“Ms. Wallace,” I said as I got out of my car.
She paused a moment and considered me. Recognition flashed in her eyes. Then those eyes grew angry.
“I know you,” she fumed. “You're the private eye who busted into our hotel room.”
“Actually, Nevin let me in.”
“You saw me naked, you perv.”
I tried to console her by saying, “I didn't see much.”
“Hey, what is that supposed to mean?”
Funny how the human mind works. One moment it offends Tamara because she believes I got a full-on look at her naked. The next moment it offends her to think I didn't like what I saw. This conversation was a no-win situation for me.
“I meant no offense,” I said. "And truthfully, I have no idea what is correct to say anymore. All I meant is that I caught only the briefest of glimpses as I entered the room.”
I thought of bringing up her side gig stripping in front of strangers at the Kitten Club, but I didn't think it would help. Perhaps being naked in a strip club is different than being naked in a hotel room.
“What do you want?” she asked. This was the moment of truth. I'd either get Tamara Wallace to agree to answer some questions or she would send me off with a big FU. Or something to that effect.
“I was wondering if I might ask you some questions.”
“About what?”
“Your relationship with Nevin Barlow.”
Tamara Wallace rolled her eyes. "What relationship?" she huffed. "I was only a fling to him. A good time when he wanted it. Then the twerp dumps me."
I didn't know their affair had ended. And from the sounds of it, Tamara wasn't too happy about how it had ended. Jilted lovers were usually more than happy to dish on their exes.
“How are the drinks in the pub?” I asked.
“Decent enough,” she said. “You buying?”
“Absolutely.”
Tamara Wallace turned and headed toward the pub. I took that as 'yes' to her willingness to talk. Or else she wanted a free drink. Either way, she didn't tell me to get lost.
The pub had a relaxed atmosphere. A group of women sat at the bar and enjoyed happy hour cocktails. We found a table near the window with a view of Washington Street. There were several tables with umbrellas set up on the sidewalk for outside dining.
The waiter came and Tamara ordered a glass of red wine. I went with Blue Moon Pale Ale.
"He told me he loved me," Tamara Wallace said after we gave our order. I was sure she meant Nevin Barlow and not the waiter. But I wasn't sure how much she got around. “What a crock of shit,” she continued. “I realize now the little prick never intended to leave his wife.”
“Did you love him?” I asked.
“I liked being with him. He was smart, powerful, and, despite not being the best-looking guy, he was good in bed.”
“Not to mention he is stinking rich,” I said.
“I know it is easy to think I was some sort of gold digger, but I really didn't care about the money. Sure, it was nice going to fancy restaurants, jetting off to exotic resorts, and getting expensive gifts, but I would have dated him even if he weren't wealthy.”
I wasn't sure I bought what Tamara Wallace was selling, but she was talking. I wanted to keep the conversation going.
“Because you are attracted to intelligence and power?”
She thought about my question a moment. The waiter returned with our drinks.
“I guess,” she replied after the waiter left.
“So what happened?”
“After that night you found us in the hotel, he told me it was over. He said he knew his wife hired you. She'd have proof of the affair and would divorce him.”
She took a very large sip of her wine. Then another. Then she finished it. She got the waiter's attention and ordered another.
“What the hell,” she said, “you're buying and I live upstairs.”
I nodded. Then she continued, “I told Nevin we could finally be together. No more sneaking around. We could have a real relationship.”
I drank my beer and let Tamara continue to tell the story the way she wanted. “Do you know what he said?”
I shook my head and drank more beer. The waiter returned with another glass of red wine. After he left, Tamara continued by saying, “He had the nerve to tell me I meant nothing to him. That I never had. I was nothing more than a good time. Can you believe that? Just a good time.”
Actually, I could believe it. I'd heard it all before. Men like Nevin Barlow rarely were looking to leave their wives. In fact, they often had a string of mistresses. I didn't think it would help the situation, so I kept the information to myself.
She took a sip of her wine. “Good time Tamara,” she said after. “I was such a fool to ever believe he wanted to be with me for me.”
Tamara Wallace started to cry. She opened her purse and rooted around inside, pulled out a facial tissue, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. Tamara placed the tissue in her jacket pocket and took a long drink of her red wine.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “Look at me, I'm a mess.”
“No, you're fine.” It seemed the polite thing to say. “You are probably better off without Nevin Barlow in your life.”
“You got that right,” she said. Then she polished off her drink.
“Waiter,” she called out as she raised her hand in the air. “Another red wine.”
He nodded and fetched her third glass from the bar. I hoped the bartender wasn't pouring from their best bottle of red. I no longer had a paying client to expense. The waiter returned and placed the glass of wine on the table. He cleared the empty glass, then looked at me. “Another Blue Moon Pale Ale, sir?”
“Why the heck not?” I said.
Tamara told me her woes about how Nevin was just another example of her failure to find love. And the red wine kept coming. They knew her in the pub – that she lived upstairs. And I promised to get her up the stairs safely.
Tamara was drinking like a sailor on shore leave. It was showing in her eyes and slurred speech. I figured I should get what I could out of her before she passed out.
“But it wasn't all bad, right?” I said. “You and Nevin had some good times together.”
"Oh sure," she said, listlessly waving her arm. “We had some fun.”
She paused a beat and looked at me. “You and I could have some fun.” She attempted to wink at me, but she had already lost the coordination necessary to pull it off.
“I'm flattered,” I said, “but I am happily attached.”
“Lucky girl. I bet she is pretty.” Pretty came out like a cowboy in an old Western saying 'pertty.'
“She is beautiful. I’ll never have eyes for anyone else.”
“Aw, that's sweet. I'll never find a man to love me like that.”
Uh oh, I thought. I couldn't let Tamara spiral into self-pity. It seems insensitive, but I needed more information while Tamara was still speaking somewhat coherently. Which was fading fast.
“Tell me a little about the good times,” I said. “Where did you go? What people did you meet?”
She told me about weekend getaways to tropical islands and overnights in Washington, DC.
“Tell me more about going to Washington.”
“He has a house in Georgetown. Lives near some senators. Politics is so boring.” She reached out and smacked me on the hand and said, "Oh, but I met one cool guy."
I had no idea where this was going, but I said, “Really? Tell me about him.”
“Nevin met with him a lot. I think they were working on something together. But that's not the interesting part.” She hiccuped, then continued. "The cool part is that the guy was a spy or something."
“A spy?” I said. “He works for the CIA?”
She shook her head several times. It must have made her dizzier than she was from the alcohol. I reached out to steady her before she fell out of her chair.
When she regained some balance in her seat she said,
“Nope. The other one.”
Everyone knew of the CIA and FBI. Some people either confused or conflated them. Tamara appeared to fall into the latter camp. No need to correct her.
“The FBI?” I asked.
“Yeah, yeah, that's it. He was FBI.”
“And they work together?” I asked.
“Something like that,” she said. Then she smacked the top of my hand. “"Ooh, but Nevin told me not to tell anyone." Tamara held her finger to her lips and went, “shh.”
Suddenly Nevin Barlow being in Washington, D.C. later in the week may pertain to the case. Would he meet with the guy purported to be an FBI agent? Did their connection have anything to do with money-laundering with Leo Mancini?
"You don't owe Nevin anything now." I offered.
Tamara thought about that a moment. “You're right,” she said.
“Do you remember his name?”
“I don't think Nevin ever told me his name. He wanted to keep it on the down-low.”
"Can you describe him?"
Tamara shrugged. “He looked like all the FBI guys in movies and on TV.” She started to slump forward. I reached out and stopped her head from hitting the table.
“I think it is time to go,” I stated.
I paid the check and helped Tamara up the stairs to her condo. I placed her on top of the bed, covered her with a throw blanket, and let myself out.
Tamara Wallace had been unlucky in love. I felt a little sorry for her. Beyond that, I didn't walk away with a smoking gun. But the potential of Nevin Barlow being in regular contact with an FBI agent raised questions for me.
CHAPTER 23
My first call after leaving Tamara Wallace's place was to Agent Mark Sumners. “Do you have anything on Nevin Barlow meeting with an agent in Washington?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Why would he meet with an agent?”
“I'm not sure.”
I recounted what Tamara Wallace had told me. I added, “But she was a little tipsy at the time. I can't be certain the guy is actually with the Bureau.”
“Barlow could have made it up to impress her,” Sumners said.
“Or the guy could have been feeding Barlow a load of horse manure,” I said. “Nonetheless, we need to look into this. If Barlow is meeting with an agent, we need to know who and why.”
“Seems unlikely,” Sumners said. “Now that we are including Barlow in our open investigation into Mancini's money laundering, why wouldn't we be informed of FBI involvement with Barlow? There is nothing on him in our system.”
“A very good question. Yet his former mistress believes Barlow is in some way working with an agent.”
“Former mistress? Things went south on the affair?”
"Yeah. It might have something to do with the pictures I took of them in a hotel room."
“You're destroying relationships for Nevin Barlow left and right.”
“I'd say he destroyed his marriage on his own. As for Tamara Wallace, she was never going to last. Not that I should feel bad for any role I played in breaking up an extra-marital affair.”
“True,” Sumners said.
“I feel bad for Tamara Wallace in her lack of success at finding true love, but I'm not cupid.”
“Any idea who our mystery agent might be?” Sumners asked.
“Tamara Wallace described him as looking like every FBI agent in the movies and on television.”
“Wow, I didn't realize we all looked alike to the public.”
“At least the fictional image of an FBI agent. Nonetheless, her lack of details doesn't help us any.”
“I'll make some calls,” Sumners told me, “but this is likely a wild goose chase.”
“That is a distinct possibility,” I said. “There is also the possibility Nevin Barlow is in league with an agent. Could even be off the books.”
“Which would beg the question, why?.”
“We need to either eliminate it as a possibility or find the answer to that very question.”
Sumners was silent on the other end of the phone. Then he said, “If it is off the books, that would complicate matters.”
“Except you are working with an ace private detective.”
“Oh right, I forgot. So what are you thinking?”
“You call Washington and find out what you can. If nothing turns up, I'll go for a visit and see if there is anything to Tamara Wallace's story."
“By poking around until you piss somebody off?” Sumners said.
“That's ninety percent of being an ace private detective.”
“What's the other ten percent?”
“Finding the next person to piss off. It is how you know you are making progress.”
“Unless you piss off the wrong people and they stop all progress.”
“Hasn't happened yet. And not having to always play well with others has its advantages.”
“I bet it does.”
“While I have you on the phone, any luck looking into ownership of the fronts?”
“Not yet. But Barlow is a very smart lawyer.He has the expertise to create a complex web of ownership which would be difficult to trace directly back to either Mancini or himself. But we'll keep on it.”
“I'll continue to stir the pot on my end and see what rises to the top.”
“Okay, I'll let you know what I find out,” Sumners said, and he hung up.
I headed back to Cambridge. After picking Dash up from doggy day camp we drove home. I had inherited the Victorian house on Berkeley Street in Cambridge from my grandparents. Holidays, birthdays, and just about every other Patrick family gathering took place in that house.
At first, I resisted moving into the house and making any renovations. It had always been my grandparents' home. I was uneasy making changes that might ruin all the memories and affected how they had lived in their house. My parents and Jessica informed me that making changes wouldn't replace the memories and that the point of renovating the home was to make it my own. It's what my grandparents had wanted for me.
Finally I came around. Although the house had always been well-maintained, I realized after living there how dated the rooms were. When my grandparents last updated the house Rod Stewart's “Tonight's the Night (Everything's Gonna Be Alright)” topped the Billboard Hot 100 music charts and the original Star Wars movie was the big hit at the box office.
New kitchen cabinets and counters were installed earlier in the week and appliances were coming the next morning. Dash and I were in the process of painting the living room. Well, I was painting. Dash supervised from his dog bed.
“Drew, you home?” Jessica called from the foyer. Dash bolted up and ran to greet her.
“In the living room,” I called back.
Jessica entered carrying a pizza box, brown bag, and a six-pack of Sam Adams Summer Ale. Dash was right beside her, eyeing the pizza box.
“I figured you could use dinner,” she said.
“You figured right. Thanks.”
“It's looking nice,” she commented looking around the living room. “The appliances arrive tomorrow?”
“Between eight and ten.”
“Better window than the cable company.”
Jessica entered the dining room and placed the pizza and beer on the table. Dash followed. He decided supervising pizza outweighed supervising painting. I couldn't argue with his logic. I cleaned up in the downstairs bathroom and joined them in the dining room.
I opened the box and grabbed a slice of pizza. Jessica had already popped the top off a bottle of Sam Adams for me. She had taken a salad and fancy bottled water from the paper bag. We sat at the table. Dash sat on the floor between us.
“You've already had your dinner,” I said to him. He was undeterred. Hope springs eternal that a piece of pepperoni would fall on the floor.
“How did it go with Tamara Wallace?” Jessica asked.
“It was interesting, but I'm not sure if what she told me will prove valuable or not.”
“While you are charming, I'm surprised she agreed to speak with you at all.”
“Me too,” I said. “"But, as it turns out, Barlow dumped her and said he never intended to have a relationship with her.”
Jessica nodded. “Exes and jilted lovers, even those in affairs, do like to dish.”
“Unfortunately, Tamara didn't seem to know much. However, I learned Nevin Barlow may be working with an FBI agent.”
Jessica cocked her head and furrowed her brow as she looked at me. I knew what she was thinking.
“Exactly what I thought,” I said. “What would Nevin Barlow be doing talking to an FBI agent?”
“Can you confirm it legitimately is the FBI?” Jessica asked.
“Sumners is looking into it.”
I finished my slice and took a tug on my beer. A second slice beckoned me, so I partook. Dash eyed my every move. “Sorry, buddy,” I said to him. He sighed and dropped down on his front paws.
“Any theories?” Jessica said.
“Everything from she is mistaken, to Barlow feeding her a line to try to impress her, to Barlow being misled, to...” I paused a beat.
“To Nevin Barlow is in someway working with the FBI?” Jessica completed my thought.
“Right now everything is on the table,” I said. “It could be nothing, or it could be significant.”
“Run down every possible lead,” Jessica said. She nibbled on her salad.
“How are you not tempted by pepperoni pizza?” I asked her.
“Maintaining my girlish figure is more important.”
“With your exercise routine, you don’t need to worry.”
Jessica worked out with one of her several forms of martial arts training every day. Not to mention running.
“Could he be an informant?” Jessica queried.
“Certainly possible.”
“But it would be unusual for Sumners not to be informed.”
“Very,” I said. “Especially once Barlow became part of an open investigation into the Mancini crime family.”
“What about our surveillance?” Jessica said.
“It was nice having you along.”
“It was,” she said. “But that it is not what I meant.”
Deception Page 9
