Summary: Working title for the moment. William Carlisle is a lovelorn P.I. that's hard up for a case. When an offer he can't refuse literally walks through his door, he thinks it's going to be a simple open and shut case. Until he meets the subject - Buffy Summers. Can they find out why William was really hired before one or both of them ends up dead?
Author's Notes: I probably won't have quick updates, but I never abandon a story. The mystery genre is new to me, so all feedback is greatly appreciated. Thanks!
Rating: R
William Carlisle
Private Investigator
It was painted on the glass in my office door. The door that hadn’t opened to reveal a client in three months. That would have distressed me, if I’d been sober enough to care since Dru left.
So, I’m nursing my latest bottle of scotch dedicated to lost love, when a shadow darkens the frosted glass. The doorknob twists, the door slowly swings open, and a woman built for sin steps across my threshold.
She’s a looker, alright, but it only takes one look for me to know she’s a man-eater. Red silk blouse showing a generous amount of cleavage, black skirt hugging her curves, and four-inch pumps. The type that will ride you hard and put you away wet, laughing as she’s left you heartbroken and hopelessly enthralled. Heh…I’m sliding into Drusilla thoughts again.
“We’re closed,” I growl, wanting to be left alone with my misery.
She sits down in the chair across the desk from me, anyway, crossing her shapely legs. “Funny, the door was unlocked and you’re sittin’ right here.”
I grimace against the burn in my throat as I gulp down another three fingers of whisky. “What do you want?”
“I have a job for you. I need you to find someone. Word is, you’re the best…or were.” Damn, she has a sexy voice.
I was, too, until four months ago. “Who says?”
She laughed, rich and smoky. “Wouldn’t you like to know? They said you were a touch old-fashioned, but the man for the job. Look, I’m here, I’m paying, and you clearly have a free schedule.” The bint removed a photograph from her expensive handbag. Placed it in front of me. “I need you to find my sister.”
I arched my brow, since they didn’t exactly look alike. “Kidnapped?”
She chuckled again. “I wish. Then, I’d be able to get the cops on this. No, the silly brat ran off with her lug of a boyfriend, and we need her back.”
“Look, Miss…”
“Faith.”
“I’m really not interested in chasing after some willful teenager-.”
“I’ll pay you five grand to get her back home in two days,” she cut in.
Damnit. That’s more than I usually make in two months.
Miss Faith leaned in, intent. “I’ll even throw in a bonus if you bring her back in twenty-four hours.”
I glance at the picture, then arch my brow at her, suspicious. “And what’s so bloody urgent that you ‘need’ her back so damn fast?”
She sighs and drops her eyes, some of her confidence slipping. “Our mother is in the hospital, okay? It was sudden…”
Ah, for mums and Christmas, then. Gotta pay the rent, ol’ boy. “Fine. I want all the details, anything you can think of that’ll lead me to her. You do understand that I can’t make the chit come home, if she’s of age? I can deliver the message, but…”
Faith finally played her trump card. “She’ll be eighteen in a week, but the guy she’s dating is older. Technically…”
“Right.” This was going to be a barrel of laughs. “She’s off without parental consent.”
She handed me an envelope. “That’s a grand as retainer, and all that I know. Buffy…she’s a good kid, innocent…she thinks this is her ‘big romance’. The old man doesn’t approve of who she’s seein’, so she took off. Won’t answer her damn phone.” She snorted in disbelief. “Probably thinks she can have her way if she waits us out ‘til her birthday. You gonna share any of that?” Faith asked, pointing to my bottle.
I shrugged and passed it to her. She took a swig straight from the bottle without shuddering and licked her ruby lips.
“Well, at least you drink better than you look. Thanks.” She stood to leave, winking at me.
Yeah, I know I look like shit, but it doesn’t help a man’s ego to be called on it when he’s hurtin’. I missed her walk around my desk, my eyes averted as I sulked. Faith kissed me, just a press of the lips.
“Cheer up, sugar. Tomorrow’s a new day,” she says, then walks out of my office, hips swaying seductively.
My kind o’ dame. Dangerous.
~+~
I lock the door once I’m alone and pull out the file. You wouldn’t know it by looking at me right now, but I actually keep very neat records. At the start of a case. When I had a secretary. Had to let poor Fred go when I stopped seein’ clients – she needed to keep payin’ for school, so she’s better off than with the likes of me, anyway. I tend to attract trouble.
Well, this case should be just the cakewalk I need to get back in the game. Teen girls aren’t the most resourceful creatures. Miss Faith was very thorough. The only thing I was missing was the boyfriend’s address, but I did have the phone number. It was too late to make a scouting call, but I could find the address. The little lovebirds would probably be holed up in some apartment.
I fired up the bloody computer. I know how to use them, just prefer the legwork, making contacts, but Fred insisted I had to ‘join the new millennium’ and get the infernal box. She did show me this lovely thing about cellphones – people can be tracked by them. With the location of the kid’s last call in hand, I locked up the office and jogged down the two flights of stairs to my car. Not the best idea when I’m slightly knackered.
My head pounding, I toss back three aspirin and pull out onto the street. It’s not like we’re going very fast. Bloody L.A., and the constant traffic. It’s ten at night, and the streets are still full. Even so, I make it to the neighborhood in fifteen and start cruising the block. Admire the Plymouth Belvedere parked in front of a Spanish-style apartment complex.
Ah, ah, here we go… Petite young blonde paying a pizza boy. All too easy. I make note of the unit and cruise home. I’ll make contact with her in the morning, preferably when she’s alone. Guess I’m going to bed sober.
~+~
Despite the aspirin, my head is killing me by the time I get back to our apartment. My apartment. I have to stop thinking of it as “ours”. She’s not coming back. That thought motivates me to look for another bottle. There’s a half-full 750 of Jack in the freezer, so I take a pull, then look around at what’s left of my life. The apartment’s suffering the same dishevelment as the office…and me. I saw some shrink on “Oprah” once that said your living space reflects your mental state. Seems pretty apt right now.
Not that I’ve trashed the place. I’ve lived here for years, quite a few of them before Drusilla moved in. It’s a good old space close to work, and the rent’s fairly cheap, especially for Los Angeles. The little bitty that owns the building lives next door. She’s always been sweet, but I think she feels sorry for me now – I think the whole building heard that final fight with Dru. Mrs. Baker hasn’t hounded me for the rent since. I’ve often been a day or two late in the past, but I’ve had to dip into my savings the last few months. Tighten my belt a notch.
Where was I? My living space. It’s not small, really. Cozy. A few old movie posters on the walls, a slightly shabby sofa, a record player next to the stereo…Dru used to say I lived in a bygone era. Used to say it was charming, too. Bloody bint probably never meant a word of it. Still, it’s me, and pretty much always has been. I even drive an automobile from the ‘50s. Hey, I needed the big trunk! Bought the Desoto with my first job during college.
I worked at a vintage records store, and discovered classic punk. I’d just moved to the States on my own, right out of high school (well, the equivalent), and the whole idea just resonated with me. I didn’t want to be bookworm William anymore who’d just lost his father, so I became something else. Changed my clothes, bleached my hair, added piercings – when I decide to do something, I commit to it. Made the profs all raise their eyebrows, but my grades didn’t change, so no one tried to stage a soddin’ intervention. Graduated with a degree in criminology, got my investigator’s license, and went into business for myself.
The leather and bleach eventually got traded for a trench coat and my natural hair color. I didn’t give a damn for what people thought of me personally, but it was rough going getting clients to trust the punk kid in those early days. I suppose I wouldn’t have thought I could do the job, either, if I was looking at me then. But it did get me Dru. I’d gone to a club for a beer on my night off, and she said I was a ‘beacon in the darkness’. Uh, yeah. I had white hair. And she was a goddess in black.
God, I’m pathetic…
Either I focus on the case…
Or get really, really drunk.
“You’ve become too mundane, William.” Drusilla’s parting words echo through my head again as I chug from the bottle. She hadn’t called me ‘William’ once since the night we met. ‘Mundane’. Bah! Grown up, yeah. Mellowed? A bit. But fucking mundane?! Even ‘bookworm William’ wasn’t bloody ‘mundane’. Just her excuse for letting another man between her legs.
My dark princess was just another whore.
I flip open the file on the coffee table, feeling a pleasant buzz in my cranium. That half bottle of JD is down to a quarter. This Buffy Summers – and wasn’t that a ridiculous name – seemed to be your textbook teenager. Average student at Hemery High, cheerleader, ASB vice-president, Homecoming Queen…probably Daddy’s spoiled little princess and Mommy’s little girl, too. The overly peppy and completely vapid type I had detested at that age. Ah, well…a job was a job, and I couldn’t turn down the money.
“You’ve probably dated every member of the football team, haven’t you, little Buffy?”
I drew a funny little mustache on the photo and downed the rest of the bottle. Stretched out on the sofa. I didn’t want to wake up with tearstains on my pillow again.
~+~
Buffy woke up, dressed in a sweater and jeans, and pulled her long hair into a ponytail. She kissed Angel on the cheek as she walked past him to get the orange juice. He was at the stove, making eggs.
“Good morning,” she said cheerily.
“Could you bring in the newspaper, Buff?” he asked, flipping the omelette.
“Okay.”
She stepped out into the bright winter sunlight, squinting, and saw the paper lying on the grass. As she bent over to pick it up, someone grabbed her arms and tied them behind her back.
“Hey-!” A hand over her mouth muffled the exclamation.
“Play time is over, kiddo. You’re due at home,” a man said. He guided her to a nearby car and pushed her into the front seat.
Buffy tried to kick him as he got in the other side, but he caught her foot, twisting her ankle slightly in warning. “Now, now…none of that, pet. I’m being paid to take you home, and you’re going home.”
“Who the hell are you?!”
He tossed her a business card. “A private investigator. You can call me Spike.”
Buffy glanced at the card on her lap. “Mr. Carlisle, I think there’s been a mistake. My father knows I’m here.”
He rolled his eyes, which she couldn’t see behind the dark glasses. “Which is why I’m here. 17-year-olds don’t get to shack up with their boyfriends, sweetheart. Save it for your birthday.”
“Seventeen! You’ve really got your facts mixed up, buddy! I’m twenty, a college student, and eww! Angel’s my cousin!” she shrieked.
Spike blinked, and looked at her. Slid his sunglasses down to really look at her. “Ahh, shit…” The chit was obviously a few years older than the picture he’d been handed. Great body, too, for a petite little thing.
Whupang! The sound of a gunshot careening off metal interrupted their conversation.
“Why are they shooting at you?!” “Why are they shooting at you?!” they exclaimed at once.
“Me!” “Me!” they replied.
“Get down!” Spike yelled, and slammed the car into gear. It fishtailed down the street as he put pedal to metal.
Buffy squirmed to pass her hands under her legs so she could get them in front of her. A plastic strap had been tightened on her wrists.
“Can you cut this off?” she asked, holding her hands up.
“Not until I verify what you told me.” Spike kept glancing in the mirrors as he sped through L.A. He didn’t slow down until he was sure they weren’t being followed.
“Where are we going?” Buffy growled.
“Don’t take that tone with me. I just saved your life.”
“How do I know you didn’t just make me a target?”
She had a point. He’d made a few minor enemies, but he didn’t think they’d go so far as to shoot at him…would they? Spike turned towards his apartment. It was easier to defend than the office, with all that glass.
Buffy glared at her ‘kidnapper’ as he kept his eyes on the road. He had brown hair, in scruffy curls really needing a haircut, in her opinion. She couldn’t tell what color his eyes were behind the sunglasses. His complexion was pale, like he hadn’t been out in the sun in quite a while, or had been ill. Five-day-old shadow graced his jaw line. He wore a beat-up black trench coat, black jeans, and black boots. His shirt was hidden underneath the coat.
At least the car was clean. Angel was probably flipping out right now, seeing the newspaper and no Buffy. She had to call him, somehow.
“I need to call Angel. He’s going to be worried that I didn’t come back inside.”
“Think you can trust him?”
“What the hell does that mean?! Of course I do! He’s my cousin.”
Spike whipped off his sunglasses, since they were at a red light, and pinned her with a piercing blue glare. “Look, Miss Summers, someone just shot at you. People turn disloyal for any number of reasons, trust me. Can you really say that your cousin is as innocent as you think?”
“Yes. We’ve been close since we were kids. Give me a cellphone and let me call him,” she replied stubbornly.
He slipped the glasses back on, cool as you please. “You can make your call when we’re safe.”
“And where’s that?” she answered snidely.
“You’ll see.”
~+~
Her ‘kidnapper’ led her into an old building. It had one of those cage elevators with a gate that locked in front of it.
“Get in.”
From the elevator, he pulled her down to the end of the hall, to the last apartment unit. He unlocked the deadbolt and doorknob, then gently pushed her inside. There were four locks on the inside of the door.
“Paranoid much?” she quipped, seeing him turn all the deadbolts.
“Can never be too careful. Sit.”
Buffy stayed standing. “I’m not a dog you can order around. Cut this band off my wrists, now, so I can call Angel.”
Spike slid the sunglasses into his coat pocket and tossed the coat on a rack by the door, revealing a black sweater.
Yay, I have to get kidnapped by Mr. Morbid, Buffy thought, watching him check all the windows and lower the blinds. He was built okay, she shrugged mentally. Really needed to tackle those hygiene issues. Without the coat on, she could see that his clothes were wrinkled and his boots were only partially tied. The apartment she was in smelled like stale alcohol, with all the empty beer bottles on the tables.
“Whoa!” she yelped, as he came at her with a knife.
“Relax…I’m going to cut the plastic cuff off,” he replied, rolling his eyes. As if he’d ever hurt a woman that didn’t attack him first.
“Oh.” Buffy held up her wrists, wincing as she hoped he wouldn’t accidentally cut her. That was a big knife. The band fell off.
“Better?”
“Thank you.” She rubbed her wrists as he backed away.
“Phone’s in the kitchen.”
Spike missed her grateful smile, as he picked up the empty bottles. Didn’t know why he cared, but his mother had raised him to keep a clean home, so…
“…Yeah, sorry I just disappeared on you…I saw someone I know…uh-huh…I’ll be back soon. Okay. Bye, Angel.” Buffy hung up the phone and gasped as she turned around, surprised to see Spike behind her. He dropped the bottles into the bin.
“Didn’t want to tell him the truth?” he said.
She shrugged. “Kinda hard to believe, isn’t it? I don’t want him to worry. I don’t have to worry about you, do I?”
“Nah. I’m on the up-and-up, despite the look,” he replied sheepishly. “I want to show you something.”
Buffy followed him into the living room, where he handed her a manila file folder. Her eyes widened as she saw the picture of herself, and a sheet with all her info as of a couple years ago.
“Who hired you?” she asked.
“Chit named Faith, if that’s her real name. Medium height, dark hair, curvy…she gave me a grand as a retainer and promised four more if I brought you back within two days.” He tapped the paper. “To that address there.”
“That’s not my parent’s address.”
“Balls…” he cursed. “Tell me about yourself and your family. Any enemies? Your father have any enemies? Your family got money?”
Buffy sat on the couch and shook her head. “No one that I know of. We’re not poor by any means, but we’re not rolling in it, either. Why would they want me? And why get you to do it, when they could just grab me for themselves?”
“I don’t know, Miss Summers, but I mean to find out.”
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