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Drew Patrick
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I looked like I had stepped off the page of a Lands End catalog with my light blue Oxford dress shirt, khaki chinos, and loafers. Jessica assured me the change of clothes would fit perfectly with Pinnacle's casual Friday. My definition of casual was a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, but I had been informed there is such a thing as too casual. At least I didn't have to dust off one of my suits.
The Pinnacle Detective Agency occupied 11,000 square feet of office space on Federal Street in downtown Boston. I rode the Red Line from Harvard Square to South Station. I exited South Station at Summer Street and crossed Summer and Atlantic Avenue. If I hadn't already eaten at Pinnochio's, I would have been tempted to stop at the Bon Me Food Truck. Full of pizza, I resisted.
I passed the Rose Kennedy Greenway Dewey Square. In warmer weather, the green space is occupied with Bostonians enjoying a picnic lunch, reading a book, or munching on fresh produce purchased at the Dewey Square Farmers Market. I crossed over Purchase Street near the Bank of America Financial Center. As I approached High Street I considered taking a right to pick up some chocolates by purveyors of fine chocolate at Au Chocolat for Jessica. She had amazing willpower to not stop by there every day, so I figured she deserved a treat. I’d stop on the way home.
People crowded into the buildings on Federal Street as they returned from lunch to resume high finance and other business dealings. I took my spot in the revolving door and entered the lobby. The beige stone flooring was buffed to a high gloss and large plate glass windows allowed patches of sun to stream in between the buildings which sat opposite on Federal Street. I waited by the bank of elevators surrounded by people in suits staring at the screens on their phones and tapping out text messages.
The elevator doors opened and the phone zombies stepped in without looking up from their glowing screens. I stood in the elevator with my back to the doors as they closed. I faced the crowd to see if anyone would notice. Perhaps it would even promote human interaction.
After a few beats, one woman glanced up at me. I gave her one of my world famous smiles. She returned an uneasy smile and then returned to her text message. Perhaps she was telling the person on the other end of the phone about the crazy guy facing all the other riders in the elevator.
We reached Pinnacle's floor and it appeared the woman was happy to see me turn around and step off the elevator. I turned back toward the elevator and waved. The woman tried not to look, but her eyes shifted upward long enough to see me before the doors closed. I guess I'll never know if she waved back. I doubted she had.
Pinnacle's hallway probably looked like every other hall in the building with the same beige stone floor tiles, modern high-sheen wood panels on the walls, and potted plants spaced evenly on either side of the doors. I entered Pinnacle's reception area and was greeted by a cheery Millennial. I had visited Pinnacle a number of times and the girl was new. She wore a lavender button-down dress shirt with navy blue chinos. We both looked the part for Pinnacle's casual Friday.
“How may I help you?” she said. Bubbly.
“I'm Drew Patrick, here to see Tyrell Evans,” I said as I handed her my business card.
She glanced at my card and then placed it on the reception desk. “Just a moment,” she said. I waited as she picked up the phone on her desk. “Mr. Evans, a Mr. Drew Patrick is here to see you.” She nodded and hung up the phone.
“Just through the door and to your right,” she said to me.
While I knew the way to Tyrell's office, I thanked her. We exchanged casual smiles to go along with the theme of casual Friday.
Tyrell Evans stood outside his office waiting for me as I approached. His six foot four-inch linebacker-sized body filled the door frame. His creased espresso skin and whitening hair revealed his sixty-five years.
Tyrell was the Investigator in Charge for Pinnacle Detective Agency. He had spent thirty years as Special Agent in Charge of the Boston FBI office before joining Pinnacle ten years ago. When Jessica got tired of pushing papers as a lawyer, it was Tyrell who suggested she get her private investigator license and join the agency. She's been a star at Pinnacle ever since.
“Drew, good to see you,” he said as he extended his large hand.
“Always a pleasure,” I said as we shook hands. Tyrell had a familiar firm but welcoming grip.
“Come on in.”
I followed Tyrell into his corner office. He sat behind a large mahogany desk. I sat in one of the Corinthian leather chairs opposite his desk. The windows behind him looked out onto Federal Street.
The office walls were adorned with commendations from various law enforcement agencies, the mayor of Boston, and Governor of Massachusetts. A credenza along the wall to the right displayed family photos. Tyrell had two adult children whom he had raised with one of the sweetest women on the planet. And she bakes one of the best pumpkin pies I've ever tasted.
“How's the family?” I said looking at the photos.
“All doing fine. We just found out we're expecting our third grandchild.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I keep thinking one day you and Jessica will tie the knot and have some kids. But you don't need to answer. I know what you two have works. Just something to ponder.”
Most people in our lives gave us that to contemplate. Jessica and I were more of the mind that if it isn't broken, don't try to fix it. While our relationship was not easily defined by labels, it worked extremely well for both of us.
Tyrell leaned back in his executive leather chair. He looked at me and said, “I understand you've been hired to find Ashley Holland.”
“Yes. What can you tell me?”
“I'll share what we know, but I'm not sure it is likely to help you locate her.”
“I won't be any more in the dark than I am now,” I said.
Tyrell opened a case file on his desk and handed me field reports submitted by investigators working the case.
“As you can see in the report, Ashley Holland is one of several young women Grant Worthington is, shall we say, meeting up with.”
“The movie mogul?” I said.
Tyrell nodded his head and said, “One and the same. He lives in Los Angeles most of the time but has a lovely Brownstone in the Back Bay. He's originally from Boston. I guess he wants to maintain a connection to his roots.”
“So both your Boston and LA offices are on the case?” I said as I scanned the contents of the field reports.
Tyrell nodded his head again. “Yep. Mr. Worthington likes to keep the company of young women on both coasts. We've been retained by his wife, Evelyn, to present evidence of his cheating. She's building a case to file for divorce and take most of the movie empire with her.”
“Not a small chunk of change.”
“No, it is not. The Worthington movie studio is worth billions. Too many high-value franchise films for the average moviegoer to count.”
“I bet Evelyn Worthington has counted every one of them,” I said.
“No doubt,” he said.
I flipped through the pages and Tyrell gave me a few moments to read more of the details.
“Well,” I said, “this is interesting.”
“I figured you would think so,” he said.
Ashley Holland, and the other Boston women, all worked for an executive escort service. The Hollands hadn't mentioned that to me. Also a good chance they didn't know.
“It's a legitimate service for executives who want an attractive and intelligent woman to accompany them to dinner and social functions,” Tyrell said. “But that is not to say some hanky-panky doesn't happen off the books.”
“Hanky-panky?” I said. “I didn't realize that was still part of the vernacular.”
“I'm old,” Tyrell said.
“Age is merely a number,” I said. “I bet you are still one of the fittest investigators in this office.”
Tyrell smiled and said, “I can still hold my own.”
“What I don't get is why Grant Worthington would be so public about being seen with these women?” I said.
“The story he tells Mrs. Worthington is that they are up-and-coming actresses he is considering for movie and TV projects.”
“Okay,” I said, “do we imagine Ashley was involved in, as you put it, off the books hanky-panky?”
“Oh yes,” Tyrell said. “We have some photographic evidence, but I'll trust you don't need to see those.”
“I'm pretty sure I can piece together what went on.”
“Amazing how people don't shut the blinds,” Tyrell said.
“Makes taking pictures with telephoto lenses that much easier,” I said.
“Most definitely. Although to be fair, our agents got the pictures at a rather isolated lake house in Maine. They probably had no reason to believe anyone else was around to see them.”
“Ashley's parents mentioned she went on a trip to a lake house up north. They didn't have any other details.”
“That was earlier in the week,” Tyrell said.
“Monday night,” I said reading from the report. “Ashley has been missing since some time after that.”
“Ashley and Grant arrived in separate cars and left in separate cars,” Tyrell said. “Our guy trailed Grant all the way back to his home in Back Bay Wednesday morning. We didn't have anybody on Ashley.”
“No reason to,” I said. “You're investigating Grant having affairs. The time the women spend with him is all that matters for your case.”
“I wish we could give you more to go on, Drew.”
“I know a little more now then when I came in, so I'll take it as a win.”
“You always were a glass half full guy.”
“It helps keep me sane in this crazy business.”
Tyrell and I said goodbye and he promised to find an evening where Jessica and I would go to his house for dinner. He hinted his wife might bake her famous pumpkin pie. I'd go without the pie, but it certainly didn't hurt in sealing the deal.
I made my way to the lobby and through the revolving door out toward Federal Street. My feet took me along High Street to Au Chocolat. I bought Jessica a box of truffles.