperation, for which I was utterly grateful to her.

That lasted until the moment the guy decided not to come quietly.

Chapman lived in a large six-story apartment building on Colonial Road. We had done some background research on Friday, staked the place for a few hours on Saturday when he didn’t answer the door, and returned Sunday morning after church. Not that he had attended—or we, for that matter—but it had seemed polite.

Jackson had gone up to his apartment to apprehend him and I had waited by the street in case Chapman tried to flee. And flee he did. Down the fire escape on the other side of the building.

It had taken a moment for Jackson to gain access there, which gave Chapman a good head start. It was up to me to intercept the guy when he emerged onto the street from the back yard.

Only he didn’t.

By the time I’d rounded the building, he was already fleeing down the long, continuous back yard between two rows of townhouses. For a guy who was older and in much worse shape than Jackson—even allowing Jackson’s recent forced inactivity—he could really scale those fences.

Jackson went after him, leaving me to run down the straight, obstacle-free street. Not as easy as it sounds. The forced rest had made my already poor shape worse. My muscles began to protest before I was halfway down the street and the strap of my bra was chafing one of the burn spots on my back uncomfortably. I hoped it wouldn’t break the fresh skin there.

I reached the appointed corner, only to find that the exit from the back yard wasn’t there but twenty yards up Narrows Street. Before I could move to intercept him, Chapman emerged from the alley and dashed across the street that was mercifully quiet at this time of Sunday morning.

Jackson wasn’t following him. I hoped he wasn’t lying injured somewhere, but if so, his sacrifice was already made. It was my duty to make sure it wasn’t in vain. So, ignoring the pain in my body, I ran after Chapman.

It had to be the world’s slowest chase. He continued down 71st towards Narrows Botanical Gardens, a large park by the East River. He wasn’t far ahead of me and he wasn’t running all that fast anymore, but try as I might, I couldn’t close the gap and catch him. My legs were burning and my heart was beating so hard I felt sick. I was seriously contemplating giving up, but I pushed across Shore Road and through the gate to the park after Chapman.

February had been rainy and the paths in the park were muddy and slippery. It forced us both to slow if we didn’t want to become a slapstick act. But then he decided to cut across the lawn that had turned soft after it thawed, making it a veritable mud-fest. I had no choice but to follow.

After a few slippery yards, the lawn sloped down sharply. He ran down it and I saw my only chance. I had the higher ground now.

Conjuring the last burst of energy from reserves I didn’t know I had—hopefully burning some excess donuts in the process—I made a huge leap after the guy. Chapman was bigger and heavier, but I had momentum and the muddy lawn on my side. He fell on his face with me on top, and the slippery slope did the rest. We glided down the hill with surprising speed—straight into a large oak.

The impact stunned him. Not daring to get off his back, I pulled his arms behind him and took out my cuffs—the first time I had a chance to use them. My hands were shaking with exhaustion, and I dropped them in the mud, making the damned things slippery.

Bail bond … enforcement. I’m … apprehending … you for rescheduling … your court date, I managed to say, struggling for breath. The muddy cuffs wouldn’t lock at first, so I clicked them over and over again until they fixed around his wrists. Not the smooth move you saw on TV, but it got the job done.

He tried to push up with his hips, but I was too heavy to throw off. Get the fuck off me! I’m not going with you and you can’t make me.

He was right. I wasn’t strong enough. I didn’t even have the energy to stand up.

But I can.

I lifted my gaze to see Jackson standing above us, an amused smile on his usually stark face.

I caught him! I declared triumphantly. He offered me a hand and helped me up.

Excellent work.

And then he kissed me.

An hour later, we exited the Brooklyn Detention Complex on Atlantic Avenue, Downtown. We’d delivered Chapman to custody and collected the receipt against which the bond agency would pay us a whopping two hundred dollars.

The fucker should have been worth more than that. If for nothing else, for muddying my clothes when I tackled him.

We were at Jackson’s car, a steel gray Toyota, when an unmarked cop car pulled over behind us. A familiar face exited the shotgun seat.

Shane Davis.

I stifled a grimace and just waved in greeting. He was a narcotics detective at the same precinct where my brother Trevor worked in homicide; handsome with messy blond hair and the prettiest eyelashes a man could wish for. He was good company too. I’d gone out with him once. It had been a nice date in an expensive restaurant, but I hadn’t wanted a repeat. Mostly because he came from insane wealth whereas I was blue collar through and through and intended to remain so.

His greeting smile turned to a baffled double-take when he saw my muddy clothes. You do know you’re supposed to remove the clothes before a mud bath, right? he asked with a grin.

You should see the other guy, I quipped in return. Truthfully, I might add. Chapman hadn’t fared well for being used as a slide down a muddy slope.

So how’s it going for the lovebirds? Any great plans for Valentine’s?

The day of love was the next Thursday, but neither of us had even mentioned it. I glanced at Jackson, whose eyes had grown