Chasing Shadows

by Jason Richards

  “I agree with Drew,” Sanchez said. “It would stand to reason that Murphy was murdered for skimming money.”

  “Wow, we agree on good coffee and on why Jack Murphy was killed,” I said. “Will wonders never cease?”

  Sanchez flipped me the bird. The second time the gesture had been directed at me in as many days. At least Sanchez wasn't threatening to beat me up. At least not yet.

  “I agree, as well,” Burke said. “Criminals tend not to like people stealing from their illegal gains.”

  “Especially when the amount adds up to enough to open a retail business,” I added.

  “How did Murphy think the missing money would go unnoticed?” Burke said.

  “He probably figured he was smarter than the person he was stealing from,” I said.

  “He figured wrong,” Sanchez said. “And we figure out who Murphy was working for and we find our killer.”

  “Or at least who ordered the hit,” I said.

  “True,” Sanchez said. “I'd bet whoever we are dealing with has professional thugs to handle the dirty work.”

  “But having this information about Murphy, while useful, still doesn't get us a whole lot closer to figuring out who is behind this,” Burke said. “We already suspected his murder was connected to criminal activity.”

  “And we have the usual suspects with no one talking,” Sanchez added.

  “Except now we have the names of people who borrowed money from our mystery crime lord,” I said.

  “And I'd rather have those names than not,” Burke said, “but we are going to have to round up a lot of guys to get somebody to talk.”

  “For good reason,” I said. “Jack Murphy and Brad Whitcomb are prime examples of what can happen.”

  “So you think that Murphy was skimming from our unknown crime boss to fund opening a record store with Brad Whitcomb?” Burke said.

  “Yep,” I said. “Somebody figures out what Murphy was up to and they make an example of him.”

  “You think he turned over the money?” Sanchez said.

  “I'm not sure,” I said. “Either way he was done for.”

  Burke and Sanchez nodded in agreement. Sanchez finished her coffee and placed the empty mug on the corner of my desk.

  “Any idea if Whitcomb was aware where Murphy was getting the money from?” Burke said.

  “His girlfriend said he told her Murphy found an investor,” I said.

  “So he either lied to the girlfriend or really had no idea about the actual source of their seed funding,” Sanchez said.

  “Alright,” Burke said, “so we have established that Jack Murphy was stealing from already illegal gains to fund his business venture with Brad Whitcomb. Whether Whitcomb knew what Murphy was up to is unknown.

  “And Murphy's actions got them both killed,” I said.

  “With the ledgers you discovered,” Burke said, “we can at least prove Murphy was skimming money. Eventually we will trace the money back to somebody in the organization.”

  “That will take some time,” Sanchez said. “First, we need to find one of the names on the list to tell us who they were paying. Then we will need to flip a lower level goon so we can move up the food chain to the big boss.”

  “What about the two guys following you around?” Burke said. “You think you can get them to talk?”

  “With the right incentives,” I said. “But my bet is they are hired thugs from outside the organization. The same issue as with the names on the ledger, it would take time. But I think I have some sources to speed up the process.”

  “So let's get at it,” Burke said.

  “Does this mean I'm on the clock with the State Police?” I said.

  “No,” Burke said. “But your help is appreciated.”

  “What would you do without me?” I said.

  CHAPTER 30

  BATTLES RAGED ON THE chess boards outside the Smith Campus Center in Harvard Square. An International Chess Master was taking on a challenge from a local amateur. The amateur appeared skilled, but not faring too well against one of the world's best. Other top local players concentrated intensely on their own matches. Chess hustlers pocketed the money of overconfident players willing to lay down cash.

  I watched as Tommy Two Fingers check-mated his opponent and scooped a stack of bills off the table and into his jacket pocket.

  “Better luck next time, kid,” Tommy said to the disappointed college student. “Looks like it's Ramen Noodles for you this week.”

  “You let the kid bet his food money?” I said to Tommy.

  He turned and looked at me over his shoulder. Tommy rolled his eyes. “Jeez,” he said, “I didn't know you was lurking behind me.”

  “Just taking in a friendly game of chess on this beautiful New England day,” I said.

  “Yeah, right,” Tommy said as he got up from the chessboard table.

  “This your new hustle?” I said as we walked away from the chess boards.

  “One of them,” Tommy said. We crossed Massachusetts Avenue and sat on a bench in Harvard Yard. Squirrels scurried about gathering nuts. Harvard students scurried about gathering a world-class education.

  “I didn't realize you played chess,” I said.

  “Since I was a little tyke. I've perfected my game to the point where it is profitable.”

  “And it beats being a pick-pocket,” I said.

  “Whoever said I was a pick-pocket,” Tommy said.

  I looked at him sideways. Tommy got his nickname of Two Fingers for being a legend among Boston criminals for his skill at lifting wallets on the T. He was of medium height and build with an unremarkable face and thinning brown hair. He looked like your average middle-aged white guy.

  Birds chirped in a nearby tree. The air was fragrant of late summer moving into early autumn and the temperature hovered in the mid-sixties. A group of co-eds walked past with backpacks slung over their shoulders and their faces illuminated with the glow from their cell phone screens.

  “You think they ever look up to see the world around them?” Tommy said as he glanced at the college students.

  “Much of their world happens via text message,” I said.

  “So what is it you want?” Tommy said. “The afternoon rush starts soon.”

  “I need information.”

  “Of course you do. What kind of information?”

  “What do you know about Jack Murphy's murder at the Snake Pit?” I said.

  “Just what I read in the paper.”

  “I doubt that,” I said. “You hear things.”

  “Not as much as you think,” he said. “As you witnessed, I prefer a good hustle here in Cambridge these days.”

  “So you're telling me there’s no word on the street about who killed Jack Murphy?”

  “Two bruisers,” Tommy said. “They are twin brothers. Mean bastards. Heard they used to box back in the day.”

  “Names?” I said.

  Tommy shook his head. “That's all I know about 'em,” he said.

  I had hoped Tommy could ID the two bruisers, but at least I learned they were twin brothers and former boxers. How many guys working as Boston thugs matched both those profiles? It narrowed the search. I'd take it as a small step forward. I sat back against the bench, stretched out my legs and crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Don't get too comfy,” Tommy said, “I ain't staying long.”

  “Right, more chess players to hustle.”

  “It's an honest hustle,” Tommy said. “Cambridge cops don't bother me. Harvard cops don't bother me. People understand the deal. Friendly wagers. I put in some cash. Challenger puts in some cash. Winner walks away with all the cash.”

  “Works out well if you win,” I said.

  “Haven't lost yet,” Tommy said. He smiled at me. Then continued, “Care to test your skills?”

  “Not today,” I said.

  “Maybe make it the price for information next time,” Tommy said.

  “Next time,” I said. “To
day, I need whatever you have on activity around the Snake Pit and Boston College.”

  “The Snake Pit and BC aren't exactly in the same zip code,” he said.

  “Nope,” I said.

  I admired a sharply dressed older gentleman as he strolled through Harvard Yard. He wore a three-piece suit and a bowler hat. The gentleman lightly tapped a cane on the ground as he walked.

  Tommy noticed me looking at the man. He glanced over. After a moment he said, “Two hundred bucks, easy.”

  “Huh?” I said.

  “I'd bet my days haul that he has least two hundred bucks in his wallet. Which, by the way, he is carrying in the left inside pocket of his suit coat.”

  “You can determine that from here?” I said.

  "Experience, combined with the vision of a hawk," he said.

  “I thought you weren’t a pick-pocket?”

  Tommy didn't bother to answer. Instead he smiled broadly as he leaned back against the bench.

  “So what else can you tell me?” I said.

  “Several guys work the Snake Pit,” Tommy said. "But I'm only aware of one guy who is operating in Chestnut Hill and the Snake Pit."

  I waited a moment. “Are you going to offer a name?” I said.

  “Lately it has been a kid who attends BC,” Tommy said. “Big kid. Built like a linebacker.”

  “He's a large tight end,” I said. “They say he's the next Gronk.”

  “You’ve heard about him?” Tommy asked.

  I nodded my head.

  “Then why are you asking me?”

  “I only have partial information,” I said. “Any idea who he works for?”

  “Not a clue,” Tommy said.

  “The name Brad Whitcomb mean anything to you?” I said.

  “Should it?” Tommy said.

  “I'll take that as a 'no',” I said.

  “Drew, I ain't got nothing else for ya,” he said. “I only hear bits and pieces, and I don't pay that close attention.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I appreciate what you could offer.”

  Tommy pushed himself up from the bench. He looked at me and said, “I bet Big Lou can tell you about the two goons who put Murphy in the dumpster. You should talk to him.”

  I nodded and then stood. “Thanks.”

  “You bet,” Tommy said. “Don't forget, next time we play chess.”

  “I'll be sure to practice,” I said.

  “And bring cash,” Tommy said. “Lots of cash.”

  I watched as Tommy strode along the path and out of Harvard Yard. Even though he no longer picked pockets, I figured his eyes scanned the crowd for who would have been an easy mark. Old habits die hard. As I followed the same path, I called Big Lou to tell him I was stopping by for a visit.

  CHAPTER 31

  JAX AND MIKEY

  “LET US HELP YOU WITH those Mrs. O'Donnell,” Mikey said.

  Jax and Mikey each took a grocery bag out of their elderly neighbor's trunk.

  “Such nice boys. Thank you,” Mrs. O'Donnell said.

  They ascended the stairs of the three-story walk-up. Mrs. O'Donnell lived in the apartment on the second floor. Jax and Mikey lived in the apartment on the third.

  “I remember when you two barely came up to my knee,” said Mrs. O'Donnell. Jax and Mikey grew up here. They had been neighbors with Mrs. O'Donnell their entire lives.

  “Let me get my keys out,” said Mrs. O'Donnell as she dug through her purse.

  “Take your time, Mrs. O'Donnell,” Jax said.

  “Here they are.”

  Mrs. O'Donnell turned the key in the lock and opened her door.

  “You boys go ahead.”

  Jax and Mikey entered Mrs. O'Donnell's apartment and put the grocery bags on her kitchen table.

  “Do you want help putting your groceries away?” Mikey said.

  “No, I'll be fine. Thank you.”

  Mrs. O'Donnell pulled two dollar bills out of her purse. “Here you go,” she said handing a dollar each to Jax and Mikey. Mrs. O'Donnell tried to pay them whenever they helped her carry in groceries, take out the trash, or shovel her car out in the winter. The two brothers always politely refused to take even a penny.

  “No, Ma'am,” Mikey said.

  “Yeah, it is our pleasure,” Jax said.

  “Such nice boys.”

  “Have a good day, Mrs. O'Donnell,” Mikey said as he and Jax left her apartment.

  “Say hello to your mother for me.”

  “We will,” Jax said.

  “Sweet old lady,” Mikey said once they were in the hallway.

  “Yeah.”

  Jax and Mikey climbed the next flight of stairs to the third floor. As little boys they would slide down the railing.

  “Ma, we're home,” Mikey called out as the two entered the apartment.

  It wasn't much. A simple two bedroom and one bath unit. And it hadn't changed in thirty years. Same wallpaper, furniture, and decorations. Old school portraits of Jax and Mikey covered one living room wall.

  Gwen Crane came out of the kitchen. She moved slowly and appeared gaunt, her hair matted from sleeping. She gave each of her boys a kiss on the cheek.

  “Mrs. O'Donnell says hello,” Mikey said.

  “That's sweet,” Gwen said.

  “How you feeling today, Ma?” Jax said.

  “Fine. Just fine. How was work?”

  “Good,” Mikey answered. “Busy.”

  “I wish you boys could find a job with regular hours.”

  “We like our job.”

  “And the pay is good,” Jax added.

  Jax and Mikey told their mother they worked security at a downtown Boston office building. Mostly the late shift. She had no idea what her boys actually did. Or how violently they carried out their work. If she ever found out, it would crush her.

  “Can I fix you something to eat?” she said.

  “We ate at IHOP,” Jax replied.

  “I know how much you love their pancakes,” she said, pinching Jax's cheeks. Gwen moved between her two boys and sat on the sofa.

  “We just came home to check on you,” Mikey said. “We picked up an extra job today. A little security gig on the side.”

  Total lie. A lie Mikey justified to protect their mother.

  “It's not that I don't appreciate all you boys do. You keep this roof over our heads, food on the table, and pay. . .” her words were interrupted with a coughing fit. The emphysema was getting worse.

  “Get her something to drink,” Mikey said as he elbowed Jax.

  Jax went into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. “Here you go, Ma.”

  She took the glass and drank. When Gwen finished, she placed it on the coffee table in front of her.

  “Thank you, sweetie. Now, as I was saying -”

  “Ma, it's okay,” Mikey said.

  “Don't interrupt your mother.”

  “Yes, Ma'am. Sorry, Ma.”

  “I appreciate all you boys do. My medical bills are so high.”

  Jax opened his mouth to speak and then shut it when his mother held up her hand.

  “You two boys have been such a blessing to me. Since the day you were born. Never thought I would have twin boys.”

  Gwen shook her head. “No, never thought I'd have twins. But look at you two. So strong and handsome.”

  Mikey rolled his eyes with a slight shake of his head. He was glad he and Jax were fraternal and not identical twins. Jax had a face only their mother could love.

  “And you take such good care of me,” she continued. “I do wish you would find yourselves some nice young ladies and settle down. Get married. Give me grandchildren.”

  “One day, Ma,” Mikey said.

  “I've heard that before,” she said.

  Gwen pushed herself up from the couch. Jax and Mikey helped her to her feet.

  “I'm going to take a nap.”

  “Let us know if you need anything,” Mikey said.

  “I need grandchildren,” Gwen said as she sh
uffled down the short hallway to her bedroom. After she closed her bedroom door, Jax and Mikey went into the kitchen. Mikey opened the fridge and pulled out two beers. He handed one to Jax.

  “She isn't ever going to give up on the grand kids thing,” Jax said as he opened his beer.

  “Don't think so.” Mikey opened his beer and took a tug on the bottle.

  Mikey's cell phone rang. “It's Mr. Scarpelli,” he said to Jax. He answered, “Hey, boss.”

  Jax drank his beer as Mikey listened to Jocko Scarpelli on the other end of the phone.

  “Okay,” Mikey said. The call ended. “Boss says the state cops and a private investigator are looking into Murphy and Whitcomb. They've been talking to the Hurley kid.”

  “He say anything about us?” Jax said.

  “No. If he had, the cops would already be coming for us. But Mr. Scarpelli is worried the kid might talk. Says he's become a loose end.”

  Jax's mouth formed a crooked smile.

  Mikey continued, “Boss says we shouldn’t take any chances. Too much heat right now. You still have one of those burner phones?”

  “Yeah,” Jax said.

  “Good. We’ll send someone else to collect the kid.”

  “But we still get to finish him, right?” Jax said.

  “Yes,” Mikey said.

  Jax’s crooked smile grew wider.

  CHAPTER 32

  DREW PATRICK

  AS I EXITED THE HAYMARKET T station, my cell phone alerted me I had a voicemail message. I listened as Burke updated me on their questioning people in Murphy's ledger. No one was talking. No one had a name to give. I called him back as I walked to Boston's North End.

  “I hope you are having better luck,” Burke said when he answered.

  “Only slightly,” I said. “You ever come across two twin brothers who were once boxers?”

  I waited as Burke thought on the other end of the phone. I could hear him tapping a pencil against his desk. “Nope,” he finally said. “That all you got?”

  “For the time being,” I said. “I know it's not much, but we have eliminated a lot of suspects with those details.”

  “Still chasing shadows,” Burke said. “I'll have Sanchez check our system. Maybe we'll get a hit.”