Shattered

by Jason Richards

  I had every reason to believe Big Lou was right about Mercado. But I never quit a case. I certainly wasn’t stepping aside to allow Boston’s criminal underworld solve it for me. One way or another, I knew the only direction this was heading was toward a confrontation with Mercado.

  I’d be ready. I hoped that would be enough.

  CHAPTER 29

  Taking stock of the case led to one reasonable conclusion–Mercado was a hired killer. Grant Worthington made the most sense for putting out the contracts for the murders of Ashley Holland and Hannah Parks. Nonetheless, I lacked evidence. I didn’t even have a concrete motive.

  All I really had was Grant Worthington as the common denominator. Not enough. At least not yet.

  While it was unlikely someone from the acting class Ashley and Hannah had taken were responsible for hiring Mercado, it was currently the only lead I had left explore. So exploring I went. More a process of elimination rather than expecting to find the proverbial smoking gun. But many investigations operate this way. I eliminate what I can to lessen what I need to look at.

  The acting studio was located on the edge of Boston’s Theater District. It was a small, one-room studio with a slightly elevated stage. Folding chairs were set up in front of the stage. A teacher and students watched as two students acted out a scene from A Streetcar Named Desire.

  I was no theater critic, but I hoped this was the introductory class. I had seen better performances in elementary school productions. It was painful to watch.

  “End scene,” the male student on stage said.

  The audience of fellow students were silent. Maybe it was customary they don’t applaud in class to avoid awkward moments after a train wreck of a performance. Of maybe the performance really was as bad as I thought it had been.

  The teacher gave her constructive criticism of the performance. Not enough emotion. She didn’t believe they were the characters they portrayed. The dialogue fell flat. But an excellent first effort.

  Whew, I thought. The silver lining is they are beginners. Nowhere to go but up. Unless they don’t go anywhere. Which, I had to think, was a possibility. Acting isn’t for everyone.

  “Let’s take a fifteen minute break,” the teacher said. “Marty and Jan, you are up when we return.”

  The students, about twenty in all, headed toward a table with bottled water and snacks. They were talking amongst themselves. The teacher turned toward me.

  She was average height and weight. I guessed she was in her sixties, but she presented herself as more youthful. She had mostly gray hair that had once been light brown. Her dark brown eyes were soft and inquisitive.

  “May I help you?” she asked. Her voice projected the confidence of a classically trained actor. She wore beige slacks and a Phantom of the Opera t-shirt.

  “Drew Patrick. I’m a private investigator.” I handed her my card. She took the card and inspected it. I’m sure was impressed with the fine quality.

  “Elizabeth Franklin,” she said. “You can call me Liz.”

  “Okay. Nice to meet you, Liz.”

  “Are you looking to add to your repertoire of characters you need to play?” Liz said.

  “I don’t play any characters,” I said. I held my arms out wide. “What you see is what you get.” I paused a moment. “Kinda like Homer Simpson.”

  Liz didn’t get my humor. She obviously wasn’t a comedic actress.

  “If you aren’t here for acting lessons, then it is safe to assume you are investigating a case?”

  “I was hired by Ashley Holland’s parents.”

  Liz let out an audible sigh. “Such a tragedy. For both Ashley and Hannah. Did you know Hannah Parks was also one of my students? They were in the same class.” She paused a moment as she looked at me. “You must know that. Why else would you be here?”

  “Yes. I’m looking into any connections Ashley and Hannah shared. One of them was your acting class.”

  Liz nodded. “I understand they worked at the same company. They signed up for the class together.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Work is another connection.”

  Liz opened a bottled water and took a sip. “Would you like water?” she asked.

  “No. Thank you.”

  She took another sip of water. Then she said, “I don’t know if I can be of any help. But please feel free to ask me any questions you deem relevant.”

  I wanted to ask her if she thought the two actors who did the scene from A Streetcar Named Desire had any talent, but I’m sure she meant relevant to my investigation, not her class. Maybe another time.

  “How did Ashley and Hannah get along with others in the class?”

  “They seemed well liked. Bother were supportive of the others.”

  “Do you recall either of them mentioning any problems they were having?”

  Liz thought about my question. “No,” she said after a moment. “They seemed easy going, yet focused on the class. I can’t say either stood out in any negative way.”

  “Any reason you can think of why anyone associated with their class would want to harm them?”

  Liz shook her head. “I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt them,” she said. “It makes no sense.”

  I agreed with Liz. It made no sense. Except I needed to find a reason someone hired Mercado to kill them.

  “Did either Ashley or Hannah ever mention the possibility of an acting career in Hollywood?”

  Liz considered the question. Then she said, “Mr. Patrick, they were nice girls. Decent enough actors for, say, community theater. But no one in Hollywood would have seriously considered either of them for any acting role.”

  “There wasn’t a greater talent waiting to be unleased?” I said.

  Liz smiled as she shook her head. “No. I’m sorry to say they reached the height of their talent.”

  “Did either of them ever mention Grant Worthington?”

  Liz looked at me like I had sprouted a second head. “The movie producer?”

  “That would be the one,” I said.

  “I don’t recall,” she said. “Why would they?”

  “They had met Mr. Worthington through their work.”

  “And you’re wondering if that gave them reason to believe they could be discovered?” she said.

  “Something like that.”

  “You can’t possibly be suggesting Grant Worthington let them believe they had a chance? Are you?”

  “It is a distinct possibility,” I said.

  “Well, they certainly were beautiful young women,” Liz said. She paused a beat and then looked directly into my eyes. “Producers have been known to seduce young women with promises of fame and fortune.”

  “That has been known to happen,” I agreed.

  “Makes me sick,” she said.

  “Yep,” I said.

  “Excuse me a second,” she said. Liz turned toward her students. “Five more minutes. Marty and Jan, start prepping yourselves for your scene.” She turned back toward me.

  “I appreciate your time,” I said. “If you think of anything, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any help,” Liz said.

  “You have been very helpful,” I said. “Anytime I can cross something off my list, it’s progress.”

  Liz smiled at me. She had a comforting smile to go along with her soft eyes. There was a gentleness to her. As I had witnessed, it softened the blow when delivering acting critiques to her students.

  “Thank you, again,” I said. “If I ever take up doing characters, I’ll look up one of your classes.”

  “I think authenticity works for you,” she said. “Good luck with your case. I hope you find the person responsible.” Liz turned toward her students and clapped her hands. “Okay,” she said to them, “It’s showtime. Marty and Jan, give me your best.”

  Marty and Jan walked onto the stage. Liz and the rest of her students sat in the folding chairs. I left before Marty and Jan began their scene. I di
dn’t think I could take a repeat of the performance I walked in on.

  While I couldn’t scrub the performance from my mind, I was confident in eliminating the acting studio as a source for the person who hired Mercado to kill Ashley and Hannah. Grant Worthington still made the most sense. However, there was still a lot I didn’t know.

  Nothing new in that department. It comes with the territory. So I would continue to do what I do. Eventually things would break my way.

  CHAPTER 30

  Mercado

  It was a lot warmer in LA than Boston. A comfortable seventy-three degrees with plenty of sunshine. Mercado was sitting in traffic on the 405. He had the top down on the Ford Mustang convertible rented from Hertz. It was cherry red with a V8 engine under the hood.

  Mercado wore Ray-Ban sunglasses and a Dodgers cap. He looked the part of an Angeleno. He was in the City of Angels, but Mercado knew he was no angel. If there was a Satan, Mercado had a pact with him.

  Mercado hadn't put the Mustang's engine through its paces. He looked forward to opening it up on some open road later. For now, he wasn't going anywhere fast. But he factored LA traffic into his schedule.

  The yacht left the dock at eight o'clock for the cocktail cruise. Mercado would be on time. He didn't care much for boats, but he had work to do. Victoria Clark would be on board. She was next on the list.

  The yacht belonged to Hollywood producer Grant Worthington. He was hosting a bunch of celebrities and movie backers looking to invest in upcoming film projects. Mercado's client got him the ticket for the event. Easy, considering she was married to the guy.

  Evelyn Worthington had no idea Mercado knew her real identity. She made up some story about knowing someone at Grant Worthington's movie studio who could arrange for the ticket. Just like in Boston, he played along.

  But how stupid did she think he was? Did she believe he couldn't connect the dots? Not that he hadn't seen it before. Passion blinded Evelyn Worthington.

  She passionately loved her husband. She fervently hated the young women who slept with her husband. It didn't matter that her husband used his position of power to get them to go to bed with him. She made them pay, not her husband.

  Frankly, Mercado didn't care. She paid him to do the jobs, so he did them. It's what he did—kill people for money. In the end, he figured that's all he ever would be—a killer.

  He eventually made it off the 405 and pulled the Mustang into the parking lot of a fleabag motel next to a busy gas station and truck stop near the interstate. Lots of people coming and going. No one paying much attention to anyone else.

  Mercado parked the car and went to the front desk. A pimple-faced college kid looked up from a textbook he was reading.

  “'Sup?” the kid said.

  “I need a room,” Mercado said.

  “How many nights?”

  “Just tonight.”

  The kid gave Mercado the nightly rate. Mercado paid, collected his room key, and went outside. Diesel exhaust was thick in the air. Mercado walked to the end of the motel and found his room. He went in and closed the door behind him.

  The room was furnished with cheap furniture that had seen a lot of use. The pea green carpet was worn and dingy. The comforter on the bed was stained. With what, Mercado did not care to know. He was certain the mattress would be lumpy.

  Mercado looked at the takeout menus on the small table and ordered a burger and fries from a local greasy spoon. The menu said they delivered with Uber Eats. He pulled a chair in front of the television and turned on the Lakers game. They'd be better with Lebron James.

  After he ate, Mercado took a lukewarm shower surrounded by moldy tiles. He dried off with the threadbare towel and dressed in the rented tuxedo.

  Mercado drove to the Los Angeles Yacht Club and presented his ticket to board Worthington's yacht. It was 170 feet long, three levels tall, and had large deck spaces to accommodate the exclusive list of seventy-five guests—and Mercado. The living and dining areas were elegant with plush burgundy carpets, beige leather seating, and high-gloss wall panels. It was a real contrast to the crap motel where Mercado was staying.

  He practiced his story in his head. Mercado knew he looked like a bruiser, and he was. But that factored into the story he would tell. These Hollywood types would eat it up. They loved a good story. And he only had to play the game long enough to get Victoria Clark alone.

  The yacht began cruising away from the club towards the open waters of the Pacific. It was a warm evening with almost no breeze. A waitress came around with flutes of champagne on a silver tray. Mercado took one.

  A waiter circled around with a tray of mini crab cakes. Mercado took three. He didn't know the etiquette for hors d'oeuvres, and didn't care. The waiter gave no indication one way or the other as he moved on to the next guest.

  Mercado looked around for Victoria Clark. He didn't see her, so he climbed the stairs to the deck on the second level. He spotted several A-list celebrities talking with a group of people he didn't recognize. They looked completely at ease in the environment. He figured they were probably deep pocket investors looking to invest in the next box office blockbuster.

  He finished his drink and deposited the glass on a tray for empties. As a waiter came around with filled glasses, Mercado took one. He then scarfed down two more mini crab cakes. He had eaten the burger and fries an hour earlier, and he was a big guy.

  Still not seeing Victoria Clark, Mercado climbed the stairs to the third and top level. He spotted her standing with a small group in the center of the deck. She was tall and slender, like the other two. She was beautiful, like the other two. While she didn't know it yet, Victoria would soon have one more thing in common with the other two.

  Mercado made his way across the deck toward the group. A man looked over as he approached. It would have been hard not to notice a man of Mercado's size.

  “Grant Worthington,” the man said as he extended his right hand.

  “Dwayne Willis,” Mercado said, shaking Grant Worthington's hand.

  “Those are some hands you have there,” Worthington said.

  “I played linebacker in the Canadian Football League,” Mercado said. He figured no one would know about Canadians football players in LA.

  “Well,” Worthington said, “I can certainly see you on a football field.”

  Mercado said, “Now that my football career is over, I'm looking to invest in Hollywood.”

  “You have come to the right place,” Worthington said. “We will unveil several opportunities after dinner this evening.”

  “I'm looking forward to it,” Mercado said.

  “What was it like playing professional football?” Victoria said.

  “Where are my manners,” Grant said. “This is Victoria Clark. She is soon-to-be a rising young movie star. And I know how to pick them.”

  Mercado shook hands with Victoria. She had delicate hands with long, manicured fingers. She wore an expensive evening gown that was probably a rental. Too bad the dress shop wouldn't be getting it back.

  “It was hard work, but I enjoyed it,” Mercado said. “I hoped to make it to the NFL, but I never realized that dream.”

  “The NFL's loss,” Victoria said. Was she flirting with him?

  “Yes, well, I really should mingle,” Worthington said. He gave Victoria a kiss on the cheek. Mercado figured he was making it clear she was with him. “I will see you later, my love.” He looked at Mercado and said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Willis.”

  Mercado nodded. Worthington stepped away. The others followed. Mercado was alone with Victoria. And she seemed into him. Perfect, he thought.

  “Don't mind him,” she said. “We have an understanding.”

  “Okay,” Mercado said.

  A waitress came by with mini quiches. “No, thank you,” Victoria said. Mercado took one. He wasn't exactly sure why he didn't want to seem like a pig in front of Victoria. It's not like she would even be alive by the end of the night.

  “So tell me
more about playing football.”

  “Not much to tell. Lifted a lot of weights. Practiced tackling guys. Played in the games.”

  “I think you're just being modest.” Victoria rested her hand on Mercado's arm for a few seconds. She smiled at him. Mercado didn't like the fact she had a nice smile. It made the job a little harder. But he had a job to do. It's what he did. It's who he was.

  “I tried out to be a cheerleader with the New England Patriots,” Victoria said. “In fact, I think I have a picture of me in the outfit.” She dug through her purse.

  “Darn,” she said with a frown. “I left my cell phone at home.” She looked up at Mercado. “I'm always leaving my phone somewhere.”

  “Maybe I can see the picture another time,” Mercado said.

  “I like that idea,” Victoria said.

  “Everyone,” Grant Worthington called out, “please join us on the main deck for dinner.”

  “Sit near me,” Victoria said. “It will give me someone to talk to while Grant schmoozes.”

  Mercado followed Victoria down to the main deck. They talked casually over dinner. He made up stories about games he never played in. He told her about cities in Canada he had never visited. Others would join in for parts of their conversation. And just like he thought, they ate it up. Every single word.

  They talked. Victoria drank and flirted. At the end of the meal, Victoria was buzzed. Mercado felt it had all played out perfectly.

  “Time to shake the money tree,” Worthington whispered to Victoria. He got up and began his presentation. Everyone was facing Grant as he spoke. The lights were dimmed so he could show the presentation video.

  After the presentation, a band played on the main deck and people danced.

  “Let's go somewhere else,” Victoria said to Mercado. Everyone else was dancing and talking. Consumed by their own importance. No one saw them leave. No one would notice they were gone. Perfect, Mercado thought.

  He guided her up to the top level. They were alone. A gentle breeze blew across the deck off the Pacific. The sky and water were dark. The yacht cruised in open and empty waters.