Shattered

by Jason Richards

  I looked at the byline and phoned The Los Angeles Times. I introduced myself and asked to speak with the reporter.

  “Maureen Poole,” came the voice of the reporter on the other end of the call. I explained who I was and the case I was working on.

  “What was your impression of Evelyn Worthington?” I asked.

  “I’m not a psychologist, but I’ve interviewed many people over the years,” Maureen Poole said. “Like in your line of work, we get to know people. We can read them pretty well.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And your impression of her?”

  “She’s a deeply scarred person. It’s made her cool and calculating. At times her comments were almost chilling.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “The way she talked about her father and her husband. As if they were almost one and the same. She also insisted she would never be like her mother. I got the impression she would do just about anything to prevent her life from turning out like her mother’s had.” Maureen Poole paused a moment. “But, I guess, it’s somewhat understandable. Their family was ruined. She watched her mother die a long death from alcohol abuse. Evelyn Worthington was witness to a slow-moving train wreck.”

  “Enough to make anyone vow to not let it happen to them,” I said. “But how far do you think she would really go?”

  There was silence on the phone for a minute as Maureen Poole considered my question. “For most people,” she said, “I would say they’d fight hard to save their marriage. Go to couples counseling. Seek out help from their priest. Whatever. But Evelyn Worthington,” Maureen Poole paused a beat, “she would never allow her marriage to end. She’d do whatever it takes to keep her life just as it is.”

  “This is a hard question to answer,” I said. “Maybe impossible. But you’ve interviewed the Worthingtons a number of times. You’ve delved deeply into their lives. So I’d like your honest opinion.”

  “Go for it,” Maureen Poole said.

  “Do you think Evelyn Worthington would kill to save her marriage?”

  “I don’t think Evelyn Worthington could kill someone,” Maureen Poole said. “But I do think she has it in her to have someone killed. Like I said earlier, I find her to be very cold and calculating.”

  “What about Grant Worthington? Does he have it in him?”

  “Grant Worthington is a real creep,” Maureen Poole said. “If anyone is doing the seducing, it is him. He’s an ugly little shit, but his power and money attract wannabe actresses like a moth to a flame. And he uses that to get what he wants. It makes me sick. But is he capable of having someone killed? I don’t think so.”

  “Does Evelyn Worthington have any connections to the criminal underworld?” I asked.

  “Not that I know of. And if she did, I would probably know about it. But a woman with her money and power can buy any connections she wants when it suits her.”

  I was glancing down at the notes I had taken while on the phone with Maureen Poole. Chilling.

  “Mr. Patrick,” Maureen Poole said, “I am a good investigative reporter, but I’m not a professional profiler or anything like that.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But like you said, in our professions we get pretty good at reading people. Figuring them out. Sometimes it’s the best we have in pushing an investigation forward.”

  “And if we keep pushing,” Maureen Poole said, “we eventually get some real answers.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Thank you for your time. You’ve been a big help.”

  “You’re welcome,” Maureen Poole said. “I almost didn’t want to talk to you when I heard you were from Boston.”

  “The World Series still stinging for you?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I’m glad you looked past it and took my call,” I said.

  After I hung up with Maureen Poole, Jessica called. “Hey, handsome,” Jessica said when I answered.

  “I just had a very interesting conversation with a reporter at the LA Times.” I filled her in on the conversation.

  “Well, then you can add this to your list,” she said. “Evelyn Worthington never discussed filing for divorce with her attorney.”

  “I think it’s time to have Tyrell call Evelyn Worthington and set things in motion.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Mercado

  It was hard for a man Mercado's size to stay out of sight. But he could when he needed to. He traveled back roads and stayed in out-of-the-way places where he could lay low.

  Victoria Clark's drowning was all over the news. The media reported it as a tragic accident. She had been drinking heavily and fell overboard. An accidental drowning. But Mercado understood that was the story the cops fed them to spit out to the public.

  He had received a call from a cousin in Boston. They ran in a gang together as teens. Mercado hadn't spoken to him in years, but recognized his gravely voice right away. It was like sandpaper.

  His cousin informed him that Eddie Garavito and some private investigator were on to him. Mercado wanted nothing to do with Garavito. It would be suicide to go up against him. Even for Mercado. But he wanted to know more about the PI.

  “Give me the 4-1-1,” Mercado said to his cousin, Ricky. He wanted all the information Ricky had.

  “The guy's name is Drew Patrick,” Ricky said. “Former FBI. Been a PI for several years.”

  “Is he a real threat?” Mercado asked. He shoved a wad of chewing tobacco into his cheek.

  “Yeah,” Ricky said. “He's pretty badass.”

  Ricky's voice grated on Mercado's ears. He remembered why he hadn't spoken to him in so long. But he wanted the details on Drew Patrick.

  “What else can you tell me?” Mercado said.

  “I ain't no frickin' encyclopedia. I've already told you too much. If Garavito finds out, he'll kill me. Literally, kill me.”

  “I'll kill you if you don't tell me what I want to know.”

  Ricky chuckled. “Funny, bro.”

  “Do you hear me laughing,” Mercado snapped. “What else do you know?”

  Mercado could hear Ricky swallow on the other end of the phone.

  “Okay,” Ricky said, “but swear on your mother's grave you won't ever let anyone know I told you.”

  Mercado spit the chewing tobacco on the ground. “Don't bring my mother into this,” he said. “I'll twist your head off.”

  “Sorry. I didn't mean to–”

  “Just tell me what you know,” Mercado said.

  Ricky told Mercado that Drew Patrick was smart and tough. As big and strong as Mercado was, Patrick would be a challenge.

  “What does he know about my recent jobs?” Mercado said.

  “He knows you killed the girls in Maine and Quincy,” Ricky said. “I heard Eddie saying he also thinks you tossed that girl off the boat in LA.”

  “Can he prove any of it?” Mercado said.

  “I don't know.” He paused a beat. “Probably not.”

  “Then why do I need to worry?”

  “Because,” Ricky said. “I told you he is smart. And he's working with the cops and feds on this. Not to mention with Eddie. You killed some of Eddie's girls. He's frickin' pissed.”

  Mercado grunted. Ricky didn't know what to make of the grunt.

  “From what I hear,” Ricky continued, “this Patrick guy won't give up. He'll keep on it until he gets you, or he dies trying.”

  “Then he will die trying. But first I want him to suffer. He married? Have a girlfriend?”

  “I don't know,” Ricky said.

  “Find out,” Mercado said. “Then let me know.”

  Mercado hung up. He rubbed at his ear. Damn, Ricky's voice was annoying.

  He surveyed the rustic cabin in New Hampshire where he was staying. He had enough canned goods to stay at least a week. Maybe more if needed.

  The burner phone Evelyn Worthington provided him buzzed. He didn't think he would hear from her again but saved the phone just in case. She paid well and he didn't
want to miss out any more jobs from her.

  “Yeah,” he said when he answered.

  “I have another job for you in Boston,” she said.

  “Good,” he replied. “Because I have other business there.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Mercado drove from New Hampshire on the cool and clear evening. Evelyn Worthington provided the address for the young woman. She had a townhouse in Charlestown. Just a few blocks from Drew Patrick's girlfriend.

  At first, Mercado couldn't believe his good fortune when Ricky told him where Jessica Casey lived. He figured he could take care of both of them in fifteen or twenty minutes. Then he began to wonder if it was too good. Too convenient.

  Ricky could have double-crossed him to Eddie Garavito and it was a setup. He considered it more and decided he was being paranoid. Ricky was afraid of his crazy killer cousin. Then again, he would fear Garavito just as much. Maybe more.

  Mercado debated the matter. In the end, he decided Ricky neither had the brains nor the stones to double-cross him. But he wanted to be certain.

  He paid Ricky a visit when he got to Boston.

  “Cuz, what are you doing here?” Ricky said as Mercado pushed his way into Ricky's apartment. Ricky's question was one of complete surprise. Not just at Mercado showing up at his place, but that Mercado was even in town.

  “I wanted to ask you some questions,” Mercado said. He looked around his cousin's place. It was a small one bedroom on the second floor of duplex. Beige walls with no personal touches. Ricky furnished it with assembled pieces from Walmart.

  Mercado said, “Eddie Garavito needs to pay you better.”

  “I get by,” Ricky said.

  “Tell me,” Mercado said, “while you're getting by, have you been sharing information about me with your boss?”

  Ricky froze like a deer in headlights. Mercado patted Ricky's face with his meaty hand. Ricky was nearly as big as Mercado, but Mercado was meaner. And crazier. A dangerous combination.

  “What have you been saying to Mr. Garavito?” Mercado said.

  “Nothing, really.”

  “We both know that isn't true.”

  Mercado grabbed Ricky by the throat, pinned him to the wall, and squeezed. Ricky struggled to breathe.

  “Let's try this again. What have you been saying to Eddie Garavito?”

  Mercado loosened his grip enough to allow Ricky to speak. “You have to understand, Cuz, Eddie's a dangerous guy. He demands loyalty. I had no choice.”

  “Am I not a dangerous guy?” said Mercado. “Does your family not demand loyalty.”

  “Our family sucks,” Ricky said. “Look what your parents did to you.”

  Mercado backhanded Ricky across the face with his free hand. It snapped Ricky's head to the left and opened a cut on his cheek. “Keep my parents out of this.”

  “After that first girl died, I saw you hanging out in our old watering hole. No one remembered you. It had been a long time, and most of the old regulars are dead or in jail.”

  “You saw me and didn't say anything?”

  “I didn't think you wanted to be noticed so I stayed out of sight. After following you for a few days, you went to Quincy and killed that other girl.”

  The veins in Mercado's neck were bulging. Rage was building. Mercado said, “Keep talking.”

  Ricky continued, “When Eddie learned two of the escorts at Premier were dead, I put two and two together. Eddie has people all over Boston. I figured it was only a matter of time before he figured out it was you.”

  “So you ratted me out?” Mercado said. His face turning a deep red.

  “I had no choice, Cuz. I had to come clean to Eddie. If I hadn't, he would have killed me for not telling him about you.”

  Mercado threw Ricky to the floor. He stood over him, staring Ricky down. His fists clenched and ready to unload the anger welling up inside him.

  Ricky was cowering. It's not often you see a big man like Ricky cower.

  Ricky said, “I tried to make it right by tipping you off about the PI and Eddie being on to you. I figured you'd stay away from Boston.”

  “You figured wrong,” Mercado said. “Now I need you to come completely clean with me. What's going down tonight in Charlestown?”

  “You weren't supposed to come back,” Ricky said. “I warned you to stay away.”

  “You should have been more honest with me,” Mercado said. “I'll only ask one more time. What's going down tonight?”

  Ricky took a deep breath. His eyes darted around the room. Mercado figured he was looking for a weapon. Even if he found one, he'd never get to it alive. Ricky must have come to the same conclusion. He said, “I'll tell you, but then you should leave town. And stay away.”

  Mercado's eyes were bulging. Ricky could see them throbbing. “Don't tell me what to do,” Mercado said.

  “They somehow got that Worthington lady to think another woman was sleeping with her husband. But the woman is a cop. A State Police detective. It's a sting operation to capture you.”

  Mercado rubbed his hand across the stubble on his face. His face felt the way Ricky's voice sounded. Mercado said, “What about the PI's girlfriend?”

  “That's true,” Ricky said. “I figured it wouldn't matter.”

  “Because you assumed I wouldn't come back?” Mercado said.

  Ricky nodded.

  Mercado bent over and unleashed his violent rage on Ricky. He left his cousin's lifeless body crumpled against the wall.

  CHAPTER 39

  Mercado drove to Charlestown and parked his car at the Bunker Hill Mall. He didn't want to tangle with Eddie Garavito, but he may not have a choice. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

  The private investigator was a different matter. While this Patrick guy would be formidable, better to take him on and get it over with. Mercado intended on being the one walking away.

  He'd start by inflicting a large measure of pain and suffering by killing Jessica Casey. Then the two could tangle, mano y mano.

  Mercado walked the mile to Jessica Casey's building. Along the way he passed the USS Constitution Museum. He remembered going on a school field trip there in elementary school.

  He had been so excited when he got home to share what he saw and learned. Neither of his parents cared. His father beat him for leaving the jar of peanut butter on the counter.

  When Mercado reached Jessica's building, he waited. He would wait as long as necessary. Eventually she would come home.

  At six o'clock he saw her approach the building. She wore a stylish business suit. Jessica Casey was tall and very attractive. Drew Patrick was a lucky guy. His luck was about to run out.

  Mercado got up from the bench he had been sitting on and followed Jessica into the building. He stayed at a safe distance in the public lobby. He watched as she got on the elevator. After the doors shut, he took the other elevator by himself to her floor.

  The elevator doors opened on Jessica's floor. Mercado stepped out. He looked up and down the hallway. It was empty. He took a right and headed toward Jessica's unit. When he reached her door he worked the lock and entered.

  CHAPTER 40

  Drew Patrick

  The evening was clear and cool. A perfect night for early November. It would have been a nice night for a walk. Instead, I was sitting in my car parked along Monument Square in Charlestown. At least I had a nice view of the Bunker Hill Monument. Lights cut through the darkness to illuminate the 221-foot granite obelisk.

  Jessica would join me after she changed into her stakeout clothes of jeans and a sweater. She had arranged for us to use the empty townhouse a friend was remodeling on Bunker Hill. The State Police furnished the place with items seized in drug raids. Sanchez was inside as bait, along with the assembled State Police tactical team.

  I was listening to Journey's Don't Stop Believin' on the radio as I drank coffee from a mug and munched on a roast beef sub with provolone cheese, pickles, lettuce, and mustard, on wheat bun. Journey wasn't the same wit
hout Steve Perry, but the lead singer they have now is darn good. Netflix had a documentary on the guy. The band found him on YouTube doing Journey cover songs in the Philippines.

  I finished my sub and took a swig of coffee. I hadn't gotten around to buying a French press coffee maker. I was already losing interest in the idea. There were enough Dunkin' Donuts, Starbucks, and local coffee shops to keep me well caffeinated.

  My cell phone rang. It was Robert Burke.

  “Detective Captain, O My Captain,” I said as I answered.

  “Are you sure we can trust Garavito?” Burke said.

  “Hello to you too,” I said.

  “Whatever,” Burke said. “It makes me uneasy letting a top crime boss in on our plan.”

  “He has just as much incentive to take down Mercado as we do,” I said. “And his guys have eyes on Mercado.”

  “We have the frickin' Massachusetts State Police and Boston division of the FBI at our disposal,” he said, “I'm sure we could have put plenty of eyes on Mercado.”

  I couldn't argue with Burke on that one. All I could say was Garavito wanted to be part of taking Mercado down, and, as much as I hated to admit it, we sort of owed him that. He gave us Mercado.

  Burke still didn't like it. Neither did I. But I was trying to make the best of the situation.

  “That Journey on the radio?” Burke said.

  “Yep,” I said.

  “Steve Perry or the new kid?”

  “Steve Perry. And admit it, you only know about Journey from Glee?”

  “I was never a Gleek,” Burke said.

  “Sounds like you were,” I said.

  “So was Mike Golic from Mike and Mike,” Burke said. “And he played in the NFL.”

  Burke often equated manliness with playing a contact sport. He was old school in many ways.

  “A shame about ending Mike and Mike,” I said.

  “Seemed like there was some drama around it too.”

  “And yet the world keeps spinning.”

  “I'll call you back once any activity starts,” Burke said.

  After Journey, there was a commercial block. Some great end of the year deals on new cars, and jewelry stores telling me Christmas was a perfect time to propose with one of their diamond engagement rings.