Chasing Shadows

by Jason Richards

  “Well, if it isn't Drew Patrick, P.I.,” Burke said when he answered the phone on the second ring. “Let me guess, you have a question that only a real detective can answer.”

  “Sure do,” I said. “Why don't you find one and put him or her on the phone.”

  “Still a quick wit,” Burke said. “But I never found you all that funny.”

  “Not many do,” I said. “But I amuse myself.”

  “How may the State Police assist you?” Burke said.

  “What can you tell me about Bradley Whitcomb's death?”

  “Apparent accidental overdose,” Burke said.

  “Tell me something I can't read in the Globe or get from a local news broadcast.”

  “It's suspicious,” Burke said.

  “And?” I said.

  “And what? I'm not a freaking information officer.”

  “Come on, Burke,” I said.

  “You wouldn't be calling unless it is connected to a case you are working on,” Burke said. “I assume you have something that might interest state law enforcement?”

  “I believe I do,” I said. “But I'm trying to establish how it all fits.”

  “We are clear on which one of us is a State Police Detective Captain, right?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “Just as long as we're clear,” Burke said.

  “The case I am investigating has drawn interest,” I said. “Two goons tailed me today and then warned me to back off.”

  “Which, of course, you won't?” Burke said.

  “I’ll need more convincing,” I said. “At any rate, I know I am sniffing in the right direction.”

  “And it somehow connects to Brad Whitcomb?” Burke said.

  “It might,” I said. “It definitely connects to the person I am interested in for my case.”

  “Care to share?” Burke said.

  “In a minute,” I said.

  “Right. You're trying to see how it all fits.”

  “See, that is why you are a State Police Captain.”

  “Glad you remembered,” Burke said.

  “Hard to forget.”

  “We have little to go on,” Burke said, “but, as I mentioned a moment ago, Whitcomb's death is suspicious.”

  “That's a scoop a reporter would love to have,” I said.

  “Which is why we're keeping a tight lid on it for the time being,” Burke said.

  Bored resting his head on my lap, Dash got up, stretched, and then curled up in a ball and went to sleep.

  “Can you say more?” I said.

  “No forced entry. In fact, the cops on the scene found his door unlocked.

  “That's not a neighborhood where you would leave your door unlocked,” I said.

  “Not any longer than it takes to get in or out,” Burke said.

  “So Brad Whitcomb had company,” I said.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Burke said.

  “He lets somebody in and then ends up dead,” I said.

  “Looks that way. Mr. Whitcomb also had a partially packed bag for a trip.”

  “Why stop in the middle of packing a bag to shoot up?”

  “Exactly,” Burke said. “And everyone we talked to said Mr. Whitcomb recently received his one-year medallion. He attended Narcotics Anonymous meetings every week.”

  “Similar to what I've heard thus far.”

  “Somebody wanted us to think he accidentally overdosed,” Burke said. “But it doesn't add up.”

  “I'm pretty sure Brad Whitcomb owed the wrong people some money,” I said.

  “Okay,” Burke said, “that would be a good motive for murder. How do you know this?”

  “I followed a college kid who is moonlighting as a junior thug. Mainly he’s collecting money from other college kids. He also seems known around the Snake Pit. And had words with Brad Whitcomb the night they found him dead.”

  “Who's the kid?” Burke said.

  “Aaron Hurley,” I said.

  “Aaron Hurley? He was questioned in the Jack Murphy murder. Similar situation. A witness spotted him roughing up Murphy a few nights before he was killed.”

  “Well, what do you know?” I said. “Two dead guys with a connection to Aaron Hurley. But he had nothing directly to do with Whitcomb's death.”

  “And you know this, how?”

  “I followed him for the rest of the evening. Even have some pictures of his activities.”

  “He also had a solid alibi for the night of Murphy's murder,” Burke said.

  “As I mentioned, Hurley is a junior thug. Someone higher up the criminal ladder is likely responsible.”

  “Agreed,” Burke said. “We're looking into all the usual suspects. What's your next move?”

  “I want to learn more about Whitcomb and Murphy.”

  “Because they were connected to Hurley?”

  “Yep,” I said. “My looking into Aaron Hurley is getting me close to something. It appears at least part of that something are the deaths of Brad Whitcomb and Jack Murphy.”

  “And the more you dig...”

  “The closer I get to the truth.”

  CHAPTER 22

  AARON HURLEY

  RAIN PELTED THE LARGE picture window as the Atlantic Ocean swirled under a dark sky. Aaron Hurley sat on the white couch with Mikey and Jax on either side. Jocko Scarpelli sat across from them, his back to the window. The gray of the storm clouds framed him in his bright red Lacoste shirt.

  A rumble of thunder rolled across the water and reverberated throughout the living room. “Not exactly a beach day,” Jocko Scarpelli said.

  “No, boss,” Mikey said.

  Aaron swallowed hard, unsure what might happen to him.

  “Do you know why you are here today?” Jocko Scarpelli said, directing a menacing stare at Aaron. The kid felt like Scarpelli's dark eyes bore into his soul.

  Aaron nodded.

  “Speak up, kid,” Mikey said as he jabbed Aaron in the ribs with his elbow.

  “Yes, sir,” Aaron said.

  “And why is that?” Jocko said.

  “You are not happy with me,” Aaron said.

  Jocko snorted a laugh.

  “That is an understatement,” Jocko said. He leaned forward, resting his arms across his upper legs.

  Mikey felt Aaron flinch next to him on the couch.

  Jocko continued, “Jax and Mikey needed to complete a job I sent you to do. Isn't that right, boys?”

  “Yes, boss,” Jax and Mikey replied in unison. It was like stereo sound on either side of Aaron.

  Jocko stood and walked over to the window. He looked out as the rain splattered the glass and the ocean churned like a washing machine. Aaron's stomach battled queasiness and he fought the urge to vomit.

  “You failed me, Mr. Hurley,” Jocko said after a measured silence. “I don't tolerate failure in my organization.”

  “Yes, sir,” Aaron whispered.

  Jocko turned around and crossed his arms across his chest. “So what should I do about your failure?”

  “I’ll improve,” Aaron said.

  “I don't think you can,” Jocko said. “Unlike the Crane brothers, here, you don't have the killer instinct. You can't stomach doing what needs to be done.”

  “Maybe he can learn,” Jax said.

  Mikey looked over at his brother. Jax sometimes didn't know when to keep his mouth shut. Jocko shook his head.

  “No,” Jocko said. “I don't believe he can.”

  “Please, Mr. Scarpelli,” Aaron said. “Please, give me another chance.”

  “Do you really think you deserve another chance?” Jocko said. “If I gave you another chance, do you honestly believe you could do what must be done?”

  “I can try,” Aaron said.

  Jocko smiled a crooked smile. “Part of me admires you thinking you can be something you are not,” he said. “But part of me knows this is an attempt to plead for your own life. You don't want to die today, do you, Mr. Hurley?”

  Jock
o immediately held up his hand. “Never mind,” he said. “No need to answer. Of course you don't want to die. That really isn't the question before us. Is it? The question is whether you can kill. That is an ugly, but sometimes necessary, part of the work we do.”

  The claps of thunder grew louder and more frequent. Lightning streaks cracked from the clouds.

  “Thunderstorms can have a certain beauty,” Jocko said as he glanced out the window. “There can be beauty in many things. Jax and Mikey in a boxing ring was a thing of beauty.” Jocko turned back toward Aaron. “Did you know I discovered the brothers when they were boxers?”

  “No, sir,” Aaron said. “I didn't know that.”

  “They were good,” Jocko said. “Hands striking like the lightning outside this window.”

  Jocko walked over behind the couch where Aaron, Mikey, and Jax were sitting. He placed a hand on each of the brothers' shoulders.

  “Yes, they were something to behold in the ring,” he said.

  Jocko removed his hands from their shoulders and walked around to the front of the couch. He stood directly in front of Aaron.

  “But they were not good enough to be champions,” Jocko said. “So I gave them a different opportunity.”

  Jocko got down on his haunches and looked Aaron squarely in the eye. Aaron didn't blink, or make any movement at all.

  “I gave you an opportunity,” Jocko said. He grabbed Aaron's face with his right hand and squeezed. “You've done okay with the college kids and suburban dads. You failed me in taking care of Mr. Whitcomb.”

  Jocko squeezed harder. Aaron continued to look straight ahead. He did not move. He gave no indication he feared for his life, and was about to piss his pants.

  “But I like you,” Jocko said as he released his grip and stood.

  Aaron let out a small breath.

  “I like you,” Jocko said. “But I do not tolerate failure in my organization.”

  Aaron's eyes widened. He wondered if this was it. Had Jocko been toying with him? Would he now tell Jax and Mikey to take him outside and throw him into the ocean?

  “Here is what I’ll do,” Jocko announced. “I am going to give you another chance. You will continue to collect payments as you have been. You're a tough enough kid to handle that. But you're not ready to handle the big jobs. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Aaron said.

  “I'm glad that we understand each other,” Jocko said. “Now, there is the matter of your punishment.”

  Aaron knew whatever was coming would be far worse than being sent to his room without TV, being grounded, or having his car taken away. But Jocko would let him live.

  “Not dealing with Brad Whitcomb was insubordination,” Jock said. “When I give an order, I expect you to follow it. So I want to be sure you never forget that.”

  Jocko looked at Jax and Mikey. “Boys, lets show Mr. Hurley what happens when we don't follow orders.”

  Jax and Mikey grabbed Aaron by the arms and lifted him up from the couch. They ushered him to the sliding glass doors and out onto the deck. Mikey held Aaron as Jax delivered a round of punches to Aaron's torso and face.

  Aaron felt the crack of his ribs as he took Jax's body blows. His eye swelled shut after Jax worked over his face, and the metallic taste of blood entered his mouth. Rolling thunder and cracks of lightning faded to the ringing in his ears. After a few minutes it was over. Jax and Mikey helped Aaron to the Range Rover which had brought them to Scarpelli's house. Aaron slumped down in the seat. With his good eye, he watched the rain against the window as they left the South Shore for the city.

  CHAPTER 23

  DREW PATRICK

  THUNDERSTORMS FROM the day before had departed. An early October breeze filtered into my office through the open window. Dash slept curled up on his corner of the couch. His legs twitched and he let out something between a low bark and a whine. I figured he was dreaming of chasing squirrels through the park. Or maybe he imagined he was running toward his food dish.

  My attention was directed at a Boston Globe article on the Red Sox' playoff prospects when my office door swung open. Aaron Hurley limped through the open door looking like he had been through a meat grinder. A man resembling Aaron, but two inches shorter and thirty years older, walked in behind him. It was probably more accurate to say that Aaron resembled the other man, whom I assumed was Aaron's father.

  “Mr. Patrick,” the man said. He wore a light gray designer suit with a crisp white button down shirt and red silk tie. He had neatly trimmed graying black hair, and he carried the remnants of a summer tan from weekends on Martha's Vineyard.

  I put down the newspaper and stood. “Aaron,” I said. “And may I assume you are Aaron's father?”

  “I am. Charles Hurley.”

  He didn't extend his hand, so neither did I. Everything about Charles Hurley's body language suggested this was not a social visit.

  “Aaron said you did this to him,” Charles Hurley said. “I wanted to give you the opportunity to explain yourself before I press charges.” Mr. Hurley showed little emotion. I bet everything was a transaction to him.

  “That is swell of you,” I said. “But I didn't do this to your son.”

  “Are you calling Aaron a liar,” Charles Hurley said.

  “Pants on fire,” I said. “But I wouldn't be too hard on him. It looks like he's been through enough already.”

  “Why would my son have reason to say you beat him up, if you didn't?”

  I shrugged. I was getting good at the art of shrugging. Maybe the kids could teach me something.

  “When I ask a question,” Charles Hurley said, “I expect a verbal response.”

  Charles Hurley struck me as a man accustomed to getting his way in life. I didn't care. I knew his type. He had lots of money and felt entitled to control all he surveyed. I didn't play that game.

  “Perhaps you should ask your son,” I said.

  “I don't like you, Mr. Patrick.”

  “Feeling is mutual,” I said. “But our personal feelings shouldn't have anything to do with the truth.”

  “And the truth being?...” Charles Hurley said.

  “The truth being, your son got roughed up pretty. Roughed up by some real tough guys who do that sort of thing professionally.”

  “Well, you certainly appear capable of beating someone up like that,” Charles Hurley said.

  “I am,” I said. “But that is not my profession. I don't go around beating people up unless they pick a fight I can't walk away from.”

  “Aaron says you have been following him. Harassing him.”

  “Yes, I followed him,” I said. “As part of an investigation for a client. And I had a conversation with Aaron the other day as a result of that investigation. But I am not harassing your son.”

  “Perhaps law enforcement and the justice system would see things in a different light,” Charles Hurley said.

  “Perhaps,” I said. “But I doubt it.”

  “I could bury you in lawsuits,” Charles Hurley said. “Ruin your reputation as a private investigator. Put you out of business.”

  “Because your son got knocked around by somebody else?”

  “Because you are a brutish thug,” Charles Hurley said to me.

  “You don't hear people say brutish thug all that often,” I said.

  “I think you are lying to me about brutalizing my son.”

  “Then you would be wrong,” I said. “In fact, I think you and Aaron need to have a real heart-to-heart conversation about his extra-curricular activities. That would enlighten you as to how he ended up as a punching bag.”

  “My son is a star athlete. He's on scholarship at Boston College. Why on Earth would he get involved with people who would do this?”

  “That is a mystery,” I said. “I tried asking Aaron, but he didn't want to share that with me. In fact, he seemed more afraid of his employer than he does of me.”

  “His employer?” Charles Hurley said.

  “I believe
your son is collecting money as part of, shall we say, a less than legal enterprise.”

  “Are you suggesting Aaron is working for a criminal?”

  “Yep. Aaron works as a low-level thug. He's shaking down college kids who owe money to his boss.”

  “Aaron, is this true?” Charles Hurley said.

  “This guy is full of shit!” Aaron said. “He did this to me. He's been following me around and threatening me. The other day I told him to back off. We got into a fight. The asshole broke my ribs and busted up my face.”

  Charles Hurley inspected me a moment. “He shows no evidence of being in a fight,” he said.

  “What do you want from me?” Aaron said. “It wasn’t technically a fight. He came at me and cleaned my clock. I didn't have time to lay a hand on him.”

  Wow, I thought. Aaron could spin a good yarn. And he wanted desperately for his father to believe I had done this to him. Even at the expense of looking like he got beaten down without even striking one blow.

  That part at least was true. His boss was sending Aaron a message.

  “Your son is in deep with the wrong people,” I said to Charles Hurley. “I don't know who. And I don't know why. But I know what I witnessed. And I can make some reasonable extrapolations from there.”

  Charles Hurley turned and looked at me. His face was stern, but his attitude had shifted. He now knew the truth. Not all of it. But he recognized what I had told him was real. He turned back toward his son.

  “Aaron, what is going on? Are you in some kind of trouble? There is nothing we can't get you out of.”

  Aaron looked at the floor. “It's nothing,” he said. “I'll admit I made up the story about Mr. Patrick beating me up. I just panicked. I figured you would believe a story about him beating me up because he had been following me. I was mad at him for taking pictures of me and ratting me out to Tina.”

  “I thought you were dumping Tina?” I said, just to be saying something.