Deception

by Jason Richards

  “Who's asking?”

  “Drew Patrick. Gordie knows my name.”

  Muscle Man's eyes squinted with familiarity when I mentioned my name.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “To speak with Gordie. Are you going to tell him I'm here, or are we going to play twenty questions?”

  Muscle Man turned around and waved another equally muscular guy over. The second man was a few inches shorter with trimmed brown hair.

  “Paulie,” Muscle Man said, “this guy is Drew Patrick. He wants to talk to Gordie.”

  “Ah, you must be Bruno,” I said to Muscle Man.

  His brow wrinkled as his brain computed what I had said. “How did you know my name?”

  “Everyone knows Bruno and Paulie,” I said with faux exuberance.

  “You trying to be smart?” Bruno said.

  “I don't have to try. It comes naturally.”

  Paulie stepped to the side so he and Bruno had me cornered. I assessed them as they stood to either side and stared me down.

  The two were fit. But it was all from work in the gym. They pumped iron, but I doubted they understood how to leverage their strength outside the weight room. Paulie and Bruno were tough enough to handle rowdy patrons in a strip club, but they weren't street tough.

  “We've heard of you,” Paulie said to me. “It would be best if you turned around and left.”

  “Not until I speak with Gordie.”

  “We could make you leave,” Paulie said.

  “You could try.”

  “Wouldn't be any effort,” Paulie said as he inched closer to me. His breath smelled like canned sardines.

  I waved my hand. “Whew, Paulie,” I said. “What have you been eating?”

  “You'll be eating my fist if you don't leave.” Paulie raised his right hand and balled it into a fist.

  “I don't require visual aids,” I said.

  A young woman with frizzy blond hair approached. She wore an outfit similar to the one Cinnamon had on earlier, right down to the stiletto heels.

  “Gordie is asking what is going on?” she said.

  “Nothing,” Paulie said. “This guy was just about to leave.”

  “Now, Paulie,” I said. “Don't you think honesty is the best policy?” I then turned toward the frizzy blond. “My name is Drew Patrick. I'm a private investigator here to speak with Gordie. He isn't exactly expecting me, but I'm sure he will grant me an audience.”

  The frizzy blond looked from me to Paulie, and from Paulie to Bruno. “Gordie doesn't want any trouble out here,” she said after a moment. “Bring this guy back to the office.”

  Bruno and Paulie each grabbed a hold of one of my arms.

  “We're off to see the Wizard,” I said.

  “Shut up,” Paulie said.

  We approached a metal door. The frizzy blond opened it and stepped into the office. Bruno and Paulie let go of my arms. Paulie nudged me through the door. They stepped in behind me. Bruno closed the door.

  Gordie sat behind his desk expressionless. He appeared average height and weight, and I guessed he was in his mid to late forties. He wore a pink button-down shirt with the top three buttons undone to reveal a hairy chest and a gold chain. So far he was checking the boxes of a strip club owner.

  I looked at Gordie and he looked at me. I wondered if he and the frizzy blond had the same hairstylist. His curly brown hair would have been right at home on the set of the Brady Bunch.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” Gordie asked me.

  “My name is Drew Patrick,” I said. “And I’m here to teach you some manners.”

  Gordie looked at Paulie and Bruno, then he laughed. Paulie and Bruno laughed. After their laughter died down, Gordie said, “You must be some kind of funny guy.”

  “When I want to be,” I said. “But right now I have a very serious offer for you.”

  “Oh yeah, what's that?”

  “I'll give you a free chance to hit me.”

  “What?” Gordie said.

  “I understand you like to hit people. So I'm giving you a chance to hit me. We can all see how you do against someone other than your strippers.”

  Gordie looked from me to Bruno, then to Paulie, and back to me. He considered me a moment. Then he said, “You should mind your own business.”

  “You hitting women makes it my business.”

  “Ain’t that sexist?” Gordie said.

  “Listen, Gordie, I know several women, including my girlfriend, who could easily clean your clock. But let’s not make this about them. This is about what you did in knocking around women who work for you.”

  “Broads had what was coming to them. Just a little reminder of who is boss around here.”

  “What about me, Gordie? Do I need to be taught a lesson?”

  “You're right,” Gordie agreed. “And Bruno and Paulie will take care of that.”

  “I beg to differ,” I said.

  Gordie got up from his chair and walked around his desk. I had nailed my assessment that he was of medium height and weight. I should send away for my master sleuth merit badge.

  Gordie walked over and looked me in the eye. “You are either very confident or idiotic,” he said.

  “What I am is experienced. Paulie and Bruno are not.”

  “Meaning?” Gordie said.

  “Meaning I am not one of your customers who can be easily tossed for getting too comfortable with your strippers.”

  “So, you think you are a real tough guy?”

  “It is not a matter of opinion,” I said. “I am a tough guy. Tough enough to handle Bruno, Paulie, and you.”

  “You think you can come to my place of business and talk to me like this?” Gordie snorted.

  “I do,” I said. “And you will have Bruno and Paulie try to teach me a lesson. Mostly because you can't. But I'll be walking out of here when all is said and done.”

  “You have some nerve,” Gordie said. “First you come around asking about my customers, then you come back and insult me.”

  “I asked about one customer as part of an investigation. I have come back because you are a sniveling little weasel who needs to change his attitude toward women.”

  “We're done talking,” Gordie said.

  “Good,” I said. “You're not a very interesting person to talk to.”

  Gordie stepped behind his desk and nodded at Bruno and Paulie. They each took a step towards me. I planted my left foot and kicked out with my right, connecting with Paulie's center mass. Air expelled from his lungs and he fell back into a filing cabinet. Paulie and the cabinet crashed to the floor.

  I wheeled around and punched Bruno in the nose. I could feel the cartilage in his nose shatter beneath my fist. He grabbed at his broken nose and I kicked him in the groin. He cried out in pain as he doubled over. I brought my weight down on his back with my elbow and he collapsed onto the floor.

  Grabbing the corner of Gordie's desk, Paulie attempted to pull himself up. He was still gasping for breath. I grabbed him around the neck and put him in a chokehold until he passed out.

  Gordie cowered in the corner. I stepped behind his desk. He moved toward the door, but Bruno was sprawled out in front of it, writhing in pain.

  I grabbed Gordie by his shirt collar and threw him against the wall. I backhanded him across his face and then brought my hand back and struck him again. Gordie started crying. His face was already swelling from where I had hit him.

  “Please, stop,” Gordie said.

  “Not so tough now, are you?” I said.

  Gordie shook his head. His body trembled.

  “If I ever hear that you so much as raise your voice to a woman, I'm coming back. If you ever lift a hand to a woman again, I'll put you in the hospital. Do you understand?”

  Gordie nodded his head.

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  “I understand,” Gordie sobbed.

  “I will have eyes on you,” I said. “Boston cops, State cops, even frie
nds who are feds.” I paused a beat. “I might even ask some guys on the other side of the law to keep tabs on you. I have a few who owe me favors.”

  “It was a one-time thing,” Gordie said. “I lost my cool. I won't ever do anything like it ever again. I swear.”

  I let go of Gordie's collar and moved out from behind his desk. He slumped into his chair and touched his face. He winced and quickly pulled his hand away. I stepped over Bruno who was on his side and groaning. As I exited Gordie's office, I caught a glimpse of the frizzy blond. She smiled at me.

  CHAPTER 9

  Elizabeth Barlow summoned me to the Barlow's Brookline estate early the following morning. I was greeted by the head of security. His nameplate identified him as Marcus Quinn. He was five feet, ten inches tall and muscular. He had a handsome dark face which reminded me of Denzel Washington. Marcus wore gray slacks, a crisp white button-down shirt, navy blue blazer, and a matching navy blue tie.

  I buzzed down my window. “Good morning,” I said. “I'm Drew Patrick, here to see Mrs. Barlow.” I showed Marcus my private investigator's license.

  As Marcus leaned forward, I noticed the gun holstered on his hip. There were also several top-of-the-line security cameras scanning the entrance to the property.

  “Good morning, Mr. Patrick,” Marcus said as he glanced at my license. “Mrs. Barlow is expecting you.”

  Marcus struck me as former military, and the Barlows had serious security. More security than you would expect for a Boston attorney. Marcus tilted his head toward a guard in the guard shack. The large iron gate slowly swung open.

  “Good luck,” Marcus said with sincerity in his voice.

  “So it is going to be that type of meeting?” I said.

  “Always is with Mrs. Barlow.”

  “Then, thanks. I'll take all the luck I can get.”

  I put my car in drive and went through the open gate. Once on the estate, I followed the long and winding driveway which cut through a meticulously manicured lawn. Rose bushes dotted the drive. Large shade trees provided a canopy of leafy green.

  The driveway came to a circular end in front of the stone mansion. An old carriage house, remodeled into a three-car garage, sat to the right of the home. A Mercedes S-Class sedan was being waxed and buffed to a high sheen by an older Caucasian gentleman. He wore black slacks and a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I imagined his black suit jacket and driving cap were in the car.

  I got out of my car and walked up the wide front fieldstone steps. The thick wood door opened in front of me. A middle-aged woman with fair skin and dark hair stood in the opening wearing a traditional black and white maid's outfit. I paused at the entry and introduced myself.

  “Yes, please come in,” the woman said with the hint of a French accent. I stepped into the foyer which was the size of Rhode Island. The maid closed the door behind me.

  “Right this way,” she said to me. I followed her down a long hallway which a 747 could use for takeoffs and landings. The hall opened to a drawing room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a garden of flowers and ponds.

  “Please, have a seat,” the maid said as she gestured towards a high-backed chair that looked like it belonged in a museum of old English furniture. I sat. It felt like it belonged in a museum of old English furniture.

  “Mrs. Barlow will be with you momentarily,” the maid said. She exited the room, and I was alone with my thoughts in the cavernous space. A few minutes later Evelyn Barlow entered. She wore a riding outfit, complete with knee-high leather riding boots.

  “What do you have to report?” She said skipping pleasantries.

  “Not much,” I replied. “Frankly, having me drive to your home is an unnecessary expense in both time and money.”

  “It is your time, and my money,” she said. “And since I am also paying for your time, that is mine to spend as I see fit as well.”

  Mrs. Barlow was not as price-sensitive as the majority of the general populace. I was certain she cared little about my schedule. Elizabeth Barlow considered me nothing but hired help. She sat in the chair opposite me. It looked as equally uncomfortable as the one I was sitting in. She crossed her legs and sat back.

  “True,” I said. “I'm just trying to be economical.”

  “Does it look like I care about saving a few pennies,” she said as she waved her arm around the room.

  “No, I guess not,” I said.

  “They are preparing Lightning Bolt for my morning ride, so let us get on with your report,” Elizabeth Barlow announced. She sounded like a teacher speaking to a student delivering an oral book report.

  “Wow, Lightning Bolt. I bet he is a swell looking horse.”

  “Purebred. Former Kentucky Derby champion.”

  “Impressive,” I said.

  “Now, your report Mr. Patrick.”

  “As I indicated, there is not much to tell. I have a name purported to be Mr. Barlow's mistress, but it is not yet confirmed. At this time, I have not gathered hard evidence to prove an affair."

  “What's the hussy's name?” Elizabeth Barlow asked.

  Hussy. Now that is not a word you hear often. Elizabeth Barlow was old school.

  “I'm not comfortable sharing a name until there is evidence the young woman is sleeping with your husband,” I remarked.

  “You are in my employ, Mr. Patrick. You will give me whatever I request. No. Demand.”

  “No, I will not.”

  Elizabeth Barlow bristled and sat ramrod straight. She scowled. Most people probably cowered in her presence. I sat expressionlessly. Perhaps even stoic.

  “How dare you?” she said.

  “I dare quite easily,” I said. “It is true that you are my client. You have hired me to see if there is evidence your husband is cheating on you. You are entitled to the pertinent facts I gather related to the case. How I go about my investigation is my business. What are the pertinent facts are up to me. I am not in the business of trading on unsubstantiated rumors. If you don't like it, you can fire me.”

  “You are a thuggish man.”

  “You left out good looking and charming.” I smiled with all my teeth. Elizabeth Barlow remained as unimpressed as she had been in my office. I had rarely come across as cold a fish as my present client.

  Elizabeth Barlow sighed. At least I think it was a sigh. It sounded like air being expelled from a balloon.

  “I don't care for you,” she said. “But my head of security said there is no one better in the Boston area.”

  “Your head of security is correct.”

  Elizabeth Barlow snorted. “You also have a reputation of being very sure of yourself.”

  “Also true,” I said. “But it comes from a lot of experience. I know what I know and what I don't. I am aware of what I can do, and what I cannot do. It may be a narrow lane of expertise, but I have a very high success rate staying in my lane.”

  “I trust it will not take long for you to confirm that Nevin is having an affair with this Jezebel?” Elizabeth Barlow said.

  “Either confirm or disprove,” I said. “It is very likely that this woman is your husband's mistress. But I am not yet ready to pronounce her a Jezebel. But, no, it should not take long. I expected them to get together last night. Perhaps this evening.”

  “You will, of course, let me know.”

  “You will be the first call I make. I can even text you photos.”

  “Don't be crude,” she said.

  I admit it was crude. But I didn't like Elizabeth Barlow. I'm not even sure how bad I felt for her. But I would complete the job she hired me to do.

  “Monique will see you out,” Elizabeth Barlow said as she stood. I also stood. I may not have liked her, but I could be gentlemanly. At least as much as my thugishness allowed. The maid Monique appeared in the doorway to the drawing room.

  “This way, Mr. Patrick,” Monique said. I followed her back down the long hallway, through the Ocean State-sized foyer, and stepped past her out the front
door.

  “Thank you, Monique,” I said. “Have a nice day.”

  Monique tilted her head in acknowledgment and closed the door.

  As I walked to my car, I considered there was little doubt Nevin Barlow was having an affair. Candy, Bambi, and Sparkles had seemed forthcoming with me. I also witnessed a man who had little regard for women or fidelity. I had no reason to doubt Diamond/Tamara Wallace was Nevin's mistress. Proving it was just a matter of time.

  The more interesting, and troubling, aspect of the case was what I didn't know about the Barlows. Nevin kept company with mobsters and their estate had an impressive level of security. Perhaps Nevin keeping company with mobsters had something to do with the level of security. Maybe it was something else. Whatever it was went well beyond an extra-marital affair.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Meet me at the Starbucks in Brookline Village,” State Police Detective Captain Robert Burke said to me when I answered his call.

  “You buying?” I said.

  “Sure. But just coffee. This is on the Commonwealth's dime.”

  “If it weren't, I'd be buying my own coffee.”

  “Are you saying I'm cheap?”

  “Would you buy me a Starbucks coffee out of your own pocket?”

  “Probably not,” Burke said.

  “I'll be there in about ten minutes.”

  Eleven minutes later I walked into the Starbucks in Brookline Village. It looked like every other Starbucks I had ever been in. Burke was waiting for me near the entrance. He was easy to spot at six feet tall with a ruddy Irish complexion. Burke looked like a police detective, wearing an off-the-rack discount light gray suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie. He was a touch overweight but in decent shape compared to many men in their late fifties.

  Clipped on the left front of his belt was his State Police shield. Holstered on his right hip was a Smith and Wesson 45 caliber M&P pistol. The butt of the gun had frayed the inner lining of the suit jacket.

  We walked to the counter to order. The girl at the register asked if we wanted to try their new Nitro Cold Brew coffee.

  “What's that?” Burke asked. She explained it was their Cold Brew infused with nitrogen.