The coffee shop was just past the intersection on her right. She was close. Special Agent Sumners would be there soon. He would protect her. Nevin Barlow, or whoever he sent to do his dirty work, would not get to her like they had Phillip Swanson.
She stopped at the intersection to wait for the light to change. She looked around again. Same faces. While she still had that sinking feeling in her stomach, no one appeared out of the shadows. It was a busy city street, just a block from her office. Everything would be okay.
Laura only needed to cross the street and go into the coffee shop. The FBI would be there. It would all be over soon.
The traffic light was yellow. All she needed was for the light to turn red and the walk signal would give her permission to cross.
****
Brody, Oscar, and Laura
Brody approached the intersection as the light turned yellow, right on schedule. He hit the gas and sped through the yellow to beat the light turning red. Laura noticed a beat-up old sedan speeding through the yellow to beat the red light. What a jerk, Laura thought. She kept her eye on the moving car. He'd be past in a few seconds, then it would be safe to cross with the light.
Oscar moved out of the crowd and came up behind Laura as Brody navigated the speeding sedan through the intersection. He had the car perfectly positioned in the right-hand lane. It all happened in an instant.
Oscar stepped forward, tripped, as planned, and knocked into Laura. She felt a hard nudge against her back. Laura pitched forward off the sidewalk into the path of the speeding car. Oscar reached out his arm, feigning to pull her back.
In that split second the car's bumper made contact with Laura Powell's body, tossing her several feet like a rag doll. Onlookers screamed. Oscar acted shocked and horrified. Brody sped away. A tragic case of hit and run.
Oscar slipped away from the crowd as everyone's attention turned toward Laura Powell lying motionless on the pavement.
CHAPTER 17
DREW PATRICK
I arrived to the flashing lights of emergency vehicles crowding the intersection next to the coffee shop one block from Barlow, Hughes, and Waterford. Several Boston police officers kept traffic away from the area and worked crowd control. I knew one of the officers and he waved me through. I parked my car next to his cruiser and got out.
EMTs were loading a woman into their ambulance. I spotted Mark Sumners and Robert Burke speaking with a Boston Police detective. I walked over and the three men looked at me.
“Drew, this is Detective Scott Matthews with BPD,” Burke said. “This is Drew Patrick. A gumshoe, but a good one. He's unofficially helping with our investigation.”
Detective Matthews nodded at me. I nodded back. Burke left out I was a former special agent with the FBI. I guess he didn't want to oversell me.
“What happened?” I inquired.
“Laura Powell was the victim of a hit and run,” Sumners said.
I raised an eyebrow of suspicion.
“We don't think it was an accident either,” Burke said.
“How is she?”
“Alive,” Sumners said. “But barely.”
“EMTs say there is severe head trauma, internal bleeding, and lots of broken bones,” Detective Matthews said.
"Her condition is touch-and-go," Burke said. "They're rushing her to the trauma unit at Mass General."
“What are witnesses saying?”
“As you might suspect,” Matthews said, “we’re getting different accounts. Some of them vastly different. But what we can piece together is some guy bumped into her and she fell in front of a car speeding through the yellow light.”
“And the guy?”
“Nowhere to be found,” Burke said. “Can't even get a decent description. Everybody was focused on Laura Powell.”
"Anyone able to describe the car or get the plate?"
“Gee,” Detective Matthews said, “if only we thought to ask about the car and plates.”
“Patrick isn't questioning your investigation,” Burke said to Matthews.
Mathews then offered, “Everything from an old Chevy sedan to a newer model ford coupe. Some witnesses said the car was brown, others said it was blue. Nobody can tell us if it even had tags, let alone the state or numbers.”
Most people didn't make very good witnesses, especially after seeing something as shocking as a person getting hit by a car. The human brain is an amazing muscle, but it can play tricks on us. While law enforcement can get helpful eyewitness accounts, they are often unreliable.
“So a guy bumps into Ms. Powell at just the moment a car is speeding in her direction through a yellow light. She gets hit at a relatively high speed. Am I correct in assuming there are no tire marks from an attempt to stop?”
“Not a one,” Detective Matthews said.
“And the car takes off as quickly as it approached. Probably even faster. The guy who bumped Ms. Powell also slipped away."
Matthews nodded in agreement.
"So none of us question that he pushed her as part of a coordinated plan to make her a victim of a hit and run?"
Sumners, Burke, and Matthews looked at each other.
“Officially we have to report what witnesses saw,” Detective Matthews said.
“Which is pretty much everything under the Sun.”
Matthews gave a defeated shrug of the shoulders.
“If she survives, we'll put her under police protection at Mass General,” Burke said.
“Even if she does survive,” Sumners said, “she may be of no use to our investigation for a long time. If ever.”
“Matthews is heading over to Mass General,” Burke informed me. “Why don't you join Sumners and me in checking out Laura Powell's apartment.”
“Perhaps I can instruct you in the fine art of searching for clues,” I said.
“And maybe if you aren't too annoying, one of us won't have to shoot you,” Burke said.
“A risky endeavor on his part,” Sumners said.
“Risk is an inherent part of the job for a world class private investigator,” I said.
I did not get a response from either Sumners or Burke.
CHAPTER 18
Laura Powell had a one-bedroom apartment in a trendy new building in Brighton that promoted a view of the Boston skyline and being walking distance to local restaurants, bars, and shopping. Sumners and Burke overwhelmed the doorman with their FBI and State Police credentials. Sumners told him, “He's with us,” as he tilted his head in my direction. The doorman didn't question me.
“Let me guess,” I said when we were in the elevator, “you thought his meeting a real-life private investigator would have blown his mind?”
“More like I didn't want you to feel inadequate,” Sumners said.
“So nice of you to consider my feelings.”
The elevator was fast and whisper quiet. We reached the eighth floor and stepped into the hallway still fresh with newness.
“Her place is 8B,” Burke said. He turned the lock with a passkey provided by the doorman. Sumners and I followed him into the bright, airy apartment, which did offer a view of the Boston skyline.
Like the rest of the building, Laura's apartment featured bamboo wood flooring, cabinets, high-efficiency stainless steel appliances, and white Corian counters. Laura had spent her furniture budget at IKEA. I hoped she had sampled their Swedish meatballs.
“Let's split up to search the place,” Sumners said.
“You feds always taking charge,” I said.
He had already started searching the living room. Burke was in the kitchen and dining area, so I took the bedroom.
Searching a home created a conflict of emotions for me. On the one hand, there was an element of fascination at possibly finding a clue, but I also felt the sense of invading a person's privacy. This sense became heightened when searching a bedroom-the most intimate of living spaces
There was nothing extraordinary about Laura Powell's bedroom or personal belongings. Except it was he
r most private space. A place where she slept, had dreams, possibly even was intimate. I couldn't help but wonder if she would ever be in this space again. I knew she was getting world-class medical treatment. I also understood how critical her wounds were.
I found nothing in her bedroom outside of what you would expect to find – clothing, jewelry, photos of family and friends on the dresser, and a stack of books from the Brighton library and an e-reader on her nightstand.
Laura Powell's bathroom had what you would expect to find in a bathroom: soap, shampoo, conditioner, and towels. Her medicine cabinet had makeup, toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, and mouthwash. An ordinary young woman. Except she had hard evidence Nevin Barlow was part of a crime syndicate.
That evidence landed Laura Powell in ICU at Mass General Hospital. It may cost her her life. I walked back into the living room.
“Find anything?” Sumners asked.
“Only that Laura Powell likes romance and thriller novels. Any luck out here?”
“Nope,” Sumners said.
Burke then added, “Whatever evidence she has is either not here or is extremely well hidden.”
“It couldn't all be in her head,” Burke said. “She must have documentation of some kind to offer concrete evidence.” He looked at Sumners. “Ms. Powell indicated she had evidence to show you.”
“That bothers me too,” Sumners said. “She gets run over, but how do Barlow, or Mancini, or whoever ordered the hit, have any assurances unless they got their hands on the evidence?”
“Unless they are reasonably certain she didn't have physical proof,” I conjectured. “Or whatever physical proof exists is not easily accessible without her.”
“Like what?” Burke queried. “Password protected computer files? Notes in a safe deposit box?”
“Could be any number of things,” Sumners said.
“Laura Powell knew enough to call you,” I said to Sumners. “I can't imagine she kept evidence at work.”
“I agree,” Sumners said. “"Barlow could have her files wiped clean and computer destroyed."
“Maybe she had a thumb drive on her when she got run down,” Burke said.
“It will be in the inventory of her personal belongings,” Sumners said. “But, again, why would our bad guys take that risk? If they thought she had evidence on her person, wouldn't they want to take it from her?”
“Unless the evidence is digital and only accessible by Laura Powell,” I said.
“The Cloud?” Sumners said.
“Bingo,” I said.
Burke nodded and said, “Makes sense. Everybody keeps everything in the Cloud these days.”
I wasn't confident Burke understood the Cloud, but he knew it existed and that people uploaded much of their lives to it.
“Everybody except you,” I said.
“True. I'm old school.”
“We'll get our forensic team on it,” Sumners said. “This will be the digital equivalent of a needle in a haystack but, if Laura Powell put evidence in the Cloud, we'll eventually find it.”
“What about Phillip Swanson?” Burke said.
“We'll have forensics look into his digital activity as well. So far nothing on his laptop or phone, and a search of his apartment came up empty. It is possible he had physical evidence on him at the time of his murder, or the killer found it in his apartment. But we'll keep digging.”
“In the meantime, we should continue with some old fashioned detective work,” Burke said. “We agree the connection between Barlow and Mancini is most likely money laundering. If we can get something going on that we can nail them.”
“I think we need to come up with a list of businesses likely being used to wash the money,” I said. “Then sit on them until we have enough to go in.”
Sumners and Burke nodded in agreement.
“I'll reach out to a contact and compile a list,” I said.
Neither Sumners nor Burke asked for further clarification. Burke assumed I was speaking of Big Lou. I doubted my acquaintance in the North End was on the FBI's radar. He was mostly legit these days. Whatever side activities he had going on were minor compared to his time as one of Boston's loan sharks. The State and Boston cops no longer paid any attention to Big Lou. While no longer active in the rackets, Big Lou was still a wealth of information regarding Boston's organized criminal activities.
“Have any ideas what might top that list?” Sumners said.
“I don't know where on the list it might be, but I'm pretty sure the Kitten Club will be on it,” I surmised.
“The Kitten Club?” Sumners said. “Strip club, right?”
“Yep,” I said.
“We busted a drug ring there about five years ago,” Sumners added. “Prior ownership.”
“New owner isn't any better,” I said.
“Would be nice to see that Gordie guy go down, huh?” Burke said to me.
“Sure would,” I said.
Sumners looked from Burke to me. “Is there something I am missing?”
“Let's just say that the owner of the Kitten Club and I are not on the best of terms.”
CHAPTER 19
DREW PATRICK
Big Lou owned a small Italian restaurant in the North End of Boston, which served as his legal means of earning a living. While no longer a loan shark, Big Lou continued to dabble in some legal gray areas. Those dealings and connections he established during his loan shark days made him extremely valuable whenever I needed information about Boston's criminal underworld.
The ting-a-ling of a small brass bell on the door announced my entrance into the restaurant.
“Another angel got their wings,” I announced.
“Huh?” Little John said in reply. Little John was Big Lou's bodyguard and kept post near the host station.
“Didn't you ever see It's a Wonderful Life?”
Little John tilted his watermelon-sized head and shrugged shoulders you could perch Mount Washington on. The rest of him was the size of Texas.
“Well, it's a classic starring Jimmy Stewart. You should check it out at Christmastime.”
Little John nodded. I wondered how much effort it took to move his head. “I'll do that,” he said. “You here to see Big Lou or do you need my help taking down some bad guys?"
Little John helped me take down two formidable thugs as part of a case I worked last year. He had enjoyed being my sidekick, and I was grateful for his assistance.
“I need some information from Big Lou, but I have your number in my contacts.”
“Good,” he said. “Call me any time. I don't get to bust many heads these days.”
“I'll bust your head if you don't get those tables set like I asked ya,” Big Lou said as he sidled up beside us. Big Lou had a brusque personality which reminded me of Danny DeVito's character on the 1970s TV show Taxi. Fitting given Big Lou's size and body shape bore a striking resemblance to the actor. I hadn’t asked him if the two were related. Big Lou could be touchy about his size.
“See you around,” Little John said to me as he moved toward the dining room.
“You have Little John waiting tables now?” I asked.
“No. He'd mess up the orders too much. But he has a real knack for place settings. So, you here to eat or ask for another favor?”
“I need information on possible fronts for money laundering.”
“Okay, so you're not here to eat. Why doesn't that surprise me?”
“I'll bring Jessica for dinner one evening.”
“I won't hold my breath,” Big Lou said. He jerked his head toward a booth. “Come on, have a seat.”
I followed him and we sat down. He sat back and crossed his arms, waiting for me to elaborate on my request.
“I need a list of businesses Leo Mancini might use to wash his cash," I said.
Big Lou let out a low whistle. "How do you get yourself involved in cases that bring you in contact with such dangerous people?"
“It's a gift,” I said.
“One
day it might get you killed.”
“Hasn't yet.”
“And what?” Big Lou said. “You going to give me some crap about how the past is a prologue?”
"Nope. But I am skilled at not being killed by the dangerous people I encounter."
“Whatever. But don't say I didn't warn ya.”
"You haven't warned me about anything yet," I said.
Big Lou uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “Listen, Drew, I can tell you what you want to know.”
“Why I keep coming back.”
Big Lou snorted. “Just once it would be nice if you ordered something to eat.”
“I told you, I'll bring Jess for dinner.”
Big Lou rolled his eyes.
“I promise,” I said.
Little John finished setting tables for the upcoming dinner crowd. He turned on the sound system which featured songs from Italy and famous Italian American crooners. There was always a healthy dose of Anthony Dominick Benedetto, Dino Paul Crocetti, and Francis Albert Sinatra; better known as Tony Bennett, Dean Martin, and Frank Sinatra.
“You ever think of adding karaoke?” I asked.
“Are you kiddin'? I'd never get Little John to do any work.”
"I'll admit, he likes to sing."
“Don't I know it.” Big Lou said. Then he continued, “I can tell you about Mancini's operation, but you need to tread lightly.”
“As in speaking softly but carrying a big stick?”
Big Lou shook his head. “Leo ain't his father,” he said, “but he's no pushover. You need to be very careful if you decide to go after his business.”
“I'm more interested in Nevin Barlow, but I don't think I can get him without also taking down Mancini.”
“Nevin Barlow the lawyer?” Big Lou asked. “What's he got to do with Leo Mancini?”
“For starters, he represents the Mancini family. What is more interesting is that he also appears to be in business with Leo.”
“And you think that business is money laundering?”
“It is the most plausible theory,” I said. “Plus, there is an active federal and state investigation.”
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