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Drew Patrick
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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 Police 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.