The Pinnacle Detective Agency occupied 11,000 square feet of office space on Federal Street in downtown Boston. I rode the Red Line from Harvard Square to South Station. I exited South Station at Summer Street and crossed Summer and Atlantic Avenue. If I hadn't already eaten at Pinnochio's, I would have been tempted to stop at the Bon Me Food Truck. Full of pizza, I resisted.
I passed the Rose Kennedy Greenway Dewey Square. In warmer weather, the green space is occupied with Bostonians enjoying a picnic lunch, reading a book, or munching on fresh produce purchased at the Dewey Square Farmers Market. I crossed over Purchase Street near the Bank of America Financial Center. As I approached High Street I considered taking a right to pick up some chocolates by purveyors of fine chocolate at Au Chocolat for Jessica. She had amazing willpower to not stop by there every day, so I figured she deserved a treat. I’d stop on the way home.
People crowded into the buildings on Federal Street as they returned from lunch to resume high finance and other business dealings. I took my spot in the revolving door and entered the lobby. The beige stone flooring was buffed to a high gloss and large plate glass windows allowed patches of sun to stream in between the buildings which sat opposite on Federal Street. I waited by the bank of elevators surrounded by people in suits staring at the screens on their phones and tapping out text messages.
The elevator doors opened and the phone zombies stepped in without looking up from their glowing screens. I stood in the elevator with my back to the doors as they closed. I faced the crowd to see if anyone would notice. Perhaps it would even promote human interaction.
After a few beats, one woman glanced up at me. I gave her one of my world famous smiles. She returned an uneasy smile and then returned to her text message. Perhaps she was telling the person on the other end of the phone about the crazy guy facing all the other riders in the elevator.
We reached Pinnacle's floor and it appeared the woman was happy to see me turn around and step off the elevator. I turned back toward the elevator and waved. The woman tried not to look, but her eyes shifted upward long enough to see me before the doors closed. I guess I'll never know if she waved back. I doubted she had.
Pinnacle's hallway probably looked like every other hall in the building with the same beige stone floor tiles, modern high-sheen wood panels on the walls, and potted plants spaced evenly on either side of the doors. I entered Pinnacle's reception area and was greeted by a cheery Millennial. I had visited Pinnacle a number of times and the girl was new. She wore a lavender button-down dress shirt with navy blue chinos. We both looked the part for Pinnacle's casual Friday.
“How may I help you?” she said. Bubbly.
“I'm Drew Patrick, here to see Tyrell Evans,” I said as I handed her my business card.
She glanced at my card and then placed it on the reception desk. “Just a moment,” she said. I waited as she picked up the phone on her desk. “Mr. Evans, a Mr. Drew Patrick is here to see you.” She nodded and hung up the phone.
“Just through the door and to your right,” she said to me.
While I knew the way to Tyrell's office, I thanked her. We exchanged casual smiles to go along with the theme of casual Friday.
Tyrell Evans stood outside his office waiting for me as I approached. His six foot four-inch linebacker-sized body filled the door frame. His creased espresso skin and whitening hair revealed his sixty-five years.
Tyrell was the Investigator in Charge for Pinnacle Detective Agency. He had spent thirty years as Special Agent in Charge of the Boston FBI office before joining Pinnacle ten years ago. When Jessica got tired of pushing papers as a lawyer, it was Tyrell who suggested she get her private investigator license and join the agency. She's been a star at Pinnacle ever since.
“Drew, good to see you,” he said as he extended his large hand.
“Always a pleasure,” I said as we shook hands. Tyrell had a familiar firm but welcoming grip.
“Come on in.”
I followed Tyrell into his corner office. He sat behind a large mahogany desk. I sat in one of the Corinthian leather chairs opposite his desk. The windows behind him looked out onto Federal Street.
The office walls were adorned with commendations from various law enforcement agencies, the mayor of Boston, and Governor of Massachusetts. A credenza along the wall to the right displayed family photos. Tyrell had two adult children whom he had raised with one of the sweetest women on the planet. And she bakes one of the best pumpkin pies I've ever tasted.
“How's the family?” I said looking at the photos.
“All doing fine. We just found out we're expecting our third grandchild.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I keep thinking one day you and Jessica will tie the knot and have some kids. But you don't need to answer. I know what you two have works. Just something to ponder.”
Most people in our lives gave us that to contemplate. Jessica and I were more of the mind that if it isn't broken, don't try to fix it. While our relationship was not easily defined by labels, it worked extremely well for both of us.
Tyrell leaned back in his executive leather chair. He looked at me and said, “I understand you've been hired to find Ashley Holland.”
“Yes. What can you tell me?”
“I'll share what we know, but I'm not sure it is likely to help you locate her.”
“I won't be any more in the dark than I am now,” I said.
Tyrell opened a case file on his desk and handed me field reports submitted by investigators working the case.
“As you can see in the report, Ashley Holland is one of several young women Grant Worthington is, shall we say, meeting up with.”
“The movie mogul?” I said.
Tyrell nodded his head and said, “One and the same. He lives in Los Angeles most of the time but has a lovely Brownstone in the Back Bay. He's originally from Boston. I guess he wants to maintain a connection to his roots.”
“So both your Boston and LA offices are on the case?” I said as I scanned the contents of the field reports.
Tyrell nodded his head again. “Yep. Mr. Worthington likes to keep the company of young women on both coasts. We've been retained by his wife, Evelyn, to present evidence of his cheating. She's building a case to file for divorce and take most of the movie empire with her.”
“Not a small chunk of change.”
“No, it is not. The Worthington movie studio is worth billions. Too many high-value franchise films for the average moviegoer to count.”
“I bet Evelyn Worthington has counted every one of them,” I said.
“No doubt,” he said.
I flipped through the pages and Tyrell gave me a few moments to read more of the details.
“Well,” I said, “this is interesting.”
“I figured you would think so,” he said.
Ashley Holland, and the other Boston women, all worked for an executive escort service. The Hollands hadn't mentioned that to me. Also a good chance they didn't know.
“It's a legitimate service for executives who want an attractive and intelligent woman to accompany them to dinner and social functions,” Tyrell said. “But that is not to say some hanky-panky doesn't happen off the books.”
“Hanky-panky?” I said. “I didn't realize that was still part of the vernacular.”
“I'm old,” Tyrell said.
“Age is merely a number,” I said. “I bet you are still one of the fittest investigators in this office.”
Tyrell smiled and said, “I can still hold my own.”
“What I don't get is why Grant Worthington would be so public about being seen with these women?” I said.
“The story he tells Mrs. Worthington is that they are up-and-coming actresses he is considering for movie and TV projects.”
“Okay,” I said, “do we imagine Ashley was involved in, as you put it, off the books hanky-panky?”
“Oh yes,” Tyrell said. “We have some photographic evidence, but I'l
l trust you don't need to see those.”
“I'm pretty sure I can piece together what went on.”
“Amazing how people don't shut the blinds,” Tyrell said.
“Makes taking pictures with telephoto lenses that much easier,” I said.
“Most definitely. Although to be fair, our agents got the pictures at a rather isolated lake house in Maine. They probably had no reason to believe anyone else was around to see them.”
“Ashley's parents mentioned she went on a trip to a lake house up north. They didn't have any other details.”
“That was earlier in the week,” Tyrell said.
“Monday night,” I said reading from the report. “Ashley has been missing since some time after that.”
“Ashley and Grant arrived in separate cars and left in separate cars,” Tyrell said. “Our guy trailed Grant all the way back to his home in Back Bay Wednesday morning. We didn't have anybody on Ashley.”
“No reason to,” I said. “You're investigating Grant having affairs. The time the women spend with him is all that matters for your case.”
“I wish we could give you more to go on, Drew.”
“I know a little more now then when I came in, so I'll take it as a win.”
“You always were a glass half full guy.”
“It helps keep me sane in this crazy business.”
Tyrell and I said goodbye and he promised to find an evening where Jessica and I would go to his house for dinner. He hinted his wife might bake her famous pumpkin pie. I'd go without the pie, but it certainly didn't hurt in sealing the deal.
I made my way to the lobby and through the revolving door out toward Federal Street. My feet took me along High Street to Au Chocolat. I bought Jessica a box of truffles.
CHAPTER 7
A good rule in looking for a missing person is to investigate where they were last seen. My visit with Tyrell Evans narrowed that down for Ashley Holland from somewhere up North to a specific lake house in Maine. I accepted the news as progress.
Before heading into Moose country, I decided to stop by Ashley's condo. I would feel pretty silly traveling to Maine and back only to discover Ashley hanging out at home binge watching her favorite shows on Netflix. Another good rule in detecting is to eliminate the easiest explanation first.
I hopped on the Silver Line from South Station to Courthouse Station. It was a short walk from Courthouse Station to Ashley's building in Boston's burgeoning Seaport District. I wasn't sure if her rich parents or earnings as a high-priced escort paid for the luxury residence in the new art deco building overlooking the harbor.
The luck of my Irish ancestry was continuing as I knew the doorman, Frank. He had been a longtime doorman at the Taj Boston, back to when it was the former Ritz Carlton. Frank had been an amateur heavyweight boxer back in the day. Not a bad guy to have manning the entrance to your building.
“New gig?” I said to Frank.
“Hey, Drew. Yeah, the management here poached a lot of us service folks from some of the better establishments around Boston.”
“They couldn't do better than you,” I said.
“Appreciate that. The new job has its perks. We were treated to seats at Fenway for Game 1 of the World Series.”
“I'm in the wrong line of work,” I said.
“Being a PI suits you. I can't picture you in a uniform.”
“The Oxford and chinos have been a stretch.”
A well-groomed couple approached the building. Frank opened the door for them.
He said, “Good afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Pendleton.”
The Pendleton's gave a modest nod of their heads as they entered the grand lobby. Frank closed the door.
“They are first class assholes,” Frank said. “But it's my job to be nice.”
“I take back what I said about wanting your job,” I said.
“I'm sure you run into your fair share of wisenheimers in your line of work.”
“But I don't have to be nice to them.”
Frank smiled. Then he said,” So how ya been?”
“Can't complain. Except for not getting tickets to the World Series.”
“Those might require you to be nice to assholes.”
I smiled. A woman approached and Frank opened the door for her.
“Good afternoon Ms. Randall.”
“Hello, Frank,” she said. “Thank you,” she added as she walked through the open door. Frank closed the door behind her.
“She's one of the classy ladies,” Frank said. “So, I take it you're not just out for a stroll. You investigating someone in the building?”
“I'm looking for one of the residents. Ashley Holland. She's been missing for a few days. When did you last see her?”
Frank considered my question for a moment. Then he said, “About five days ago. Said she was going to Maine. Didn't say when she'd be back. You suppose something happened to her?”
“I don't know,” I said. “Her parents are concerned that no one has heard from her this week.”
“She goes away a lot,” Frank said.
“According to her parents, she has never gone more than three days without checking in.”
Frank leaned in toward me and said, “You know she works for one of them executive escort services?”
“I just learned that at a previous meeting.”
“They say it is legit, but I imagine more goes on with some of the clients. Extra-curricular stuff.”
“I've heard that theory as well,” I said. “She ever bring clients by her place?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Frank said shaking his head. “Of course I work the day shift, and most of that business would be at night. But I'd probably hear about it from the other doormen.”
I nodded my head. “Any chance I could check out her place?” I said.
“I can't let you in a resident's unit unless you're on the list,” Frank said. “But you're free to look around the lobby and pick up materials from the sales office. Although they are at lunch for another half-hour.”
“Since I'm here, I'll just have a look around until the sales agents come back from lunch,” I said.
Frank smiled and nodded as he opened door.
“Thanks, Frank.”
“I expect you'll like the building,” he said. “High end all around. Could use better security, though.”
“Good to know,” I said.
“I guessed it might.”
I walked through the open door, past the closed sales office, and got on the elevator. I checked my notes for Ashley's unit number and hit the button for the fifth floor.
The fifth floor was quiet. I located Ashley's unit and picked the lock rather easily. Frank was right that security could have been better. For million dollar units, it should have been harder. Of course, most people wouldn't get past Frank.
Ashley's condo was modern with marble countertops and high-end stainless steel appliances. She had modern-chic furniture. The large picture windows offered a sweeping view of Boston Harbor. Most boats were already away for the coming winter season.
From the few contents in her fridge, it didn't look like Ashley did much cooking. The living room was neat and tidy. Modern art hung on the walls. They looked to be originals. A small bookcase displayed photos of Ashley with friends in Europe, the Caribbean, and trendy Boston bars and clubs.
A small stack of fashion magazines sat on a glass and steel coffee table. A matching desk in the corner had some open bills on top. A lease for a BMW; a credit card with charges at various fashion boutiques on Newbury Street, Starbucks, Netflix, Amazon Prime, and some takeout restaurants in the area. I glanced at her monthly mortgage statement.
Ashley would need a hefty bank account to cover just the bills I had seen on the desk. I poked around and found direct deposit pay stubs from Premier Escort Service. Ashley made more than enough. Anything she might get from mommy and daddy would be icing on a very lucrative cake.
I walked down a short hallway to her bedro
om. The bedroom furniture was the same modern-chic as the living room. More modern art hung on the walls.
Ashley's closet was filled with pricey evening gowns, cocktail dresses, and casual slacks, jeans, and shirts for everyday wear. The labels matched many of the expensive boutiques listed on her credit card statement. Drawers in the closet contained shorts, fashionable bikinis, and undergarments. Also from boutiques on Newbury Street.
She had larger pieces of luggage for longer trips. An empty space next to a large suitcase would fit a smaller piece of luggage for shorter trips.
All the evidence pointed toward Ashley having not returned home. That wasn't a surprise but confirmed she was somewhere other than Boston.
I left Ashley's building before the leasing office re-opened. I would have just been a Lookie Lou. Ashley's building was well out of my price range. Besides, I had inherited a great old house in Cambridge from my grandmother. One of these days I might even get around to remodeling it.
I headed back to Cambridge and picked up my car. I would have enough daylight remaining to begin my search for Ashley in Maine.
CHAPTER 8
The most direct route from Boston to the lake house in Maine would be along Interstates 93, 95, and 295, to U.S. Route 201. The same in reverse coming back to Boston. There were tolls, but money wasn't an issue for Ashley. My bet is she opted for a travel time just under four hours, versus a five hour trip on alternative routes.
I knew Ashley leased a BMW Roadster. What I didn't have was her license plate. Her parents didn't know. Why would they? Most people didn't even know their own license plate without looking. I had the next best thing. I called my contact at the RMV.
He gave me Ashley's license plate number and called I a guy I know who works for E-ZPass. He'd be able to look up Ashley's use of toll stations from Massachusetts to Maine, and back. On the way to the lake house, Ashley passed through the New Hampshire and Maine tolls on I-95 and Maine tolls along I-295. There was no record of her passing through any of the tolls coming back from Maine. She either took a different route, possibly to a different destination, or she never made it to the first toll station on I-295 in Maine.
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