“We really don't care about your affair with Vincent Gallaway,” Sumners said.
“No one else needs to know about those pictures,” I said.
“Are you trying to extort me?” Elizabeth Barlow said.
“No ma'am,” Sumners said. “We are requesting you cooperate with a state and federal investigation. You can either answer our questions here or at a law enforcement office.”
“Their offices aren't as nice as your backyard,” I said.
“And if I answer your questions?”
“You will avoid an obstruction of justice charge,” Sumners said.
“And the pictures?” she asked.
"Law enforcement does not possess them," Burke said.
"As I said, no one else needs to learn about them," I told her.
“Fine,” she said. “Vince and I are having an affair. We have been seeing each other for several years now. We love each other. Part of my reason for divorcing Nevin is so Vince and I can get married.”
Elizabeth Barlow looked at me. “But none of that changes what I said before about Nevin and his string of affairs over the years. He has been unfaithful to me from the beginning.”
“How did you meet Mr. Gallaway?” Burke asked. “Through Nevin?”
“Yes,” she replied. “They started working together ten years ago. Vince and I hit it off. Over time we started,” she paused a beat. “well, you know.”
“Hitting the sheets?” Burke said.
“Don't be so crude Detective Burke. But, yes, we started sleeping together. From there we fell in love. We plan on getting married once my divorce to Nevin is finalized.”
"What business does Mr. Gallaway conduct with your husband?" Sumners asked.
“Financial,” she said. “Nevin has been investing money with Vince. The two have amassed a substantial fortune over the past decade."
“So Mr. Gallaway is some sort of investment guy?” Burke said.
“Yes,” Elizabeth Barlow replied. "Didn't I already say that?," she said incredulously. “Vince owns his own investment firm.”
Burke, Sumners, and I looked at each other. Elizabeth Barlow seemed to be telling the truth. At least the truth about what Vince Gallaway had been telling her all these years.
“Mrs. Barlow,” Sumners said. “Vince Gallaway doesn't own an investment company.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” she said. “Of course he does. Why would you suggest otherwise?”
“You really don't know, do you?” Burke asked her.
“Know what?” She genuinely seemed confused as she looked at each of us.
“Vincent Gallaway is an agent with the FBI,” I told her.
The look of shock on her face was not one easily faked. “What?” she said. “No. How can that be?”
“Mrs. Barlow,” Sumners said. “We really need you to be honest with us.”
“I am telling you the truth,” she spat back. “I told you about my relationship with Vince. He told me he owned an investment firm. Vince and I take exotic trips to high-end resorts. He has even discussed purchasing a retirement home for us on the Marshall Islands. How could he afford all of that on a government salary?”
“He couldn't,” Sumners said without hesitation.
"We are investigating your husband's involvement with the Mancini crime family," I informed Elizabeth Barlow. “Our theory is that Vince Gallaway discovered the connection while he was an agent with the Boston FBI field office.”
“I don't understand,” she said. “Nevin has been working with mobsters all these years?”
“We believe so,” Sumners said. “We figure that your husband offered a bribe to Agent Gallaway to avoid an investigation.”
“An offer he likely accepted,” Burke said. “And from the sound of it, that has continued all these years.”
“Another possibility is that Vince has gotten in on the action as a full partner,” I said. “Either way, that is the investment your husband has been making with Vincent Gallaway.”
“I don't believe you,” Elizabeth Barlow said. “I don't believe any of it.”
Sumners presented a printout from an FBI directory showing Special Agent Vincent Gallaway. She took it into her shaking hands and stared at it for a few minutes. Then she started crying.
“I have been such a fool,” she said through her tears. “What part of my life has not been a lie? My husband has lied to me about everything. Vince has lied to me about who he really is. And to think they are profiting from illegal activity.”
“We know this is a lot to hear,” Sumners said. "We are confident about our theory, especially after what you have shared with us. But it still remains a theory. Can you think of anything which might help us in our investigation?”
“So you can't prove any of this?” Elizabeth Barlow said. “You are getting me all worked up without being able to offer any evidence?”
“This is how investigations work,” I said. “We often know things before we get the actual evidence.”
“I have cooperated by answering your questions,” Elizabeth Barlow said to us. "I have nothing else to tell you, and I want you to leave."
“Yes, ma'am,” Sumners said. “Thank you for your time.”
Elizabeth Barlow slumped forward in the lounge chair and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders trembled as she sobbed. For the first time, I felt truly sorry for her. Monique stepped out of the house and went toward her employer. There was nothing else for us to say or do, so Burke, Sumners, and I left.
CHAPTER 30
We were wrong about Elizabeth Barlow knowing what her husband and Vincent Gallaway were up to. But our visit to the Barlow estate wasn't a total bust. I sat in my office thinking about the conversation with Elizabeth Barlow.
It confirmed, albeit what was fairly obvious, that she was having an affair with Vincent Gallaway. We also had further affirmation of Nevin Barlow’s and Vincent Gallaway’s involvement in illegal activity. Everything pointed toward Barlow paying bribes to Gallaway. Presumably out of the money-laundering funds. Perhaps Gallaway had even become a partner in the money-laundering scheme.
I looked at the Red Sox bobbleheads on my desk. They didn't have any thoughts on the matter. I was expanding my collection to other Boston sports. I looked at my newly acquired Tom Brady and Rob Gronkowski bobbleheads.
“Any thoughts, Tom?” No reply. “What about you, Gronk?” Crickets.
I didn't bother to ask Dash. If it didn't involve food, a walk, or a ride in the car, he had little interest. He stood up from his spot on the couch, turned around two times, and plopped back down. He sighed and then resumed napping.
Vincent Gallaway went to great lengths to convince Elizabeth Barlow he owned an investment firm. I had to give him credit for creativity. His elaborate story helped explain Nevin Barlow's transfer of large amounts of money to him.
What I was having trouble figuring out is where Nevin Barlow and Vincent Gallaway were putting all the cash. I doubted they were stashing it under their mattresses. Barlow could have a huge safe in his mansion.
What about Gallaway? As an agent with the FBI, he wouldn't have a mansion to keep a large safe. Neither could he deposit large amounts of cash in a U.S. Bank without raising questions. Swiss Bank account? I liked that idea better than him stuffing it under his mattress.
The Swiss were discreet and lots of money could be deposited with no questions asked. They also tended not to share depositor information, even with government agencies.
Burke and Sumners remained confident about getting a warrant to go after the Mancini crime family based on our surveillance. There still wasn't enough to get a warrant to go after Nevin Barlow or Vincent Gallaway. On the other hand, I didn't require a warrant. Okay, technically I did. And by technically, I mean legally. Sometimes you have to color outside the lines.
CHAPTER 31
Nevin Barlow was playing an afternoon round of golf. Entry onto the Oak Country Club grounds cost me two more Celtics tickets for the upcoming
season. Tickets I wouldn't be able to expense back to Elizabeth Barlow. Even worse, I was burning through the check I had deposited from her because of my trip to DC. My wallet would be another twenty bucks lighter after I paid a groundskeeper to snitch on which hole Nevin Barlow was currently playing. Make that thirty-five bucks lighter. It cost me fifteen dollars to rent a golf cart for a round of nine holes, their minimum, even though I was only riding out to the fourth hole.
I pulled up to the fourth hole as Barlow putted. He missed the hole and slammed his club on the ground.
“You're pulling it to the right,” I said. Not having any idea if that were true or not.
Barlow and his golf buddy looked over at me. His friend was tall with a big gut. Maybe they should walk the greens rather than ride in the golf cart.
“What are you doing here?” Barlow asked as I walked toward them. Apparently he was still upset from our encounter at the hotel.
“Oh Nevin,” I said. “You disappoint me. We’re old friends by now.”
“Are you even a member here?” he asked me.
“I don't think my blood is blue enough. And I certainly don't have enough green.”
“How did you even get in?
“Hole in the fence. You guys should really get that fixed.”
I didn't want to tell him the club's head of security let me waltz through the main gate. Most likely that would get Jim fired.
“Beat it, or I'm calling security,” Barlow shouted.
I wanted to tell him they knew I was there, but again I thought of Jim.
“I'll leave and let you get back to chasing that little white ball as soon as we have a chat.”
“Piss off!” Barlow said. “I'm calling security right now.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.
“You'll want to hear what I have to tell you,” I said. “It will only take a few minutes.”
“This better be important.”
“Oh, it is,” I said.
“Okay. What is it?”
“It's a personal matter.”
Barlow exchanged a look with his friend, then walked over to me. Barlow said, “I'll give you two minutes.”
“Your friend Vince Gallaway doesn't want me talking to you.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Sure you do. You and Vince were having lunch the other day in Georgetown. Nice little place on Wisconsin Avenue. He told you to duck out the back. Then he informed me I needed to back off. Oh, I almost forgot. Two guys ambushed me that very morning as I left my office on Brattle Street in Cambridge. Want to guess what they said to me? Never mind. I'll tell you. The very same thing. Imagine that. Twice in one day, I receive threats to back off asking questions about you."
Barlow had a good poker face. Most lawyers did. But everybody has a tell. Barlow's was a slight eye twitch. Barely noticeable. I doubted many would have caught it. He was rattled.
“What do you want, Mr. Patrick?”
“I want to know what you are up to with Vince Gallaway. But I doubt you will tell me. I could also bring up your partnership with Leo Mancini, but that is probably a non-starter. Tell me this, though, does the Kitten Club take a cut of the cash that gets stuffed in the strippers' bikini bottoms? I figure there are a lot of dollar bills there you can use to launder the drug money.”
“Your two minutes are up,” he said. Barlow turned to walk away.
“How are your investments with Mr. Gallaway working out?” I asked him. “I assume you pay him with funds obtained through your partnership with Mr. Mancini?”
Barlow stopped and turned back toward me. He raised his hand and jabbed his index finger in my direction. He's lucky there were at least three feet between us or I would have broken the finger.
“If I were you, Mr. Patrick, I would heed the advice you’ve received.”
Nevin Barlow turned and walked back to the putting green. He picked up his golf ball and got in his cart. His friend joined him and they sped off. At least as quickly as you can speed away in a golf cart.
Sometimes private detecting is like a game of chess. I moved my pieces to get opponents to move theirs until I could declare checkmate. We weren't there yet. But we were getting close. It was now Nevin Barlow's move.
CHAPTER 32
BRODY
The evening air was warm as Brody exited the Park Street T stop at the edge of Boston Common. The corner of Park and Tremont teamed with an eclectic mix of humanity on a fine summer evening. Workers heading home, tourists taking in the sites of the historic city, and urban dwellers enjoying the park. Brody walked past Brewer Fountain and along one of the paved walking paths under an umbrella of shade trees.
As he emerged from under the tree-lined part of the path he noticed dogs of various sizes and breeds romping in the off-leash dog area. Their owners tossed balls for their dogs to fetch. Couples sat on benches dotting the edges of the path. Brody rounded the bend and spotted the polygon-shaped enclosure which served as a pedestrian entrance to the Boston Common Parking Garage.
He entered and walked down the stairs to the garage. Brody located the row he was looking for and noted the silver Toyota Camry. He opened the front passenger door and got in.
His client's representative handed him an envelope. Brody placed it in his back pocket.
"The girl didn't die but you got paid the full amount," the fat man said to Brody.
“Is she talking?” Brody said.
“Don't get defensive. My boss recognizes it is some kind of miracle the girl didn't die.” He paused a beat. “At least not yet. What matters is she never met with the FBI. Even if she recovers, it will be past the point of concern.”
“What's her condition?” Brody asked. Not that he really cared. He supposed it was more general curiosity.
“They put her in a medically induced coma. Something about letting the swelling go down in her brain. All that matters is what she knows will remain unknown by the feds.”
“Then our business is concluded,” Brody said as he reached for the door handle.
“Hold on a sec,” the fat man said. “My boss wants to know if you are interested in more work?”
Brody let go of the handle and looked at the fat man. “I'm listening,” Brody said.
“This is a bigger job.”
“Is there potential blowback?” Brody asked.
The fat man with the bulbous nose sat silent for a moment. Then he said, “Possibly.”
“I need more than that.”
“Let's just say he's part of a criminal organization.”
“A rival of your boss?”
“Not exactly,” the fat man said.
“I'm not going in blind,” Brody said. “You either give it to me straight, or we're done. You can find another guy to take the job.”
Brody didn't care if he were setting off a mob war, but he wanted to know what he was getting into, and who he would need to avoid in the future. It was the only way he could develop his exit strategy. And taking out a guy with mob connections carried a premium price. Brody considered it hazard pay.
The fat man let out a sigh. “Fine,” he said. “Leo Mancini.”
“Angelo Mancini's kid?”
The fat man nodded.
“Shit,” Brody said.
“There is some bad blood between Angelo Mancini and Eddie Garavito. They’ll figure Garavito made the hit. It will never get back to you. Or my boss.”
Brody looked out the window. The two men were silent.
“It will cost triple the last two jobs,” Brody eventually said.
“Triple?” the fat man exclaimed. “I’m not sure about triple.”
“That's the price,” Brody said. “Take it or leave it. I'm not negotiating.”
After a few minutes, the fat man said, “Okay.”
“When?” Brody asked.
“Tonight.”
“Okay,” Brody said.
"There's one more hit for you to make after Leo Mancini," the fat m
an said. “Regular price, though.”
“Who?”
“Private detective named Drew Patrick. He has an office on Brattle Street in Cambridge. Lives on Berkeley Street a few blocks from the office.”
“Tonight after Leo Mancini?” Brody said.
“That’s the plan,” the fat man said.
“Fine,” Brody said.
Brody opened the Camry's door and got out. He crossed the parking garage and exited up the stairs through the polygon structure. Maybe after these two jobs he would consider retiring. He lit a Camel and smoked it as he walked back through Boston Common. Perhaps he would quit smoking too.
CHAPTER 33
DREW PATRICK
Inner Circle's Bad Boys, the theme song from the television show COPS, woke me from a deep sleep. It was my ringtone for Detective Captain Robert Burke. I answered in a fog.
“I'm on my way to your house,” Burke said as soon as I answered. “Be ready in five minutes.” He hung up.
I got out of bed. Dash lifted his head and looked at me still half asleep. “Go back to sleep,” I told him. He put his head back down and closed his eyes.
I stumbled into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I put on my jeans and a Red Sox 2018 World Series Champions tee shirt that read HISTORY MADE with the number 18 in place of the I and S. I made my way downstairs and pulled on my New Balance sneakers.
I found Burke parked in front of my house in his unmarked State Police Ford Taurus. I got in the front passenger seat. Burke handed me a coffee from Dunkin'.
“Thanks,” I said. I was still too tired to say anything about the fact he actually bought me a coffee.
As we pulled away from the curb he said to me, “Leo Mancini was killed tonight.”
I looked at him, not sure I heard him correctly.
“Professional hit,” he continued as he looked straight out the window. When we reached Broadway Burke turned on the flashing blue cop lights, mounted in the car's front windshield and grill, and pressed the gas pedal to the floor.
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