“Burke is fairly certain he has a judge who will issue a search warrant for Leo Mancini's properties. We need more to include Barlow.”
“So you'll hold off on the request?” She said.
“Yes.”
“Smart play. Any move on Mancini will send Barlow scurrying like a roach when the lights are turned on.”
My face soured just as I was ready to take another bite of pizza. “Thanks for that image. But you're right.”
“So what is next ace private detective?” Jessica said.
“Depends on what Sumners discovers. But it’s likely I'll go to Washington and poke around there.”
“See if you can discover who Barlow had been meeting with?”
I nodded and took another tug at my Sam Adams. Jessica continued, “I want to go with you.”
“Not that I don't love spending more time with you,” I said, “but I don't think there will be much to the trip.”
“I don't have an active case at the moment. Plus, we can tap into the resources of the Pinnacle DC office. It will be fun. You can take me on a Potomac River dinner cruise.”
Pinnacle was the international private detective agency where Jessica was an investigator. They had offices in Boston, New York, London, Paris, and Washington, DC. They handled cases for a high-end clientele and their resources were vast. And Jessica in an evening dress on a moonlit cruise had an appeal all its own.
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
Jessica smiled at me. Be still my beating heart.
CHAPTER 24
Agent Sumners turned up nothing from his inquiries at FBI headquarters in Washington. All our prior possibilities remained. Captain Burke and Agent Sumners continued looking into the legal filings of the businesses we believed were acting as fronts for the money-laundering. Top FBI techies were doing whatever they did in searching for digital files left by Phillip Swanson and Laura Powell.
I would do what I do best. As Agent Sumners put it, poke around until I pissed someone off. Jessica and I booked a late morning Acela train out of Boston's South Station to Washington, DC's Union Station. The Acela was Amtrak's high-speed train. Nothing like the TGV in Europe or bullet trains in Japan, but fast for US passenger trains.
Jessica called and confirmed our departure time and when we would meet at South Station. She would come from her condo in Charlestown. I had stopped by my office to pay some bills. As I exited, two men approached me.
One of the men was my height and looked to weigh about the same. He had wavy blonde hair, deep blue eyes, and a bronze tan which made him look like he belonged on a surfboard. The other guy was two inches shorter and pudgy. But he still looked like he could dole out a pretty good beating. Plastered to his scalp with a pound of grease was his balding black hair.
“You Drew Patrick?” Surfer Dude asked me.
“That's what it says on my business cards.”
He leaned in and sucker-punched me. I doubled over. Greaser stepped forward and dropped his elbow down on the back of my neck. I fell forward onto the sidewalk. From the ground I could see people giving a wide berth around us, not wanting to get involved. I suspected at least a few of them would call the Cambridge Police.
“Get up,” Surfer Dude said to me.
“Okay, but this time I'll be ready,” I said. “You won't get another chance to sucker punch me.”
“Just get up,” Greaser said. “We want to talk.”
The two helped me to my feet.
“I would have been more in the mood for a conversation had you not assaulted me.”
“You'll mostly be listening,” Surfer Dude said.
“That does not make for a very interesting conversation,” I said.
My stomach hurt, but I resisted holding my hand over it. I would not give these two baboons the satisfaction.
“What do you want?” I said. “I have a beautiful woman waiting for me at the train station.”
“Like we care,” Greaser said.
“You two going to alternate speaking the whole time?”
“What do you care?” Surfer Dude said.
“I guess that answers my question,” I said. “No real reason. Just makes it easier for me to pay attention to which direction the hot air comes from.”
“You think you're some kind of smart guy?” Greaser said. Predictable. Maybe they tag-teamed because they needed time between comments to think of something else to say.
“Intelligence is somewhat relative,” I said. “For instance, I am not as smart as many of the people who teach and study at Harvard. But I am much smarter than either of you.”
“You saying we are dumb?” Greaser said.
“Not dumb. Just not as smart as I am.”
“Maybe we should forget talking and just beat the crap out of you,” Greaser added.
“Oops, you broke the pattern,” I said. “How will your friend realize it’s his turn to speak?”
Surfer Dude took a swing at me. I turned to dodged his fist, brought my right hand up and grabbed his forearm. I twisted it, spinning his torso around in the process, and pinned his upper arm against his back. Greaser stood motionless. He was probably thinking about whether he should make a move.
“I told you I would be ready,” I said. “Now, say whatever it is you came to say.”
“Fine,” Surfer Dude said. “Just let go of my arm.”
I let go. Surfer Dude rubbed his arm. It gave me satisfaction to know it stung a little.
“You have two minutes, then I'm walking away. As I said, I have a train to catch.”
“Nevin Barlow doesn't like you talking to Tamara Wallace,” Surfer Dude said.
“Ms. Wallace is free to speak with whomever she wishes,” I said.
“Mr. Barlow don't like it,” Greaser said.
“And this concerns me, how?” I said.
“You bother her again,” Surfer Dude said, “and you will deal with us.”
“Did Ms. Wallace say I bothered her?”
“No,” Greaser said. The two were back in rhythm. “But Mr. Barlow don't like you asking questions about him.”
“It's a free country,” I said. “Say, how did he even know? Is Nevin Barlow stalking Tamara Wallace? He have you guys following her?”
“Just mind your own business,” Surfer Dude said.
“I get that a lot in my line of work. Usually, the goons are tougher, though.”
Surfer Dude inched toward me. Greaser held up his hand. “I think Mr. Patrick gets the message,” he said.
“Loud and clear,” I said. “You should know, however, I don't care about the message you are delivering. I will continue to ask questions about whatever fancies me. And if you two think you can take me, you better think again.”
Insult and anger flashed in their eyes. They wouldn't do anything about it. Not now. Probably not at a later time. Surfer Dude and Greaser were sent to deliver a message. They had done so. I doubted Barlow was paying them enough to take on someone who would fight back.
“You should reconsider your position.” Surfer Dude said.
I shook my head. “Not going to happen. I glanced at my watch. Your two minutes are up.”
I stepped around them. They didn't try to stop me. I walked toward the Brattle Street T station and took the Red Line to South Station. Nevin Barlow knew I was asking questions about him, and he didn't like it. Pissing people off always proved an indicator of progress in an investigation. And to think, I hadn't even left for Washington, DC yet.
CHAPTER 25
Jessica and I followed Nevin Barlow around Washington, DC. I wasn’t sure if he knew what I looked like so I wore a Washington Nationals baseball cap and sunglasses to disguise my face. We followed him to a chain hotel downtown. He checked in and then waited by the elevator. A few minutes later a woman walked past us and got on the elevator with Barlow. Most likely a high-priced call girl.
I went next door to Starbucks and returned with two coffees. Jess and I drank coffee and read the Washington Post
while we waited for Barlow's hour to be up. Fifty-five minutes later the call girl got off the elevator and exited the hotel.
“Like a therapist's hour,” I commented to Jessica.
“She probably has another John booked at the top of the hour in the hotel across the street.”
“Efficient,” I said.
A few minutes later, Barlow exited the elevator and walked past us. We waited until he was outside and then we got up, threw away our empty coffee cups, and placed the Post in a recycling bin. Jessica exited the hotel first, and I followed.
A Chrysler sedan pulled up and Barlow got in back. We got into the back of a waiting Ford Taurus, driven by a Pinnacle DC investigator. The Chrysler navigated to Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown and we followed in the Taurus. Barlow got out in front of a restaurant off Wisconsin.
“Looks like Barlow worked up an appetite,” I said.
“Eww,” Jessica said making a disgusted face. “I don't need that image in my mind.”
We hopped out of the Taurus and followed Barlow into the restaurant. It was a colorful and upscale Italian restaurant. Barlow took a seat near the back of the long, narrow restaurant. We requested a table on the outdoor sidewalk patio. From there we could keep a watchful eye on Barlow and soak up some Georgetown ambiance.
By the time we had ordered our drinks, a man in a dark suit joined Barlow. I hated to admit there was a look, but the guy had FBI written all over him. Tamara Wallace may have really hit the nail on the head.
“He sure looks G-Manish,” Jessica commented.
“G-Manish?”
She shrugged and smiled.
Then I continued, “Yes, he does. I'm willing to bet my signed Tom Brady jersey that he is the man Tamara Wallace told me about.”
“That's a lot of confidence,” Jessica said. “Guys that look like that are pretty common in this town.”
“True. But meeting with Nevin Barlow?”
“Smile for me,” Jessica said as she took out her cell phone. “And slide a little to your left.”
I smiled and leaned to my left. Jessica made it appear like she was taking my picture and snapped an image of the man having lunch with Nevin Barlow.
“You can check with Agent Sumners to see if he can ID the man,” Jessica said.
“Beauty and brains,” I said.
“I am the complete package.”
“Yes, you are.”
We enjoyed a nice lunch while Barlow met with our mystery man. I spotted three recognizable members of Congress dining two tables away. One of them was shorter in person than he appeared on television. None of them had ever impressed me. They were divisive firebrands who had no interest in governing.
Barlow left the table for the men's room. The mystery man got up and was on a path straight toward our table. Two men in dark suits approached from the sidewalk and stood behind us.
“May we speak with you a moment?” our mystery man asked. “I'm Agent Vincent Gallaway.” He showed his FBI credentials. They looked legitimate. “These are agents Harold Thompson and Bradley Carson.”
Thompson and Carson nodded at us. Both were average height and medium build. One of them was bald and had a small scar like a fish hook under his right eye. The other man had short black hair and no distinguishing marks.
“How might we help you?” I asked.
“We would like to know why you are following Nevin Barlow?”
“Who's Nevin Barlow?” I said.
“Don't play cute with me,” Agent Gallaway said. “We know who you both are. Andrew Patrick and Jessica Casey.”
I almost never heard my full first name used. “Everyone calls me Drew,” I said to Agent Gallaway. He ignored me. “You are a former Special Agent with the Bureau,” Gallaway continued looking directly at me. “Currently you work as a private detective. As does Ms. Casey.”
“You seem to know all about us,” I said. “Maybe it is time for you to share. What are you doing with Nevin Barlow?”
Agent Vincent Gallaway was shaking his head before I finished my sentence. “You know I can't tell you that,” he said.
“Barlow wasn't going to the bathroom, was he?” Jessica said.
Gallaway ignored her. He was skilled at ignoring what he didn't want to answer. There was little doubt Nevin Barlow slid out the back door.
“What is your interest in Mr. Barlow?” Agent Gallaway asked.
“You're the FBI,” I said. “You tell us.”
“I shouldn't have to remind you of the trouble you could be in if you refuse to answer my questions.”
“Your vague threats won't work on us,” I said. “Either give us a specific reason why we are obligated to answer questions as part of a federal investigation or shove off.”
A vein in Gallaway's forehead throbbed. He leaned forward and placed his hands palm down on our table, looking at me practically nose to nose.
“Whatever case you are working on that involves Nevin Barlow,” he said, “you need to end it. If you don't, you just might find yourself on the receiving end of an obstruction of justice charge.” He looked from me to Jessica. “Both of you.”
Agent Gallaway straightened back up.
“Not very convincing,” I said. “I think I was much better at the FBI thing than you are.”
“You certainly were,” Jessica said. “And I didn't even know him when he was an agent.”
“You've got quite the routine going, don't you?” Gallaway said. “I read you were a smart ass. Apparently it has rubbed off on your girlfriend.”
“No, we both started out as smart asses,” Jessica said.
“Does my FBI file actually use the words SMART ASS?” I asked Gallaway.
“Patrick, you need to back off investigating Barlow,” Gallaway said. "If you don't, it will mean trouble for you."
“I get that a lot,” I said.
Agents Gallaway, Thompson, and Carson walked away.
“They didn't even say goodbye,” I said to Jessica. “How rude.”
“You obviously struck a nerve,” Jessica said. “What do you think?”
“That I don't like Agent Vincent Gallaway.”
“Beyond that?”
“Whatever is going on,” I said, “there is no official file on it.”
“So you think Gallaway is hiding something?” Jessica asked.
“Yep,” I said. “And that was the second time today I was warned off investigating Nevin Barlow.”
“Not likely a coincidence.”
“Not even in the slightest.”
“And you're not going to back off, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Even if it means trouble for you?”
“When is it not trouble for me?”
CHAPTER 26
“Vincent Gallaway is an agent with the Bureau,” Mark Sumners told me over the phone. He was in Boston reviewing Vincent Gallaway's listing in the FBI personnel database. I was standing in our hotel room at the Mandarin Oriental looking out the window at the Jefferson Memorial.
“He's with OPR,” Sumners continued.
“OPR? Why would he be talking to Nevin Barlow?”
It would be unusual for an agent from the FBI's Office of Professional Responsibility, the equivalent of internal affairs in police departments, to be speaking with a member of the public.
“Good question,” Sumners said. "Oh, and this is interesting. They assigned Gallaway to the Boston office when he was a special agent."
“When was that?” I asked.
“Before our time,” Sumners said. “He went to DC about fifteen years ago.”
Mark Sumners and I were new agents and assigned to the Boston division a dozen years ago. I spent five years with the Bureau before resigning and hanging out my shingle as a private investigator.
“Tyrell Evans was SAC at the time,” I said. “I'll talk to him and see what he can tell me about Gallaway.” Tyrell Evans was the Detective in Charge of the Pinnacle Detective Agency. He had spent thirty years as Special Agent
in Charge of the Boston FBI office before retiring from the Bureau and joining Pinnacle.
“What about Harold Thompson and Bradley Carson?” I asked.
I waited while Sumners punched in their names. “Nothing,” he said. "They're not listed as Bureau employees."
“Okay,” I said. “So Gallaway is with OPR. He presents himself as an agent. He presents Thompson and Crusie, or whatever their actual names are, as agents. Which they are not.”
“Curious, isn't it?” Sumners said.
“To say the least.”
I thought about this for a moment as I watched tourists move around the Jefferson Memorial.
"It's conceivable they're agents, but didn't use their actual names," Sumners suggested.
“Possibly,” I said. “But how probable? Gallaway gave us his real name. I checked his credentials.”
“I admit it is a weak theory,” Sumners said. “I'm just spitballing here.”
“Let's go on the assumption that Thompson and Carson are not in any way affiliated with the Bureau,” I said.
“Then it is reasonable to suggest they work for Gallaway in some capacity.”
“I agree. So why would Gallaway identify them as agents?"
“Make the whole thing seem more legitimate,” Sumners offered.
“Exactly,” I said. "He wants us to believe his interactions are part of an active FBI investigation," I replied.
“Appealing to your sensibilities as a former agent to get you to back off,” Sumners suggested. “Which, of course, was a futile effort.”
“Especially since Vincent Gallaway was not being completely forthcoming with me.”
"Any theories on the connection between Barlow and Gallaway?" Sumners asked.
“Nothing at the moment,” I replied. “You?”
“No,” Sumners said. “Whatever it is, I don't think it has anything to do with official FBI business.”
“Agreed,” I said.
“By the way, we traced some of the businesses back to the Mancini family. It wasn't easy. Lots of complex corporate holdings.”
“Seems elaborate for strip clubs, bowling alleys, and dry cleaners,” I said.
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