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Drew Patrick
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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.