“Has Ashley been reported missing?” Grace asked. “It’s not unusual for her to jet off somewhere.”
“She has not been officially reported missing to the police,” I said. “But her parents are concerned they have not heard from her in five days. They did indicated she likes to jet off places, but she has never been out of contact quite this long.”
“It wouldn’t be strange for her not to contact her mother,” Cristina said. “They don’t get along. But she adores her father.”
Cristina’s comment explained much about the different reactions from Cynthia and Jeffrey in my office. “Do either of you have any idea where Ashley may have gone recently? Her parents mentioned a lake house.”
They shook their heads. “Ashley didn’t mention anything about a lake house,” Cristina said. “But, like we mentioned, it has been at least two weeks since either of us spoke with her.”
I nodded. “No posts on social media?” I asked.
Again head shakes.
A workman entered the Longfellow Room carrying a ladder. He looked to be in his late fifties and carried a little extra weight.
“Excuse me a moment,” Cristina said to me. She stepped away. “It’s the light in the center, Mike,” she said to the workman.
“I’ll replace it in a jiffy,” Mike replied. Cristina stepped back as Mike set up the ladder.
“Last minute fixes before the luncheon today,” Cristina said.
“Does Ashley have a boyfriend?” I said. “Or someone she has been seeing lately?”
Cristina and Grace looked at each other. Their glances told me they knew something, but were hesitant to share. “It might be important,” I said.
Grace looked at me and said, “She mentioned to me she was seeing some rich older guy. Somebody pretty famous, but she wouldn’t tell me his name.”
“When was this?”
Grace thought for a moment. “About a month ago, maybe.”
I nodded and then looked at Cristina. “Did she mention this to you?” I asked.
Cristina nodded. “Yeah. But like Grace, Ashley didn’t tell me anything more than that. I couldn’t even get her to give me any hints who the guy might be.”
“Other than rich, older, and somewhat famous?” I said.
“That about sums it up,” Cristina said.
“Yeah,” Grace added.
I heard Mike clatter down the ladder after replacing the light bulb.
“Ashley dates lots of guys,” Cristina said. “She’s always going to fancy parties.”
“Does she usually date older guys?” I said.
“Sometimes,” Grace said.
“All done,” Mike called over.
“Thanks, Mike,” Cristina called back glancing around me.
“And you have no idea who this guy she is dating might be?” I said.
“Not a clue,” said Grace. “Ashley never dates any guy for very long, so it’s not worth investing the time in finding out.”
“Anything else you can think of?” I said.
Cristina and Grace shook their heads in near perfect timing. They hadn’t wanted to share that Ashley was dating some older, rich, famous guy. But I felt it was more not wanting to talk about a friend’s personal life more than they were trying to hide something from my investigation. I also figured I learned all I was going to from them.
“Thank you for your time,” I said. “If you hear from Ashley, or think of anything else, please call me. Or text. Or send up a smoke signal.”
Cristina and Grace laughed softly. Professional and dignified laughs. I let them get back to their iPad. As I exited the Longfellow Room, Mike was up on his ladder fixing the hinge of a door. Busy guy.
My conversation with Cristina and Grace gave a little more information than I had before I met with them, but I still didn’t know much. Detecting is a process of gathering lots of little bits of information. In the end, you hope the lots of little bits add up to something big enough to offer a solution.
I contacted a few more names on the list and learned exactly nothing more. Since I always work better on a full stomach, I determined lunch was in order. It would give me time to think through the case. And since two minds are better than one, I contacted Jessica Casey to join me.
Jessica worked as a private investigator for a large international detective agency based in Boston. She had a snazzy office in their downtown building and mostly dealt with high-end clients like the Hollands. I only occasionally got high-end clients, and that was fine by me.
“Hello, handsome,” Jessica’s voice greeted me when she answered her phone. Jessica and I are romantically involved, but we haven’t found a need to label our relationship. What we have is special, and it works.
“Join me for lunch?” I said.
“I have an afternoon full of new client meetings, but I can sneak out for a bit. In fact, my first meeting is in Cambridge. I can meet you somewhere in Harvard Square.”
“How about Pinocchio’s?”
“Ooh, big spender.”
“Your afternoon of new client meetings limits our options. Besides, what could be better on a cool fall day than a hot slice of Sicilian-style pizza?”
“Just one slice?” she said.
“Okay, two. Maybe three.”
“I could go for a slice of eggplant.”
“Now why would you ruin a perfectly good slice of pizza by adding eggplant?” I said.
“I like eggplant. You should expand your palate.”
“I’m good with pepperoni.”
“At least we can agree on no anchovies,” she said.
“Definitely,” I said.
“Give me a half-hour,” she said. “I’ll meet you there.”
“I’ll be the good-looking guy with a hint of danger about him.”
“I just happen to go for good-looking guys with a hint of danger about them.”
“Lucky me,” I said. And I was.
CHAPTER 4
Harvard Square was buzzing with activity as people enjoyed the beautiful fall afternoon before rain from northern New England would roll in later. I pulled my Harvard baseball cap on tightly against the crisp autumn breeze. The crimson cap, with the white capital H on the front, gave the appearance that I was either a person of great intellect or had shelled out twenty-four bucks at the Coop.
My gray Northeastern University sweatshirt represented my Alma mater and kept me toasty warm as I walked down Brattle Street. Perhaps my sweatshirt confirmed the authenticity of my college diploma for Cynthia Holland. My blue jeans were classic Levis and well broken in, just the way I liked them. The same went for my New Balance sneakers.
I passed Brattle Square and crossed over Mount Auburn Street. I cut through Winthrop Square and admired the bright fall colors on the trees. I crossed John F. Kennedy Street to Winthrop Street. Harvard students passed me on the sidewalk carrying pizza boxes from Pinocchio's.
Through the plate-glass window I could see the small pizza and sub shop was busy as usual. I went in, made my way to the counter, and ordered. Two slices of pepperoni for me, and a slice of eggplant for Jessica. I completed the order with a Coke and bottled water and paid. Jessica would sip her water while I had a Coke and a smile.
Two coeds got up to leave and offered me their table by the window overlooking Winthrop Street. I smiled and thanked them. They smiled back. The usual reaction. Maybe I didn't need to check with my mother.
As I was sitting, I spotted Jessica on Winthrop Street approaching the restaurant. Her five foot ten inch athletic frame moved quickly. Jessica believed in arriving at least ten minutes early to any appointment. Even for a casual lunch with her favorite guy.
As she entered Pinocchio's, customers did a double-take. I saw it often. At first glance Jessica had a passing resemblance to Gisele Bündchen. With a little closer inspection the customers realized Jessica's hair was more chestnut, and she had light green eyes.
A few took a moment longer to consider her. Could Gisele be in disguise? Is there a Tom Brad
y sighting? All the patrons of Pinocchio's seemed satisfied Jessica was not Gisele and went back to eating their pizza and subs.
“Do people ever wonder if I'm Tom Brady when I'm with you?” I said.
Jessica wrinkled her nose and said, “You have dark hair and are two inches shorter. But you have similar blue eyes.”
“You left out every bit as handsome and a similar gun for an arm.”
“Goes without saying.”
“But that would be a 'no'?” I said
Jessica nodded her head and then gave me a kiss.
“But you're the star quarterback of my team,” she said as she removed her blue LL Bean fleece pea coat.
“Best team around,” I said.
Jessica placed her jacket over the back of her chair and sat. If she hadn't already told me she would be meeting a client, her charcoal pants suit and white blouse would have been a clue. Everyone at Jessica's agency wore suits. Their detectives were former FBI, Secret Service, police, and lawyers. Jessica fell into the latter category.
“So Pinnacle Detective Agency doesn't have enough clients in Boston that they are sending you to Cambridge?” I said before taking a bite of my pizza.
“Worried about the competition?” Jessica said with a grin.
“We don't exactly fish in the same client pond,” I said. “Unless the Pinnacle waters are drying up.”
“Hardly,” said Jessica. “Some of our clients have us on retainer to investigate the missing keys to their beamers.”
“Can't they just take the Mercedes instead?”
Jessica paused in taking a bite of her pizza and laughed.
“And you wonder why I don't have you over to the office more,” she said grinning.
“Oh, I know why,” I said. “Plus, I hate to wear suits.”
“How did you ever last five years with the FBI?”
“I was finding myself,” I said.
I polished off my first slice of pizza. Jessica was only half-way through her slice.
“Seriously,” Jessica said, “we have some very challenging cases. Plus, there is all the travel.”
Jessica often spent time in New York, Los Angeles, London, and cities across Europe.
“Ah, the glitz and glamour of international investigations,” I said. “You know, if you ever want to take on grittier cases, Dash and I can always make space for you on Brattle Street.”
“While we work well together on the occasional case, I'm not sure being partners is in either of our best interests.”
“Does save on changing the sign and business cards,” I said.
I was well into my second slice. Jessica still had a quarter of her slice remaining.
“Besides,” she said, “I get enough grit when I help out on some of your cases.”
“A little grit can go a long way,” I said. “Although I may be stepping up in the world.”
“Do tell.”
“I reeled in a rather large catch this morning,” I said. “I'm actually surprised they didn't go to Pinnacle.”
“Maybe they did, and we didn't take their case.” Jessica looked at me playfully.
“Or they decided to go straight to the Commonwealth's number one private investigator.”
“Who is the client?” Jessica said. “I can tell you if I met with them.”
“It's a good thing you are so cute,” I said.
“Right back at ya,” she said, raising her bottled water and titling it in my direction.
I raised my can of Coke and took a sip. “I can't believe they ever messed with the formula,” I said.
“That was over thirty years ago,” Jessica said.
“It was a big deal at the time.”
“Tell me about your new client.”
“Cynthia and Jeffrey Holland,” I said. “They've hired me to find their daughter, Ashley.”
“Wait a second,” Jessica said. “Ashley Holland? Do you have a picture of her?”
I pulled out my cell phone and found a picture of Ashley the Hollands had sent me. I handed the phone to Jessica. She considered the photo of Ashley a second, then nodded her head.
“The luck of your Irish family may truly be working for you today,” she said. “Ashley Holland is mentioned in one of our investigations.”
CHAPTER 5
Mercado
Mercado sat drinking a beer in Cheers on Beacon Hill. He was in the original basement level bar, not the replica set bar built on the ground floor after the popularity of the television sitcom. People sat drinking, eating, and enjoying themselves. A family passed wide-eyed with bags filled with Cheers swag from the gift shop. Tourists, he figured.
Mercado drained his beer and placed the empty mug on the bar. He nodded to the bartender who filled a mug from the tap and placed it in front of Mercado. Sam Adams Brick Red. The bartender swiped the empty mug away with his left hand in a single swift motion and wiped the bar dry with the cloth in his right.
Mercado took a sip of his beer. The bartender returned and placed an order of Pub Skins in front of Mercado.
“Get you anything else?” the bartender said.
“Another beer when I finish this one,” Mercado said.
“You got it.”
The bartender moved away to take the order of a couple who sat down at the opposite end of the bar.
Mercado checked his watch. His client would be there soon. On her insistence, they always met in a public place. He figured she was afraid to meet him alone. He was a dangerous man, so fearing him was not unreasonable.
He looked around but wasn't sure what she would look like. Other than the fact she was five foot five, slender, Caucasian, and in her late fifties, she had on a different disguise each time they met. He wasn't sure what was up with all the cloak and dagger spy shit.
It wasn't like he was going to blab about who was paying him for contract killings. That wouldn't be good for business. Mercado was very discreet. And careful.
So was the client. Or so she believed. Mercado had figured out who she was fairly quickly. It wasn't difficult given the assignments. He also had trailed her home to a Brownstone in Boston's Back Bay.
But he played along. She was the client. It was no skin off his nose. As long as she paid, what did he care?
Mercado waited by eating the potato skins, piled with cheddar cheese and bacon bits, and drinking his beer. He left the side of sour cream untouched.
A woman wearing a pink Red Sox cap, Cheers sweatshirt, and designer sunglasses sat next to him at the bar. A small purse hung at her side. She had dark straight hair that reached her waist. She looked like a 1960s version of Cher.
“I remember when this was the Bull and Finch Pub,” she said. “But I love the Cheers Hot Bloody Mary.”
That was the phrase Mercado was told his client would use.
He responded as agreed, “I'm drinking Sam Adams Brick Red.”
It was like his client imagined she was a villain in a James Bond movie.
The bartender came over. “What can I get you?” he asked the woman.
“Cheers Hot Bloody Mary,” she said.
“Coming right up,” the bartender said.
Hmm, Mercado thought, maybe she actually does like that drink.
“I trust you completed the job?” she said softly.
“Just like you asked,” Mercado said in a hushed tone, as required by the client. He slid a USB flash drive with a video of the accident taken from his cell phone. The woman took the flash drive and dropped in her purse.
Mercado continued, “I watched it after I transferred it to my computer to copy the file. It's a little dark and rainy, but you can make out the car and license plate well enough.”
“Very good,” she said.
The woman reached into her purse and handed an envelope to Mercado under the bar. He took the envelope and placed it in his jacket pocket. Even with his meaty hands, he could feel the stack of bills.
“The balance owed, deposit for your next job, and details on the girl
,” the woman said.
The bartender walked over and placed her drink on the bar in front of her.
“Thank you,” she said.
The bartender nodded with a smile. He glanced at Mercado's mug. Nearly empty. He turned to the taps behind him, filled a fresh mug with Sam Adams Brick Red, and placed it in front of Mercado.
Mercado nodded his appreciation to the bartender. The woman took a sip of her cocktail and waited for the bartender to move away before speaking again.
“Another accident. But different,” she said.
“No problem,” Mercado said.
“I'm leaving town tomorrow,” she said, “so I want it done tonight. We can meet at the airport in the morning. I've also left you details for that meeting in the envelope. Commit everything to memory, then destroy the paper.”
“Sure thing,” Mercado said. “Like burning it in a wastebasket? Probably better than shredding it.” He stifled a laugh but enjoyed toying with the woman.
“Whatever way is best,” she said in all seriousness.
Kind of sad. He had always found the woman rather pathetic. And desperate. But she also had ice coursing through her veins. Not enough to kill someone herself, but obviously enough to pay somebody else to do it for her.
That was Mercado's stock and trade.
Yet he didn't plan to become a contract killer. It just turned out that way.
He knew something was wrong with him. He understood his head was messed up. But he was too messed up to understand how he really got the way he did. But he figured it was too late to find out why.
“Good luck,” the woman said. She dropped money on the bar for her drink and got up from the bar stool.
Mercado would take good luck, but he didn't need it. He was skilled at what he did.
The woman turned and left. Half the Cheers Hot Bloody Mary left in the glass. Mercado finished his beer.
“Want another?” the bartender asked.
“No,” Mercado said. “I need to go to work.”
He paid and left.
CHAPTER 6
Drew Patrick
I looked like I had stepped off the page of a Lands End catalog with my light blue Oxford dress shirt, khaki chinos, and loafers. Jessica assured me the change of clothes would fit perfectly with Pinnacle's casual Friday. My definition of casual was a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, but I had been informed there is such a thing as too casual. At least I didn't have to dust off one of my suits.
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