“Well,” Big Lou said, "I have heard that Leo Mancini launders drug money for several top dealers in New England. He likes to use bars, strip clubs, bowling alleys, and the like. Places where there are a lot of cash transactions.”
“Would the Kitten Club be one of those places?” I asked.
Big Lou smiled. “Looking for an excuse to go there, don't ya?”
“I've already been,” I replied. “Had a lovely conversation with three young women named Candy, Bambi, and Sparkles.”
“Yeah, the Kitten Club is part of the network,” Big Lou said. “The owner Gordie is a real turd.”
“Oh, I know,” I said.
“So you've met Gordie?”
"Yep. After I dealt with Bruno and Paulie."” I smiled at Big Lou.
“I wouldn't mind you busting this thing wide open just to see Gordie go down,” Big Lou said. “Never could stand the guy.”
“There’s not a lot to like,” I agreed.
“Give me a few minutes and I'll make a list of the other businesses. But you didn't get it from me.”
“I was never here.”
“Certainly have never eaten here.”
“That is really bothering you, isn't it?”
“All I'm sayin' is that it would be nice if you ate here once in a while.”
“I've already promised to bring Jess in for dinner.”
“When?”
“As soon as this case is over. You can fix a special table. We'll order the works. Appetizers, entrée, and top it off with your tiramisu.”
“My 'World Famous Tiramisu'.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Just don't get yourself killed.”
“That is my number one rule of private detection.”
CHAPTER 20
Burke, Sumners, and I divided the list of businesses Big Lou had provided to me. His sources informed him today was laundry day and the bagmen would be busy this evening making pickups of the laundered cash. State Police, FBI, and yours truly would sit and watch.
But I was never one to let the grass grow under my feet, so I used the afternoon to pay a visit to Barlow, Hughes, and Waterford. The law firm had its own building in downtown Boston. It left little doubt they were prestigious and powerful. I could use that to my advantage.
“Hello, I am John Altamont,” I said at the front desk in the lobby. “I am a reporter with the Boston Globe Magazine here to do a story on Nevin Barlow as one of Boston's movers and shakers.”
I showed the security guard a fake press pass I had made showing I was a reporter with the Boston Globe. It wouldn't pass muster under close scrutiny, but I flashed it for effect. Combined with my charm and spinning a good yarn, it would likely suffice.
“I know most of you Millennials read everything online, but it is the magazine insert in the Sunday edition of the Globe,” I added.
“Let me check,” the security guard said. The glow of the computer screen appeared on his face as he checked for my appointment. There wouldn't be one. Which he would conclude in about ten seconds.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Altamont, but I don't see you on the schedule for today.”
The guard reminded me of Charlie Brown. I felt bad, but I would be Lucy pulling the football away at the last second.
“Are you sure?” I said, looking confused. I pulled out my cell phone and glanced down at the calendar. I had added an entry just for this purpose. “It's right here.” I showed Charlie Brown my phone.
He glanced at my calendar entry and shrugged. “I'm sorry,” he said again. “I can't let anyone in who isn't in the system.”
"Perhaps someone forgot to put it in the system or inadvertently deleted it?" I said.
Another shrug of Charlie Brown's shoulders. “I guess,” he replied.
“I don't want to cause any trouble,” I said, “but my editor is going to have my butt if I don't submit this story. I have a strict deadline for it to make this Sunday's edition. Space is all laid out for the story. Oh, did I mention it was the cover story?”
“I'm sorry,” Charlie Brown said. “I'm not sure that makes a difference.”
“I understand you are doing your job,” I said. "But I also have a job to do. Newsrooms are cutting back on reporters and I'm lucky I still have a job. Which is at risk if I don't turn in this story."
Charlie Brown then said, “That sucks, but—”
“I know, you're sorry,” I interjected.
“Can you do me a solid and give a call upstairs?” I said. “They are expecting me. I would hate for the article not to run and Mr. Barlow learning it was all because of an error in your scheduling system.”
“I have nothing to do with the scheduling system,” Charlie Brown informed me. “I just go by what it says.”
"I get that. But maybe show some initiative and check out the error. Be a problem solver who saved the article. Or,” I paused a beat, “you could be the guy who didn't take initiative. There will be blame to go around.”
Charlie Brown gave some thought to what I suggested.
“The article will include quotes and mentions from the staff here at the firm. It's a human interest story. I bet your parents would be proud to have their son mentioned in the article. Something about how you are the first line of defense in protecting the powerhouse attorneys and their clients.”
Okay, I was laying it on thick. It was all toward wearing the poor guy down.
“Let me check,” Charlie Brown said as he picked up the phone. I listened to his side of the conversation. It didn't seem to go well..
I held up my hand to get his attention. He looked at me. “Tell them I spoke to a paralegal the other day. She arranged everything. Her name was Laura Powell.”
He relayed my message to the person on the other end of the phone. After a moment he hung up.
“We think we know what happened,” Charlie Brown said to me. “Ms. Powell was in a terrible accident the other night. Hit-and-run just a block from the office. She probably never got the opportunity to set it up in the system."
“How terrible,” I said. “I certainly hope she will be alright.” That part I meant with all sincerity.
“Mr. Barlow is unavailable for an interview, but you can speak with some of the other attorneys and paralegals.”
“Thank you. And your name?”
“Sean Hadley.”
“Well, Sean Hadley, you will need to pick up a copy of the Sunday Boston Globe to see your name in print. The helpful, brave security guard manning his post."”
Sean grinned from ear to ear. A tinge of guilt hit me. I wondered if there was any part of Lucy that ever felt bad for Charlie Brown when she yanked the football away.
I rode the elevator to the top floor and exited. A young man greeted me and introduced himself as Adam Reese. He was an executive assistant to Nevin Barlow. Adam Reese showed me to a conference room, and we sat down at a large conference table.
He apologized for the confusion. I told him it was not a problem. Especially, I thought, since there was no confusion on their part.
“How may I help you with your article,” Adam Reese asked me.
I asked him questions I thought a reporter might ask for a fluff piece. All very innocent questions teed up to paint Barlow and the firm in the best light possible. Adam Reese was more than happy to answer those questions. I also met with three other paralegals and two attorneys.
I asked only a few brief questions of each of them. They all mentioned Barlow, Hughes, and Waterford were celebrating the tenth anniversary of the Washington, DC office. All three named partners would be in attendance for a gala dinner later in the week. It seemed important if I were actually writing an article, so I wrote it down and asked some follow-up questions.
Barlow, Hughes, and Waterford's DC office catered to politicians and other powerful people in Washington. No real surprise there. I learned Barlow was the driving force behind the DC office and that he spent half his time there. I didn't see how it helped our investigation, but I made
a mental note. I didn't always know what might be relevant later on.
Near the end of each interview, I asked about Laura Powell. They all expressed what a tragic accident it was and hoped Laura would recover. She was well-liked in the office. If they knew anything about what Laura may have discovered, they didn't let on.
As I passed Sean Hadley at the front desk, I called out to him. "Sorry, Sean, some celebrity is making news and the paper cut my story. Sometimes it happens."
Sean looked crestfallen, but better to disappoint him now than have him buy a bunch of newspapers only to realize there was no article. I left Barlow, Hughes, and Waterford not sure of what I had. Maybe nothing. Then again, who knows what little piece of information may find its way into my investigation.
Chapter 21
A good deal of detective work isn't sexy. In fact, most of it isn't sexy at all. But I had Jessica with me. That made any task sexy.
We were sitting in my car across from the Kitten Club. Surveillance required coffee. Lots of coffee. I couldn't bring myself to drink the diner's sludge again, so we brought a Box O Joe from Dunkin'.
Jessica, knowing me so well, also packed sandwiches. Roast Beef with provolone cheese for me, and an egg salad sandwich for herself. I accompanied my sub with a bag of chips. Jessica munched on carrot sticks like a rabbit.
“Think we'll see anything useful?” she asked me.
“According to Big Lou, tonight is laundry night,” I replied. Big Lou didn't know when Mancini's men typically picked up the laundered money, but he was confident in his source. That source was certain of the pickup night. So we would wait and see.
I took a bite of my sandwich and chased it down with a healthy swig of coffee.
“You should go easy on the caffeine,” Jessica said.
“Do I appear jittery to you?”
“No, but it's your fourth cup.”
I looked over at Jessica. “You're keeping count?”
“Not explicitly. But I'm observant. If I had that many cups I'd be doing flips down the street.”
“I'd pay good money to see that.”
Jessica made a face at me. What would look goofy on others did not detract from her attractiveness. In my eyes, her beauty was infinite.
“I have a larger body mass,” I said. “I can handle more caffeine.”
“Won't you have to go to the bathroom soon?”
“Larger bladder, too,” I said. “Besides, I have an empty juice container in the backseat.”
“Gross. It will not be used tonight. You can use the men’s room in the diner.”
“Sweetie, I have used a similar container while driving long distance.”
“TMI,” she said.
A Keith Urban song was on the radio. For some unknown reason, Jessica liked Country music. At first, this surprised me as Jessica is a more cosmopolitan city girl. But she recognized most Country singers and their songs
"I wasn't even aware Boston had a Country music station," I said.
“Country Music is very popular,” Jessica said. “There are several Country music stations in the Boston metro area. You have an eclectic taste in music, I'm surprised you don't like Country.”
“I don't dislike it,” I said, “But I prefer other forms of musical expression. I guess you could say I'm a little bit more Rock 'n Roll.”
“A Donny and Marie reference,” Jessica said. “Dated, but Cute.”
“I do try,” I said.
“Elvis sang some Country music,” Jessica said.
“True,” I said. “But he was the King of Rock 'n Roll, not Country.”
“I think in his soul he was more Gospel,” Jessica said. She paused a beat. “But I love Jailhouse Rock. Ooh. And Hound Dog.”
I nodded. A Taylor Swift song followed Keith Urban.
“I didn't realize Taylor Swift sang Country,” I said. Honestly, I couldn't name one Taylor Swift song. Okay, not true. I knew Shake It Off. Beyond that, I hadn't a clue.
Jessica looked at me sideways. “Seriously?” she said.
I shrugged and took another bite of my sandwich. I'd finish it with two, maybe three bites.
Jessica continued, “Taylor Swift started as a Country music artist.”
“Before she was a pop superstar?” I said.
“Yes,” Jessica said.
She turned the radio volume up and sang along. I thought I at least deserved credit for knowing it was Taylor Swift.
Men entered and exited the Kitten Club.
“Do we have any idea what Mancini's men look like?” Jessica asked.
“Like mobsters,” I said.
"Hilarious."
"Definitely not like anyone we've seen so far."
“It's pretty sad, don't you think?” Jessica said as she looked at a group of men entering the club.
“Not how I would spend an evening.”
“I'd hope not.”
“I have you,” I said.
“And if you didn't?”
“Still not how I would spend an evening.”
"Do you suppose it disappointed Dash that he didn't get to come?" He loves riding in the car."
"He'd be bored ten minutes after sitting here. I'm sure he is having much more fun being spoiled by my parents.”
“Certainly spoiled by your dad. Did you know he has a stash of treats for when Dash visits?”
I nodded. “A stash of dog treats and various meats cut into cubes.”
“No veggies?” Jessica said. “Dash loves carrots.”
“Especially with peanut butter,” I added.
A Cadillac sedan drove past and pulled into a side lot. Four men got out carrying steel briefcases. I picked up my camera and used the zoom lens to get a clear look. They knocked on a side door. The lamp above the shed door reflected enough light to obtain a clear view of their faces through the lens.
“I recognize two of the guys,” I said. “They were with Leo Mancini at Sorellina's.”
I snapped some pictures.
“Plus they are carrying steel briefcases,” Jessica said.
“Seems to be the preferred material of briefcase for carrying money,” I said. “At least on all the cop shows.”
The door opened and Bruno peeked out, his nose still bandaged from our altercation the other night. I snapped more pictures. Bruno opened the door wider and the four men stepped into the Kitten Club.
Five minutes later the four men exited through the side door. I captured the moment with my Canon. They opened the trunk and placed the briefcases inside. I added more jpegs to my camera's SD card. They got in the car and pulled out of the lot.
I started the car, and we followed them at a safe distance. They made three more stops at businesses on the list Big Lou provided. At each one, they followed the same process.
After the fourth stop, they drove to what looked like an abandoned building. Parked out front were Leo Mancini's BMW SUV and two other cars. Several men exited the building. They helped the four guys we had been following take the briefcases out of the Caddie's trunk and place them in the cargo hold of Mancini's Beamer.
I captured the transfer frame by frame. I wondered if private investigators could be considered for the Pulitzer Prize for Photography? Probably not.
After the men loaded the suitcases into the BMW, Leo Mancini exited the building. I snapped the photo. Mancini got in the backseat of the luxury SUV. The two men who had picked Mancini up from Sorellina's and collected the cash also got in Mancini's BMW, and they drove off.
"Looks like a lot of money changed hands tonight," Jessica said. “But we will need to prove it.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but this should be enough to get an understanding judge to issue search warrants.”
“Except no Nevin Barlow,” Jessica commented.
“Not yet.”
“But you still think he's involved?”
"Somebody murdered Phillip Swanson, the paralegal at Barlow, Hughes, and Waterford's DC office and tried to kill Laura Powell. So, yeah, I thi
nk this involves Barlow."
"We need to prove that, but without the evidence Swanson and Powell claimed to have, I don't see a judge issuing a search warrant for Barlow." Jessica replied.
“There are always other ways,” I said.
CHAPTER 22
I emailed copies of the pictures I had taken and called Burke and Sumners. While they were pleased with the results, neither of them thought my pictures were Pulitzer Prize-worthy. Their joint operation yielded similar results at the half-a-dozen other locations where State Police detectives and FBI agents conducted surveillance.
We debated the merits of the images toward obtaining a warrant. Burke said there were a few judges who might issue one with what we had, at least for Mancini.
While we've placed Nevin Barlow in the company of Leo Mancini and Kitten Club Gordie, that wasn't enough, even with a friendly judge, to get a search warrant on Barlow. As is often the case, what we suspected and what we could prove were still pretty far apart, so we held off on requesting the warrant until there was enough to include Barlow.
Burke and Sumners would look into the ownership of the businesses. We might get lucky and be able to trace at least some of them back to Barlow.
With no better ideas on how next to proceed, I paid a visit to Tamara Wallace. It was probably a long shot after I barged in on her and Nevin at the hotel, but I’ve obtained information on longer shots.
Burke pulled her address. She lived about thirty miles south of my office in the Boston suburb of Canton. Her condo was off Washington Street in Canton Center, next to the MBTA Commuter Rail station. I waited in her parking lot and watched as she walked from the station after the early evening train arrived.
She was about five feet six inches tall and slender. Her face was oval with soft edges. Shoulder-length brown hair swayed as she walked. I surmised from her burgundy skirt, matching jacket, and white silk blouse that she worked in an office.
My mind drifted as I reflected on how Tamara Wallace had a life other than being Nevin Barlow's mistress and a weekend stripper at the Kitten Club. She had a home, took the train to and from work, maybe she met friends for drinks in the pub located downstairs from her condo.
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