Deception

by Jason Richards

  “No, thanks,” Burke told her. “I don't need nitrogen in my coffee.” He ordered the regular Cold Brew. I had a Pike Place Roast. Burke paid, and we stepped to the other end of the counter.

  “So what are you doing in Brookline?” I asked as we waited for the barista to make our coffees.

  “We're keeping tabs on Leo Mancini's connection with Nevin Barlow.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You and the Federal Bureau of Investigation are both looking into Mancini.”

  “Special Agent Mark Sumners,” Burke said. “Yeah, we've been in touch.”

  “Order for Burke,” the barista said. We took our coffees and found a table along the wall to our right.

  “That how you knew I am working a case for Elizabeth Barlow?” I asked, already figuring on the answer.

  “Yep,” Burke said. He took a healthy sip of his Cold Brew coffee. “Don't see why you'd need nitrogen,” he commented after he swallowed.

  “Perhaps it's the hip new thing in coffee,” I said.

  Burke shrugged. He had broad shoulders to match his thick arms. I could see how he had been a good athlete in his youth. Burke had lettered in football and wrestling. Real wrestling, not the choreographed and purely entertainment version where guys smash break-away chairs over each other.

  “We're interested in exactly how Nevin Barlow and Leo Mancini are connected,” Burke said.

  “And you think I may have some thoughts on the matter?”

  “You're pretty good at poking around and finding stuff out.”

  “Wow, is that a compliment?”

  Burke didn't reply. He took another sip of his coffee.

  “All I can tell you is what Sumners and I discussed,” I said. “We both suspect Nevin Barlow is in some way involved with the criminal aspects of the Mancini family business.”

  “But you’ve found no proof?” Burke said.

  I shook my head. “No. At the moment I am being paid by Elizabeth Barlow to gather evidence Nevin Barlow is having an affair.”

  “How's that going?” Burke asked.

  “I believe I have identified the mistress. I am still looking for actual proof of the affair.”

  “And when you prove it?” Burke said.

  “Prove it or come up empty,” I said just to be fair.

  “Being a thorough and principled private detective,” Burke said.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Okay, so after concluding your case for Elizabeth Barlow?”

  “I will be unofficially assisting the Bureau in exploring the connections between Nevin Barlow and the Mancini crime family.”

  Two women in stylish business outfits took a seat behind me. They were talking about how to best position their company for some sort of leveraged buyout.

  “Let me guess,” I said to Burke, “you would like me to keep you in the loop as well?”

  “I did just buy you coffee,” he said.

  “Well, that seals the deal.”

  “Good,” Burke said. “The working theory is that Nevin Barlow is involved with the Mancini crime family in heavy-duty money laundering. We're talking millions of dollars being washed through a number of businesses throughout the state. Looks like the same has been going on in Washington, D.C., New York, and a few other cities where Barlow, Hughes, and Waterford have offices.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “Is the Kitten Club in Boston on the list of suspected businesses?”

  “I'd have to check,” Burke said. “We just caught the case. I haven't taken a deep dive into what we've got yet. Let me guess, though, the Kitten Club has nothing to do with cute little kitty cats.”

  “Not exactly. And the guy who owns it is a real low-life. He has also been spotted in the company of Nevin Barlow and Leo Mancini.”

  Burke nodded as he shifted in his chair.

  “I had a little dust up with Gordie, the Kitten Club owner, and his two goons named Bruno and Paulie.”

  “Over what?” Burke said.

  “Gordie roughed up a few of the girls working for him.”

  “And you went to have a chat with Gordie about how that isn't an okay thing to do?”

  “Yep.”

  “And he put Bruno and Paulie on you. Figuring the odds were in their favor.”

  I nodded.

  “That was a mistake,” Burke said.

  I nodded again. Then I drank some of my Pike Place Roast. I enjoyed the mild taste from the predominately Latin American coffee beans.

  “So Bruno and Paulie didn't fair too well?” Burke said.

  “Nope.”

  Burke shrugged. “Self defense on your part,” he commented.

  “That's the way I see it.”

  “What about Gordie?”

  “A few bruises to the face.”

  “Got caught up in the scuffle?” Burke said.

  “Risk of being so close with fists flying everywhere.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “A young lady who works at the Kitten Club.”

  “How'd she see it go down?”

  “I didn't ask,” I said. “But I figure she'd see it as my defending myself against three other guys.”

  “I'd figure it that way, too. Besides, that's more an issue for the BPD.”

  “I don't think anyone at the Kitten Club will be calling the Boston cops,” I said.

  “You're probably right,” Burke said. He paused a beat. “You think Gordie will want to come at you again?”

  “He seemed genuinely scared in the moment, but with time he may feel the need to find guys tougher than Bruno and Paulie to make a run at me.”

  “Especially if you start looking into if he's laundering money for Barlow and Mancini.”

  “Hazard of the profession,” I said.

  “Just be careful.”

  “I didn't know you cared.”

  “You are occasionally a useful resource to the Massachusetts State Police. I'm not interested in finding another private detective who can fill that role.”

  “And I'm a lot of fun to have around,” I said.

  Burke finished his coffee and stood. “Keep me posted,” he said. “And watch your back.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Nevin Barlow was having dinner with a young woman who looked like she was more than capable of twirling on a pole in a strip club. I snapped a picture of the two of them with my phone. I texted the image to Candy.

  Is this Diamond/Tamara? I asked her.

  Yes, she replied.

  It looked like I would have my evidence by the end of the evening.

  After dinner I followed Nevin and Tamara to a hotel on the Boston waterfront. I took out my Canon digital camera with a zoom lens and snapped pictures of them as they entered the hotel. I followed them into the lobby and watched them get on an elevator.

  I approached the desk clerk named Steve. He recognized me from another case I had worked a few months ago.

  “Any chance I can get the room number for the guy and gal just got on the elevator?”

  “Any chance you have a Benjamin?” he said.

  “A hundred bucks for a room number?”

  “I shouldn't be giving out guest room numbers for any amount. Unless you are law enforcement. Which, you are not.”

  He had me there, but it was for the greater good. At least the greater good in closing my case with Elizabeth Barlow.

  “I sometimes work with law enforcement,” I said.

  “Are you now? For this case?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Steve held out his hand.

  “How about fifty?” I said. “It is all I can justify to my client.”

  It was also all I had in my wallet.

  Steve frowned. “Fine,” he said.

  I took out my wallet and paid him. He counted the cash and stuffed it into his pocket.

  “Room 715,” he said.

  “What name did he check-in under?” I asked.

  “You'll love this,” Steve said. “William Belichick.”

 
“William, huh? A bit formal.”

  Steve shrugged and smiled.

  “I'd say thanks, but you took my last fifty bucks.”

  “Price of doing business, Mr. Patrick.”

  I crossed the lobby and took the elevator to the seventh floor. Room 715 was down the hall to the left. When I got to the door, I readied my camera. I knocked.

  “Coach Belichick?” I said. “Room service. Compliments of the management.”

  The door opened and Nevin Barlow stood in a bathrobe.

  “Hey, you're not room service.”

  “And you're not Bill Belichick. Imagine my disappointment.”

  I pushed past him into the room. Tamara Wallace screeched and pulled the sheets up to cover her naked body. I snapped a picture of her in the bed.

  “You're a touch shy for a woman who takes her clothes off for a living,” I said.

  “What the hell do you think you are doing?” Nevin screamed at me. He tried to grab my camera. I held it out of his reach. Part of me wanted to see him jump for it. He didn't.

  “I'll sue your ass,” he said.

  “Doubt it,” I said. I pushed him onto the bed next to Tamara. “Say cheese.” I took a picture of the two of them.

  “You better give me that camera or I'll—”

  “You'll what?” I interjected.

  “I'm calling hotel security,” Nevin said. He reached for the bedside phone.

  “Go right ahead,” I said. “I have what I came for.”

  I turned toward the door.

  “Wait!” Nevin shouted at me. Perhaps he finally added things up. “How much are you getting for the pictures? I'll double it.”

  “What sort of professional ethics would I have if I sold evidence obtained for a client?”

  “Ethics?” Nevin puffed. “Who gives a shit about ethics? I'm talking about the universal language of money. I'll triple whatever you are being paid.”

  “That is tempting,” I said. “But I'm going to have to say no to your offer.”

  “My wife hired you, didn't she?”

  “I am not at liberty to discuss my client.”

  “Who else would it be?” Nevin said.

  “I really can't say,” I said. “Have a nice evening.” I opened the door.

  “Wait!” Nevin called after me. “Name your price!”

  “I'm good,” I said. I stepped into the hall and let the door to room 715 close behind me. As I walked down the hall, I heard the door open. Nevin had stepped into the hall and pleaded with me again. He tried to explain how cold and loveless his wife was.

  I could accept that premise, but Elizabeth Barlow didn't hire me to prove she wasn't a loving wife. She had hired me to prove Nevin Barlow was a cheating husband. It was even possible Elizabeth Barlow started out a loving wife. Years of her husband's infidelity could have easily soured her. That would be a plausible outcome.

  As I stepped onto the elevator, Nevin was running down the hall.

  “You're messing with the wrong guy,” he said as I pressed the button for the lobby. He shouted as the elevator doors closed between us, “I'll get you!”

  Take a number, I thought.

  CHAPTER 12

  I delivered my report to Elizabeth Barlow. We sat in the same uncomfortable chairs, in the same drawing room, as my earlier visit. On this day she wore a designer outfit from some boutique I'm confident I had never been in.

  “These will be satisfactorily to prove my husband's marital infidelity,” Elizabeth Barlow stated as she looked at the photos I had taken.

  “I should think so,” I said.

  “Well done, Mr. Patrick.”

  “Service with a smile,” I said. I gave her another chance to swoon at my full wattage smile. She offered no reaction. I felt for the woman. She was dead inside. I knew my full smile was worthy of the cover of GQ or People's Sexiest Man Alive edition.

  “This is your final bill?” she asked as she examined what was, in fact, my final bill for her case.

  “I'm not sure why it would cost fifty dollars to get a hotel room number from a desk clerk, but I will not quibble,” she commented as she went down the list of my itemized expenses.

  “He is one of the less agreeable hotel desk clerks in Boston,” I said.

  I had listed the cash to Candy, Bambi, and Sparkles as payment to informants. Mrs. Barlow didn't question that line item. She took out her checkbook and wrote me a final check.

  “Here you go,” she said as she handed me the check. “This concludes our business.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Any chance I can get you to leave a Google review?”

  I wasn't sure if I even had Google reviews, but every business seems to covet them.

  “I don't use the Internet,” she said as a matter of fact.

  “It can be a time suck,” I said. “All the social media posting.”

  Elizabeth Barlow looked at her watch. “I have another appointment to get to.”

  “Before I leave,” I said. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “I suppose not,” she said.

  “Do you know if you husband has any business dealings outside of Barlow, Hughes, and Waterford?” I asked. I knew it was a long-shot, but it didn't hurt to ask.

  “Mr. Patrick, I told you when I hired you that I am a very private person,” she said. “I don't see how your question is relevant.”

  “To your case,” I said, “It isn't.”

  “Then I see no reason to answer.”

  “You are aware your husband legally represents some bad people?”

  “I suppose not all of his clients are stellar human beings,” she replied dismissively. “Where are you going with your line of questioning?”

  “Just trying to figure out the nature of Mr. Barlow's dealings with those known to operate in Boston's crime world.”

  “Mr. Patrick, you are letting your imagination run wild. Nevin is a pig of a man, and clearly a cheat, but he is not a criminal. Why would he be?”

  “Why ask why?” I said.

  “Nevin is a highly respected and powerful attorney. And his law practice has made us wealthy beyond belief.”

  “Modest, too,” I said.

  Elizabeth Barlow ignored me. I was used to being ignored when searching for information.

  “I assure you, Mr. Patrick, Nevin would have far too much to lose by getting involved with illegal activity.”

  “Unless his hubris leads him to believe he'd never get caught.”

  Elizabeth Barlow laughed a refined and rehearsed finishing school laugh. “I understand you are used to dealing with criminals in your line of work, but I think you are seeing them where they are not.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “But I am usually right when it comes to bad guys.”

  “I am growing bored with this conversation,” Elizabeth Barlow said. “As you have no doubt discerned from this case, I rather despise my soon-to-be ex-husband, but you are wasting your time if you believe Nevin is a criminal.”

  “I guess time will tell. But if I were you, Mrs. Barlow, I would file your divorce papers and get out before things turn really ugly.”

  She gave a half-smile. “I may not be a high-powered attorney like Nevin, but I am no fool. He will rue the day he decided to be unfaithful. I am not someone easily dismissed.”

  “No Ma'am,” I said.

  “As for this business about Nevin being involved with criminal activities, I suggest you let it go.”

  “I'm more like a dog with a bone.”

  “If that is all, I need to be going.” She picked up a handbell and rang it. I felt like it was time for school on Little House on the Prairie. The maid Monique appeared in the entry to the drawing room.

  “Please show Mr. Patrick out,” Mrs. Barlow said to Monique. “And have Gerald get the car ready.”

  Monique said, “Yes, Ma'am.” She looked in my direction. “This way, Mr. Patrick.”

  I nodded at Monique. I turned toward Elizabeth Barlow. “Thank you, Mrs. Barlow.
It has been a pleasure.” That wasn't entirely true, but it seemed the polite and professional thing to say. “I am sorry about the circumstances.”

  Elizabeth Barlow offered a partial nod of her head and waved me away with her right hand. I followed Monique out of the house. Gerald was pulling the Mercedes S-Class sedan out of the garage. It was still shiny from when he waxed it the other day. Or maybe he waxed it every day.

  When I reached the guardhouse, Marcus asked if he could meet with me. We arranged a time for him to come to my office when he got off work.

  “This is confidential, right?” he asked me.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “Something isn't right around here.”

  “With the Barlows?” I said.

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Beyond them not having a loving and honest marriage?”

  “Way beyond that. I'm talking legit criminal stuff.”

  “You have piqued my interest,” I said.

  CHAPTER 13

  BRODY

  “Her name is Laura Powell,” Brody said to his associate as he showed him the photograph. The associate's name was Oscar. Brody had used him before in Boston. He wasn't the best, but he would do.

  “She's attractive,” Oscar said. He was not. A medium-size guy with a crooked nose, shifty eyes, and a pock-marked face. “What she do?”

  "I don't know," Brody replied in a harsh and threatening tone. "And I don't care."

  “You aren't the least bit curious about why you are going to bump someone off?”

  “No.”

  “Whatever, dude,” Oscar said.

  “Do you want the job or not?” Brody asked.

  “Yeah. Sure. I want the job.”

  Oscar needed the money. He didn't care what Brody wanted him to do. If Brody was paying, Oscar was down with it.

  “Then no more questions,” Brody told him.

  “Okay. Fine.”

  “When she gets off work tonight, Ms. Powell will have an unfortunate accident.”

  Brody explained the plan to Oscar.

  “That's it?” Oscar said.

  “That's it,” Brody said. “Here's the number to call.” Brody handed Oscar the number to a burner phone. “Be outside Barlow, Hughes, and Waterford at five o'clock. Laura Powell gets out of work between five-thirty and six.”