Chasing Shadows

by Jason Richards

  I followed Heather down a narrow hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house. A metal fan clacked as it moved side-to-side. I caught the passing breeze when it swung my way. A dog barked in the neighbor's yard and another plane passed overhead.

  The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was small. It had standard white GE appliances and the walls were painted a color somewhere between pink and peach. Magnets of Boston, Cape Cod, a local bank, an automotive shop, and a pharmacy secured family photos, a shopping list, and coupons on the fridge.

  Heather poured two cups of coffee and placed the mugs on the kitchen table. She took a carton of milk out of the fridge and placed it on the table next to a container of sugar. She waited a moment for me to sweeten my coffee.

  “Please, don't wait on me,” I said. “I take my coffee black.”

  She nodded and added a splash of milk and a spoonful of sugar to her coffee. She stirred and took a sip. I recognized the look of pleasure that came with the first cup of coffee for the day.

  “I was up late studying,” Heather said.

  “You're at Bunker Hill?” I said.

  “Yes. I'm studying to be a paralegal.”

  “That's a good profession,” I said. I took a sip of coffee of what was my second cup of the day. Cup number one had been downed on the ride over. I'll also confess to having a blueberry muffin.

  “I like the courses so far,” Heather said. “The law is interesting. But it has been difficult the past few days to concentrate.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I'm sorry about Brad.”

  “It doesn't make any sense,” Heather said. “He hadn't used drugs in a year. I can't understand why he would have relapsed. And enough to overdose.” Her eyes glistened with tears as she looked across the table at me. “He was upset about the recent death of a family friend, but his sobriety meant everything to him. And we talked about it. He planned to talk about it at last night's NA meeting. It upset him, but he seemed to handle it.”

  “So there were no signs Brad either wanted to harm himself or was looking to drugs?” I said.

  “No. Not at all. In fact, he said the best way he could honor Jack's memory was to find a way to still open the record store. They were going into business together.”

  “Jack?” I said. “So his friend who died was going to be his business partner in the record store? Any chance his friend was Jack Murphy?”

  Heather held her gaze at me. “Yeah,” she said. “You probably saw it on the news. Someone killed him in the alley behind the Snake Pit.”

  Well what do you know, I thought. Brad Whitcomb and Jack Murphy were friends. Potential business partners. Now they were both dead. Someone definitely murdered Jack Murphy. It was looking just as likely that Brad was murdered as well.

  “This may be equally hard to hear,” I said, “but there is reason to believe Brad didn't die of an accidental overdose.”

  “What do you mean? Are you saying Brad did it on purpose? The police didn't mention a suicide note. They said it was accidental.”

  “Not suicide,” I said. “I've spoken with a State Police detective. We both think it was murder.”

  “Murdered?” Heather's hands shook as she placed her coffee mug on the table. “I don't,...” her voice trailed off. After a moment she said, “Who would kill Brad?”

  Heather buried her face in her hands and sobbed. It was enough dealing with Brad's death. Now she was trying to process it was murder.

  I retrieved a box of tissues from the counter and placed them on the table. She wiped her eyes. “You don't think it had anything to do with Jack, do you?”

  “It might,” I said. “Heather, I understand this is difficult, but I'd like to ask you some questions. You may have information which will help the investigation.”

  “Okay,” Heather said as she wiped more tears away.

  “Brad's NA sponsor mentioned the record store. He had no idea Brad's friend and partner was Jack Murphy. What more can you tell me about their plans?”

  “Oh my gosh! They weren’t killed over a record shop, were they?”

  “I don't know,” I said. “There are three known connections between Brad and Jack: family friends, the Snake Pit, and plans to open the record shop. Any of those three, or any combination, could be a factor. It could also be something completely different we aren't aware of."

  Heather took all that in. She let out a breath. Then she said, “That record store was his dream. He talked about it endlessly. Brad always preferred records. He collected them. Jack shared the same passion. His collection was even bigger than Brad's.”

  Heather smiled as she spoke about Brad and his passion. She felt steady enough to handle another sip of coffee.

  “When did they decide to open a store?” I said.

  “Oh, about six months ago,” Heather said. She smiled a wide smile full of teeth. “Jack told Brad that if he could make it to his one year of sobriety, they could start looking for a place to rent for the store.”

  “So they had enough money to at least sign a lease?” I said.

  “Yeah,” Heather said. “Enough for rent and to place their first order of records.”

  “Did they have a business loan from a bank?”

  “No. Jack raised the money. Investors or something. I don't know the details. Jack was an accountant, so he understood all about money and business.”

  “Did Jack work for himself or a company?”

  “Some accounting firm in Brockton,” Heather said. “That's where he lived.”

  “What about the Snake Pit?” I said. “Brad worked there. Did Jack go there often?”

  “Brad hated working at the Snake Pit. He couldn't wait to quit. Too many druggies and drunks in that place. And his manager was a jerk.”

  “Pete?” I said.

  “Yeah,” Heather said. “Guy gave me the creeps.”

  “I've met Pete,” I said. “He's not on my list of favorite people, either. So what about Jack?”

  “Oh, right. He would visit Brad there every now and again. But he wasn't a regular or anything like that.”

  “Did Brad ever mention the name Aaron Hurley?”

  “They were friends in high school. Before Brad got expelled. I don't know if he ever saw Aaron after that.”

  “How long were you and Brad together?”

  “We've known each other since we were kids. We met at summer camp one year. I received a scholarship for lower-income city kids. It's kinda funny. He was this rich WASPy kid from Chestnut Hill and I'm a working-class Irish Roman Catholic girl. But we became fast friends. We started dating in high school.”

  “So you were with him when he used drugs?”

  “Yes. He had trouble at home. Brad's dad is an even bigger jerk than Pete. Brad got into drugs. But I stayed with him. Got him to go to NA and get a sponsor.”

  “Good for you,” I said.

  “I loved him. He loved me. We got him through it.” She paused and looked down at her hands. “We just celebrated his first year of sobriety. We had plans for the future. The record store, my becoming a paralegal, marriage. We weren't engaged, but we were talking about it.” She wiped away the new tears forming in her eyes.

  “You've been a big help,” I said. “I will out find who did this.”

  Heather looked at me and managed a slight smile through a stream of tears. “Thank you,” she said.

  I left East Boston and called Captain Burke. After filling him on what I had learned, he provided me with Jack Murphy's home address.

  CHAPTER 27

  BROCKTON'S MOTTO IS the “City of Champions.” Home to boxing champs Rocky Marciano and Marvelous Marvin Hagler. It was also the birthplace of musical group Sh Na Na's Lennie Baker. Jack Murphy's widow, Estelle, lived in the home they had shared for over twenty-five years. It was a small Cape Cod-style home on a quiet tree-lined street. I parked in the driveway behind a Honda Civic.

  Estelle Murphy came to the front door as I got out of my car.

  “Mrs.
Murphy,” I said, “My name is Drew Patrick. I'm a private investigator working with the State Police.”

  I left out my involvement was unofficial as Estelle Murphy seemed nervous about my presence. I showed her my private investigator's license and handed her one of my snazzy business cards. She inspected my P.I. license like she was a TSA agent at Logan. Convinced I was legit, she handed my license back to me.

  “How may I help you, Mr. Patrick?” she said.

  Estelle Murphy looked to be in her mid-sixties, which matched Jack Murphy's age at his death. She was short and pudgy with white curly hair clipped just below her ears. There was a hint of a very flowery perfume which made me want to sneeze.

  “My condolences about your late husband,” I said. “I am assisting with the investigation into his death.”

  “I already spoke with the State Police detectives.”

  “There are some new leads I am following up on.”

  “Please, come in,” she said and motioned me toward the house. Estelle's slacks were as bleach white as her hair, and the blouse was a visual representation of her perfume.

  I followed her in. We sat in the living room on flower print furniture. It was difficult to tell where Estelle's blouse ended and the chair began. The walls were eggshell with a flower-themed border. A lesser detective may have missed Estelle's preference for flower patterns.

  “What can you tell me about the record store your husband was planning on opening?”

  “I’m not sure there is much to tell,” she said. “He was going into business with the son of a friend. The poor boy just died of an accidental drug overdose. I have wondered if Jack's brutal death led him to relapse. The two were close. Such a tragedy.”

  “We believe Brad Whitcomb was also killed,” I said.

  Estelle Murphy's eyes grew wide in both surprise and horror. A grandfather clock kept time in one corner.

  “There is a good chance your husband's and Brad's deaths are in some way connected. Brad's girlfriend indicated your husband was handling the financing for the store. Are you aware of the details?”

  “No. I'm sorry. Jack only told me he had found an investor. One of his clients.”

  “Did he mention a name?”

  “No. Jack was rather secretive about it. When he didn't volunteer any information, I decided not to ask.”

  “Do you mind if I ask why not?” I said.

  “That was the way Jack liked to handle business. It was his business. I didn't meddle.”

  “Did your husband ever express any concern about the financing?”

  “In what way?” she said.

  “Trouble in getting the money they needed?”

  “He had trouble getting a loan from the bank. Then he found the investor. The gentleman could only afford to give him a little money over time, so it took longer than Jack originally expected.”

  “Did you find it odd that an investor didn't have the cash to invest upfront?”

  “Jack was the businessman,” Estelle said.

  “Where did he keep his business files?”

  “In his den. You are welcome to look if you think it will help.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “It's down the hall to the right,” she said. “I'll let you go on your own. It is hard for me to go in there now that Jack is gone.”

  “I understand. It shouldn't take me long.”

  CHAPTER 28

  JACK MURPHY'S DEN WAS the workplace of an accountant. The desk was tidy and his bookshelf was neatly organized with books on accounting and tax law. A degree in Accounting from Bentley College and his CPA license hung on the wall. On the wall opposite his bookcase, floor-to-ceiling shelves held his massive record collection.

  I sat down at his desk and pulled open the top left drawer. I found what you would expect to find - pens, pencils, notepads, stapler, and a box of staples. I opened the lower drawer and found a series of file folders. I flipped through them. They all related to home utility bills, credit card statements, and medical records.

  The top right drawer contained two ledger books. I took them out and placed them on the desk. I opened the one on top. There were hand-printed entries of financial transactions. Relatively small amounts spread over the past several years. But the sum of the transactions was rather eye-popping. I figured enough to lease a retail property and stock it with merchandise. Like a store full of vinyl records.

  The first ledger only showed deposits. I opened the second ledger. It looked more like a standard accounting sheet with debits and credits. Numerous size transactions. Some of them rather large. Each transaction corresponded to a person's name.

  I'd seen ledgers similar to these when I was with the FBI. Jack Murphy kept off-the-record books for a criminal enterprise. I found evidence that Murphy skimmed money from that same criminal enterprise. I'd bet a dozen glazed donuts I had found the motive for Jack Murphy's murder.

  CHAPTER 29

  STATE POLICE DETECTIVES Robert Burke and Isabella Sanchez were sitting on the bench outside my office door. Dash wagged his tail when he saw them and pulled on his leash.

  “Look at the handsome boy,” Detective Sanchez said.

  “Dash is a real looker, too,” I said.

  Sanchez rolled her eyes at me and scratched Dash's head as he nuzzled up to her.

  “Nice to see you, too, Detective Sanchez,” I said.

  She ignored me and continued to lavish Dash with attention. I knew where I stood in the pecking order.

  “I thought I was coming to your office?” I said to Burke.

  “We caught a case in Cambridge, so we figured we'd stop by,” Burke said.

  “Admit it,” I said, “you really wanted to see the new additions to my bobblehead collection.”

  Burke ignored me, which happened more than I cared to acknowledge. I unlocked my office door, and we stepped in. I took off Dash's leash and hung it on the hook by the door. Dash claimed his spot on the couch. Burke and Sanchez sat in the chairs I had in front of my desk for clients.

  Robert Burke was in his fifties and had been a State Police detective going on twenty years. He was six feet and slightly overweight. His athletic build gave way to age and less exercise. Like me, he had an Irish complexion. I liked Burke. He was straightforward and committed to doing what was right.

  Isabella Sanchez just made detective a year ago and was twenty years younger than Burke. She stood a head shorter than him and was in better shape. Her black hair was cut short, and she did not have on any makeup or jewelry. Those seemed pretty standard for female police officers and detectives. Her dark pants suit also seemed pretty standard. I'd only worked with her on a few cases, but I immediately liked her. Smart, tough, and honest.

  “Coffee?” I said.

  “I'm good,” Burke said.

  “Is it better than the goop which Burke passes off for coffee at the station?” Sanchez said.

  “Much better,” I said. “I get my coffee from some of New England's finest coffee shops.”

  “Well la de da,” Burke said.

  I started the coffee and then sat behind my desk.

  “Before you ask,” Burke said, “We got nothing out of Aaron Hurley. His daddy brought in a team of big shot Boston lawyers and the kid had zilch to say. Truth is we don't have any real evidence he's involved with whoever we are looking for.”

  I nodded my head. What we knew, and what we could prove with solid evidence were two different things. Even my pictures of Aaron proved very little. His lawyers would get him out of any charges for low-level collections. The police had no leverage to get Aaron to talk.

  “I figured as much,” I said.

  “And the Hurleys do not like you,” Burke said.

  “The feeling is mutual with the dad,” I said. “The jury is still out on Aaron.”

  “Apple doesn't fall far from the tree,” Burke said.

  “No, it doesn't. But I think there might be hope for him.”

  Burke shook his head. “I think you're wa
sting your time, but I admire that you want to help.”

  “The kid is throwing his life away,” I said. “It is hard to watch. I need to do what I can.”

  “Sure,” Burke said. “So what you got?”

  “Little evidence and a lot of questions,” I said.

  “Better than no evidence and no clue what to ask,” Burke said.

  I showed Burke and Sanchez the ledgers I took from Jack Murphy's den and explained my theory about his work for a criminal organization.

  “You took these without a warrant?” Sanchez said.

  “Warrants are for the police,” I said.

  “You are aware we can't officially use any of this, right?” Burke said.

  “I haven't forgotten everything I learned with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” I said.

  “Just ignoring what you know?” Burke said.

  “I figured you could handle getting a warrant,” I said.

  “Then claim discovery of the ledgers as a result?” Burke said.

  “If that works for you,” I said.

  Burke grunted. It was the closest I would get to his acknowledging he would obtain a warrant to enter the ledgers as official evidence.

  “So Murphy was keeping books for a criminal organization,” Sanchez said. “And he decided to start skimming a little here and there.”

  “And, as they say, over time it adds up to some real money,” Burke said.

  I nodded my head. The coffee was brewed, and I poured a mug for Sanchez, and another for me. I added Stevia and a splash of milk to Sanchez's mug. I handed her the mug.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I'll give you credit for remembering how I like my coffee.”

  “The finely tuned skill of keen observation,” I said.

  “You're a regular Sherlock Holmes,” Burke said.

  “I bet Mr. Holmes never made as good a cup of coffee,” I said.

  “Wouldn't he drink tea?” Sanchez said.

  “You both do realize he's a fictional character?” Burke said.

  “And yet there are the Baker Street Irregulars,” I said.

  “How about you keep your focus on why Jack Murphy got killed?” Burke said.