Regan O'Reilly, Private Investigator (Boxed Set)

Chapter One

May, 1942

Regan O'Reilly sat in her office on the second floor of the Woolworth's Five and Dime Building, staring out of the window. Spring had burst through everywhere. Birds were singing, flowers were blooming and the air was warm with promise.

Everywhere but here, she sighed.

She took out her compact, not wanting to look, but forcing herself to do so. What she saw didn't make her feel one whit better. The pancake she'd applied so carefully did little to hide the shiner on her left eye.

Regan flinched inwardly when she thought about how she'd acquired it.

She did a lot of work for Amalgamated Insurance Company, retrieving lost and stolen property. Nine times out of ten the property had been stolen by the owner himself, and this case was no different.

When she'd confronted the man with her proof, he'd become angry, and then lashed out at her. She'd been able to duck the blow, but not the wild swing from his mistress. She'd walked right into it, Regan reminded herself, disgusted. She'd slapped the woman right and left. The floozy had then burst into tears and thrown herself into the arms of her married lover. What an act!

That's when Regan drew her gun from its shoulder holster and warned the two of them not to move. Her eye stung and it was watering badly. At least all she had to do was dial the switchboard operator and ask her to get the police. She couldn't possibly foul that up, could she?

Sometimes she had to ask herself if it was all worth the bother. Then she'd get a nice fat finder's fee in the mail and she'd go right back to it.

She'd come by her profession honestly. Her father was a Boston cop and so was her uncle. Her brother had gone into the family business, so to speak, but had been killed in the line of duty. That was a pain that threatened never to go away. Along with this damn eye, she thought irritably.

Regan gave herself a good mental shaking; it wasn't like her to give in to melancholy. She forced herself into her morning routine, pouring coffee from her thermos and opening the newspaper she'd gotten from the stand on the corner. The first sip of the bitter black brew helped beat back the fog.

The war news was either good or bad, depending on how you looked at it. The Battle of the Coral Sea had been fought the week before with heavier losses on our side. Despite that, the Navy was claiming victory because when we’d stopped the Japanese from taking Port Moresby, we'd stopped their expansion into the Pacific. Now, they had no base from which to attack Australia.

The next article to catch Regan's eye was the signing of the bill creating the Women's Auxiliary Army Corps. Now this was something. But before she could finish the article, she heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

Regan didn't think anyone would be coming to see her. She did most of her business with Amalgamated over the phone or in their offices. Anyone else who wanted her services called to set up an appointment. Her ad stated that clearly.

The footsteps stopped outside her door.

Regan felt her nerve endings begin to tingle. Never one to ignore a warning sign, she slid out of her chair and stood to the side of the door. She pulled her gun out of its holster and had it in her hand, ready to fire.

The door opened slowly and Regan tensed, holding the .38 straight up. If her caller was innocent, she didn't want to shoot him on the spot.

A curly blond head showed around the door. It was a man, a couple of inches over six feet. She saw broad shoulders follow the head, but it didn't look like he was going to come into the office.

Uh, Miss O'Reilly? Are you here?

Hold it right there, Buster, she ordered firmly. She hadn't relaxed her stance yet. Knowing her name meant nothing since it was painted on the door.

He stepped into the office and turned slowly to face her, noting the rigid posture, not to mention that nasty piece of weaponry she had in her hand.

Maybe I should have called first, he nodded, holding his hands out to the side.

Who are you and what do you want, she snapped. Just because his silky blond hair and deep brown eyes made him look like a golden cocker spaniel didn't mean he was harmless.

I'm Mark Harris. Todd Evans sent me, he offered.

Why didn't Todd call ahead to let me know you were coming? She was starting to feel a little foolish, but she wasn't ready to back down just yet.

He was supposed to call last night. Didn't you get the message?

Message?  She thought for a moment. Oh, my god. I forgot to check my answering service.

Stay right there, she ordered, as she went behind her desk to dial the service. Hi, Martha. Regan here. Do I have any messages?

Just one, the operator told her. Mr Evans called to let you know that a Mr. Mark Harris would be calling to make an appointment about a matter he would like you to handle.

Would you mind repeating that, Martha?

Regan held the phone out in front of her so Mr. Mark Harris could hear the message. When Martha finished, she took the phone back, pleased at the sheepish look on the cocker spaniel's face.

Thank you, Martha. You can put my calls through until you hear from me.

She holstered the gun and sat behind her desk, not bothering to ask the man to sit.

Okay, so I was supposed to call for an appointment. Even if Todd hadn't sent me here, it was incredibly rude of me to barge in on you like that.

Yes, it was. Regan stared him in the eye, not yet willing to let him off the hook.

Maybe if you let me tell you about my problem, you'll understand why I rushed over here.

You might as well sit down, Regan nodded to one of the two chairs in front of her desk. There wasn't room for much more in her office. Just a couple of filing cabinets and an old nightstand where she kept paper and paper clips.

Mark sat, grateful that the tension between them was easing. Todd hadn't exaggerated. She was a woman who would act first and ask questions later. The gun, the black eye ... he'd love to ask her about that, but it would have to wait.

It's about my dog, he began.

I don't take lost dog cases, she broke in swiftly.

Please, Miss O'Reilly, let me finish. I'm at my wit's end. You see, Mitzi isn't just any dog.

Everyone thinks their dog is special. I'll bet you think of her as a member of your family.

Yes, he nodded, and so much more than that. You see, we got Mitzi when my wife became ill. She was bed-ridden for most of the last year of her life and couldn't take care of our son. Patrick was only six at the time, and Mitzi became his constant companion. Sort of standing in for his mother, you see.

Yes, I do see, Regan nodded sympathetically, but if the dog has wandered off ...

But she wouldn't, Mark burst out. She's always waiting just inside the front door when we come home. Then Patrick takes her outside to do her business and they play until I get dinner ready.

So Mitzi is either inside all day by herself or outside with Patrick?

Pretty much. We let her out in the morning. The backyard is fenced so she can go out there by herself. A week ago today, Patrick let her out in the morning. He called her back in when we were ready to sit down to breakfast. I always make an extra slice of bacon so Patrick can feed it to her.

And when Patrick called her in, she didn't come?

Exactly. She was gone. We went up and down the street calling for her, but it was no use.

Were there any holes under the fence?

No, and the gate was closed. There's no lock, he added, anticipating her next question.

So you think someone took Mitzi?

It's the only conclusion I can come to, but I still don't understand it. Mitzi was friendly, but she wouldn't just go with a stranger.

Mr. Harris, there are ways to befriend a dog and make her go with you. How was her appetite in the week or so before she disappeared?

Mark thought back, a little surprised by the question.

Come to think of it, she wasn't as enthusiastic about her morning treat as she usually is. He paused, letting the implication sink in. What are you thinking, Miss O'Reilly?

If we're going to work together, please call me Regan. And I think it's urgent that we work together.

Mark sucked in his breath, afraid to hear what she had to say next.

Do you work with Todd? she asked.

I work at Amalgamated. Todd is personal property insurance and I work in the life department.

Are you an adjuster? she asked quietly.

Yes, but what does that have to do with Mitzi?

Have you denied a large claim lately? Large enough to make someone angry?

Mark paled as her words sank in. Yes, a $100,000 double indemnity claim. A woman was killed in an accident and any time that happens, we take our time investigating. I guess he thought he could just come in with the death certificate and walk out with a fat check in his pocket. Mark paused to let what she'd said sink in. So you think Mr. Wells took Mitzi? And that he's going to threaten to kill her if I don't approve his claim?

I think if it is this Mr. Wells who took Mitzi, you'd better dig even deeper into his claim. If he's that desperate, he probably did kill his wife.

Mark thought over what Regan had just said. It made sense in a way, but in another way it didn't make sense at all.

If that's the case, why hasn't he been in touch with me? Made threats or demands? He must know that a pet, no matter how well-loved, isn't going to make me change my mind.

He probably does know that, Mark, she told him.

He saw the sympathy in her dark blue eyes and knew they were no longer talking about the dog.

Patrick, he croaked, jumping up from his chair. He'll use Mitzi to lure Patrick.

He turned to run out the door, but Regan was after him in a flash. She caught up with him before he could exit the building and grabbed his arm. He tried to throw her off, but he was too agitated and she was too strong.

Slow down, cowboy, she urged him. Where is Patrick now, do you know?

He's in school ... I hope.

Regan heard the anguish in his voice. It was the same kind of anguish she felt when her brother lay dying of gunshot wounds. She understood that kind of pain.

Then let's make some calls first. The phone is faster than a car.

Todd was right. You're exceptional at what you do. He sighed and turned to follow her back up the stairs.

Call Patrick's school. Tell them that there have been threats against Patrick and you want him kept in the office until you can get there. He's not to be let out of the office under any circumstances.

Right. Mark dialed as she spoke, running his hand impatiently through his hair as he waited for someone to pick up.

While Mark spoke to the principal, Regan wrote down a list of things to be done, starting with notifying the police of her suspicions. She didn't really need a list, but it would give Mark something to hold on to.

In answer to her raised eyebrow, Mark told her they had sent someone to get Patrick out of class.

Good. I'll call the police. She held up a hand to forestall his objection at the waste of precious time. They know me and they'll act on my suspicions. Besides, they can get there faster than we can.

Regan spoke directly to Captain O'Mara and he promised to send a patrol car to the school immediately.

Let's go. We'll take my car. she told Mark, grabbing her purse and running out the door.

Mark followed as fast as he could. He was beginning to think he'd have a hard time keeping up with this woman.

Any other time he would have appreciated the snappy red convertible with a beautiful woman behind the wheel, but his mind was three miles away at Nathan Hale Elementary. He would have enjoyed the efficient way she handled the car; downshifting at stop signs and traffic lights, barely touching the brakes. Now all he could feel was gratitude for her decisive attitude and quick action.

They came to a squealing stop in front of the school, surprised that no police cars were in evidence.

Mark jumped out of the car and sped toward the building, completely forgetting about Regan. He slowed down only when the double doors opened and a middle-aged woman came hurrying down the stairs to meet him.

Mrs. Franklin ... Patrick.

Is fine, thanks to your phone call.

Something happened?

You'd better come with me, you and the young lady.

Oh, forgive my manners. Regan, this is Mrs. Franklin, Patrick's teacher. Mrs. Franklin, this is Miss Regan O'Reilly.

Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Franklin beamed. How nice it was to see Patrick's father keeping company with such a lovely young woman. But we'd better be going and I'll tell you about it as we walk.

Patrick's all right, isn't he?

Yes, he's fine. A little overexcited, is all. He's had quite the adventure.

Mrs. Franklin, please, Mark begged.

Of course, she agreed. When Principal Ferguson got your call, he checked the schedule and saw that my class was outside doing calisthenics. He had Mrs. Nokes call the police to tell them to come around the back of the school because that's where Patrick would be.

Quick thinking, Regan nodded approvingly.

Yes, our principal is a very clever man, she agreed. He took a moment to get Mr. Wilson and they ran outside together. Just in time, too.

My god. Wells was already here, Mark gasped, his knees going weak.

Oh, is that that awful man's name?

Mark nodded. We think so.

Then yes, he was already here, and Patrick was running toward him with Coach in hot pursuit.

Seeing Mark's pallor and trembling hands, Regan's heart went out to him. She never made sympathetic gestures toward her clients, but the man had nearly lost his son. She touched his arm to comfort him and was surprised when he grabbed her hand to hold on tight.

Good thing Coach was a football player in college, Mrs. Franklin continued. He tackled that Mr. Wells right to the ground when he tried to shove Patrick into his car. I hear the man put up a fight, she sighed, disappointed that she'd missed it.

Between Coach, Principal Ferguson and Mr. Wilson, they had him pretty much subdued when the police got here. They sent one of the boys to tell me about it and I came out to meet you.

By this time they were out the back door where Mr. Wilson had the children herded over to one side. The girls were chattering and holding each other’s hands, pretending to be afraid. The boys were strutting and bragging how they would have knocked the guy down if they'd had the chance.

Neither Mark nor Regan spared them a glance. Their attention was focused on the sidewalk where a man sat on the ground, obviously handcuffed. As soon as Mark saw Patrick sitting in the police car, his arms around Mitzi, he broke into a run.

Dad, Patrick screamed, Look, I've got Mitzi.

I know, Son, Mark whispered, stooping to reach into the car to pull both the boy and the dog into his arms.

Regan watched as Mark buried his head in Patrick's shoulder, his big frame shaking with relief.

Hey, Harris, Wells croaked, what's the big idea?

Mark stood and turned slowly to face the man still sitting on the sidewalk.

Wells shrank back, thinking better of whatever plea he had been going to make.

Did you have something to say to me, Wells? Mark asked, venom dripping from his voice, death in his eyes.

Look, Harris, I found your dog and was returning it, that's all, and these guys jumped me for no reason, he whined.

Mark lunged for Wells, but Coach figured he'd try something like that and grabbed him. He was a father himself and would've pounded the man into a pulp if it was his kid.

One of the officers motioned him off to the side. You know this man, Mr. Harris?

Yeah, I know him. I'm an insurance adjuster and I've been investigating the claim he made on his wife. Double indemnity, accidental death.

You suspect foul play?

If I didn't before, I do now, Mark replied grimly.

From what the principal said, he was trying to shove your son into the car. That's enough for us to charge him and lock him up tight.

Good, Mark nodded. You can bet I'll be looking deeper into his wife's death. I'll keep the police informed of anything I find.

That's fine. I'll include all that in my report.

The officer moved over to his partner, and after a quick conference, hauled Wells to his feet and shoved him none too gently into the back of the patrol car.

Regan walked over to where Mark stood, rigid as a statue, watching until the car drove out of sight.

Dad? Patrick called, tugging on his father's sleeve. Can I go back to school now?

What? Mark looked down at his son, confused for a moment. Back to school?

Yeah, Dad. I mean, the cops were here and everything and I almost got kidnapped and Mitzi's back, and Coach walloped the hell ... er ... heck out of that guy, and geez, Dad ...!

Mark understood. To Patrick, the whole thing was exciting and he would be a hero for at least today. It was tough to let him go after nearly losing him.

Tell you what, buddy. You can stay, but I'll be here to pick you up after school. No walking to Grandma's today, okay?

Okay, Patrick agreed reluctantly, but you know, that guy's in jail and all and he couldn't get me again. If he tried, I'd punch him right in the nose. Patrick punched the air so his father could see what a great right cross he had.

Regan was enjoying the by-play between Mark and Patrick. She remembered her brother being exactly the same way. Always trying to wheedle their father out of something. He was usually more successful with their mother, but that didn't stop him from trying. The memory brought a smile to her lips but an ache to her heart.

No, Patrick. Mark shook his head. Let the old man win this one, okay?

The boy finally nodded his head and Mark ruffled his sandy hair, relieved to have him back.

Go on inside with your class. They're lining up. Now scoot.

Okay, Dad. See ya'! Patrick handed Mitzi's leash to his father, and with a final wave, ran at top speed to where his friends waited.

Poor Mrs. Franklin, Regan chuckled. She'll never get them to settle down.

Don't underestimate the Mrs. Franklins of this world. I wouldn't be surprised if she has them write a theme on not talking to strangers or something.

You're probably right, Regan laughed. She cocked her head at him. How are you doing, Dad? All settled down?

No, and I probably won't be for another couple of decades. Mark shook his head ruefully, scratching the back of his neck, as if to rid himself of the bad memory.

How about we drop Mitzi off at your house and I'll buy you lunch, Regan offered. She thought he could use the company.

Mark stared at her in surprise. Now that's an offer a man doesn't get every day.

Not from this lady anyway, Regan laughed.

Alright. But I'm buying, he stated firmly. I owe you more than I can ever repay.

Tell me that when you get my bill, she said dryly.

Mark would have liked to press Regan's hand between his, but he was holding on to Mizti's leash and the poor pup was panting with thirst. Besides, she had already turned away and was striding toward her car.

He picked up Mitzi and hurried after her. Regan O'Reilly didn't seem to be a woman who liked to cozy up to a man. She had been all business this morning and even now that Patrick was safe, she hadn't relaxed all that much.

They made the trip to his house in record time. She didn't speed. She didn't have to. She was the most skillful driver he had ever seen; something he hadn't appreciated on the drive to the school.

Another thing he hadn't appreciated was her looks. From this angle, Regan was a knockout, and when his vision wasn't clouded by worry, he had the feeling she was drop-dead gorgeous.

Why don't you come in while I get Mitzi settled? Mark asked.

Thanks, she replied easily. I could stand to freshen up a bit.

Regan followed Mark inside and was surprised at how neat and clean the place was. Her trained eye took in everything at a glance. It wasn't immaculate by any means, but looked comfortable and lived-in without being messy.

Nice place, she nodded. Homey.

You mean, ‘pretty tidy for a couple of men living here on their own’, he laughed.

Yes, that's exactly what I mean, she conceded.

The bathroom's straight ahead. I'm going to take Mitzi outside for a few minutes and then feed her. The kitchen's to the right when you get to the hall, so help yourself to a Coke from the fridge if you want one.

Thanks, I'm fine, she replied and headed down the hall.

By the time she'd washed up and applied fresh pancake to her eye (nice first impression, O'Reilly, she snorted), Mark was back in the living room making a phone call. She wandered into the kitchen so she wouldn't intrude on his phone call. Still, the house was small and she couldn't help but overhear.

I'm telling you, Todd, if it weren't for Regan, I don't know what might have happened. That is one smart lady.

Not wanting to hear more, Regan went through the back door to a small enclosed porch where Mitzi was thirstily lapping up water. She stooped down and scratched the sturdy little dog behind her ears. Mitzi stopped drinking, giving herself over to the pleasure of a good scratch. Regan wondered what breed she was and then decided she was just a tan, short-haired mutt with a very sweet face.

She got up and turned when the door opened behind her.

I hope you don't mind.

Not at all, and it was obvious that Mitzi enjoyed the attention, Mark grinned. You like dogs, don't you?

Oh, yes. We always had a dog growing up. I don't have one now, of course. I'm hardly ever home.

I imagine you put in a lot of long days.

And nights, she added, and sometimes weekends.

Must play havoc with your social life.

What social life? she smiled ruefully. Speaking of which, you're supposed to be buying me lunch, she reminded him.

I haven't forgotten, he said, seriously.

The intensity of his deep, quiet voice washed over her, making her aware that she was in a very small room with a very large man. A very handsome, large man.

Shall we go, then? she managed to get out, though her mouth had gone dry.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Regan couldn't seem to tear herself away from those cocker spaniel eyes. She didn't know how long it would have gone on if it hadn't been for Mitzi standing on her hind legs and bumping her hand.

Looks like someone wants more attention, she said.

Mitzi can be an awful pest sometimes. That's because she gets left alone a lot.

Busy social life? Regan asked without thinking. She could have bit her tongue at the probing question. Those kinds of questions were appropriate for her job, but not just to be nosy.

Hardly, he laughed. Patrick and my job keep me quite busy enough.

I didn't mean to pry.

You weren't prying, he assured her. Didn't I ask about your social life?

Yes, as a matter of fact, you did. I guess that makes us even.

Speaking of social life, do you think we can tear ourselves away from the dog long enough to grab some lunch? I don't know about you, but I'm starved.

With one last pat for Mitzi, they were on the way to Tiffin's. They both agreed the weather was perfect for al fresco dining and Tiffin's had picnic tables scattered about their lush gardens.

They both ordered the steak sandwich, medium, with fries and slaw and iced tea to drink. They knew rationing was coming soon and this was probably the last time they would have the luxury of steak. After the waitress left with their order, they were finally able to relax.

I still can't get over how fast you put the whole thing together, he told her. I'm an investigator, too, and it never occurred to me.

You were too close to the situation, she assured him. I was able to look at it with fresh eyes.

You know, the funny thing is, I still don't know what Wells hoped to accomplish. If he had Patrick and forced me to pay on the policy, the police would have known it was him and probably caught him. The money wouldn't have done him any good.

I know. It was a stupid plan. And now between you and the police, you'll probably be able to prove he killed his wife.

They were still thinking about it when their meal was served. After a few bites and compliments about the food, Mark thought it was time he got to know this lady private eye. He'd never known a woman in the profession before.

If you don't mind my asking, how did you become a PI?

My dad and my uncle were both detectives with the Boston P.D., and my brother and a couple of other uncles were beat cops. I wanted to be a cop, too, but you know how it is. No place for girls on the force.

That's Boston's loss, Mark assured her.

Be that as it may, my dreams of joining the force were just that; dreams. My dad had a friend right here in Hartford, a retired cop, who had his own PI business. He asked Sully to take me under his wing.

Sully didn't have a prejudice against a lady?

He might have, Regan laughed, but my dad can be awfully persuasive. Anyway, he trained me himself, and I'm very grateful for all he taught me.

I think I'm pretty grateful to Sully, too, Mark said. So, how did you end up on your own?

Sully had a heart attack. Not bad enough to kill him, but bad enough to make him retire. A shadow passed over Regan's features when she thought about those anxious days and nights. Sully had been like a second father to her. In fact, she had boarded with Sully and his wife for two years, and she was grateful to them both for providing a warm and loving home for her. Not to mention home cooked meals.

I take it the male PIs weren't so anxious to keep a girl around, Mark said dryly.

No, they weren't. The man who took over kept giving me the worst cases, but I kept at it. Finally, Sully stepped in, talked to Todd himself and let him know just who had been solving those cases. That's when I started working directly with Todd. He's the one, along with Sully, who encouraged me to go out on my own.

Smart man, Todd, Mark nodded.

I thought so, Regan grinned. After a year or so, I was supporting myself quite well and I moved into a little two and a half room apartment. In fact, I still live there. I'm not home enough to want anything larger. Minimal housework and quick and easy meals.

Quite a success story, Regan. You should be proud of yourself, and I'll bet your family is, too.

Yes, they are. Regan stared off into space for a moment, thinking about her family. She'd been gone for nearly ten years, and she still missed having them around.

Mark wondered where she had gone. He guessed it was the mention of her family. It had to be tough for a young woman to be on her own so far away from home.

Regan brought herself back to the present and took a sip of her tea. Enough about me. Tell me about Mark and Patrick Harris. You two seem close, she added wistfully.

She didn't mean to be maudlin, but that was twice today she'd thought about her brother, Bobby. Never again would she hear him put on his Irish Brogue and tease her until she blushed or got furious. Lord, she missed him.

Well, you already know I'm a widower and I work for Amalgamated with Todd."

Is that all? she smiled.

Okay, here's the bio. Born and raised in Hartford. Went to the same school as Patrick. Met my wife in first grade and we married right after I got my first promotion.

Age? she asked, amused at his brevity. He seemed friendly enough, but like most men, he was shy on the details.

36. He grinned cockily at her. And you.

Hmm, guess I have to 'fess up. She took another sip of her tea. 31.

That wasn't so bad, he teased.

Which, the confession or my age? She kept a straight face and raised an eyebrow at him.

That's one of those trick questions you ladies like, isn't it? He raised an eyebrow back at her. But I'm brave. I'll risk it.

Risk away, Superman, she challenged.

There's no risk in honesty with a woman like you. He paused for effect. The confession. Your age suits you.

Suits me? Now both eyebrows were raised as she leaned back and crossed her arms.

Mark couldn't help but laugh at her defensive posture. Yes. If I may elaborate?

Go ahead, she nodded, not relaxing her stance.

Young enough to still be beautiful, but I think your beauty will only soften with age; become more ethereal. I see you, surrounded by grandchildren, telling them wild stories about your days as a PI. And still with a twinkle in your eye. They won't believe you, of course, because they see you as a little old Madonna.

Nice save, Harris, she laughed. No grandchildren without children, though, and I don't see that happening any time soon. Remember my total lack of social life?

He thought it prudent not to point out to her that she was socializing with him right now. He knew she didn't think of this as a date, but he liked to think it was the first of many.

And there won't be too many men left with everyone rushing to enlist, he pointed out.

It really doesn't matter, she laughed. I'm definitely not the domestic type.

Look at the time, he exclaimed. I really should put some time in at the office. He signaled the waitress for the check.

And I forgot to tell Martha to hold my calls. Regan jumped up and gathered her things.

Listen, how about you give me a chance to show off my domestic skills. Dinner at my house tomorrow night? When he saw her hesitate, he added, Patrick will want to hear the whole story from you and I know he'll want to thank you, too.

All right, she agreed. But nothing fancy or you'll make me feel inadequate.

Chapter Two

Regan couldn't believe how much she was fussing over her appearance.

She didn't want to wear slacks. He'd seen her in slacks yesterday. A business suit was too formal for a casual evening at home. A dress was too dressy, not that she owned many.

The black skirt, then: classic, with the pink silk blouse, sheer stockings and black flats. A light coating of lipstick, hair held back with a matching pink band, and she was ready.

Perfume? She bit her lip trying to decide. No, she wouldn't wear perfume to meet a child.

She grabbed a light black jacket, and then ripped it off, tossing it on the bed. It looked too