Shattered

by Jason Richards

  The two walked to the railing on the starboard side of the yacht. Victoria looked over the edge toward the ocean three levels below. It was quite a long way down.

  Victoria had been drinking. It would be another tragic accident. Mercado didn't want to miss the opportunity.

  He quickly hit Victoria over the head and knocked her unconscious. It would be over soon and she wouldn't feel a thing. He propped her up as he removed her shoes and left one by the railing on its side. He tossed the other overboard.

  Mercado lifted Victoria off the deck and threw her over the railing. He watched as she hit the water. If she hadn't already been unconscious, the force of hitting the water from that height would have knocked her out.

  Mercado turned and walked away. He went back down to the main deck and mingled. He made sure to talk to several people as if he hadn't a care in the world.

  The yacht continued cruising forward. Victoria Clark's body left behind in the waters of the Pacific.

  When Grant finally realized Victoria was missing, he had the entire yacht searched. A crew member found her shoe by the railing on the upper deck. Grant ordered they turn around and search the waters.

  They called the Coast Guard and an official search began. It was no use. She had been overboard too long. Her body could not be located. Victoria Clark was gone.

  CHAPTER 31

  Drew Patrick

  Robert Burke sat in my office drinking a cup of freshly brewed coffee. He had removed his tie and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. It had been a long day and he was in Cambridge to take his wife to dinner at Border Cafe. He was waiting for her to get off work at the Harvard School of Education.

  “Maybe next time I can offer you a cup from a French coffee press,” I said.

  He waved his hand dismissively. “Nothing wrong with a plain old cup of Joe,” he said. Detective Captain Robert Burke was a meat and potatoes and plain black coffee kind of guy.

  “Jessica wasn't happy about you going off with Eddie Garavito,” Burke said.

  “It's not like I had planned it that way,” I said.

  “But you learned something?” Burke said.

  I nodded. “Garavito said crime boss land is all abuzz that a hit man named Mercado was in town shortly after Ashley Holland was killed and the same day when Hannah Parks was killed.”

  “You believe him?” Burke said.

  “No reason not to,” I said. “He decided not to kill me in the interest of helping find Mercado.”

  “Because having dead escorts hurts his bottom line?”

  “That and he has a reputation to uphold in the criminal underworld,” I said.

  Burke leaned forward in the client chair. He said, “You could be walking a very thin line between lawful justice and being an accessory should Garavito decide to seek revenge.”

  “You know I would never willingly be a party to that,” I said.

  Burke sat back in the chair. “Doesn't matter what I know,” he said. “It's how it looks to the DA's office.”

  “I think I convinced Garavito that a revenge killing would bring too much heat down on him.”

  Burke nodded. “If you're satisfied Garavito will hold off and let the justice system handle Mercado's fate, I'll back you up.”

  “I'm as satisfied as I can be,” I said. “As much as I need to be to try and find Mercado.”

  Burke took a sip of his coffee. He was drinking from a mug in my Red Sox collection. The 2007 World Series Champions mug. Alex Cora played on that squad. Now he was the team's skipper. A World Series victory in his first season as manager.

  “What is the official word on the case?” I said.

  Burke shrugged and held his hands apart. “Not much solid evidence. We still like Grant Worthington. He makes the most sense. But he has solid alibis for both murders. There is nothing to suggest he hired a contract killer.”

  “Mercado is key,” I said. “We need him to give us the name of who hired him.”

  “If he even knows. A guy like Grant Worthington wouldn't just walk up to a guy like Mercado.”

  “I think Mercado would want to know who he is dealing with. In case things went south, he'd want some sort of bargaining chip. I'd bet you a dozen jelly donuts he found out.”

  Dash looked up from his spot on the couch when he heard the word donut. He sniffed the air to check. He looked disappointed at not smelling anything other than office coffee. He sighed and put his head back down.

  “Is that a veiled reference to the stereotype of cops liking donuts?” Burke said.

  “Not so veiled,” I said. “And it’s not a stereotype if it’s true.”

  Burke nodded. “I do like jelly donuts.”

  “I've seen enough of the stains on your shirts to know,” I said.

  Burke finished his coffee and moved aside my David Ortiz bobblehead to make room for the mug on the corner of my desk.

  “Hey,” I said. “I have those arranged just so.”

  “Sorry,” Burke said. He slid the bobble-head of Big Papi back in place. He rested the empty mug on his right leg.

  “You ever hear back from the Clark girl?” Burke said.

  I shook my head and said, “No. All my calls have gone to voicemail.”

  “Nothing from the cops out in LA either,” Burke said. “They went by her place and a neighbor said she was away for a few days.”

  “You think with Grant Worthington?” I said.

  “Could be,” Burke said. “His office said he was on his yacht out to Catalina Island. Would be back tonight to pick up guests for a dinner cruise.”

  “I'll keep trying her number,” I said.

  Burke's cell phone rang. “Just a second,” he said as he dug his phone out of his suit jacket pocket. “Burke.” He listened for several beats. “Alright,” he said. He listened a little longer and then said, “Thanks.” He ended the call and looked at me.

  “Victoria Clark's body was just discovered washed up on shore.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “She was on Worthington's yacht for the dinner party. Apparently, she had too much to drink and fell overboard. By the time they realized she was missing, it was too late to locate the body in the water.”

  “What are the police in California saying?”

  “Not much,” Burke said. “They just found the body. The passengers aboard the yacht had already been questioned after they reported her missing and presumed to have gone overboard.”

  “And no one reported seeing anything?” I said.

  “Nothing.”

  “We need to find out if any of the passengers match the description Garavito provided of Mercado?” I said.

  “I'll make some calls,” Burke said.

  “I don't like it,” I said.

  “Neither do I,” Burke said. “But why would Mercado toss her off Worthington's yacht? Assuming it was Mercado.”

  “Would you want to bet against it being Mercado?” I said.

  “No,” Burke said. “I'm pretty certain that would be a losing bet.”

  “It would pose a higher risk for Worthington,” I said. “While it doesn't make sense he would want any attention related to her death, he could be getting bolder. I saw cases with the FBI where that happened.”

  Burke nodded. He said, “Yeah, we've seen it too. Criminals start getting away with stuff and push the limit. Usually when they start getting sloppy, and that's when we get them.”

  “He's still the only connection we have to all three women,” I said. “I checked the acting class out. There is nothing there.”

  “I'm not surprised,” Burke said, “but at least we can rule it out.”

  “Although we should leave open the possibility it's not Grant Worthington,” I said.

  “Something is always possible. Until it's not.”

  “Are you getting philosophical on me?” I said.

  Burke shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. “I'm more educated in the school of hard knocks,” he said.

  �
��This is a tough one,” Burke said scratching his five o'clock shadow. “Worthington has rock solid alibis for the first two murders. And even though Victoria Clark was last seen alive on his yacht, he was surrounded by a hundred guests the entire evening.”

  I said, “It all comes back to finding Mercado.”

  “Good thing we have an ace private investigator on the case,” he said.

  “Someone has to solve your cases for you.”

  Burke grunted as he got up from my client chair. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said. He placed the mug on the counter next to my coffee maker. “Let's talk in the morning. See where things are then.”

  I stood and saluted. Burke smirked and shook his head. He grabbed his suit jacket off the back of the client chair and left.

  CHAPTER 32

  Jeffrey Holland asked to meet at a diner in Newton. We sat at the counter on round stools that rotated 360 degrees. Black and white photographs of the diner throughout the years decorated the walls. An old-fashioned jukebox played oldies from the 1950s and 1960s. Jailhouse Rock by Elvis ended and Wake Up Little Susie by The Everly Brothers started.

  The waitress placed our milkshakes,served in old glass milk bottles, and two glasses of water on the counter in front of us. A Chocolate milkshake for me, and vanilla for Jeffrey.

  “You gentleman know what you'd like?” the waitress asked. She had on a dress like the waitresses on the sitcom Alice wore. I ordered a cheeseburger and fries. Jeffrey ordered a tuna melt and potato chips.

  “I wanted to tell you how much we appreciate you continuing with the case,” Jeffrey said. He stared blankly into his milkshake and unconsciously twirled his straw.

  “We're making progress,” I said. “I believe we have identified the man responsible, and we're looking for him.”

  Jeffrey Holland wiped away a tear that streaked down his cheek.

  “I understand this is hard,” I said. “But when we catch this guy, we should get the answers we're looking for. Who hired him, and why.”

  Jeffrey shook his head. “This is all so surreal,” he said. “I feel like I'm in a nightmare I can't wake up from.” He paused a bet and then turned toward me. “What can you tell me about the man you are looking for?”

  Everyone was different in a tragic situation such as the one the Hollands were dealing with. Some wanted few details. Others wanted as much information as they could gather. It was all how a person processed the evidence and handled grief.

  Jeffrey wanted to know more than his wife, but only enough facts to convince him there was progress. Eventually, enough to provide closure.

  “His name is Mercado,” I said. “He's a contract killer. Other than that, and a basic description, we know little else.”

  “The State Police detectives don't have any more facts?”

  “Mercado isn't in any crime database,” I said. “But we'll keep digging. I'll keep digging.”

  Jeffrey Holland sat silent for a moment. He looked off into space, but I could see the pain and confusion in his eyes.

  “Someone paid him to...” he choked on his words. “Someone hired this Mercado to kill Ashley? And the other girl, Hannah?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And now we believe a third young woman in California. She had been a former escort at Premier.”

  “Why?” He asked in disbelief rather than for an answer from me.

  I had no answer. Even if we discovered the motive, I still don't think I could ever answer the question why someone would hire Mercado to kill Ashley, Hannah, and Victoria. Not in any meaningful way. How could you make sense of it?

  I had long ago concluded that you can't.

  Jeffrey turned back toward the counter. I allowed him as much time as he needed. He was still trying to process shock, grief, and to figure out how to move forward after losing his daughter. He would never forget her or stop missing her. And it would take time to figure out how to take the next step in life. First he needed a sense of closure.

  “When Ashley was a little girl,” he began, “I would take her to the park. She loved to climb the monkey bars and swing on the swing set. It was our daddy and daughter time. As she got older, she wanted to spend less time with me. The mall, her friends, and, eventually, boys, were more interesting.”

  “A normal part of growing up,” I said.

  “But even then, we still talked. She didn't want to be seen in public with her old man, but we still had a good relationship.” Jeffrey paused a beat. “We always had a good relationship. Right to the end.”

  He used his napkin to wipe tears from his eyes. He took a sip of water. His milkshake was essentially untouched.

  Jeffrey continued, “Ashley wanted to be an actress. She took classes at a small acting studio near the Theater District in Boston. She took the position at Premier just to pay the bills while she looked for acting jobs. The money was so good, she stopped auditioning.”

  “Did she give up the dream of acting?” I said.

  “Not really,” he said. “I think she simply lost the desire to go on all those auditions, only to be rejected.”

  “I could see losing motivation when you have a healthy paycheck.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Although a month or so before her death she expressed a renewed interest in acting.”

  “Did she ever mention the name Grant Worthington to you?” I said.

  Jeffrey thought for a moment. “The movie producer?”

  I nodded.

  “No. I don't recall her mentioning him. Why?”

  “He was the client Ashley was sleeping with,” I said.

  The waitress came with our food.

  “Can I get you anything else?” she said.

  “I'm good,” I said.

  “Same here,” Jeffrey said.

  “Let me know if you do.” She moved to the other end of the counter to a couple who had just walked in and sat down.

  “Do you think he made her promises in exchange for...” he couldn't complete the sentence. I didn't blame him.

  “Yes,” I said. “It seems he made promises of movie careers to Hannah Parks and Victoria Clark too.”

  “Sick son of a bitch,” Jeffrey said.

  I definitely agreed.

  “Does that have anything to do with their deaths?” Jeffrey said. “Is he responsible for Ashley and the others being killed?”

  I blew out air. “That's tough to answer,” I said. “He's the only connection we can establish. At the same time he has solid alibis.”

  “But you're looking into it?”

  “The police are studying him closely. The FBI is also getting involved as each death took place in a different state. But we need more.”

  “Please tell me you will find it,” he said.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “I will do my best. And I don't give up.”

  Jeffrey nodded. “Please,” he said. “Eat before your burger gets cold.”

  We sat in silence for a time as we ate. Jeffrey made an effort but mostly picked at his tuna melt. I ate, but slower than usual. And I didn't have the same joy in a good diner burger as I ordinarily would.

  “How is Mrs. Holland doing?” I said after a while.

  “Cynthia is taking this all very hard,” he said. “She and Ashley had a strained relationship the past few years. So there is a measure of guilt and anger at unresolved tensions between them.”

  “I'm sure Ashley knew your wife loved her.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I suppose she did. I reminded her whenever she and her mother argued. Part of it is that they were so alike.” Jeffrey shook his head. “They didn't even see it.”

  “There are some excellent grief counselors,” I said. “I can give you some names.”

  “A psychologist friend of ours has recommended someone. But thank you.”

  The waitress dropped off the check. I knew the diner had great apple pie, but it didn't seem like an occasion to order it so I paid and left a tip.

  I told Jeffrey I would let him know how the case pro
gressed. He thanked me and went on his way. His shoulders slumped and his head was down, diminishing his tall stature. I couldn't blame him for feeling defeated. He had lost his daughter and was struggling. I felt for him. And for Cynthia.

  What I held on to is we were late in the game. We may have been playing from behind and facing a difficult lineup, but I sensed we would rally. Our team was too good not to end up with the win.

  But a victory could never be complete. Nothing would bring Ashley, Hannah, and Victoria back. Nonetheless, Mercado could not hide forever. When he reared his murderous head, I'd be there to take him down. And he would lead us to the person ultimately responsible for setting everything in motion.

  CHAPTER 33

  “Nice digs,” I said to Special Agent Mark Sumner as he showed me around the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Boston Division headquarters in Chelsea. The eight story building offered state of the art crime fighting technology. When I had been with the Bureau's Boston Division, we were headquartered at 1 Center Plaza near Boston's Government Center.

  “How is it you haven't been here before now?” Mark said. “We've been in this building two years.”

  “I've had places to go and people to see,” I said.

  “The life of a private investigator,” he said. “The only thing missing is the deerstalker hat and pipe.”

  “I actually have them,” I said. “Jessica brought them back as souvenirs from London.”

  Mark showed me into his office. It was bright and modern the way newer offices tend to be. He sat behind his desk. I took the seat opposite him.

  “How is Jessica?” he said.

  “Great as always,” I said.

  He shook his head and smiled. “I don't know why she stays with you.”

  “I could give you a list,” I said, “but I don't like to brag.”

  “Same old Drew,” he said. “Not nearly as much fun around here without you.”

  “You probably don't solve nearly as many cases either,” I said leaning back in the chair.

  “Actually, I think our success has gone up,” Mark said as he placed his hands behind his head and tilted back. His chair was ergonomic and whisper quiet when it moved. It didn't creak like most chairs in government offices. He continued, “Seriously, though, it's great to see you. It has been way too long.”