“That was the plan,” Aaron said. “But you made me look bad. I didn't like that.”
“So what is the truth?” Charles Hurley said.
“I got jumped by some guys last night outside the Snake Pit. They wanted my Rolex. I didn't want you to know I was hanging out at that club. I knew Mom would worry.”
“Apparently, she should worry,” Charles Hurley said. “Your misguided decisions have cost you time on the playing field. What if you lose your starting position on the team? What then? No scholarship. No NFL draft.”
“My ribs will heal soon enough,” Aaron said. “I'm too valuable to the team. Coach will have me back on the field as soon as the team doctor clears me to play again.”
“You just need to think of your future,” Charles Hurley said.
“I know,” Aaron said. “I'm sorry.”
“Good enough,” Charles Hurley said. “Just be certain there are no other lapses in judgment.”
“Fine,” Aaron said.
Charles Hurley turned back toward me. “Mr. Patrick,” he said, “it looks like we owe you an apology.” He looked at Aaron.
“Sorry,” Aaron said. “I shouldn't have made up the story about you beating me up.”
“You also shouldn't be making up a story about being jumped for your Rolex outside the Snake Pit,” I said.
“My son apologized to you,” Charles Hurley said. “Why are you doubting what he has said about being mugged and beaten?”
“Because that is not what happened,” I said.
“Do you have proof? That is a very rough part of Boston.”
“It is. And, no, I don't have proof. But I am an experienced detective, and I can assure you that professional thugs worked Aaron over. His wounds are not the result of a mugging.”
“I think my son has already offered his explanation,” Charles Hurley said.
I ignored him. “Aaron, remember what I told you,” I said. “I can help. Let me help get you out of whatever it is you are mixed up in. The world you have descended to is very dangerous. They don't mess around. Your broken ribs, busted lip, and swollen eye are proof of that. The next beating might be permanent.”
“I just told you guys—”
I held up my hand to stop Aaron from talking. “I know what you just said. But you and I know it isn't true. You are the only one in this room who knows what is going on.”
“I don't have anything more to say,” Aaron said.
“I think we are done here, Mr. Patrick,” Charles Hurley said. “But if you feel so strongly about your theory, then prove yourself as an investigator. Find who did this to my son. Get me proof for your accusations.”
“I intend to,” I said.
CHAPTER 24
IT WAS A PERFECT NIGHT for baseball at Fenway Park. The Red Sox were playing the New York Yankees in Game 1 of the American League Division Series. Our seats above the Green Monster offered a perfect view of the field. We were in the top of fourth and the Sox were ahead five to nothing. Chris Sale was pitching a great game, and the Red Sox bats were just as hot as they had been during their 108-win regular season.
I was working on my second Fenway Rick of the night. Jessica shared popcorn with my mom, and my dad was working his way through a bag of peanuts. He cracked open a shell and popped a nut into his mouth.
“Great seats, Drew,” my dad said.
“You told me that when we got here,” I said.
“Still great seats,” my dad said. “You need to thank that insurance agent again.”
“I will,” I said.
“You can never thank him enough for great seats like this. And to a playoff game, no less.”
“I'll send him a nice handwritten note,” I said.
“Don't be a wise guy,” my dad retorted. “It was very nice of him to give you the tickets.”
“Yes,” I said. “It was. But I save them a ton of money on fraudulent claims.”
“Still, he didn't have to give you the tickets.”
“Very true. I'll be sure to thank him again.”
My dad smiled and patted me on the knee. “That a boy,” he said.
My parents were both history professors at Harvard University. They met their first year on faculty, were married a year later, and then I came along a year after that.
My dad was tall and lanky with a full head of untamed hair sticking out from under his baseball cap. His hair was still dark, but more gray was beginning to take root. Even at a baseball game, he looked every bit the history professor in his casual slacks, v-neck sweater, and tweed jacket.
Mom, on the other hand, wore jeans and a Red Sox sweatshirt. She stood a full head shorter than my dad and was a slender beauty. Her brown hair was showing more gray compared to my dad, which she attributed to me, and it rested neatly on her shoulders.
She and Jessica were engrossed in a conversation, but my mother still kept a close eye on the game. She probably knew every baseball statistic as well as any sports analyst.
“So tell me about your current case,” my dad said.
“It is troubling,” I said. “This college kid is involved in some sort of criminal enterprise, but I understand very little beyond that. It's clear he is afraid of his employer more than anyone else. Even after they beat him up pretty badly, he still won't talk. Made up some story about being jumped outside a club.”
“Sounds like the young man is in some real trouble,” my dad said just before popping a handful of peanuts into his mouth.
“He is,” I said. “And I'm pretty sure his employer murdered two people, including the guy whose body was left in the dumpster behind the Snake Pit club.”
“How terrible,” my dad said. “Do you think this young man was involved in these murders?”
“No,” I said. “But I don't see any way he isn’t aware of what happened.”
My dad shook his head. “History is littered with violence,” he said.
“So is the present,” I said. “I'm just trying to get this kid away from it. He has every advantage in life, and, yet, he is heading toward almost certain destruction.”
“Unless you can stop it,” my dad said.
“Unless I can stop it. But it is difficult when he is unwilling to accept my help.”
“But you're helping, nonetheless?”
“Yes.”
Dad gave me another pat on the knee, as well as an encouraging look. The Red Sox got their third out on the Yankees without any runs scoring. We were heading into the bottom of the fourth and I knew my mom was pleased. She liked it best when the Red Sox were batting.
“Have you asked Drew about the house?” My mother called over to my dad as the Yankees took the field and Red Sox second baseman Ian Kinsler stepped to the plate.
“Not yet,” my dad replied. “We've been talking about his case.”
“Just be sure to talk to him about it,” my mother said.
“Yes, My Love,” my dad said.
“Is this about Grandma Patrick's house?” I said.
“She left it to you in her will,” my dad said. “The estate is almost settled...”
“And you are hoping I will move into the house,” I said, completing my dad's sentence.
“It is a wonderful house,” he said. “And she wanted you to have it.”
“Hence, leaving it to me in her will,” I said.
“Again with the wise guy routine.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I understand Grandma wanted me to have the house. And I love that house. We have many great memories of Patrick family gatherings there.”
The crowd cheered as Kinsler got a lead-off single to start the bottom of the fourth.
“And you are somehow worried you will ruin those memories by making the house your own?”
“Dad, you teach history, not psychology.”
“Don't need a degree in psychology to analyze this,” he said.
“Fair enough,” I said. “It would need updating. And I would feel uneasy about changing things too much.”
“Your grandmother never expected you would keep the house exactly as it is. My goodness, the last time they remodeled the kitchen was during the Carter administration.”
“The house is in great condition, but it needs more than an updated kitchen,” I said.
“We all realize that,” my dad said. “And the house is yours to do as you want. Even if you decide to sell it. But we certainly would like to keep it in the family.”
“It is your family home,” I said. “You grew up in that house. When I was growing up, I spent a lot of time there. I could never consider selling it. I just need more time before I am comfortable with the idea of moving in, or making changes.”
“Okay, Son. Take the time that you need.”
Sandy Leon put down a sacrifice bunt to move Kinsler to second. The Red Sox didn't score for the rest of the game, and the Yankees gave us a scare by scoring two runs in the sixth, and another in both the seventh and ninth innings. But the Sox held them off to win the game five runs to four.
“Did you enjoy the game?” Jessica asked me as we walked to the T.
“How could I not?” I said. “The Red Sox bested the Bronx Bombers to take a one game to nothing lead in the series.”
“You just looked a little concerned,” she said.
“So you were keeping an eye on me during the game?” I said.
“I'm always keeping an eye on you,” she said.
“Well, the Yanks did make a run in the later innings.”
“I'm not talking about the game. You're concerned about your case.”
I nodded. “You know me too well, Jess. Yeah, I'm concerned. Two guys are dead and the Hurley kid is in deep. I am determined to find out who he is working for, and who put a beating on him.”
“But you don't know if you can save him?”
“I don't know if I can save him.”
Jessica looped her arm through mine and rested her head against my shoulder as we walked along Yawkey Way. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Frankie and Jimmy. Frankie held up his right hand and pointed it at me with his fingers shaped like a pistol. He brought his thumb down like a gun hammer and smiled.
CHAPTER 25
THE NEXT MORNING I got an early start. There were no signs of Frankie and Jimmy as I parked in the Boston Common parking garage. Maybe they were out stealing candy from a baby. I'd be out detecting all day, so there would be ample opportunity for them to follow me around and act intimidating.
Their tough-guy routine would work on most people, but guys like Frankie and Jimmy are as common in the crime world as tools at Home Depot. Low-level thugs who have no idea who they are working for. They are hired bullies. It's another reason I knew I was on to something.
Aaron Hurley's boss didn't like me sniffing around. Frankie and Jimmy were an attempt to scare me off. When they realized their first attempt proved insufficient, things would likely escalate. I'd continue to investigate and be vigilant for Frankie and Jimmy 2.0.
I exited the parking garage and crossed Boston Common. Snake Pit Pete had given me the address for the Narcotics Anonymous group Brad had attended. The most useful thing Pete had probably done all week.
The NA group met in the basement of a church on Tremont Street. I hung around the church's front steps and waited for that morning's meeting to end. An attendee at the meeting told me a guy named Larry led the group, and that he was inside cleaning up.
Larry was a smallish guy who looked to be in his mid-fifties. He had a receding hairline and his waist indicated he didn't often pass up the donuts served at the meetings. I could understand the attraction of donuts. Regular workouts at the Central Square YMCA kept my waist from looking like Larry's.
He looked up at me as I entered the room. Florescent lighting and pale yellow walls tried to make up for the absence of any natural light. There was a modest rumble as a T subway train traveled along the tracks on the other side of the basement wall.
“Can I help you?” Larry said, as he removed folding chairs from their semi-circle configuration and stacked them against the wall.
“My name is Drew Patrick. I'm a private investigator looking into Brad Whitcomb's death.”
Larry paused after he stacked a chair. “A real shame,” he said. “Brad had been doing so well. Just celebrated a year sober.”
He went and folded two more chairs.
“Let me give you a hand,” I said.
Larry nodded his approval, and I joined him in folding and stacking chairs.
“When was the last time you saw Brad?”
“At last week's meeting,” Larry said. “He would have attended this morning's.”
“Same day of the week?”
“Yeah. We have a regular schedule. Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel. What's your interest in Brad's death?”
“Part of a larger investigation,” I said. “There is reason to believe Brad was murdered.”
Larry stopped and looked at me. “Murdered?” He let that hang in the air for a moment. “Why would anyone want to kill Brad?”
“I was hoping you might have some insight,” I said.
Larry shook his head. “I’m not sure what help I can be. I run the NA Meetings, and I was his sponsor, but beyond that...” He shook his head again and stacked another chair.
“Do you know if Brad gambled? Had any large debts he couldn't pay?”
“Not that I'm aware of,” Larry said. “I know he wanted to quit his job at the Snake Pit. That is something I encouraged him to do. Too much temptation at that place.”
“Heavy drug use at the Snake Pit?” I said.
“Don't know about heavy,” Larry said, “but there is definitely a drug culture among some patrons. Not a good place for a recovering addict.”
“No. I would imagine not.”
“Anyway, he kept talking about getting seed money to go into business with a friend. A record shop. Apparently, vinyl records are making a real comeback.”
“I've heard that,” I said.
Larry stared off into the room. “I remember collecting records when I was a kid. Then cassette tapes came along, and CDs. Now it's mostly digital. But I think Brad was on to something. Nothing like putting a record on a turntable and dropping the needle. And the album artwork. You don't get that with an mp3 file. Digital probably ain't goin' anywhere, but I bet there is a healthy niche in vinyl.”
“How real of a prospect was the record store?” I said. “Had Brad been saving money? Did they have a business loan?”
“That I can't say,” Larry said.
“Do you know the name of the prospective business partner?” I asked.
“No. But you should talk to Brad's girlfriend. Her name is Heather. Last name begins with a B. Let me get her full name and address for you.” Larry looked up her name and address in an emergency contact list and gave them to me.
“You think Brad was killed over money?” Larry said.
“Money is often a motive,” I said. “Do you have any idea if Brad knew a Jack Murphy?”
“The same guy who was beaten to death behind the Snake Pit?” Larry said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Don't know,” Larry said. “Can't recall him mentioning the name. You think their deaths are connected?”
“Right now I'm just asking questions and seeing what dots I can connect.”
“But you wouldn't ask about that Murphy guy if it wasn't relevant, would ya?”
“Hard to know what is relevant and what is not at this point,” I said. “All I’m sure of is that the Snake Pit is a common denominator, and both men are dead.”
“Well, you're the private eye,” Larry said. “I guess you know better than me.”
We finished stacking the last of the folding chairs.
“So who hired you?” Larry said. “Or is that confidential?”
“No one hired me for this part of my investigation. I was hired to look into someone else. That someone else intersected with Brad.”
“You think
that someone else killed Brad?”
“I’m positive he didn't. I was following him during the time Brad was murdered.”
“So why are you looking into this?” Larry said.
“To find out who did kill Brad. And how it is connected with my case.”
“What about the police?” Larry said. “They going to find who did this?”
“Yes. The State Police are opening an investigation. I'm unofficially helping.”
“Well, I hope you catch whoever did this,” Larry said. “Brad didn't deserve what happened to him. He had made mistakes, but he was a good guy. He was turning his life around. One year sober. What a shame.”
“It is tragic,” I said. “And we will do our best. There are great detectives looking into this. If you think of anything, get in touch with me.”
I handed Larry my business card. He looked at it and then put it in his shirt pocket. I thanked him for his time and left.
CHAPTER 26
HEATHER BRYANT LIVED with her parents in a two-family home in East Boston. The neighborhood was a prime location if you enjoyed watching planes take off and land at Logan Airport. The sound of jets roaring overhead probably went largely unnoticed by long-time residents.
I rang the doorbell for the Bryant's first-floor unit. I had spoken to Heather on the phone, so she was expecting me.
A redheaded young woman in her late teens or early twenties answered the door. She had on a Bunker Hill Community College t-shirt and athletic shorts. She wore her hair in a ponytail and her freckled face had pleasing soft features. As a little girl, she could have passed for a Strawberry Shortcake doll.
“Heather Bryant?” I said. “I'm Drew Patrick.” I handed her my business card. She took it in her left hand while opening the door with her right.
“Come on in,” she said.
I stepped into the small foyer. A framed photo of Pope Francis was on the wall next to a similarly framed photo of John F. Kennedy.
“Would you like some coffee?” Heather said. “I just brewed a pot.”
“Yes. Thank you,” I said.
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