“Who was that?” Jennifer yelled from the living room.

        “That was Mikey, from Jarred’s apartment.”

        I took off my T-shirt and put on an undershirt, which I tucked into my jeans.

        “What was it about?”

        I took out a long-sleeve shirt from my closet. It was white with dark blue stripes over light blue crisscrossing lines. Sometimes, I try to find a good reason to wear one of my Saturday night shirts. I guess investigating at a fancy hotel is good enough.

        “He told me he knew where Janis Bridgeport is staying.”

        “Where?”

        “The Omni Parker in downtown.”

        I came back to the living room and put my holster and gun on over my shirt.

        “No kidding,” said Jennifer. “How could they afford a room there?”

        “Mikey thinks Janis is paying with her stepfather’s money.”

        I took out a pair of dark brown dress shoes and put them on. Then I took my leather jacket out of my closet and put it on over my gun.

        “You wanna come with?” I asked Jennifer. “They ain’t winning tonight.”

        “Sure, but what can I do?”

        “Maybe you can use some of that college psychology of yours to get the kid to come back home.”

        “I’ll go get my jacket and boots.”

        Jennifer got up off the couch and went back to her place across the narrow hall. She came back with a black biker leather jacket and knee-high black boots that made her look like the punk she is. And I mean, in a good way.

        “Did you put on eye-liner,” I asked.

        “Just a little,” she said. “So, are we taking your car or mine?”

        “We’re taking your Camry. You’re a better driver than I am. I don’t know if that’s something I should be ashamed of… yet.”

        “If you think the Mustang sticks out, it really doesn’t. I mean it’s not like a four-hundred-thousand dollar Ferrari, Magnum.”

        “I know, but there’s still a chance, you know? People notice Mustangs. They don’t notice Toyotas.”

        “Right, whatever. I still think you’re just paranoid.”

        You’d be paranoid too, if someone shot up your car, I jokingly thought but I didn’t say— I didn’t want to scare her. I wasn’t worried about having my car shot at. I wanted to look as inconspicuous as possible. I was hoping that I looked like a yuppie, or at least semi-yuppie. People like Mayhew wouldn’t think twice about a yuppie following them. Cops in white sneakers and Red Sox jackets, maybe. Perhaps even junkies in oversized gray hoodies and jeans more dirty and baggy than the last generation would’ve accepted as a fashion statement. But not a yuppie.

        I got in the passenger side as Jennifer got behind the wheel. After we got our seatbelts on, Jennifer turned on her radio. She usually kept it on the alternative rock station. Fountains of Wayne were singing their classic cougar hit, “Stacy’s Mom.”

        “I remember this one from when I was like in the 10th or 11th grade,” I said.

        “I was like eleven when I first heard it,” said Jennifer.

        “Yeah?”

        “Yeah.”

        “What was that, fifth grade?”

        “Sixth for me.”

        “You didn’t repeat the third grade then, I guess.”

        “Not everyone does, you know.”

        We pulled out of the housing complex and got on Bennington Street. From there we got on Route 1A and took it south. Jennifer got off at the airport exit. She was taking the Ted Williams.

        “The Sumner could’ve been faster,” I said.

        “The B’s were in the third period and down three points. The Rangers scored a goal when we left.”

        “Good point.”

        So, basically the fans at the Garden were probably already giving up at this point. It was going to be a mess in that part of Downtown. The irony was that some of them thought this was an effective way to beat traffic, by leaving the game while their team lost. It would’ve been a good idea if it hadn’t occurred to just about every other Bruins fan. We paid the toll and entered the spacious tunnel named after famous Red Sox leftfielder and former manager, Ted Williams. After his death his family had a dispute over what was to become of their late father’s remains. He ended up being frozen in cryonics, just like Walt Disney.

The six lanes narrowed down to two like a clotted artery. Thank God there wasn’t any traffic. When we got out of the tunnel, Jennifer got off at Exit 25. We took B Street to Seaport Boulevard, passing by the Seaport Hotel, the World Trade Center and the ICA. The Foo Fighters were just wrapping up a song.

        “You ever been there?” said Jennifer.

        “The World Trade Center?” I asked. “No, never.”

        “No, I mean the ICA. I heard they have some nice exhibits. We should totally check it out sometime.”

        It was a small thing I noticed about Jennifer’s voice when she spoke: she has a slight drawl. It was barely noticeable if you weren’t paying attention to it. But mostly, it’s how she says certain words such as, “like” or “totally.”

        “Yeah,” I said. “Maybe we should.”

        I wasn’t sure if it was something I was going to do. This particular part of South Boston has been developing for years. A lot of the city has been gentrifying over the years. Boston is a city that’s constantly changing. It’s nothing new, but some of these recent changes are worse than the ones I and my mother grew up with. There are rumors of a big corporation moving its headquarters to Boston in the near future. Not sure which one, but it doesn’t really matter to me. Honestly though, what I like about the redevelopment at the South Boston Waterfront was that it was in the process of being built over parking lots and not the old neighborhood.

        “Yeah,” said Jennifer.

        After crossing the river and passing over the Central Artery, we made our way into Downtown. Jimmy Eat World were playing with “Sweetness.” Another song from high school. As Jennifer navigated through the nighttime traffic on one-way streets, we passed by a statue on Kirby Street and a place I either didn’t know about or cared to give a second glance.

        “Mind if I change the station?”

        “You’re the boss,” said Jennifer.

        “I told you before you don’t have to think of me like that,” I said as I changed the radio station. It was a variety station and they were playing U2. “Where The Streets Have No Name.”

        “Then how should I think of you?”

        “How about as an employer? And perhaps even my equal?”

        “How can I be your equal? You carry a gun, you’re a licensed private investigator and you know more about the crooks in this town than average cops. I’m just a boring French-Canadian psych major.”

        “With a SoCal valley-girl accent.”

        “You noticed,” she said making a left on State Street.

        “Barely. What’s up with that?”

        “My stepmom was from California. I always loved her accent, so I guess it kind of grew on me.”

        “Interesting.”

        “How come you don’t have a thick Boston accent?”

        “Probably the same reason you don’t sound like Sarah Palin.”

        “Jerk.” She snorted and smiled as we passed by the Old State House.

        “I guess sometimes I like to hide it. I don’t want people to judge me just from the way I talk. People who talk like that are either actors who try way too hard in Boston movies or they’re criminals.”

        “That’s not true.”

        “I know,” I said. “It’s a stereotype and sometimes I count on it to help me out with my job. But you can’t go on stereotypes alone.”

        “What else do you rely on?”

        “Common sense, my gut, the usual shit us detective types always rely on.”

        We took a right onto Tremont near Government Center, which was coming along nicely. The Omni Parker was down the block and past King’s Chapel, a very old burying ground. Jennifer took a right at School Street. There weren’t any available parking spaces.

        “I’ll circle the block,” Jennifer said.

        “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be in and out. If it turns out that Janis and Mayhew are up there, I’m going to call Tritto to send some of his guys down here. Just in case Mayhew is packin’.”

        “Okay and hey… stay safe, hear?”

        “Will do.”

        I got out of Jennifer’s car. She continued down School Street. I picked the tourists and the Bruins fans out of the groups of people on the street. I also saw hipsters, college students, and even in some cases, high school students. I walked into the lobby of the Omni Parker and made my way to the front desk. The floors were covered with a green carpet with small tan patterns. There were also large rugs the same green as the carpet, lined with maroon and tan designs. The walls were made of good polished wood. Mahogany, I think. The ceiling was partially patterned with mahogany panels as well, with big chandeliers carefully spaced out. The doors at the elevator bank were gold next to the light purple and granite marble front desk. Well-dressed hotel staff were standing behind it, either helping guests or ready to do so.

        I approached a young African-American woman with shoulder length black hair.

        “Hello, sir,” she said smiling. “Welcome to the Omni Parker House. My name is Sheila. How can I help you?”

        “Hi, Sheila,” I said, getting closer so I could whisper. “You see, I’m looking for my little sister and her boyfriend. She and my mother got in a fight, and after asking some of his buddies around, I have a reason to believe that he and her might be staying at his hotel.”

        I took out my phone to show Sheila a picture of Janis I saved from her Facebook page.

        “Have you seen this girl come in here?”

        Sheila looked hesitant. She wanted to say but she didn’t want to violate a policy concerning the guests and their privacy. And who was I, but a frustrated brother, to make her choose my side in a family dilemma over her job.

        “And keep in mind that this young lady is underage,” I added.

        “How underage?”

        “Does that really matter?”

        “Okay,” Sheila said, after a pause. “I’ve seen the girl come with a guy. They paid in cash. If she took any of it from your mom, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

        “Don’t worry, it was nothing like that,” I said. But then I thought of something. “They paid it all in cash?”

        “Yes.”

        A room at the Omni Parker is nearly five-hundred a night. I went through the saved photos on my phone again until I found Mayhew’s mugshot.

        “Was this the guy who checked in with her?”

        “Yes,” said Sheila. She looked puzzled. Probably wondering what I am doing with my sister’s boyfriend’s mugshot on my phone.

        “I keep his mugshot so I won’t forgot what an asshole he is,” I said, to reassure any doubt she might be having. “So, are they in their room right now?”

        “I can have their room called up if you like?”

        “Sure, but can you not tell her it’s her brother? She might try to sneak out or make a scene and I’d like to avoid that if possible.”

        “Sure,” said Sheila. “I’ll ask them if they need anything.”

        Like a five-star accommodating staff, I thought.

        “Sure, that’ll work.”

        Sheila made the call. After a while she put the phone back down.

        “They’re probably out,” she said.

        “That’s okay,” I said as I looked up at the clock built into the wall above the front desk. “I’ll wait. Thank you for your service and God bless.”

        “You’re welcome,” she said with a warm and gracious smile. “Glad to have helped.”

        I walked away and took out my phone again. This time I dialed Tritto’s number.

        “Tritto,” he said. It sounded like he was eating.

        “Mike,” I said. “I got a pretty good lead on that Bridgeport girl. I got a tip she’s at the Omni Parker with Mayhew, and I confirmed it with the staff.”

        “Wait, why didn’t you tell me about this tip before?”

        “Because I only got it about twenty minutes ago and I wanted to confirm it.”

        “Okay, just sit tight and don’t do anything until I get there. You understand?”

        “Loud and clear.”

        I stood at a corner where I would be able to see Janis and Jarred come in. That’s when I remembered The Last Hurrah. It’s a bar that’s on the corner of School and Tremont, tucked away in a corner of the hotel. I went into the bar. The light brown floor had tan and black patterns. There were a few chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and photos displayed on the support beams as well as the ceiling. There were photos of politicians behind the bar, along with a fine selection of wine and spirits. Real high-end stuff. At least for me. Then again this wasn’t my usual watering hole.

I spotted them almost instantly. They were at a table by the window. They looked like they were enjoying themselves. She was smiling, and his head was bobbing up and down. Jarred was probably giggling at something Janis said.

        I sat down at the bar and used the mirror to watch them as they ate and conversed. Too bad I couldn’t hear them over the noise of the patrons. They looked like a happy couple, if an odd one at least. Janis looked like an innocent high school girl on the verge of late adolescence and early adulthood. She looked just like she did in her photos. If I didn’t already know her age, I would’ve pegged her for late teens to early twenties at most. She was dressed in dark blue jeans with brown ankle boots and a white sweater under a cream-colored pea coat. She also had on a grey and white scarf which stood out— it looked like it belonged to Waldo. She had long brown hair, which she probably got from her father. She had her mother’s nose, though, and perhaps her eyes. I couldn’t tell that well from where I was standing. Kid should be at home studying for some stupid test instead of sharing a Salisbury steak with a guy who has seen the inside of a jail cell more times than she’s seen reality shows.

Speaking of which, Mayhew looked like a guy either made for prison or who just got out again. He was wearing Ecko Unltd jeans and a grey hoodie under a black North Face parka. His Timberland boots were just like the rest of his attire— they looked like they were bought right off the rack, and they probably were. He had light brown hair in that short Eastern European style that Donnie Wahlberg used to sport some years back.

“What will it be?” said the bartender.

I said, “Blue Moon.”

My beer came. I nursed my drink as I looked at the mirror to a keep an eye on Janis and Jarred. They got up and were getting ready to leave. He wasn’t that much taller than Janis, and she looked to be around 5’4”. He picked up a backpack and handed it to her.

There was still some beer left in my glass. I tossed a five on the bar and followed the couple out. We were in the hotel lobby when Mayhew took out his cell. A second later, he stopped dead in his tracks. Janis, who was holding his hand, stopped almost instantly.

He looked around the lobby, his head bobbing like a pigeon’s almost. He was alert. Somebody tipped him off. Damn it, Mikey. Goddamn it. Mayhew grabbed Janis by the wrist and they started running out of lobby together. Damn it.

I followed them out onto School Street. They were running away from Tremont towards Washington Street. I chased after them. They ran past Old City Hall and crossed Washington Street. Across the street from the Wallgreen’s and tucked away between Old South Meeting House and a Seven-Eleven is one of the entrances to State Station, a stop on the T’s Orange and Blue lines. The station was built under the Old State House at State Street, hence the name State, but it reaches down to two blocks at least. They ran past commuters going in and out of the station. I was determined to catch them before the doors on the inbound Orange Line train closed. I was so determined that I failed to notice more than one MBTA employee. I also failed to notice the MBTA Police officers who happened to be standing nearby. As soon as I went through the electronic gates, I found myself being forced to the ground over the buzzing sound of the gates triggered by my fare evasion. I watched as the doors closed on the train and it moved on to its next destination.

“Stop resisting, asshole,” said one of the transit cops.

I relaxed my body, but the cops still held me down. I was trying to tell them that I was a licensed private investigator and that I was looking for a missing girl who had just gotten on that train, but I couldn’t. Then I heard Jennifer’s voice. She must’ve found a parking spot and followed me when she saw me chasing Janis and Mayhew.

“Get them off of him,” I heard her say. “He’s a private investigator and he knows a Boston cop.”