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The three goons pushed me out and I watched the tail lights of the Escalade fade into the distance as they drove away on Terry Ring Road. Before they drove off I made a mental note of the license plate. I'd have it run in the morning.
I didn't doubt the threat was real. But it was a warning shot across the bow. I figured I might get another before they tried to kill me.
I cut through Naval Shipyard Park back to my car on 8th Street. My second attempt to get in my car to go home proved successful. I wasn’t accosted by big goons. I wasn't shoved into an SUV at gunpoint. It was progress.
My drive back to Cambridge was uneventful. Rather than going home, I drove down Berkeley Street. I stopped in front of my grandparents' old house. I still wasn't comfortable referring to it as my house. Even though, legally, it was. My grandmother left the house to me in her will. It had been my grandparents’ wish for me to live in it one day.
I sat in my car for a few minutes. Sports radio was already talking about what to expect from the Red Sox next season. I was still basking in the recent World Series championship.
I turned off the radio when they started looking ahead to the upcoming Patriots game. It was a replay from analysis earlier in the day. I already knew Gronk would be back from a recent injury and Tom Brady would play like Tom Brady.
A couple strolled past walking their dog. A black Labor-doodle with a pink bow on her head. Dash would never go for such humiliation.
I got out of my car and walked to the front door. The house was a lovely mid-nineteenth century Colonial. They had kept it in great condition for all the years they lived in it. My dad and his siblings grew up in the house. Many holidays were spent gathered around the dining room table.
I dug out the keys and unlocked the front door. I stepped inside and turned on the light. The house was empty. Most of their personal belongings had been bequeathed to family members. The rest donated to charity.
My parents and Jessica had been encouraging me to do some renovations and move into the house. The last time the kitchen and baths had been updated Carter was president. I wasn't ready yet. Part of me feared changing the house as it had been my entire life. So many memories of big Irish family gatherings.
I wondered about the Hollands family gatherings. I wasn't sure Ashley had a similar family experience to mine. Maybe she could have done things differently if she had a family of her own. She'd never get the chance.
What about Hannah Parks? I had no information about her personal life. Whatever life she had, like Ashley's, had been tragically cut short.
It was for those reasons I wouldn't stop investigating their deaths. They had families. People who loved them. Imperfect as that love may have been the Hollands and Parks families deserved answers. They deserved closure. They deserved justice.
Any family would deserve the same. If anything were to happen to me, I'd want it for my family. As I walked into the dining room I thought again about my family.
My great, great grandparents, on both sides, immigrated to the United States from Ireland. Family folklore says they were acquainted back in Ireland.
I crossed the hall and stood in the middle of the living room and remembered all the Christmas stockings hanging from the mantle above the fireplace. My grandparents insisted on having stockings for all of us, even though we had ones in our own homes. My grandfather was a History professor at Harvard. My dad followed in his footsteps. The matriarch of the Patrick household was my grandmother.
My cell phone rang. It was my mother. My father and mother recently retired as professors at Harvard. They had met in graduate school and married soon after they joined the Harvard faculty.
“Hi, Mom,” I said.
“Where are you?” she said.
“I'm at the house.”
“Hopefully making plans for renovations.”
“Not quite. How's Dash?” I wanted to change the topic of house renovations.
“He's fine. Sleeping on the couch next to your father.”
“Can he stay with you tonight? I need to go into Boston early for the case I am working on.”
“I hope nothing dangerous,” she said.
“No. Nothing like that.”
I didn't think sharing my encounter in Charlestown would be helpful. My parents worried enough about my profession. I never shared the dangerous cases, but they suspected.
“Well, okay,” she said. “And of course Dash can stay over. Our grand dog is always welcome. We love having him here. He misses you, though.”
“It's good for him. Helps with the separation anxiety. I'll pick him up tomorrow afternoon.”
“Whenever is fine.”
“Goodnight,” I said. “Love you.”
“Love you, too, sweetie.”
Conversations with my mother would probably ruin some of my street cred, but I wasn't all tough PI. I walked through the rest of the downstairs and went back outside. I closed the door and locked it.
As I walked back to my car my phone rang again. “Unknown number” appeared on the screen. In my business, I get a lot of those. I answered.
“Drew Patrick,” I said.
“How are things on Berkeley Street.”
I recognized the voice of Crooked Nose on the other end of the phone. Not as distinct as Sandpaper Voice, but recognizable enough.
I looked up and down the street. I didn't see the Escalade. But I was sure they hadn't trailed me. That they knew so much about the case, and where I was, could be a cause for concern.
“What do you want?” I said.
“Just a friendly reminder of our conversation,” he said. “In case you get any stupid ideas about continuing with your investigation.”
“I don't scare easily.”
“So I've heard. That's the reason for the call. I'd hate to see anything happen to you. You sort of amuse me.” He paused a beat. “Like I said, just a friendly reminder.”
The call ended. I put my phone in my pocket and ran my hand along the underside of my car's rear bumper. That's where I found the GPS tracking device. I dropped the device on the ground and crushed it under my shoe.