“But that isn’t the problem. You see, he never does his job. We have rats, bugs, the trash sits outside our apartments for weeks, and the washing machines are all broken. He does nothing for us, even when we complain.”
I sighed, shaking my head. It was a pretty common story. “And what do you want me to do about it?”
Her face fell slightly. “I heard you can help. With problems.”
“Mrs. Suarez,” I said, sitting forward, “it sounds like this landlord is breaking the law. Go to the police first, maybe even find a lawyer.”
“We cannot afford a lawyer,” she said quickly. “And if we go to the police, he will know.” She paused, frowning as she stared at me intently. “Please, you have to help us.”
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. This was the hard part, the part I fucking hated.
“I cost fifty an hour plus expenses. I need one day of work up front.”
She looked down at the floor. “Mister Wright, I cannot afford that.”
“Please,” I said, “it’s Easton. What can you afford?”
She opened her purse and pulled out an envelope, sliding it across the desk. I picked it up and counted about three hundred dollars.
It wasn’t enough to cover even two days’ worth of work on this. I did need the money, but I also needed to be able to work real, paying jobs and not be stuck sidetracked on some hopeless landlord shakedown.
Then again, I knew about the place where Mrs. Suarez lived. It was notorious in town for being an awful shithole, and the landlord was well known as the kind of man who would take advantage a well-meaning older woman like Mrs. Suarez.
“This is plenty,” I said, already regretting it.
Her face lit up. “Oh, thank you so much,” she said and began to talk quickly in Spanish. I only understood about half of it, but I was pretty sure she invited me to marry whichever one of her daughters I wanted, or even a son if that was what I preferred. No judgment.
I held up a hand. “Please, Mrs. Suarez. I can’t promise results, but I will do my best.”
“Rosario Mendez said you are the best, Easton, so I will trust you.”
I nodded, remembering Mrs. Mendez well. I had helped her track down her drug addict son and get him straightened out. That one was pro-bono.
I stood up. “Come back in a few days and I’ll let you know what I find,” I said.
“Thank you so much,” she replied as I ushered her out of my apartment.
Once the door was shut, I leaned up against the jamb. Another quick job done on the cheap. When was I going to learn that I needed to take serious jobs? I couldn’t keep doing damn charity cases, or else I was going to be out on my ass at the end of the month.
Still, three hundred helped. It meant food and whisky for the week, at least. Plus, Mrs. Suarez seemed like a nice lady.
And I fucking hated scumbag landlords. Hated them almost as much as I hated killers. The bastards all preyed on the weak because inside, they were weak too.
Real men helped those that needed help.
I walked into the back room and poured myself more whisky. Suddenly, I found myself remembering my new stepsister and the way she had first looked at me. I knocked back my whisky and then pulled my phone from my pocket. I dialed a number and let it ring.
“Hello?”
“Susan, it’s your son,” I grunted.
“What can I do for you, Easton?”
I hesitated. Did I really want to bring someone into my fucked up world, especially some naïve college girl?
But then her body, her look, flooded my mind again.
“Tell my stepsister to be here by ten tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks, Easton. I’m really glad you’re doing this.”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
“You won’t. She’s a really bright girl.”
I grunted something vague and then hung up the phone. I already felt like it was a bad idea, but I poured another whisky instead of dwelling.
I had an envelope full of cash and a case. And apparently I had some unpaid labor heading over to help out.
Tomorrow was looking like a decent day.
3
Laney
I felt oddly nervous as I walked up the stairs toward the third floor.
His office was in a pretty nondescript office park in the middle of town. It looked pretty much like anything else in Mishawaka, and I briefly wondered how he even got any clients. I wasn’t sure if I was dressed appropriately, or even what I would be doing, but I was determined to find out.
I had hoped for some more time to get used to being home. Instead, Susan told me to show up at this address at exactly ten in the morning. I was a few minutes early, but I figured that wouldn’t matter since he probably opened up at nine anyway.
I kept thinking about him, my stepbrother. He seemed too young, too attractive to have been an FBI agent. Nobody would say why he had left the bureau, and the curiosity was practically tearing at me. Maybe he had gone rogue or something like that, or maybe he was totally incompetent.
Finally, I found his door. In the glass, a few sentences were etched in fancy lettering. It read, “Easton Wright, Private Eye. Ring the bell if you need help.”
I tried the knob, but it was locked. I hit the bell and heard it buzz on the inside.
Nothing happened. I bit my lip. Maybe he hadn’t heard? I hit the bell again and listened to it buzz, and part of me thought that it sounded a little louder.
Again, nothing. I waited for almost five minutes and didn’t hear a peep from inside. I was beginning to wonder if I had came at the wrong day or time, but I was positive Susan had said today at ten.
I rang again. Inside, I heard what sounded like breaking glass and a muffled curse.
“I’m coming,” someone yelled. “I’m fucking coming. Hold on.”
More muffled cursing. I stood back from the door, my eyes wide, my heart pounding. What the heck was going on?
Finally, he opened the door.
I stood there staring at him, my mouth open. His shirt was unbuttoned and his pants were hanging loosely from his hips. His defined chest was covered in tattoos, and I watched as they snaked down around his cut hips. My eyes came back up and stared at his square jaw, the stubble on his chin, the red under his piercing eyes, and his tousled hair.
Instantly I felt my heart begin to beat faster, and a slight heat spread itself between my legs. He looked incredible, like he had just woken up.
“It’s you,” he grunted. “You’re early.”
“Susan told me ten,” I managed to say.
He kept staring at me for a second. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said finally, and he moved back from the door. “Come in and sit.”
I followed him inside and he pointed at the chairs in front of his desk.
“Uh, did I come at a bad time?” I asked.
“You’re fine. Just give me a second.” He disappeared into the back and I heard more muffled cursing.
This was the famous FBI agent? The front room was pretty sparse, with his degrees and credentials hanging on the walls and a big filing cabinet pushed against the wall. He had a laptop on his desk but nothing else, no pictures, no personal items, not even a pen.
It was a little strange, actually. I craned my neck to get a peek in the back room and caught sight of a coffee table with a half-empty whisky bottle in the center just before he blocked my view.