Chasing Shadows

by Jason Richards

  “I'm sorry to hear about Brad.”

  “A damn shame,” said Pete. “He had been clean for a year.” Pete shook his head.

  “Working here probably didn't help with his twelve-step program,” I said.

  Pete didn't react to my comment. But he knew what went on at his club.

  “What was Brad's full name?” I asked. I wasn't sure his death pertained to my investigation, but it was better to have it, than not.

  “Whitcomb. Brad Whitcomb. Bradley, if we're going by his official employee file.”

  “Thanks.” I wrote the name in my notepad.

  “I came to ask Brad about an Aaron Hurley,” I said.

  “Don't know that name.” I didn't believe Pete for one second.

  I showed Pete the picture of Tina and Aaron.

  “I've seen those two in here. Is the guy Aaron Hurley?”

  “Yeah. The girl is Tina Ross. Both underage.”

  “Hey, man. We don't knowingly serve anyone under twenty-one.”

  “You should step up your screening for fake IDs,” I suggested.

  Pete nodded but didn't elaborate on his plan. If he even had one. I doubted he did. Not at a place like the Snake Pit.

  “Aaron and Tina come in often?” I said.

  “Couple times a week. Another guy and girl are usually with them.”

  I figured he meant Stewart Vincent and Carla Travis.

  “Underage as well,” I said. Just to make the point. No reaction from Pete.

  “Can you remember when they were here last?” I asked.

  Pete thought for a moment. “They were here a few nights ago.”

  “Same night that guy got beat to death, and the body tossed in your dumpster?”

  Pete said, “As it happens. You don't think it involved them?”

  “No. Just trying to establish facts. Did they interact with the deceased before his demise?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Hard to see a connection between Tina's group and the dead guy. Due diligence never hurt an investigation. Go where the conversation leads.

  “I'm sure you went over this with the police investigating the murder, but do you have any idea who the guy interacted with? Did the police ask about anyone? Someone who could be a suspect?”

  “No.” A one-word answer. Direct. Short and not so sweet. Pete didn't like the question. He was probably sick of being asked about patrons at his club ending up dead in the alley.

  I nodded. No point in pressing on that issue. Again, most likely unrelated to Tina and company. I returned to my original line of questioning.

  “Did Brad work last night?” I asked. His interaction with Aaron of more immediate interest to my looking into Aaron's activities.

  “Yeah. He's here . . .” Pete paused a beat. “Brad worked every night.” A hint of sadness in his voice. Even people in notorious clubs, located in sketchy neighborhoods, have people they care about.

  “Do you know if Brad and Aaron Hurley spoke last night?” I said.

  Pete shrugged. “Don't know.” A two-word answer. No less irritated with the question. Perhaps Pete just didn't like me. Or he was sick of answering questions in general. I'm a pretty charming guy. Must be the questioning Pete doesn't like.

  “Did Brad gamble?” I said. “Maybe borrow money from the wrong guy?”

  “Not that I know of,” Pete said. Wow, a whole five-word answer. Pete was getting chatty. Could he be warming to me?

  “Do you know if Aaron Hurley conducts any business at the club?”

  “What kind of business?” Pete said.

  “Any kind of business,” I said.

  “Can't tell ya,” Pete said.

  “Can't or won't?”

  “Look, pal, I don’t know anything about this Hurley guy. This is a busy place. I can't possibly be aware of every conversation going on.”

  Again, I didn't believe Pete. But I was fairly certain he said all he was going to say on the matter. At least to me.

  Loud music thumped through the club speakers. Purple strobe lights flashed. We were moments from opening time. A good time to leave. I felt I had gotten all I would get out of Pete.

  “Thanks for your time,” I said to him. “Call me if you think of anything else.” I handed him my business card.

  Pete took my card and stuck it in his shirt pocket. I doubted Pete would call if he thought of anything else. He might just use my card as kindling to light a joint.

  I exited the Snake Pit before the crowd began spilling through the front door. Talking to people didn't always advance investigations. Pete didn't offer much. Hulk telling me about Brad Whitcomb's death from an overdose might prove useful.

  Perhaps Brad's overdose was accidental. But it seemed too much a coincidence that a recovering addict, who had been clean a year, would relapse and overdose the very night he had an altercation with Aaron Hurley. Coincidences happen. As a general rule, however, I don't like coincidences when I'm investigating a case. At least ones I can't explain.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE FISH FIELD HOUSE is Boston College's state-of-the-art indoor practice facility adjacent to Alumni Stadium and Conte Forum on the Chestnut Hill campus. I'd attended football games at Alumni Stadium and hockey games at Conte Forum, but I didn't have any connections to get inside the new 115,000 square-foot building to watch the BC Eagles football practice. Instead, I sat on a bench taking in the cool fall day and enjoying a selection of Munchkins donut holes and a dark roast coffee.

  A freshly showered Aaron Hurley made his way out of the field house with several other members of the BC football team. I got up from the bench and tossed my empty donut bag and coffee cup into a nearby trash can.

  “Aaron Hurley,” I called out.

  “Who’s asking?” Aaron said as he looked in my direction.

  “Your guardian angel,” I said as I stepped closer.

  The gaggle of football players stopped and gave me their best tough guys look. I had no doubt they were pretty tough. Certainly strong and very athletic. But there are different kinds of tough. And I wasn't there to cause any trouble. A good thing for them.

  “What?” Aaron said.

  “My name is Drew Patrick. I'm a private investigator.”

  “For real?” one of the football players said. “Like Magnum, P.I.?”

  I wasn't sure if he was referring to the original Magnum, P.I. with Tom Selleck or the new Magnum, P.I. with Jay Hernandez. Probably the reboot, but I didn't bother to ask for clarification.

  “For real,” I said. “But nothing like Magnum P.I. That's a television show.”

  The kid looked mildly disappointed.

  “So what do you want with me?” Aaron said.

  “I'd just like to ask you a few questions.”

  “You working on a case or something?” Aaron said.

  “Or something,” I said.

  “So what's it got to do with me?” Aaron said.

  “I'm not sure. It's why I'd like to ask you some questions.”

  “If you're looking for trouble,” one of the other players said.

  “I'm never looking for trouble,” I said. “Sometimes it does find me in my line of work.”

  “We could be trouble if you're looking to mess with Aaron,” a third player chimed in.

  They were doing their best to intimidate me. It wasn't working.

  “I'm sure you can stir up trouble, but this won't be one of those times,” I said. “If you're smart. Which, being college guys and all, I'm sure you are.”

  “You some kind of wise-ass?” Aaron said as he stepped from the group and got up in my face.

  “Ever heard of personal space?” I said.

  Aaron looked into my eyes and considered his options. It didn't take him long to realize there wasn't much to be gained by taking a poke at me. He stepped back.

  “You're not worth my time,” Aaron said to save face in front of his teammates. I let him have that one. It really was no skin off my nose.

  �
�So what's your question?” Aaron said.

  “They use AstroTurf in there?” I said as I tilted my head toward Fish Field House.

  “You are a wise-ass,” Aaron said.

  “I am. And I already know they use AstroTurf from an article in the Globe.”

  “Then why are you wasting my time?” Aaron said.

  “Partly because it is fun. Mostly because the actual questions I have for you are private.”

  “Send me an email,” Aaron said. He turned to walk away.

  “It's about Tina Ross,” I said.

  Aaron paused a beat. He turned back toward me. His teammates looked at Aaron.

  “What about Tina?” Aaron said.

  “I was hired by Tina Ross' mother to investigate you.”

  “Like I care,” Aaron said. “Tina was nothing to me. We broke up.”

  “I discovered how little she meant to you during my investigation,” I said. “Then she dumped you based on what I learned.”

  “I don't get dumped,” Aaron said.

  “But you did.”

  “I was going to dump her. I already told her to move out of my place.”

  Aaron was attempting to save face in front of his teammates again. I didn't care.

  “Okay,” I said. “But I'm really more interested in talking to you about your part-time job.”

  “What part-time job?” Aaron said. He tried to be dismissive, but there was a hint of concern in his voice.

  “Perhaps I'm mistaken,” I said.

  “You are,” Aaron said.

  “Then why don't you set me straight on the facts,” I said. “Answer a few questions and I'll be on my way.”

  Aaron looked at his buddies. “You guys go ahead. I'll catch up in a few minutes.”

  The other players shrugged and moved along.

  “Look,” Aaron said after they had walked away, “I don't know what you saw or think you’ve discovered, but it is best if you leave it alone.”

  “What I saw was you collecting payments from several of your fellow students. I’m not sure why. But what I suspect is that you are working for a bookie or loan shark.”

  “It's none of your business,” Aaron said.

  “Technically, you are correct. But I'm going to make it my business.”

  “What's it to you?” Aaron said. “You're not a cop.”

  “I shouldn't have to tell you this, but apparently someone needs to. You have everything going for you.”

  “What do you know?” Aaron said.

  “You're a kid from means, a star football player on a scholarship to a Division 1A college, and likely to be an NFL draft pick when you graduate from this place.”

  “So what's your point?”

  “My point is that you don't need the money. More importantly, you could be throwing your life away by getting caught up in illegal activity.”

  “I realize what I am doing,” Aaron said. “And if you know what is best for you, I would suggest you mind your own business.”

  “I think we have already established that I am making this my business.”

  “You should think twice about that decision. The people I work for don't like people poking around in their business.”

  “I'm sure they don't,” I said. “But that has never stopped me before.”

  “It might stop you this time,” Aaron said.

  “Did they stop Brad Whitcomb?”

  Aaron's eyes flashed with a knowing fear.

  “What do you know about Brad?” Aaron said.

  “He died of a drug overdose yesterday,” I said. “You know anything about that?”

  “I didn't have anything to do with it. Brad was a junkie.”

  “A recovering junkie,” I said. “I heard he had been clean for a year.”

  “Maybe he relapsed,” Aaron said.

  “Possibly,” I said. “Perhaps he didn't.”

  “I don’t have any information about Brad's death.”

  I nodded, but I only half-believed Aaron. I doubted he had anything directly to do with Brad's death, but everything about Aaron's body language told me it was no accidental overdose. At least Aaron suspected it wasn't. Which meant it wasn't.

  “Did you try to warn Brad?” I said. “When he couldn't pay the people you work for?”

  “I can't say anything,” Aaron said. “I don't know anything about Brad's death.”

  “Did they send you to collect?”

  “Shut up, dude. I don't know anything.”

  “Did they want you to take care of Brad if he didn't pay?”

  “Shut up!” Aaron said. “We're done talking.”

  Aaron stepped around me and started walking away at a brisk pace.

  “I can help you, Aaron!” I called after him. “I can get you out of whatever you're mixed up in.”

  “Just stay away from me!” Aaron shouted back, not bothering to turn around or slow his pace.

  CHAPTER 20

  ALONG SOLDIERS FIELD Road, near Western Ave, I picked up a tail. Two goons in a Chevy sedan. They either lacked the skills to tail someone properly, or they wanted to be noticed. I'd find out soon enough.

  They were still on me as I passed the Charles River Canoe and Kayak to my left. A group of young people were setting off in canoes for an afternoon on the Charles. I crossed over the river on Eliot Bridge and wound my way onto Memorial Drive. The two goons stayed close.

  Traffic stopped to let an ambulance enter Mt. Auburn Hospital. I waved to my new friends as they sat in their car behind me. They didn't wave back.

  Traffic began to move again and the Chevy sedan trailed me along Brattle Street to my office. I parked next to George Saunders' Mini Cooper in the small lot reserved for tenants of my office building. As I got out of my car, the Chevy sedan rolled slowly past. They didn't roll down a window and shoot at me, so I waved and smiled as they went by. Again they failed to return my friendly gesture.

  Parking could be tough along Brattle Street, so I took my time strolling from the parking lot to my office building's entrance. I sat on the front steps and people-watched for a few minutes. Five minutes later I spotted the two goons walking in my direction. They were pretty easy to spot. This certainly was not a clandestine operation.

  “You Drew Patrick?” One of the goons said when they approached. He was a few inches taller than his friend, and I guessed about an inch shorter than me. Both were muscular with very little body fat.

  “Let's see,” I said as I glanced at the sign in front of the building. “I've never practiced law, I have no knowledge about book publishing, and I'm certainly not an accountant. So, yep, I guess that makes me Drew Patrick.”

  “Think you’re some kind of comedian?” the second goon asked. The afternoon sun reflected off his bald head.

  I shrugged. A technique I was learning to perfect from my interactions with today's teens.

  “You really should wear a hat,” I said to Baldy. “You look like you burn.”

  “Shut up,” he said.

  “I'm getting a lot of that, today,” I said.

  “Probably because you talk too much,” the first goon said to me. In contrast to his buddy, he had thick dark hair and bushy eyebrows.

  “What can I say? I'm a people person.”

  “Well, you are talking to the wrong people,” Eyebrows said.

  “You ever think of transplanting some of your eyebrows onto his head?” I said to him.

  “You're about two seconds away from a beating,” Eyebrows replied.

  “You two could certainly try,” I said, “but you might draw attention. This is Cambridge, after all.”

  “Maybe take you for a little drive,” Baldy said. “Work you over where no one will bother us.”

  “I know some nice spots if you want any recommendations,” I said.

  “Look, buddy,” Eyebrows said, “we don't want you bothering Aaron Hurley. And we certainly don't want you asking questions about his employer. Got it?”

  “Come on, guys, if I don't ask qu
estions, I can't possibly get anywhere with my investigation.”

  “That's the point,” Baldy said.

  “Oh, I see,” I said.

  “You think your something special, don't ya?” Eyebrows chimed in.

  “Aren't we all special in our own way?”

  “Come on Frankie,” Baldy said, “let's teach our mouthy P.I. a lesson he won't soon forget.”

  Ah-ha, so Eyebrows was named Frankie. I wondered what Baldy's name was?

  Frankie thought for a moment. It looked like it hurt him to do so.

  “Not this time,” Frankie said after using considerable brainpower. “I think Mr. Patrick, despite having a mouth on him, has some brains. If he uses them, he'll stay away from Aaron Hurley and out of our business. That way he'll get to keep his good looks.”

  “As flattered as I am that you consider me good looking,” I said, “I'm afraid I am going to have to disappoint you.”

  “Then it looks like we will be seeing each other again,” Frankie said.

  “Sure thing, Frankie. And...?” I looked at Goon Number Two.

  “Jimmy,” he said. “Ask around about us. I'm sure you'll be convinced you don't want to ever see us again.”

  “Just Frankie and Jimmy? Wow, you two must be legendary. Kinda like Cher.”

  “Screw you,” Jimmy said.

  “Take Jimmy's advice,” Frankie said. “Ask around. If we have to visit you again, you will get hurt. Make no mistake about it.”

  “I'll take it under advisement,” I said.

  “See that you do,” Frankie said.

  As they turned to leave, I called after them. “If you want some tips on conducting a proper tail, just let me know.”

  Jimmy gave me the finger. And here I had offered nothing but waves and smiles.

  CHAPTER 21

  AFTER FRANKIE AND JIMMY left, I picked Dash up from doggy daycare and we took a walk through Harvard Square and around Cambridge Common. We crossed Garden Street and took Appian Way, past the Harvard School of Education, to Brattle Street. We continued along Brattle to my office building. Dash peed on his favorite bush and we went in.

  Dash hopped up on the couch and I sat next to him. He rested his head on my lap and looked up at me. I took out my cell phone and called Captain Robert Burke of the Massachusetts State Police. I knew Burke from my days with the FBI. My role is considerably different as a private investigator, but we had developed a good working relationship over the years.