Deception

by Jason Richards

  “Nevin, think about the firm,” Hughes pleaded.

  “The firm will be fine,” Barlow said. “You can deny it all because it is true you didn't know about any of this.”

  “How does Vincent Gallaway fit into all of this?” Burke asked Barlow. “Other than bopping your wife.”

  “You know about that?” Barlow said, dejected. “Turn about is fair play, I guess. I had never been faithful to Elizabeth. I couldn't help myself around other women.”

  “Won't be a problem for you in prison,” I said.

  Barlow hung his head. As he looked into the table he began speaking again, “When Vince was an agent here in Boston he approached me and said he had evidence of the money-laundering. He told me no one else at the FBI had information about his discovery and we could keep it that way.

  “For a price?” Burke said.

  “Yeah,” Barlow said. “ For a price, he would look the other way.”

  “So you started paying him hush money?” I said.

  “Yes,” Barlow said. “And we had that arrangement for a decade. We both made millions.”

  “How did you transfer the cash to Gallaway?” Sumners asked.

  “Wire transfer to an off-shore account he set up,” Barlow said. “But it wasn't enough for Vince. He wanted more. He suggested we take out Leo Mancini and split the money just between us.”

  “What did you say?” Sumners asked.

  “I told him no. I couldn't cross the Mancini family.”

  “So he took matters into his own hands, so to speak?” I said.

  “He hired that hitman. Walker.”

  “Let's back up a bit,” Sumners said. “He hired Brody Walker to kill Leo Mancini.”

  “And me,” I added. Just to make certain Burke and Sumners didn't forget that fact.

  “But that wasn't all, was it?” Sumners asked Barlow.

  “No,” Barlow said shaking his head. “Vince hired Walker to kill Philip Swanson and Laura Powell because they discovered I was transferring funds to Vince's off-shore account. I guess I got sloppy around the offices with the laptop I used to wire the money.”

  Barlow then wrote out and signed his confession. By the time he finished, FBI agents had returned with his laptop containing all his records. A junior agent led Barlow downstairs to a holding cell until he could be transferred to a jail cell while he awaited a hearing to set his trial date. Barlow was a flight risk, so it was unlikely a judge would let him out on bail.

  Marcus Quinn called my cell and informed me Elizabeth Barlow left the estate.

  “Do you know where she is going?” I asked Marcus.

  “No, but she left in a hurry. And she’s driving herself. She never does that.”

  “Can you follow her and let me know her movements?”

  “Sure can,” Marcus said.

  “Good. We’ll catch up.” I ended the call with Marcus and turned to Burke and Sumners. “On a hunch I had the head of security at the Barlow estate keep an eye out for either Elizabeth Barlow leaving or Vincent Gallaway arriving.”

  “Thinking their love affair might not be over?” Burke said. “Smart.”

  “Ace private detective,” I said. Then I continued, “Elizabeth Barlow just left the estate in a hurry. She is also driving her car, which Marcus says she never does.”

  Sumners nodded his head approvingly and said, “Change in routine. Leaving in a hurry. A good chance she leads us to Gallaway.”

  “Marcus is following her. I told him we’d be sending the cops and feds.”

  “Then we better get some cops and feds dispatched,” Burke said.

  CHAPTER 37

  Elizabeth Barlow was headed south on VFW Parkway.

  “Where is she going?” Sumners said aloud to no one in particular.

  “Wherever it is, we aren't catching up with her,” Burke said. “It will take almost an hour just to get from Chelsea to Brookline.”

  “You can dispatch State Police anywhere along the route,” Sumners said to Burke.

  “And I have,” Burke said. “But I want to be there. You do too. So does Drew.”

  “Wherever there ends up being,” I said.

  “I'm calling in a chopper,” Burke said.

  A State Police helicopter picked us up, and we soon had a birdseye view of Elizabeth Barlow's Mercedes S-Class sedan. Marcus was still in pursuit, as were two unmarked State Police cars. We passed West Roxbury and then Dedham.

  We were thinking of possible destinations. Which literally could have been anywhere south of Brookline.

  Sumners' voice crackled through the headset, “What in this direction makes the most sense?”

  “She's not heading toward the coast,” Burke's voice clicked in, “so an escape by boat doesn't seem likely.”

  “There is a general aviation airport in Norwood,” I said. It sounded strange to hear my voice come back to me through the headset.

  “Does Gallaway have a GA pilot's license?” Sumners asked.

  “Why not Elizabeth Barlow?” Burke said.

  Sumners and I looked at him. “Sanchez is always reminding me not to be sexist,” he said.

  “True,” I said. “Either, or both, could have a pilot's license. But there is also a private jet charter company based at the airport.”

  “They have enough money to charter a private jet,” Burke commented.

  “Convenient way to slip out of the country,” Sumners said.

  “Didn't Elizabeth Barlow mention she and Gallaway discussed getting married and moving to the Marshall Islands?” I said.

  “The Marshall Islands don't have an extradition treaty with the United States,” Sumners said.

  “Be a good place to go if you are evading arrest,” Burke said.

  “Perhaps Gallaway planned it as an exit strategy all along,” I said. “Just in case things went sideways at any point.”

  “Do you think they would still go there after she mentioned it to us?” Burke said.

  “I doubt that would register for her,” I said. “She only mentioned it in passing while she was upset.”

  “I agree,” Sumners said.

  Burke nodded and said, “We'll find out soon enough.”

  Fifteen minutes later Elizabeth Barlow pulled up to a hanger at Norwood Airport. A gleaming Gulfstream jet sat on the tarmac outside the hanger. She was getting out of her Mercedes when the State Police helicopter touched down in front of the Gulfstream. Burke, Sumners, and I got out of the helicopter. Marcus exited his car and stood back, uncertain of his role, but not wanting to miss whatever went down.

  State Police fanned out to search the airport for Vincent Gallaway. Two troopers boarded the Gulfstream. Moments later they reappeared shaking their heads to indicate Gallaway was not on board the jet.

  As the helicopter engine shut down and the rotors slowed, Sumners called out to Elizabeth Barlow, “Taking a trip, Mrs. Barlow?”

  “Yes. Is that a crime? I need to get away from this horrid business about Nevin.”

  “You taking this fancy private jet all by yourself?” I said.

  “The only way to fly,” she remarked, her eyes darting around.

  “May we help you officers?” A man's voice asked from behind us.

  We turned and a distinguished-looking man in a pilot's uniform approached from the jet. He had spiffy gold wing emblems embroidered on the shoulders of his shirt.

  “I'm Captain Rogers,” he said. “The pilot for this flight.”

  “Is your first name Steve?” I asked, thinking it would be pretty cool to be able to tell people your name was Steve Rogers.

  “No, but I get that a lot,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?” Burke asked me.

  “Steve Rogers. Captain America. Don't you go to the movies?”

  “Ah, right,” Burke said. “Well, I'm Detective Captain Burke with the Massachusetts State Police. This is Special Agent Mark Sumners with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and Drew Patrick. He's a private detective assisting with o
ur investigation.”

  “Do you have a Vincent Gallaway as a passenger on your flight today?” Sumners asked Captain Rogers.

  “Do you have a warrant or reason for me to divulge passenger information?” Captain Rogers asked.

  “Mr. Gallaway is wanted for orchestrating two murders and two other attempts at murder,” Sumners replied. “Not to mention laundering drug money with a Boston mobster.”

  “Who, by the way, was one of the guys he had killed,” Burke said.

  “We should also mention his other partner in crime is Elizabeth Barlow's soon-to-be ex-husband,” I said.

  “Is that someone you want aboard your flight?” I said.

  “Mr. Gallaway is scheduled to be a passenger aboard the flight,” Captain Rogers said. “But he has not arrived yet.”

  Elizabeth Barlow broke down in tears. “We planned to start a whole new life together,” she said to no one in particular. “A life free of Nevin. A life free of everything.”

  “Except the knowledge and guilt of what Vincent and your husband did,” I said.

  She fell to her knees on the ground and sobbed. A female State Trooper helped her to her feet and escorted her to the backseat of a State Police vehicle. I wasn't certain what would happen to her.

  Captain Rogers glanced at his watch. “Mr. Gallaway is schedule to arrive in a few minutes,” he said.

  “Perhaps we should form a welcoming committee at the airport entrance,” Burke said.

  Burke, Sumners, and I piled into one of the State Police vehicles. A rookie trooper was behind the wheel.

  “First big bust, kid?” Burke asked him.

  “Yes, Sir,” he replied.

  “You never forget your first,” Burke said. “Let's go.”

  We drove to the airport entrance with two other State Police SUVs accompanying us. A Lincoln Town Car approached and stopped. Two additional State Police SUVs boxed in the Town Car as it started backing up. The troopers exited their vehicles with guns drawn and assumed their crouching positions behind their open doors. We did the same.

  I knew neither Burke nor Sumners wanted to say something as cliché as “we've got you surrounded,” but the options were limited.

  “You've got nowhere to go, Gallaway,” Sumners said.

  It seemed pretty obvious to me this was the reality of the situation. I wondered if it was as obvious to Gallaway. He was now a cornered animal. That made his actions, and the situation, unpredictable. We had no way of knowing if Gallaway was armed, but I figured he would have his Bureau-issued Glock on him.

  There was also an innocent driver from the car service which may have already thrown us into a hostage situation. Seconds seemed like long minutes as we waited for a response from Gallaway.

  Burke didn't like the silence. “It's over, Vince,” he said. “We already have Nevin Barlow in custody. We know everything. There is hard evidence against you. Let's end this peacefully so no one gets hurt.”

  “You've got Barlow,” Gallaway shouted from inside the back of the Towne Car. "Leave me out of it and you can still close your case with lots of headlines."

  “It’s not going to happen like that,” Sumners said. “This will go easier for you if you give yourself up. If someone gets hurt here, it will be a lot worse for you when we take you in.” Sumners emphasized the when.

  “See this,” Gallaway said as he showed his Glock. “You don't let me go and you will have a dead driver on your hands.”

  “You won't do that,” Sumners said. “He has nothing to do with any of this. Even you are not that cold a killer.”

  “Desperate times,” Gallaway said.

  “Keep him talking,” I said to Sumners. I ducked around the back of the SUV and moved into a bramble of bushes along the side of the road.

  “This ends how you force it to end,” Sumners said to Gallaway. “You are in control of this situation. Not me. Not Captain Burke. You're a smart guy, Vince. Don't do something stupid. Because this is going to end. We both know that. It can end with you in custody or a body bag. Choice is yours.”

  Jeez, kinda dark, I thought as I positioned myself in the bushes.

  “Maybe I'd rather be dead than spend the rest of my life in prison. I wouldn't last a week in the joint. Do you know how many dangerous people I have sent away over the years? Guys with an opportunity at revenge if I end up in their cell block?”

  “You don't want to do that,” Sumners said. “We can keep you out of the general prison population.”

  From that moment the rest of the stand-off was a blur. Time for me sped up. For everyone else, it probably seemed to stand still. I could still hear voices, but they became distant in my mind. My singular focus was on Gallaway in the back of the Towne Car.

  I moved out of the bushes keeping low to the ground. Gallaway was looking forward towards Burke and Sumners. His lips moved, but I wasn't concentrating on sounds. Only sight. The sight of Gallaway getting bigger in my field of vision as I crept closer to the side of the Towne Car.

  My gun was drawn and pointed down at my side. I didn't even remember taking it out of the holster on my right hip. Muscle memory from years of experience, gut instinct, whatever you want to call it, had taken over.

  My singular focus was removing the threat Vincent Gallaway posed to everyone else. He was not going to let us simply arrest him. That hope, as scant as it had been in the beginning, quickly slipped away.

  Vince Gallaway had to be neutralized or someone was going to die out here today. Vince, either by his own hand or suicide by cop – forcing one of the State Troopers to take him out. Maybe the innocent Towne Car driver if Vince completely lost it. A member of law enforcement. Me.

  I would not let any of those possibilities become a horrific reality. Even Vince taking one of his own bullets wasn't an outcome I desired. That would be too

  easy an out for him. He deserved to suffer in prison for the rest of his life. And the trauma that would cause for the poor guy who got up this morning to drive for a car service was unthinkable.

  My feet moved beneath me without thought. I could feel the burn in my thighs and lower back as I moved low to the ground, out of sight. My heart pounded so hard I feared it would announce my presence. But Gallaway still faced forward. He wasn't saying anything. Sumners must have been talking.

  I don't even remember my brain sending the signal as my knees straightened and back unfolded in one fluid motion. My right arm was outstretched and the barrel of my gun was no longer pointed downward. It only took a second for the window glass to shatter and a bullet to lodge into Gallaway's arm.

  The force knocked him sideways into the car door. I was in the backseat before he had time to react. I grabbed Gallaway's Glock with my left hand while I kept my gun on him with my right. State Police opened Gallaway's door and pulled him out of the Towne Car.

  “Are you okay?” I asked the driver.

  “I think so,” he muttered in a state of shock and relief.

  CHAPTER 38

  The soft glow of candlelight illumined Jessica's face. We were drinking red wine, but Jessica's smile is what intoxicated me.

  “I would serve Drew the vino,” Big Lou stated, “but only the best for you Ms. Casey. Brunello di Montalcino. This is the Sangiovese many a wine critic say is the best in Italy. It's noted for having thicker-skinned—”

  “Okay,” I interjected. “We get it. This is a fantastic red wine.”

  “You see what I mean?” Big Lou said to Jessica. “This big lug has no appreciation for the finer things in life.”

  "With wine, I can't tell much of a difference. But I do appreciate the truly finer things in life," I said as I looked at Jessica.

  “He is certainly sweet on you,” Big Lou said. “Now, let me go check on your appetizers.” Big Lou went toward the kitchen.

  “This is a nice place,” Jessica said. “Romantic.”

  “Surprisingly, it is,” I said. “And now Big Lou will get off my case about never eating here.”

  “So
that is the only reason you brought me here?”

  “Not the only reason.”

  “What's the other?” Jessica asked as she rested her chin in her palm.

  “To gaze into your eyes and whisper sweet nothings in your ears.”

  “Okay, you're off the hook.”

  “I didn't realize I was on the hook.”

  “Maybe just a little,” she said. “You put yourself in harm's way today.”

  “Not the first time,” I said. “Won't be the last.”

  “I know it is part of the job, but I still don't like it.”

  “I could come to work for Pinnacle and investigate missing pieces of art or follow rich guys around to see if they are cheating on their wives.”

  “Didn't you just do that?”

  “Yes, but that is not a normal case for me. Plus, it led me to a stand-off with a dirty FBI agent who I ended up shooting.”

  There was a song playing in Italian. I recognized the tune, but could not remember the words in English. Which, most likely, had been translated from the original Italian song we were presently enjoying.

  “No Little John this evening?” Jessica asked.

  “He's helping in the kitchen. Sort of a sous chef to the sous chef.”

  “I didn't realize he liked to cook.”

  “More likely he's boiling water for the pasta.”

  Big Lou's restaurant was at full capacity during the dinner hour, and customers seemed to enjoy both the ambiance and the food. Perhaps we should have eaten here sooner.

  Jessica took a sip of wine. I could tell she enjoyed it. I liked it just fine. I would have liked a beer just fine, too. Or even an iced tea. But I was glad to know the selection pleased her.

  “What will happen with Barlow, Hughes, and Waterford?” Jessica asked.

  I shrugged. “Not sure,” I said. “Except an immediate name change now that Nevin Barlow is no longer a partner.”

  “And soon to be a convicted felon.”

  “That too.”

  “I heard on the news Laura Powell will make a full recovery,” Jessica commented.

  “Yes. They took her out of the medically induced coma. It will be a long recovery, but she is healing faster than expected. Although she doesn't remember much from the hit-and-run, which is probably a good thing.”