Tracy Hayes, Apprentice PI

Chapter Two

The first impression of the building was pleasantly surprising. I associated private detective agencies with seedy back alleys and low-rent dives, but this was a block from the Barclay's Center on a fairly expensive stretch of a main street in Prospect Heights. The entrance hallway was – admittedly – worn, but the elevator at its end had been recently upgraded and everything was clean. The ride up was fast and soundless.

There were two doors on the second floor, one for a psychic – Madam Amber – of all things, and the other for Jackson Dean Investigations, as the nice brass plate on the door declared. The door was slightly ajar, so the dog and I went in.

We came into a small, windowless reception area with a dark hardwood floor and light yellow walls. A secretary's desk was on the right; a couple of chairs for customers to wait on were on the left, and wooden filing cabinets lined two walls. Judging by the papers and ring binders on the secretary's desk, the place was doing well. I gave the desk an apprehensive look, hoping it wasn't a secretary they were looking for.

Then again, anything beat waitressing.

Across the floor from the entry was a door with an opaque glass pane on it, and it was wide open. I had a clear view into the office, and the large hardwood desk in front of the windows. A man was sitting behind the desk, immersed in something on his computer screen. Since I couldn't very well keep standing there, holding the dog, I crossed the floor, but paused at the door to the office, not wanting to disturb the man.

The office was large and light. The windows looked over Flatbush Avenue and all its noise, but it wasn't terribly distracting. There were more filing cabinets and bookshelves here, chairs for clients in front of the desk, and a comfy couch wide enough for a man to sleep on at the side wall, with a wooden coffee table in front of it. Everything was slightly worn and mismatched, but clean and comfortable. I felt immediately at home.

But it didn't look like a PI's office. Not that I was entirely sure what I'd expected. Magnifying glasses and a row of wigs for disguising oneself perhaps?

I gave the doorframe a knock and walked in. The man glanced up and drew back, baffled. "Who the hell are you?" He had a pleasant voice, low and comfortable, the kind you'd want your priest to have. Though I was fairly sure Father Seymour would never say "Who the hell are you?"

Then again, I hadn't been to church in about a decade. Maybe he'd changed.

"Tracy Hayes. The reception was empty so I just came in."

He hurried to his feet, clearly thinking that I was a client, and rounded the desk to shake my hand, only to halt when he spotted my bundle. "Is that a dog?"

"It's under debate at the moment." I switched my hold of the dog under my left arm and offered my right hand to the man. He gave it a firm shake, his eyes on the dog.

"Jackson Dean."

He was in his mid-thirties, around five-eleven, with long legs, and in really good shape with wide shoulders and sinewy arms that were bared by his black T-shirt. He looked great, but I'd imagined a fat middle-aged washout with a whisky habit and a wheeze from a pack–a-day routine, so I didn't quite know how to relate.

Okay, fine, this was better.

He was wearing black jeans with his T, and black Converse sneakers, which gave him some edge without drawing attention to him. He had short, dark brown hair that wasn't quite out of shape yet even though it should've been cut a couple of weeks ago. And he had the kind of face you forgot the moment your back was turned – clean lines, pleasant, but unmemorable. In short, perfect for surveillance work.