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“Nice digs,” I said to Special Agent Mark Sumner as he showed me around the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Boston Division headquarters in Chelsea. The eight story building offered state of the art crime fighting technology. When I had been with the Bureau's Boston Division, we were headquartered at 1 Center Plaza near Boston's Government Center.
“How is it you haven't been here before now?” Mark said. “We've been in this building two years.”
“I've had places to go and people to see,” I said.
“The life of a private investigator,” he said. “The only thing missing is the deerstalker hat and pipe.”
“I actually have them,” I said. “Jessica brought them back as souvenirs from London.”
Mark showed me into his office. It was bright and modern the way newer offices tend to be. He sat behind his desk. I took the seat opposite him.
“How is Jessica?” he said.
“Great as always,” I said.
He shook his head and smiled. “I don't know why she stays with you.”
“I could give you a list,” I said, “but I don't like to brag.”
“Same old Drew,” he said. “Not nearly as much fun around here without you.”
“You probably don't solve nearly as many cases either,” I said leaning back in the chair.
“Actually, I think our success has gone up,” Mark said as he placed his hands behind his head and tilted back. His chair was ergonomic and whisper quiet when it moved. It didn't creak like most chairs in government offices. He continued, “Seriously, though, it's great to see you. It has been way too long.”
“I agree,” I said. “We'll have to catch a Red Sox game next season.”
Mark tipped forward and pointed his right finger at me. “You're on,” he said. “Green Monster seats.”
I pointed back at Mark. “I like the way you think.”
We had always gotten along well. He started as an agent a few years after me. Mark and I had worked several cases together before I left the FBI.
He was three or four years younger than me in his late thirties. Mark was average height and in excellent shape. His face was clean shaven and not a strand of his of close-cropped hair was out of place. I couldn't find a wrinkle on either his dark gray suit or crisp white shirt. An off the rack dark blue tie was neatly in place.
A junior agent rapped on Mark's open office door. Mark and I looked over. “I located those files you requested,” he said.
“Thanks,” Mark said. He leaned forward in his chair. Whisper quiet. “Sandy, this is Drew Patrick. Back in the day, he was a special agent in the office.”
Sandy stepped in and we shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” he said.
“Likewise,” I said.
Mark said, “Sandy here is a new agent fresh out of Quantico. Naturally, they assigned him to the best.”
“And he wasn't available, so they assigned him to you,” I said.
Sandy tried not to laugh, but a small chuckle escaped. Mark looked at him. “Don't you have another case to get started on?”
“Right,” Sandy said. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Patrick.”
I nodded. Sandy turned on his heels and left Mark's office.
“He's a good kid,” Mark said as he stared at his computer screen and typed on his keyboard. “He'll make a good agent.”
“Despite being assigned to you?” I said.
“You do want my help, correct?”
Mark and I smiled at each other. I don't know how we let two years go by without getting together. We'd need to get together sooner than next baseball season.
“Here we go,” Mark said. “The LA Division Headquarters questioned Grant Worthington about the deaths of Ashley Holland, Hannah Parks, and Victoria Clark. He had no information to share. Eventually he admitted to having affairs with all three of them, but denied having anything to do with their deaths. There were no cracks in his alibis, so they had nothing to hold him on.”
“How did the agents in the room read him?” I said.
“That he's a creep and probably guilty of major sexual harassment, but they lean toward believing him about the murders.”
“Somebody hired Mercado for these killings,” I said. “Grant Worthington is still the only plausible connection we have to all three victims.”
“I agree he's the best suspect,” Mark said, “but we need evidence. And it needs to be solid. As you might imagine, he's pretty lawyered up. No offense to Jessica.”
“She's actually a PI now,” I said. “Works for Pinnacle.”
“Swanky,” Mark said. “And yet she still is with you. Go figure.”
I leaned forward. “No matter what angle I come at this from,” I said, “it always leads me back to Mercado. He's not only the killer, but the key to unlocking this whole case.”
“We have nothing on him in the system,” Mark said. “The guy's a ghost. We've never even had enough evidence to pursue a case. Just a rumor here and there. Whispers.”
I nodded. Then I stood and paced the floor of Mark's office as I thought. Then I said, “How do you hire a ghost?”
Mark leaned back in his chair and looked at his ceiling and thought a moment. I understood the move as I often do my best thinking staring at the ceiling in my office. After several more beats, Mark tipped forward and looked at me. I didn't hear a noise out of his chair that time either.
“Well,” he said, “I guess if you have enough money you can find a way to contact a guy like Mercado.”
“Enough money like Grant Worthington,” I said.
“Yeah,” Mark said. “Or somebody equally rich.”
“They'd also need to have the right type of criminal connections, or know someone who does.”
Mark spread his hands apart and said, “Again, if you've got enough money you can find a way to buy those type of connections.”
“And round and round we go,” I said.