Shattered

by Jason Richards

  I'd done as much as I could from my office. Dash and I got in my car and headed to Maine. We wasted no time traveling the interstates. If I was correct, the real search began along U.S. Route 201.

  Maine's a big state. The key was finding someone who saw Ashley along 201. That would tell me how far she traveled en route back to Boston. Depending on how far Ashley traveled there might still be a lot of territory to search, but any narrowing of the area would help. I hoped for the best and prepared for the worst.

  Somewhere around Bingham, we stopped at a gas station off 201. We had already stopped at every logical stop along the way. No one remembered seeing Ashley Holland at any point after she and Grant left the lake house. No security cameras captured her image. Until the gas station near Bingham.

  As I entered the convenience store at the station, the counter clerk was watching a That 70s Show rerun. He turned as I approached the counter.

  I showed him my investigator license and handed him one of my business cards.

  “What can I do for ya?” he said.

  “Have you seen this young woman?” I said as I showed him a picture of Ashley Holland.

  He considered the photo for a moment.

  Then he said, “Yep. She stopped in heeah.”

  “Do you remember when?” I said.

  The clerk scratched his head. He had dry, cracked skin. His face was ruddy and weathered. He looked warm in his flannel shirt from LL Bean.

  That 70s Show faded to a commercial break.

  “Wednesday,” he said. “I remembah because of the rain that day.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “Home to Boston.”

  “Did she mention stopping anywhere along the way? Someplace here in Maine? Possibly in New Hampshire?”

  The clerk shook his head and said, “Nope. Can't say that she did.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You've been a big help.”

  As I turned to leave, a promotion for the evening news flashed across the television. “Tonight on News Center Maine, a tragic accident claims the life a young Boston woman,” said the news anchor. I turned and looked at the television, but just as quickly News Center Maine was previewing another story on local elections, and then a glimpse at the weather forecast.

  The clerk and I looked at each other. Neither of us said a word. While we didn't have enough details, we both suspected Ashley Holland's death would be the lead story on the evening news broadcast.

  CHAPTER 9

  Mercado

  After Mercado left Cheers, he walked over to the Public Garden. He opened the envelope and took out a picture of a young woman and the sheet of paper with her name and address. Hannah Parks. She lived in a condo in Quincy near the Neponset River and Dorchester Bay.

  Hannah would likely be working that night. Escorting some rich bastard to dinner, a cocktail party, or office event. She'd arrive home late after most everyone else in her building were asleep. Mercado was patient. He'd wait. Like a coiled up snake that quickly strikes.

  Mercado put the photograph and sheet of paper back in the envelope, folded it over, and stuffed the envelope back in his jacket pocket. It was getting dark, and the temperature was dropping.

  Mercado shoved his hands in his pockets and walked to the Boston Common parking garage to retrieve his car. He got in his car and exited the garage, taking a right onto Charles Street. A nice stretch of road with the Boston Common on his right and Boston Public Garden on his left.

  At Beacon Street, he took a left and then another left onto Arlington Street. Mercado continued onto Herald Street and merged onto I-93 toward Quincy. Mercado drove for twenty minutes and passed the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library on his left.

  Mercado thought about how the nation's 39th president was assassinated. He wondered about taking the shot that killed JFK. Mercado figured he could have made the same shot easily. He had successfully pulled the trigger in far less favorable conditions.

  But Mercado wouldn't have killed Kennedy. He liked what he read about him in history books and saw in documentaries. So why kill these young women? He had nothing against them personally. He didn't even know them.

  Mercado had no good answer other than he was being paid to do a job. And his work was to kill people. He was an assassin for hire. It's what he did. It's who he was.

  Mercado knew he was sick. He knew his head wasn't screwed on right.

  He saw the sign for exit 12 toward Neponset/Quincy. Mercado exited and drove to Hannah Parks' address. He parked his car where he could watch the entrance to Hannah's condo without drawing any attention to himself.

  Four hours passed. Then five. Then Hannah Parks came home. Mercado watched her as she opened the door to her condo and went in.

  Mercado exited his car and walked across the parking lot, checking to make sure he was alone. When he was sure no one was around, Mercado quickly and quietly picked the lock on Hannah's door. He slowly opened the door and looked inside.

  An LED nightlight provided the only light in the entry hallway. Mercado entered and closed the door behind him. He walked down the hallway. Kitchen to his left. Living room to his right. Another hallway led toward the bedrooms.

  Mercado proceeded down the hallway. It was dark, but another LED nightlight helped him follow the hallway to Hannah's bedroom. Her bedroom door was open and the light on. Mercado could hear water running in the en-suite bathroom. The water was too loud to be the sink, but it wasn't the shower. Hannah was filling the tub for a bath.

  Mercado entered the bedroom and crossed the room to the bathroom door. It was ajar. From his angle, Mercado could see Hannah in the large mirror over the sink. Her back turned toward the mirror.

  Hannah was tall, thin, and curvy. Like a model. Her long strawberry blond hair hung over her shoulders.

  She unzipped the evening dress she had been wearing, and it dropped to the floor. She stepped out of it. Hannah pulled down her panties and then undid her bra. Mercado couldn't help it, he was getting turned on.

  But he had to stay focused. Doing anything other than the job he was hired to do came with a lot of risks. He could leave DNA behind. Staying a second longer than necessary could be the second someone might spot him leaving.

  Besides, he was a hired killer. Not a rapist. Mercado made his own logic. His own sense of right and wrong. But any way you sliced it, Mercado knew he was twisted.

  He focused on the task at hand as Hannah Parks leaned over and turned off the water. What a view, Mercado thought. Such a shame she had to die.

  As Hannah stepped into the tub, Mercado pushed open the door and rushed into the bathroom. Before Hannah had a chance to react, Mercado grabbed her, covering her mouth.

  She tried to scream, but it was no use.

  She tried to break free of Mercado's grip, but he was much too strong.

  He forced her into the bath and slammed her head against the side of the tub. Hannah's body went limp and Mercado let it slide motionless into the water.

  Mercado snapped a quick picture with his cell phone, and then he quickly retraced his steps out of the apartment.

  Mercado crossed the empty parking lot.

  Not a creature was stirring. Especially not Hannah Parks.

  The storm front from northern New England had arrived. As Mercado reached his car, the skies opened. A hard and cold rain poured down. Somehow it seemed appropriate, he thought.

  Mercado got in his car and drove away, windshield wipers swiping the rain away.

  CHAPTER 10

  Drew Patrick

  The hard rain from the night before had given way to blue skies and sunshine as I traveled along Memorial Drive between Cambridge and Boston. I, for one, was happy. My drive back from Maine had been slowed due to the torrential downpour.

  Dash seemed happier as well. Last night he curled up on the floorboard and whimpered as thunder rolled over us and rain pounded the roof of the car. For our ride to Station H-4, SP Boston Barracks—the Massachusetts State Polic
e Boston offices—he sat in the passenger seat looking out the window at the Charles River. We had been heading to drop him off at doggy day care, but Detective Lieutenant Isabella Sanchez insisted Dash come along.

  “I think Detective Lieutenant Sanchez has a crush on you,” I said to Dash as we drove under the Longfellow Bridge and onto Edwin H. Land Boulevard. He looked at me and thumped his tail against the seat.

  We continued along Edwin H. Land Boulevard past CambridgeSide Galleria and over a narrow slice of the Charles River. We hung a right onto Charles River Dam Road and passed the Museum of Science on our right. A quarter of a mile later we arrived at the State Police Boston Barracks.

  There was limited parking, but I did my “Hail Mary, full of grace, help me find a parking space,” and we found one. It almost always worked for me.

  We stopped on the way into the building as Dash made friends with one of the K-9 German Shepherds coming off duty.

  “Detective Lieutenant Sanchez requested Dash visit today,” I told the State Trooper with the K-9 unit.

  “Maybe we should put him to work,” he said.

  “I'm not sure he would be of much help,” I said. “Unless you need him to sniff out burgers. He has a particularly good nose for Charlie's Kitchen in Harvard Square.”

  “There he is,” I heard Detective Sanchez's voice call out behind us.

  “Ace private investigator at your service,” I said.

  “I was talking to Dash,” she said as she walked over.

  Isabella Sanchez was a lean and toned five feet seven inches. You never ask a woman her age, but I knew she was in her thirties. Mid-thirties if I had to guess. She had black hair that fell to the shoulders of her dark gray pants suit. Her brown eyes grew wider and a broad smile broke out across her face as Dash rushed over to her.

  “He sure likes Detective Lieutenant Sanchez,” the K-9 State Trooper commented.

  “They have a bit of thing,” I said.

  “Come on, Dash,” Sanchez said. Dash followed her toward the building. “Patrick, move your ass. Burke is waiting.”

  “We don't have so much of a thing,” I said to the trooper. I followed Sanchez and Dash into the building to Detective Captain Robert Burke's office.

  Burke came from good Irish stock like myself. He was two inches shorter than me at six feet even. His once athletic build had given way to being slightly overweight. But he still was in better shape than a lot of guys in their fifties.

  “Have a seat,” Burke said.

  He sat behind his government-issued desk. Similar to Tyrell’s office, Burke's was also filled with commendations for his service. Burke was a lifer with the staties. He had risen through the ranks from trooper to Detective Captain. He had been a detective for more than twenty years.

  I sat in a chair near his desk. Sanchez sat on the couch off to the side. Dash hopped up next to her.

  “Don't let him on the couch,” Burke said.

  “He's fine,” Sanchez said.

  And that was that. Burke may have been Sanchez's superior officer, but it was often hard to tell. They had an excellent working relationship and a close bond, forged over many tough cases. She was as good a detective as they came. Like Burke, she had risen quickly through the ranks. When she made Detective Lieutenant two years prior, no one was prouder than Burke.

  “I take it you have news on Ashley Sullivan?” I said.

  Burke nodded his head. “Everything is preliminary at the moment,” he said, “but from what Maine State Police have shared, Miss Holland was forced off the road.”

  “Forced, as in more than a hit-and-run accident?”

  “That's why you have that fancy private dick license from the Commonwealth,” Burke said.

  “Issued by none other than your State Police Colonel,” I said.

  “Nobody's perfect,” he said.

  Dash had rolled over on his back and his right hind leg twitched as Sanchez rubbed his belly.

  “There is a series of evidence that leads us to believe Ashley Sullivan did not simply lose control of the car on her own,” Sanchez said.

  We were silent a beat.

  “Are you going to share this evidence?” I said.

  Burke cracked open a can of Diet Coke that had been sitting on his desk.

  “I'm good, by the way,” I said as Burke lifted the Diet Coke can to his lips.

  “Good,” he said, “because this is the only one I've got.” He took a sip.

  “Mind you there is nothing concrete here,” Sanchez said.

  “But enough for you to ask me to come over,” I said.

  Burke took another sip of the Diet Coke. Then he said, “A Hummer that had been reported stolen was recovered. It had some scratches on the front grill. With those scratches were flecks of paint matching beamers like the one Miss Holland drove.”

  “Since her car was burned out from the explosion,” Sanchez said, “we needed to check her VIN records for the color of her car...”

  “And the paint color matches,” I said concluding Sanchez's statement.

  “Not only that,” Sanchez said, “but the frame of the car had dents consistent with being hit by a large SUV or truck.”

  “Like a Hummer,” I said.

  “You're on a roll, Drew,” Burke said. “But wait until you hear this next part.”

  Burke paused and took another sip of Diet Coke. I hadn't been thirsty, but that was changing.

  Burke continued, “A young woman by the name of Hannah Parks was found dead in her bathroom this morning. No clear signs of forced entry, but the crime unit thinks an expert at picking locks could have easily gained entry. What makes these deaths suspicious is that Hannah Parks worked for the same escort service as Ashley Holland.”

  “Premier Escort Services,” I said.

  “So you have been doing some actual investigating,” Burke said.

  I gave Burke a crooked smile. Then I said, “It would seem like a mighty big coincidence.”

  “And we don't like coincidences like that,” Sanchez said.

  “Neither do I,” I said.

  I let it all sink in for a moment.

  Burke said, “I'd say we are looking at two murder investigations.”

  I nodded my head.

  The deaths of Ashley Holland and Hannah Parks were tragic on their own. That they were likely murdered made them worse.

  “I assume you'll be sticking your nose into the investigation?” Burke said.

  “Just try to stop me,” I said.

  “Wouldn't dream of it,” Burke said.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Hollands lived in a stately 1880s Queen Anne style home in Newton. The period architectural details were impressive on the well-maintained home. A large foyer and main staircase gave a sense of grandeur as I entered the house. The entryway anchored several large rooms on either side.

  An elderly housekeeper, who looked like she might have been original to the house, showed me to the living room. In contrast to Ashley's modern-chic condo, her parents' home felt like a museum. The living room furnishings, like the housekeeper, appeared original to the house.

  “Mr. Patrick, thank you for coming by,” Jeffrey Holland said as he entered the room. He appeared genuinely grief-stricken.

  I had been in similar situations too many times over the years. Mostly as a Special Agent with the FBI. A few times as a PI. It never got easier. Nor should it. The fact that it is always heart-wrenching reminded me of our shared humanity.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” I said. Jeffrey Holland and I shook hands. He trembled slightly.

  Cynthia Holland walked into the living room smoking a cigarette and carrying a glass tumbler filled with scotch.

  “Do you have to smoke in the house?” Jeffrey Holland said.

  “Piss off,” Cynthia said, slurring her words.

  Jeffrey Holland turned to me and said, “I'm sorry about Cynthia. She has taken the news of Ashley's death very hard.”

  “No need to apologize,” I said.
“We all handle grief differently.”

  “What is he doing here?” Cynthia said tilting her head toward me. “There is nothing for him to investigate. Ashley's dead. He didn't even find her.”

  “He came to pay his respects,” Jeffrey Holland said. “And it is not fair to suggest Mr. Patrick failed at finding Ashley.”

  Cynthia snorted and took a drag on her cigarette. She blew out a cloud of smoke.

  “We should get our money back,” Cynthia said. “We paid him to find our daughter. Did he find her? No.”

  “That's enough,” Jeffrey Holland said.

  Cynthia Holland wagged her head and said, “Now you get a backbone? Where was that when Ashley started working as an 'escort'?” Cynthia placed the word “escort” in air quotes.

  “What are you implying?” Jeffrey Holland said.

  “Oh get a clue,” Cynthia said. “Your daughter was a prostitute. Sure, she didn't hang out on street corners, but the end result was the same.”

  “How can you say that?” Jeffrey Holland said. He turned and looked at me. “That can't be true.”

  I wasn't sure what to tell him. Ashley was a legitimate escort. Nonetheless, I had been provided evidence she was sleeping with Grant Worthington on the side. It also appeared such arrangements were not unheard of for escorts at Premier.

  “Mr. Patrick?” he said. “Is it true? Did you find any evidence to support what my wife has claimed?”

  I owed him the truth. But I wanted to soften the blow.

  “Ashley worked for a legitimate escort service. Premier Escort Service caters to wealthy executives. A rather exclusive clientele. She would accompany them to dinner, cocktail parties, and other business and social events. There is evidence she was sleeping with one of her clients.”

  “See!” Cynthia Holland said. “Ashley was a whore!”