Chapter 1

 

The air conditioning in my office hummed as Boston was in the middle of a heatwave which stretched from Virginia to Maine. I was on the couch reading Dan Shaughnessy's column in The Boston Globe. My beagle-mix Dash was curled up on the opposite end of the couch with his head resting on my lower legs. His snoring had a rhythmic quality which nearly lulled me to sleep. Ah, the self-employed life of being an ace private detective.

I resisted a nap to finish the article. Dan's take was that the defending World Series Champion Red Sox wouldn't even make the playoffs this season. Regrettably, I agreed. The New York Yankees had a double-digit lead in the American League East, and the Sox were in third place for a Wild Card spot. Mildly depressed that there seemed little point to baseball so soon after the All-Star break, started me thinking about the opening of Patriots training camp. I glanced at an article on Tom Brady's contract extension, which discussed how it wasn't really a contract extension. It was too much to take in for the day.

I folded the Globe and placed it on my lap. I tipped back my head and allowed Dash's snoring to take over. The room soon grew dark as my eyelids drifted shut.

“Hello. Mr. Patrick.”

A female voice echoed in the distance. There were no visions of my love Jessica Casey, so I realized I wasn't dreaming. I opened my eyes and sat up.

An elegantly dressed woman in her late fifties or early sixties stood at my office door. She was no Jessica Casey, but none could compare.

“Drew Patrick,” I said.

The woman considered my hand a moment. Then she took it and we shook. Her hand felt like a wet noodle.

“Elizabeth Barlow,” she said like it should impress me. Perhaps I should have been and didn't know any better.

“How might I help you, Mrs. Barlow?” I said, optimistic she was bringing a big case my way.

“I am seeking the services of a private detective. Despite not appearing particularly busy, you came highly recommended.”

I never knew what to do with an insult followed by a compliment.

“The bad guys don't like the heat,” I said.

Mrs. Barlow frowned. Perhaps she was reconsidering the value of those recommendations.

“You seem like a charming man, in your own way.”

“I only know one way to be charming.”

I gave Elizabeth Barlow a full wattage smile. She neither swooned nor fanned herself. She sat down in one of the chairs I had in front of my desk for clients. I walked around my desk and sat down in what the office furniture website called the Deluxe Executive Chair. I was ready to impress Elizabeth Barlow as the CEO, President, and all-star detective of Drew Patrick, Private Investigations.

“You certainly have stellar credentials,” Elizabeth Barlow said as she stared at me from across my desk. “I just need to know that I can trust you with a very delicate matter.”

“I give you my word,” I replied sincerely.

“Very well, then. I want you to bring me evidence that my husband is having an affair.”

“What can you tell me about your husband?”

“Besides the fact that he is cheating on me?”

“Are you positive that he is cheating on you, or is that something I need to establish?”

Elizabeth Barlow sighed, then said, “Mr. Patrick are you married?”

“No, Ma'am.”

“Well, let me just say that if you ever do get married, I would hope that you will be a much better husband than my husband has been to me.”

After pausing a moment, she continued, “Yes, I am positive that he is cheating on me. Since the day we married there have been a string of mistresses. I suspect he was unfaithful to me even before our wedding.”

“Okay. I'm sorry. Do you have any idea who the other woman is?”

“No,” she replied.

“Can you provide me some basic information about your husband? His name, where he works, places he goes, the kind of car he drives?”

She answered, “My husband's name is Nevin Barlow.” Then she looked down at her well-manicured hands. I waited. Elizabeth Barlow let out a sigh.

“Mr. Patrick, I am a very private person. Understand that it is extremely difficult just coming to you. I will share what I must, but I prefer to keep as much of my life, and his, as private as possible.” She then looked back up and there was determination and anger in her eyes.

“I have worked long and hard to get the life that I have,” she said. “I will not allow that man to humiliate me. Discretion in this investigation is very important.”

“I understand that Mrs. Barlow, but it would be helpful to have more than just your husband's name.”

I waited for her to decide what she was going to share. I learned a long time ago that you need a lot of patience when you are a detective. It can take time to gather information. Normally it isn't this hard to get information from my own clients; assuming she actually hired me.

After a few moments she said, “He is a partner at Barlow, Hughes, and Waterford. We are members at the Oak Country Club. Nevin plays a round of golf there nearly every morning. He is driven in a black Mercedes.”

“I wrote down the information on a legal pad in front of me.”

Elizabeth Barlow must have been impressed. She asked me my daily rate. I told her. She didn't protest. Frankly, it was probably pocket money for her. “Plus, expenses,” I added.

“Certainly,” she replied without hesitation as she reached into her French boutique purse. She withdrew a checkbook, wrote a check, and handed it to me. “This will cover your first day. You may invoice me for expenses and any additional days required.”

She gathered her purse and stood. I stood and walked around my desk.

“Now, I have answered all that you requested of me. You should have sufficient information to begin your investigation,” she stated rather emphatically.

“Yes, I suppose that is enough for me to get started.”

“Very well, then.”

She removed a piece of note paper and handed it to me.

“Here is my address and phone number,” she said. “I expect you to report back to me as soon as possible.”

“Yes. Thank you. I will be in touch as soon as I know something,” I said, taking the note paper. I could feel that it was a fine parchment. Elizabeth Barlow had the finest of everything. Except, it seemed, in a husband.

“I trust that you will get to work on my case right away.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Yes, Ma'am,” I said. “I have moved you to the front of the line.”