Shattered

by Jason Richards

  “That's a pretty long list,” Jessica said.

  “Burke and Sanchez will run down information on Grant Worthington,” I said.

  “He's their person of interest?” Jessica said.

  “At the moment,” I said. “I'm going to ask around about Premier. That should also reveal any other connections Ashley and Hannah may have shared.”

  I finished my crab. Jessica still had half her spinach salad remaining when Julia arrived with our entrees.

  We enjoyed our dinner and talked about getting away for a long weekend after I concluded the investigation. Jessica was too full to order her own dessert, so I shared some of mine. Not a particularly generous gesture as I could predict it would only amount to two or three small bites.

  I drove Jessica to her condo near Charlestown Naval Shipyard Park. I stayed for one drink before I left so she get to sleep for an early morning flight out of Logan. She'd be gone a few days consulting on a case at Pinnacle's London office. I'd cross the Charles River from Cambridge to Boston and meet with some shadowy figures to learn more about the off the books activities of Premier escorts. We shared the same profession, but we mostly operated in different worlds.

  I walked back to my car on 8th Street and two goons approached me. One on my left and one on my right. They were at least my size and had broad shoulders, thick necks, and logs for arms.

  The guy on my left had a crooked nose from it being broken a number of times. The guy on my right was balding with a bad comb over. They were both ugly as sin.

  Broken Nose placed a vice grip around my left arm. Comb Over jabbed a gun into my ribs. The silencer on the gun let me know he had no qualms about shooting me on the busy street.

  A black Escalade pulled to a stop in front of us. Comb Over opened the rear passenger door. Crooked Nose said to me, “Get in. We're going for a little ride.”

  I didn't see a scenario where my not getting in didn't get me shot, so I got in.

  Crooked Nose slid in beside me and closed the door. Comb Over climbed into the front passenger seat and closed his door. The Escalade sped away from the curb.

  CHAPTER 18

  We turned left onto 1st Avenue and sped past the MGH Institute of Health Professionals on our left. We took another left on Terry Ring Road and drove to the end and stopped.

  The Charlestown Naval Shipyard Park was to our left. From where we were parked, I could see Jessica's building. I wondered if she was dreaming about me as she drifted off to sleep. Hopefully, I hadn't just seen her for the last time.

  “When you said a little ride, you weren't kidding.”

  “We heard you're a smart ass,” Crooked Nose said.

  “Have a certificate and everything.”

  “Shut up,” said Comb Over.

  I waited to see if the driver was going to chime in. He simply stared out the front window.

  Crooked Nose shifted in the seat. His gun still trained on me.

  “Did you box?” I said to him.

  “Huh?” he said.

  “Were you once a boxer?”

  “No,” he said. “You think just because I'm big that I was a boxer? Or maybe a wrestler? Or some other physical thing?”

  “I think it's because your nose is messed up,” Comb Over said.

  “If I want your opinion, I'll ask for it,” Crooked Nose barked back.

  “Touchy,” Comb Over said.

  Crooked Nose shot him a look. Comb Over turned toward the front. He and the driver shared a quick glance at each other.

  “Don't think I didn't see that,” Crooked Nose said.

  I wasn't sure if Comb Over would dare roll his eyes at the comment. His partner in crime could have a short fuse. And seemed a touch sensitive. I might have been pushing my luck, but it wouldn't have been the first time.

  “What were you doing at Premier Escort Services? Crooked Nose said.

  “What do most guys do at Premier Escort Services?” I said.

  “Don't be cute.”

  “I've tried, but it's a natural gift.”

  “If you don't smarten up, you're gonna end up with a hole in your head.”

  Crooked Nose held the gun close to my head.

  “Not in the car,” the driver said. He had a gravely voice. Like sandpaper scraping wood.

  “Boss got pissed last time you shot a guy and we had to get the car detailed,” Comb Over added.

  “Zip it,” Crooked Nose said.

  In their exchange, I learned they worked for someone. Not a surprise. They had minions written all over them. Apparently, our little ride was also due to the fact that I had visited Premier earlier in the day.

  Perhaps the best piece of news was they were not likely to kill me where I sat. It didn't mean they wouldn't do it. It appeared Crooked Nose got trigger happy at least once before. Unless they were bluffing. But I didn't think they were.

  “Now, answer my question,” Crooked Nose said. “And no wisecracks this time.”

  “Part of an investigation,” I said.

  “See, that's not so hard,” he said. “What investigation?”

  “Well, and I probably should have mentioned this at the outset, it's a case that involves the Massachusetts State Police.”

  Crooked Nose shrugged his shoulders. “So,” he said.

  “So, they would be very interested in looking into anything that might happen to me.”

  The Escalade reverberated with the three goons laughter.

  “Did you hear that?” Crooked Nose said to his pals up front. “The State Police care what happens to our friend here.”

  He waved the gun in my direction. His hand was on the trigger, so I hoped he didn't sneeze or have some sort of muscle spasm.

  “Let me guess,” Crooked Nose said, “Detective Captain Robert Burke and Detective Lieutenant Isabella Sanchez?”

  “She's a real looker,” Comb Over said.

  “Like you'd have a chance,” Sandpaper voice said.

  “I didn't say nothing about that,” Comb Over replied. “I'm just sayin' she's attractive.”

  “Jeez,” Crooked Nose said. “Want me to pass her a note for you in study hall?”

  It surprised me Crooked Nose was aware of study hall. I doubted he had spent much productive time there.

  “Seems like you already know everything,” I said. “I'm not sure why you need me.”

  “Because our boss said to talk to you,” Crooked Nose said. “So we're talking.”

  “I have to be honest,” I said, “it's not the most stimulating conversation I've ever had.”

  “Again with being a wise-ass,” Crooked Nose said. “I thought we were past that.”

  I shrugged. “Comes and goes. I have little control over it.”

  “Maybe he's got that trets,” Comb Over said.

  “It's Turret's Syndrome, you numbnuts,” Sandpaper Voice said.

  “Shut up. Both of you,” Crooked Nose said.

  “It's actually Tourette's Syndrome,” I said.

  Sandpaper Voice turned around toward me. He said, “That's what I said.”

  “You said turret,” said Comb Over. Happy to offer his own correction.

  “Like on a medieval castle,” I added.

  “Who cares what it's called?” Crooked Nose said.

  “People with Tourette's,” I said. “And historical architects.”

  “I swear, I'll plug you right now,” Crooked Nose said.

  He pressed the gun against my forehead. Veins were popping in his neck and forehead. I've stayed alive in these situations by knowing when to quit. I was pretty sure I had reached that point.

  “Ashley Holland's parents hired me to find her when she was a missing person.”

  “She ain’t missing no more,” Crooked Nose said. He removed the gun from my head but kept it pointed at me. His veins were no longer throbbing. Crisis averted.

  “I'm looking into her death,” I said.

  “Her parents hire you to do that?” he said.

  I shook my head and
said, “No. But my investigation is incomplete.”

  “Because you're nosy?”

  “Because I'd like to find out what happened to Ashley Holland.”

  I didn't see the point in bringing Hannah Parks into the conversation. They were already aware of her. Whoever employed them had good sources.

  “A regular Sherlock Holmes,” Crooked Nose said.

  “Her family deserves to know what happened.” I paused a beat. “If someone caused her death, there needs to be a measure of justice.”

  “You're a Boy Scout, too,” Crooked Nose said.

  “I was never a Boy Scout. I’m not into sleeping on the ground and insects. I think they are just the Scouts now that they admit girls.”

  “Who cares,” Crooked Nose said. “Let me give you some advice. Our boss would prefer you not poke your nose into Premier Escort Services’ business.”

  “That may make my investigation into Ashley Holland's death difficult.”

  Crooked Nose shrugged. He said, “Not our problem.”

  “I don't walk away from cases,” I said.

  “You need to be like that Kenny Rogers song about the gambler,” he said. “You're not even being paid. Why risk your life for nothing?”

  “It's something to me,” I said.

  “Drop the case,” he said.

  “I don't think I can do that.”

  “Then this case will be your last.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The three goons pushed me out and I watched the tail lights of the Escalade fade into the distance as they drove away on Terry Ring Road. Before they drove off I made a mental note of the license plate. I'd have it run in the morning.

  I didn't doubt the threat was real. But it was a warning shot across the bow. I figured I might get another before they tried to kill me.

  I cut through Naval Shipyard Park back to my car on 8th Street. My second attempt to get in my car to go home proved successful. I wasn’t accosted by big goons. I wasn't shoved into an SUV at gunpoint. It was progress.

  My drive back to Cambridge was uneventful. Rather than going home, I drove down Berkeley Street. I stopped in front of my grandparents' old house. I still wasn't comfortable referring to it as my house. Even though, legally, it was. My grandmother left the house to me in her will. It had been my grandparents’ wish for me to live in it one day.

  I sat in my car for a few minutes. Sports radio was already talking about what to expect from the Red Sox next season. I was still basking in the recent World Series championship.

  I turned off the radio when they started looking ahead to the upcoming Patriots game. It was a replay from analysis earlier in the day. I already knew Gronk would be back from a recent injury and Tom Brady would play like Tom Brady.

  A couple strolled past walking their dog. A black Labor-doodle with a pink bow on her head. Dash would never go for such humiliation.

  I got out of my car and walked to the front door. The house was a lovely mid-nineteenth century Colonial. They had kept it in great condition for all the years they lived in it. My dad and his siblings grew up in the house. Many holidays were spent gathered around the dining room table.

  I dug out the keys and unlocked the front door. I stepped inside and turned on the light. The house was empty. Most of their personal belongings had been bequeathed to family members. The rest donated to charity.

  My parents and Jessica had been encouraging me to do some renovations and move into the house. The last time the kitchen and baths had been updated Carter was president. I wasn't ready yet. Part of me feared changing the house as it had been my entire life. So many memories of big Irish family gatherings.

  I wondered about the Hollands family gatherings. I wasn't sure Ashley had a similar family experience to mine. Maybe she could have done things differently if she had a family of her own. She'd never get the chance.

  What about Hannah Parks? I had no information about her personal life. Whatever life she had, like Ashley's, had been tragically cut short.

  It was for those reasons I wouldn't stop investigating their deaths. They had families. People who loved them. Imperfect as that love may have been the Hollands and Parks families deserved answers. They deserved closure. They deserved justice.

  Any family would deserve the same. If anything were to happen to me, I'd want it for my family. As I walked into the dining room I thought again about my family.

  My great, great grandparents, on both sides, immigrated to the United States from Ireland. Family folklore says they were acquainted back in Ireland.

  I crossed the hall and stood in the middle of the living room and remembered all the Christmas stockings hanging from the mantle above the fireplace. My grandparents insisted on having stockings for all of us, even though we had ones in our own homes. My grandfather was a History professor at Harvard. My dad followed in his footsteps. The matriarch of the Patrick household was my grandmother.

  My cell phone rang. It was my mother. My father and mother recently retired as professors at Harvard. They had met in graduate school and married soon after they joined the Harvard faculty.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said.

  “Where are you?” she said.

  “I'm at the house.”

  “Hopefully making plans for renovations.”

  “Not quite. How's Dash?” I wanted to change the topic of house renovations.

  “He's fine. Sleeping on the couch next to your father.”

  “Can he stay with you tonight? I need to go into Boston early for the case I am working on.”

  “I hope nothing dangerous,” she said.

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  I didn't think sharing my encounter in Charlestown would be helpful. My parents worried enough about my profession. I never shared the dangerous cases, but they suspected.

  “Well, okay,” she said. “And of course Dash can stay over. Our grand dog is always welcome. We love having him here. He misses you, though.”

  “It's good for him. Helps with the separation anxiety. I'll pick him up tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Whenever is fine.”

  “Goodnight,” I said. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too, sweetie.”

  Conversations with my mother would probably ruin some of my street cred, but I wasn't all tough PI. I walked through the rest of the downstairs and went back outside. I closed the door and locked it.

  As I walked back to my car my phone rang again. “Unknown number” appeared on the screen. In my business, I get a lot of those. I answered.

  “Drew Patrick,” I said.

  “How are things on Berkeley Street.”

  I recognized the voice of Crooked Nose on the other end of the phone. Not as distinct as Sandpaper Voice, but recognizable enough.

  I looked up and down the street. I didn't see the Escalade. But I was sure they hadn't trailed me. That they knew so much about the case, and where I was, could be a cause for concern.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “Just a friendly reminder of our conversation,” he said. “In case you get any stupid ideas about continuing with your investigation.”

  “I don't scare easily.”

  “So I've heard. That's the reason for the call. I'd hate to see anything happen to you. You sort of amuse me.” He paused a beat. “Like I said, just a friendly reminder.”

  The call ended. I put my phone in my pocket and ran my hand along the underside of my car's rear bumper. That's where I found the GPS tracking device. I dropped the device on the ground and crushed it under my shoe.

  CHAPTER 20

  “The Escalade is registered to Dirty Water Companies.” Detective Lieutenant Sanchez told me over the phone. I was standing in line at Dunkin' Donuts on the corner of Eliot and JFK streets. The woman in front of me was having difficulty deciding on the flavor for the last three donuts to round out her dozen.

  “As in Dirty Water by The Standells?” I said.

  “Huh?” Sanchez said.

 
“You've never heard that song?” I said. “They play it at Fenway after every Red Sox win.”

  “I'm a hockey girl,” said Sanchez. “That the same one they play after a Bruins win?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then I have heard it. I don't recognize the band.”

  “1960s garage rock band,” I said. “Some say they inspired the Sex Pistols and Ramones.”

  “How much useless knowledge do you carry around in your head?” she said.

  “Lots,” I said.

  The woman in front of me finally ordered a Boston Creme and two Jelly. I always started with Jelly.

  “Listen to this,” Sanchez said. “Premier Escort Services is a subsidiary of Dirty Water Companies.”

  “Looks like Rita Osbourne employs some muscle,” I said.

  “They probably front as security for the company,” she said.

  I nodded. Not that Sanchez could see I nodded. Habit.

  “How do you want to play this?” she said.

  “I'll keep poking my nose into Premier's business and wait for them to make the next move,” I said.

  “The next move could get you killed,” Sanchez said.

  “And you'd miss me.”

  The woman in line collected her dozen donuts and a Box 'O Joe. I stepped forward to order.

  “Be serious,” Sanchez said.

  “Hold on a sec,” I said to Sanchez. I tipped my phone away, ordered a dark roast coffee and paid. Then I went back to the call.

  “I am being serious,” I said. “You would miss me if I got offed.”

  “I'd feel bad for Dash losing you,” she said. “And Jessica. Of course men would be lining up to help her fill the void.”

  “They line up now,” I said.

  “And somehow she sticks with you.”

  “I am the complete package.”

  Sanchez groaned. I imagined a roll of the eyes accompanied the groan.

  “So you can't admit you'd miss me even a little?” I said.

  “I won't even get the chance,” she said, “because you're going to watch your back.”

  “And my front and my sides,” I said.

  The girl at the counter handed me my coffee. I thanked her, dropped a tip in the jar and exited. I took a right onto Eliot Street and headed in the direction of my office.