Chasing Shadows
Page 1
Chasing Shadows: A Drew Patrick Crime Thriller Novel
Drew Patrick Private Investigator Series, Volume 1
Jason Richards
Published by Whodunit Publishing, 2018.
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2018 Jason Richards.
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under reserved copyright, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the express written permission of the publisher.
Chasing Shadows is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
THE CASE FILE NEWSLETTER
CAN YOU LEAVE A REVIEW?
BOOKS BY JASON RICHARDS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEDICATION
To my family for all your loving support.
PROLOGUE
JAX AND MIKEY
JAX AND MIKEY CRANE dragged Jack Murphy into the alley. He looked like Rocky Balboa after fifteen rounds with Apollo Creed. Jax dropped Murphy like a stone, his arms bending in positions they shouldn't. Mikey got down on his haunches directly in front of him. He leaned forward and smiled.
“Where is the key?” Mikey said.
“I don't have it,” Murphy said.
“Jax,” Mikey said to his twin brother.
Jax picked Murphy up from the ground and lifted him over his head. Holding him by the legs, Jax tipped Murphy upside down. A safe deposit box key dropped from one of Murphy's pockets and clanged onto the pavement.
Mikey bent over and picked up the key. “Well,” he said, “what do we have here?”
“I forgot it was in my pocket,” Murphy said. His face was red as a tomato with the blood rushing to his head.
“It is unfortunate you lied to us,” Mikey said. “We could have avoided this unfortunate incident if you had only told us the truth.”
Jax eased Murphy onto the ground. He was on his back looking up at the brutes. He wondered if this was it? Was this how he was going to die?
“You have the key,” Murphy said. “All the money is in the safe deposit box. Every penny. Just let me go. I'll disappear.”
“You'll disappear, alright,” Mikey said. He turned to his brother. “Okay, Jax, finish him.”
“No loose ends,” Jax said to Mikey.
“Never leave loose ends,” Mikey replied.
Jax stepped forward, bent over, and picked Murphy up by his collar.
“Hold him,” Jax said as he shoved Murphy into Mikey's arms.
Jax had once been a good boxer. Both of the brothers had been. Jax, though, had a heightened killer instinct. It was hard to make a career in the ring, so now Jax unleashed all his rage and strength in back-rooms and alleyways.
The beatings were criminal. And lethal. Just as it had been for their latest victim. Jack Murphy was silent and motionless when Jax finished with him.
“Give me a hand,” Mikey said.
Jax grabbed Murphy's legs. Mikey held him under his limp and twisted arms. They hoisted Murphy's body and tossed him into a dumpster. Mikey closed the lid.
The two brothers took off latex gloves, balled them up, and threw them into a backpack. Mikey picked up the bag and slung it over his right shoulder.
Jax wiped his sweaty hands with a handkerchief. He folded the linen cloth and shoved it into his back pants pocket.
“IHOP?” Jax said.
“Yeah, little brother. Let's eat.”
Mikey pocketed the safe deposit box key. The two brothers exited the alley and made their way up the dark street toward their car.
CHAPTER 1
DREW PATRICK
THE AROMA OF ARABICA beans rose with the steam from my cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee. I was looking out my office window onto Brattle Street. The location just outside of Harvard Square made me feel smart.
A warm morning breeze drifted in through the open window. The calendar said it was the end of September, but the weather felt like August. I rubbed my eyes from staying up late to watch the conclusion of an extra-innings Red Sox game.
As I gazed out my window, I considered the lives of the people two floors down as they hurried along Brattle Street. The sidewalk below my office was crowded as students and professors made their way to morning classes. They jockeyed for sidewalk space with workers heading to occupy cubicles and offices throughout Cambridge and Boston.
A woman paused near the entrance to my building. She glanced at the sign out front.
HENDRICK'S & PEW, ATTORNEYS AT LAW
BRATTLE STREET PUBLISHING
GEORGE SAUNDERS, CPA
DREW PATRICK, PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS
The woman looked to be in her early forties and was dressed in a stylish business suit. Early morning meeting with her lawyer? Is a book agent pitching the next great American novel? In need of tax advice? She seemed too classy to be a potential client for me.
The woman stepped toward the building's front door. She wore sensible walking sneakers. A practical approach for walking and riding the T. She disappeared from my sight as she entered the building.
In the time it took for most people to reach the second floor and walk down the hallway there was a knock at my door. Dash, my rescue beagle-mix, lifted his head from his morning nap and looked in the direction of the knock.
I crossed my office and opened the door. Dash's ears perked up, and he tilted his head. Maybe whoever was at the door brought food. They rarely did, but he never lost hope.
The woman with the stylish business suit and sensible walking sneakers stood in front of me. Perhaps I'm moving up in the world of private detecting.
“Mr. Patrick,” she said. “My name is Bonnie Ross.”
Being an ace investigator, I deduced her tone of voice and body language suggested she was troubled. She held out her right hand. I took it and we shook.
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Ross. How may I help you?”
“Please, call me Bonnie. I'm worried about my daughter, and I'm hoping you can help.”
“Come in,” I said. I stepped aside to allow Bonnie Ross to enter my office.
Her eyes darted around the room. My décor was an eclectic mix of art, sports memorabilia, and my diplomas from Northeastern University and the FBI Academy. A corner of my desk contained a collection of Red Sox bobbleheads. Bonnie Ross d
idn't seem to pay them any mind.
Dash hopped down from his spot on the couch and walked over with his tail wagging. He momentarily seemed to ease Bonnie's troubles. Dogs can be great that way. Especially Dash.
“What kind of dog is he?” Bonnie asked.
“Beagle mix,” I said.
“He's very handsome.” She petted Dash on top of his head and scratched his big floppy ears. Bonnie had made a friend for life. “What's his name?”
“Dash. But be careful about complimenting his looks, he already takes full advantage of his cuteness.”
The corners of Bonnie's mouth attempted to form a smile. She would have a warm, easy-going, smile if not for the concern gripping her face. But I was familiar with people trying to offer pleasantries while consumed with what troubled them. People didn't usually hire a private investigator unless they were troubled about something.
“Have a seat,” I said as I motioned to one of the client chairs in front of my desk. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No. Thank you. Although it smells heavenly.”
The smell of coffee a reminder of normalcy.
“America runs on Dunkin',” I said as I held up my coffee cup.
Bonnie sat in a client chair and rested her hands on her lap. Dash realized he was done getting attention and got back on the couch. He curled up, let out a sigh, and put his head down between his front paws. He whimpered.
“Ignore him,” I said to Bonnie. “He has separation anxiety.”
“But you're right here,” Bonnie said.
“A work in progress.”
I sat behind my desk. “Now, what can you tell me about the concern you have with your daughter?...” I left space at the end of my question.
“Tina,” she said.
“What is your concern with Tina?”
“She is eighteen and was a senior at Cambridge Rindge and Latin. She just dropped out of school and moved in with some boy.” She emphasized the phrase 'some boy.'
“The boy have a name?” I said.
“That is part of the problem. I don't know anything about him.” Bonnie paused a moment. “You must think I'm a terrible mother.” Another short pause. “Perhaps I am.”
“You're here,” I said. “That tells me you care.”
“How can a mother not be aware of anything about the boy her daughter is dating?”
Her question seemed rhetorical so I didn't respond.
Bonnie continued, “she had always been a good student and had a nice group of friends. Never any trouble.”
“And when did that change? I said. My instincts as a sleuth told me it was when Tina started dating our unknown boy.
“This past spring,” Bonnie replied. “Tina stopped spending time with her old friends. Her grades began to slip, she was staying out later, and she would not tell me where she was going.”
Bonnie took a beat. I realized she wasn't finished, so I waited for her to offer more information.
“I had no idea what I should do,” she continued. “I mean, she's eighteen. I technically couldn't tell her what to do any longer.”
I nodded.
“And, boy, she was quick to point that out whenever I pressed her about her grades, where she was going, and who she was seeing.”
“But you suspect it was our, as of now, unknown boy?” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “Tina admitted she was seeing the young man, but she has refused to tell me his name or where he lives. Not even if he is in school or works. Nothing.”
“Do you think it is because Tina thinks you wouldn't approve of who she is dating?” I said.
“I may not know who this boy is, but I feel certain he is bad news.” Bonnie took in a deep breath and let out an exasperated breath. Then she continued, “Tina nearly flunked out the end of last school year. Three weeks into this school year, she announced she was quitting school.”
“And moving in with the boyfriend?” I added.
Bonnie sheepishly nodded her head and wiped a tear from her eye. She took another deep breath and exhaled.
“I understand legally she's an adult, but she is still my little girl,” Bonnie said.
I nodded, not sure what to say.
Bonnie stood and paced the floor. Dash raised his head. Hope springs eternal for a pat on the head or scratch behind the ear. When Bonnie didn't pay him any attention, Dash dropped his head back down and looked at me disappointed with his big brown eyes.
“Mr. Patrick,” Bonnie said.
“Drew,” I said.
Bonnie nodded and continued. “The Tina I have witnessed the last few months is not the daughter I know.” She shook her head. “I can't say exactly why, call it a mother's intuition, but I knew when she started dating this guy that it was trouble. I had a sense he was a bad egg from the start.”
“Well,” I said, “as you mentioned, Tina is legally an adult –”
“But she is ruining her life,” Bonnie interjected.
I allowed for some silence in the room. Bonnie was a concerned mother. What decent mother wouldn't be concerned?
“I'm sorry,” Bonnie said. She sat back down in one of the client chairs in front of my desk.
Tears began to roll down her cheeks. I handed her a box of tissues. She wiped her tears.
Bonnie Ross seemed like a good mom dealing with a rebellious teen. Hopefully nothing too serious with Tina's rebellion. Raising kids can be hard.
“And before you ask,” she said, “there is no Mr. Ross in the picture. He took off when Tina was two. I haven't heard from him since.”
I felt for Bonnie. I wanted to help. I just wasn't sure if there was much I could do, other than find out who Tina is dating and where they are living. Perhaps I could try to convince Tina she was making a big mistake. I was good at gathering information, but convincing Tina she was making bad life choices was out of my area of expertise.
I was honest with Bonnie about this.
“I need you to try,” she said, a hint of desperation in her voice.
“Private Investigator is printed on my business cards,” I said. “Let me at least find out who the mystery boyfriend is and where he and Tina are living.”
Bonnie smiled through her tears. I was right. She had a warm and easy-going smile.
“That would be wonderful. At least I will have some information about that part of Tina's life she is keeping from me.”
“Knowledge is power,” I said.
“I want Tina to come back home, go back to school, and realize all of her potential,” Bonnie said. “But most of all, I want her to be safe and happy. I don't believe she is either safe or truly happy in her current situation.”
“Mother's intuition?” I said.
“Yes,” Bonnie said.
I was pretty certain mother's intuition was even more powerful than detective's intuition, so I had to trust Bonnie was right about Tina. She was a concerned single mother. I had no experience as a parent, but I had dealt with many cases where a kid gets in trouble and things spiral out of control.
I thought about Ernest Hemingway writing in the Sun Also Rises where Mike went bankrupt “Gradually and then Suddenly.” It could be like that for lots of things. Gradually kids start going down the wrong path, and then suddenly they are in a world of trouble.
CHAPTER 2
BONNIE ROSS GAVE ME the names of Tina's closest friends since childhood. While Tina hadn't been spending time with those friends in recent months, I figured it would still be worth talking to them. The subtle art of detection is to wander around, ask lots of questions, and see what emerges. The four girls agreed to meet with me in the food court at CambridgeSide Galleria after school.
“Hello, handsome,” Jessica Casey said when she answered her phone. “Are you calling with an offer to take me to lunch?”
“How about dinner? I'll even throw in an hour of shopping.”
“Well, you love to eat. But you hate shopping. What's the catch?”
“Why does there have t
o be a catch?”
“Because we've already established you hate shopping.”
Never try to argue with a lawyer. Well, a former lawyer. Jessica left practicing law to become a private investigator with a fancy international private investigation firm headquartered in Boston.
“I have a case and need to speak with four teenage girls.” I figured that explained it well enough.
“And you're afraid they have cooties?”
Jessica had a quick wit. And a sharp mind. They were two of the things I loved about her. Well, liked. Liked very much. Perhaps bordering on love. Our Facebook status would be “It's complicated.”
“Well, you never know,” I said. “But mostly I don't want to seem creepy talking to four teenage girls in a mall. Not to mention they are more likely to open up to you.”
“Because I'm a girl?”
“It can't hurt,” I said. “And don't you often say what great private investigators women make because people are more comfortable talking to a female PI?”
“Casual empiricism would suggest that is true,” she said.
“That is why you have the fancy office in Boston,” I said, “you use words like casual empiricism.”
“I seem to recall you are pretty good at statistics,” she said.
“Mostly as they pertain to the Red Sox and Patriots,” I said.
“So, what's the case?” Jessica asked.
I told her about Bonnie, Tina Ross, and the mystery boyfriend.
“I'd like to learn what information Tina's old friends might have about the guy she is dating,” I said. “Although this could all be a big waste of time. According to Bonnie, Tina stopped hanging out with her friends last spring.”
“But it's a place to start?”
“It's a place to start.”
“When and where are you meeting with these girls?” Jessica said.
“Food court at CambridgeSide Galleria. After school.”
“Well, I could certainly go for a few hours of mall shopping, but you'll have to do better than the food court for dinner.”