Shattered

by Jason Richards

  The man smiled back at me. “Edward Garavito,” he said. “But you can call me Eddie. Now let's go have that drink.”

  CHAPTER 27

  “You were a hard man to get to after my men's last encounter with you,” Eddie said as we rode in the back of the Escalade. Sandpaper Voice was driving and Crooked Nose sat in the front passenger seat. Comb Over hadn't come along for the ride.

  Eddie had put away the gun. His hands were interlocked and resting on his stomach as he sat comfortably back in the seat. Not a care in the world.

  He considered me a moment, then said, “Having former Secret Service for protection is rather impressive.”

  “And yet here we are,” I said.

  Eddie smiled. “There isn't anybody I can't get to.”

  “Apparently,” I said.

  Eddie flicked away a piece of lint from the sleeve of his Brooks Brothers suit. It was navy blue with thin light blue pinstripes. His crisp white shirt was high quality with French cuffs. I had no doubt his cufflinks cost more than my entire wardrobe. His silk tie matched the pinstripes.

  “You see, Mr. Patrick, I have people all over Boston. Those people have been keeping an eye out for you.”

  “I am easy on the peepers,” I said.

  Eddie sat expressionlessly. We weren't quite hitting it off.

  “Your lady friend and the other two won't get any crazy ideas about following us, will they?”

  “No,” I said. “But if anything happens to me...”

  “Don't cause any trouble and you'll be home safe and sound tonight.”

  “I have to ask,” I said, “was that woman and dog really with you back at the Commonwealth Hotel?”

  Eddie nodded his head. “Yeah,” he said. “The wife gets a few nights being pampered at the hotel in exchange for providing the cover.”

  I had to hand it to Eddie, he slipped right past our defenses. Of course I wasn't the president, so the attention to security details wasn't as high. We were looking out for Eddie's goons, not for Eddie, his wife, and dog to walk right up to me. If I actually survived my visit with Eddie, it would be a lesson learned and not forgotten.

  Sandpaper Voice pulled the Escalade over and we stopped. Crooked Nose got out and opened the rear passenger door on my side.

  “After you,” Eddie said to me as he motioned toward the open door.

  “Don't get any funny ideas,” Crooked Nose said.

  “Those are the best ideas,” I said. He frowned at me and tilted his head for me to get out of the SUV.

  I climbed out and we waited for Eddie to follow. Sandpaper Voice joined us on the sidewalk. He stood with his arms crossed and gave me his best tough guy stare. It wasn't bad, but I could give him a few pointers.

  “This way, Mr. Patrick,” Eddie said. We followed him into a hole in the wall bar just a few blocks from the Commonwealth Hotel. It was closed for renovations. Wires hung from light sockets in the ceiling and drywall was in various stages of being hung.

  We passed through the main bar to an anteroom. Unlike the bar area, the anteroom was finished and well-appointed with fine green leather and mahogany furniture. The mahogany furniture matched the built-in bookcases and wood paneled walls. The scent of cigar smoke blended with the leather and wood.

  “This was a cigar bar,” Eddie said. “I'm renovating the main bar area to appeal more to the Millennials. Need to stay relevant. But I'm keeping this room for myself.”

  He sat down in a high-backed leather chair. “Have a seat,” he said. I sat in the high-backed leather chair's twin opposite Eddie. They were on either side of a fireplace.

  Eddie was average height and slender. His dark hair was neatly trimmed and parted on the left side. He had almond colored eyes that sat close together. His clean-shaven face looked younger than what I knew to be his fifty years.

  Sandpaper Voice flipped a wall switch and a fire roared to life. Cozy.

  “Scotch?” Eddie said to me.

  “Sure,” I said. “Neat.”

  “I'll take mine on the rocks,” Eddie said. Crooked Nose went to a wet bar and prepared our drinks. Comb Over walked in carrying a cigar box.

  “Hey, look,” I said, “the gang's all here.”

  “We'll get to that in a minute,” Eddie said. He waved at Comb Over to approach. Comb Over crossed the room. He held out the open cigar box. The unlit cigars smelled like a newly-sown field of rich loamy soil. Eddie selected one. I did the same.

  Eddie took out his cutter and clipped the ends on each of our cigars. He said, “They're Cuban. Still the finest in the world, even if no longer such a forbidden fruit in the United States.”

  “To consume,” I said. “Not to sell.”

  “True, you still can't go to your local tobacconist and purchase them legally,” Eddie said. “But that doesn't mean commercial sales aren't being made.” He smiled at me as he lit our cigars. The pungent aroma filled the space between us as smoke swirled upward from the ends.

  Crooked Nose walked over and placed our drinks on the serving table between the chairs. He stepped back and stood near the back wall with Sandpaper Voice and Comb Over.

  “I realize you have had less than pleasant experiences with my men,” Eddie said as a matter of fact.

  “This is certainly a more civilized encounter,” I said as I puffed on my cigar and held up my scotch glass.

  “Don't mistake my hospitality this evening for safety, Mr. Patrick. I was prepared to kill you.” He paused a beat as he let scotch pass across his lips. “I still am.”

  “At least I'll go out in style,” I said.

  Eddie ignored my comment. He said, “I sent my men to deliver a message and you ignored that message. I sent a second message, and you ignored that too.”

  “I've never been big on being told what to do.”

  “Amazing you are still alive,” Eddie said, “given some of the people you cross.”

  “Like you?” I said.

  “Yes, like me,” he said.

  I allowed for a contemplative moment as I joined a puff of cigar with a sip of scotch. “Luck of the Irish,” I said.

  “I'll hand it to you, Mr. Patrick, you seem rather unflappable.”

  “Never let them see you sweat.”

  Eddie tipped his head toward me. Almost a nod, but not quite. “I can respect what you do,” Eddie said. “As long as it doesn't interfere with my business.”

  This wasn't my first rodeo with a crime boss. Eddie was about to launch into a monologue. A perfect opportunity to drink my scotch and smoke my cigar.

  Eddie put down his drink on the serving table. He leaned forward, holding the cigar in his right hand. A thin line of smoke drifted upward toward the ceiling.

  “Here's the thing,” he said, “at first I figured you'd be trouble. I don't like people poking around in my business. I have come to understand you are a half-decent investigator, so you are presumably aware I have a controlling interest in Premier Escort Services. Most of its profits flow to me although I’m more of a silent partner.”

  Along with his drug money and, as I surmised, the illegal sale of Cuban cigars. Eddie took a puff of his cigar. He blew out a perfect ring of smoke. It impressed me. I continued enjoying my cigar and scotch. Eddie was delivering his own version of Macbeth.

  “What I have concluded, at least for the time being, is that you looking into the deaths of two of Premier's escorts might serve my interests.” Eddie sat back in his chair. He picked up his scotch glass. “It's why you are still alive.” He drank his scotch. I didn't know if he wanted to act out a scene from The Godfather, so I held back on kissing his pinkie ring.

  “How so?” I said.

  “Somebody whacking two of my employees is bad for business,” he said.

  “Not to mention somebody killed two young women,” I said.

  Eddie offered only the slightest recognition there was human loss of life. He was more transactional. Business assets lost. His bottom line affected. The concern of damage to his street cred.
/>
  Eddie ignored me and said, “That somebody needs to pay.”

  “Justice for the deaths of Ashley Holland and Hannah Parks is all I am after,” I said. “I don't care about your business.”

  “Then we understand each other?” Eddie said.

  “Enough to work together on this,” I said. “But I'm not into revenge killing. I want whoever did this punished through the legal system.”

  “I need to send a message,” Eddie said.

  “Life in Cedar Junction is a strong message,” I said.

  “Maybe in your world,” Eddie said. “Not in mine.”

  I didn't like where the conversation was going. A different tact was needed. I put down my drink and leaned forward with my cigar in my hand.

  I said, “This case is too hot. The Massachusetts and Maine State Police are involved. The FBI is likely to get involved for murders in two states. You don't want any of the heat coming your way.”

  I sat back and waited. Eddie considered what I had said as he puffed on his cigar. After several minutes he nodded his head. “You might be right,” he said. He paused another few beats. “Okay, we'll do it your way. But you don't breathe a word to anybody about our working together.”

  “Not exactly something I want on my website,” I said.

  “From what I hear these were contract killings,” Eddie said.

  I nodded. “That's the angle we're pursuing,” I said.

  “Nobody local put out the hits. No reason to. Plus, no one in their right mind wants to go up against me.”

  “Assuming they know your connections to Premier,” I said.

  “Anybody in Boston would know.”

  I nodded again.

  “Word is that a former local guy has been in town,” Eddie said. “Grew up in Dorchester. Now he moves around the country from job to job. He was spotted in town around the time the girl in Quincy was killed.”

  “It may be something,” I said.

  “Mostly rumors,” said Eddie, “But I figured a professional investigator could help confirm those rumors. Especially an investigator with connections to the cops and feds.”

  “Lucky for you I'm already on the case,” I said.

  “Lucky for you,” Eddie said. “It kept me from whacking you.”

  I didn't want to press my luck, so I left it at that. “Do you have a name?” I said.

  “Mercado,” Eddie said. “A real head case, from what I hear. But very dangerous.”

  “He has proven to be,” I said. “But if we find evidence Mercado was the killer and he can be put away, we can learn who hired him, and maybe even why.”

  I had formed an uneasy alliance with one of Boston's most notorious crime bosses. The upside is I was still alive. And I had the name of the person who most likely killed Ashley and Hannah.

  CHAPTER 28

  “You’re what?” Big Lou said. We were sitting in a booth at his restaurant in the North End. I was finally trying the tiramisu. I wasn’t sure about the world’s best, but it was pretty darn good.

  “How can you be working with Eddie Garavito?” he said before I had an opportunity to swallow the tiramisu and answer.

  “It appears we have a common interest,” I said.

  Big Lou snorted. “I find it hard to imagine you have any common interest with a guy like Eddie Garavito.”

  “I sometimes have a common interest with you.”

  “Hey, hey, hey. Hold the phone a minute.” Big Lou held up his pudgy little hand. “I may have some business interests I don’t disclose to the government, but I’m no thug like Garavito. I certainly don’t go around killing people.”

  “Word on the street not that long ago is you would beat your own grandmother if she owed you money.”

  “Vicious lies,” he said.

  “Or stories you planted to gain street cred?” I said.

  “No comment.”

  “Have you ever heard the saying about the enemy of my enemy is my friend?”

  “Sure,” he said. “An old proverb or something.”

  “From around the fourth century BC,” I said.

  “Whoopdido,” Big Lou said as he waved his little hand around. His Rolex slid around on his tiny wrist.

  “Listen, I don’t like the idea of cooperating with Garavito. In fact, it makes me ill thinking about it. But I don’t see another alternative at the moment.”

  “Not one that doesn’t get you killed,” Big Lou said.

  “So, you see my dilemma?”

  I took another bite of tiramisu.

  Big Lou peered up at me. He looked like a puppy waiting for praise. “What ya think of the tiramisu?”

  “It’s very good,” I said, wiping my mouth with the cloth napkin.

  The restaurant sound system kicked on in preparation for the upcoming lunch crowd. Dean Martin was singing That’s Amore.

  “Saying pizza pie is redundant,” I observed.

  “Huh?” Big Lou said.

  I took a sip of water and said, “The word pizza is Italian for pie. Saying pizza pie is like saying pie pie. Redundant.”

  “I don’t get how your mind works,” Big Lou said to me.

  “Few do,” I said. “But I have to admit Dino sounds good singing it.”

  “I loved the old Martin and Lewis movies,” he said.

  Little John walked over and seismic activity registered for the North End. He had on a button-down black shirt with a black leather tie. They matched his black slacks and a black leather jacket. He probably couldn’t see his own feet, but I could confirm he was also wearing black shoes.

  “Little John,” I said with a nod of my head.

  “How ya doin’, Drew?” he replied in his baritone voice. His bald head reflected the light from the ceiling.

  “Rosie wants to know if she should start the pasta,” Little John said to Big Lou.

  Big Lou glanced at his Rolex. “Yeah, tell her to go ahead and start the pasta.”

  Little John nodded and headed back toward the kitchen.

  “You don’t have him watching the door?” I said.

  “I feel safe with you here.”

  “What makes you think I’d protect you?”

  “It’s in our common interest,” he said. “I am a useful source of information to aid in your investigative services.”

  “And in the case I am working on now, Eddie Garavito has provided a useful source of information.”

  “Must be some damn good information. Especially seein’ how he was just lookin’ to bump you off.”

  “Does the name Mercado mean anything to you?” I asked.

  Big Lou’s small eyes grew large. Like the pizza pies, redundant as they are, Dean Martin sings about. “Been a while since I heard that name.” He let out a low whistle. “He’s really bad news, Drew.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year,” I said.

  Big Lou leaned forward and rested his arms on the white and red checkered tablecloth. “You think Garavito is a bad man.” He shook his head. “Nothing compared to Mercado.”

  I had polished off the tiramisu and sat back in the booth. “What can you tell me?”

  “As you are aware, Garavito is one of the most dangerous guys in Boston. A ruthless killer when he needs to be. But the violence is measured. Eye for an Eye.”

  I crossed my arms. “And Mercado?”

  “Bat shit crazy,” Big Lou said. “He was abused as a kid. It scrambled his brains or somethin’. Fell in with a gang. Became their enforcer. He developed a taste for killing the members of rival gangs.” Big Lou sat back and spread his arms apart. “Pretty soon not even his own gang could control him.”

  “What happened after that?” I said.

  Big Lou shrugged. “Nobody really knows. Lots of rumors, but few facts. All I really know is that he left Boston over a decade ago. He hasn’t been seen from around here since.”

  “Until now,” I said. “Garavito says Mercado was seen in town recently. The timeline and MO match the killings in my case.”


  Big Lou let out a deep sigh and shook his head slowly. “Drew, you don’t want to go up against this guy.”

  “You are warning about that too much lately.”

  “I meant it with Garavito. Fortunately for you he’s decided Mercado is the real threat. But whether you got Garavito on your side with this or not, Mercado is a very dangerous man. Violent and crazy are a bad combination.”

  “Downright lethal,” I said.

  A song in Italian was now playing. I only knew a few words, but I liked the tune. It had that old-world feel of family, friends, and good wine.

  “Do you know who might know more about him” I asked. “Maybe where I can find him?”

  Big Lou shook his head. “No. I hadn’t even heard about him being back in Boston until you told me just now.” He paused a beat. “And even if I did, I’m not sure I would tell you.”

  “See, despite your resistance, I’m growing on you. Don’t worry, it happens to the best of them.”

  Big Lou ignored my comment. He hopped out of the booth and looked at me. “Let Garavito take care of Mercado.”

  “I can’t do that,” I said.

  “Because Garavito will kill him?”

  I nodded.

  “You and your ethics,” he said. “It just might get you killed.”

  “I want to see him go away for the rest of his natural life. I want him to spend every day thinking about why he’s locked away. I want him to know who put him there.”

  “I don’t know if Mercado thinks like that. Like I said, he’s crazy.”

  “All the same,” I said. “I can’t let Garavito go around killing people.”

  “You may not get a say in that.”

  “He and I have an agreement.”

  “If you say so,” Big Lou said.

  “Too much heat for him,” I said. “Staties and the Feds are involved.”

  “Be careful, Drew,” he said. “And the tiramisu is on the house.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Big Lou nodded and began greeting the lunch crowd. I watched him work the room for a few minutes. He offered lots of smiles and back slaps. He was a little guy with a big personality.