“You okay there?” Kevin says.
“Let me know when you reach her parents and make the notification.”
I start the ignition, switch the phone to hands-free.
“What’s our move?” His voice fills the car.
“I’ll e-mail you a target letter,” I say. “Let’s invite Tommy Greenough to testify before the grand jury.”
“Bold move. Did you run it by Max?”
“He’s got a lot on his plate. Besides, Max won’t be calling the shots much longer.”
“Sounds like he’s not calling them now.”
Chapter Eight
My parents live in Louisburg Square, on the south slope of Beacon Hill, a couple of doors from where Louisa May Alcott lived and died. It’s in the heart of Boston, but feels like a small, self-contained village. The local shops sell everything from tutti-frutti tarts and organic ostrich meat to seersucker doggie outfits and gold leaf andirons. There’s hardly a reason to ever venture beyond Charles Street.
Ty and I walk past the liquor store, or packie, as it’s called in Boston.
“I feel weird showing up at your folks’ place empty-handed,” he says.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I should stop in and pick up a bottle of wine.”
“My parents are very particular about their alcohol. Whatever you buy will be regifted to the postman or newspaper delivery guy.”
We make our ascent up Mount Vernon Street and turn left onto the Square, which hosts Boston’s only remaining private park—a plot of green, surrounded by a wrought iron fence, accessible only by key. Tomorrow is my favorite holiday, Halloween, and the perimeter of the park is decorated for the occasion, outlined by dozens of candlelit jack-o’-lanterns.
A boy, about six years old, wearing a vampire cape, races by, his nanny in tow. He’s shouting, jumping up and down, rehearsing his shtick.
“Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat.”
Ty notices me staring. “Do you know that kid?” he says.
“That was George’s favorite mantra,” I say. “No matter the season or the holiday, he would belt out the words, over and over, until our nanny caved and gave him a handful of M&M’s.”
As a child, my younger brother, George, had an insatiable appetite for chocolate. As an adult, it was drugs. He died of an overdose eight years ago.
Ty puts his arm around me, pulls me close. “I wish I’d met him,” he says.
“George got so jazzed about Halloween. It was practically a national holiday in our house.”
“Let me guess. You dressed up as Sherlock Holmes.”
I shake my head. “Most years, I’d go as a skeleton, Charlie would be a sheriff, and George would be a ghost.” I picture George, with a sheet draped over him. “His life still haunts me,” I say.
“You mean his death?” Ty says.
“No, I mean his life.”
We stop at my parents’ doorstep, Ty smiles, gives me a kiss, and raps the heavy brass door knocker. I press the bell; like many of my parents’ possessions, the door knocker is just for show.
Serena, my parents’ live-in housekeeper, greets us in the foyer. She’s been with the family since I was a child, and she’s protective. When I introduce her to Ty, she gives him the once-over. Her disapproving eyes stop at his scuffed-up cowboy boots. I hook my arm into his and give her a tight-lipped smile, signaling: Keep your comments to yourself.
“Something smells amazing,” Ty says.
“Claude is making Dover sole.” Serena takes my Burberry trench, inspects the lining, and clucks her tongue. “There’s a tear in the sleeve. Leave it. I’ll have it fixed.”
I consider putting up a protest, but the coat could use mending.
“Is everyone upstairs?” I say.
“The men are in the library. Missy is with your mother, in her dressing room.”
I lead Ty up the staircase to the second floor, where my father is mixing a batch of martinis in a monogrammed cocktail shaker. They greet me with warm hugs and Ty with welcoming handshakes.
“I see you more on TV than in person,” Charlie says.
He doesn’t mean it as a dig. He and I are close; he’s always considered his role as oldest sibling as a serious responsibility. When we were kids, he taught me how to pop a wheelie on my Schwinn, and how to negotiate a successful Pokémon card trade. As an adult, he tries to guide my career decisions, and he views my current position as his own failure.
My father hands me a glass of Pinot and offers a martini to Ty, who accepts. I’ve never seen Ty drink anything other than beer and an occasional glass of wine. He’s making an effort to fit in, and I love him for it. Never having visited my childhood home before, he scans the room: the hundreds of books, mostly collectibles; and the artwork, mostly early nineteenth-century oils.
He stands in front of a portrait. “Is this a Sargent?” he says. “An original?”
Normally, it’d be tacky to ask about authenticity, and by inference, value, but Ty’s unapologetic enthusiasm make the inquiry charming.
Charlie seems to agree. “Good eye,” he says.
Initially, Charlie was opposed to my relationship with Ty, but after the shooting, his position shifted. He finally stopped trying to fix me up with his colleagues and former classmates.
Ty admires the painting. “The subject looks a lot like Abby,” he says.
“It’s Abigail’s great-grandmother, on her father’s side,” my mother says, sweeping into the room.
Her glossy hair is in a blond bob, and she’s wearing a cream-colored silk suit.
She walks toward the bar and stumbles slightly. My sister-in-law, Missy, is right behind her, in a smart navy A-line dress. Missy grabs my mother’s elbow to steady her, throws Charlie a look: Do something.
“Have a seat, Mom, I’ll get you a drink,” Charlie says.
Charlie and my father don’t seem concerned about my mother’s increasing alcohol consumption. My mother has always enjoyed her cocktails; as teenagers, we used to joke that her best friends were Brandy Alexander and Dom Pérignon, but it’s no longer funny. Her drinking became worse after George’s death, and I worry that my own near-death experience is the cause of her recent spiral.
“Abigail, you look wonderful,” my mother says, “but I think it’s time to retire that blouse.”
She never misses the opportunity to critique my wardrobe, even when she’s three sheets to the wind.
Missy gives me a kiss. “I think you look fabulous, as always,” she says.
I gotta give Missy credit; six months into the marriage, and she’s already defying my mother.
My mother sinks into the sofa, and my brother hands her a cocktail. Serena enters the room, escorting our dinner guests, a man in his late sixties and an attractive woman in her early forties—definitely not a first wife. My father gives him a hearty backslap and makes the introductions.
“Larry is the managing partner at Norton and Standish. And this is his wife, Suzanne.”
“Abigail, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Larry says. “Your father tells me you’re looking to make a career change.”
I turn to my father, then to Charlie, but they’re smiling, encouraging me. When my parents cut off my trust fund disbursements, I thought they’d end their crusade to get me out of the DA’s office, but apparently they’re still trying.
“We’re always looking for new talent,” Larry says. “Give my office a call, and we’ll set something up.”
I smile politely. My parents are famous for their “accidentally on purpose” encounters; I should have predicted we were invited here for more than a simple dinner. They mean well; I don’t plan to leave the DA’s office, but if I did, I’d sooner join the French Foreign Legion than a corporate law firm.
Ty nudges me. “Babe, I think you’re vibrating,” he says.
My cell phone is buzzing. I pull it out of my pocket, check the caller ID.
“I’ve got to take it,” I
say.
I walk into the living room, past a shelf of family pictures: Charlie and Missy, in swimsuits, on the beach in Saint Barths. George, in a jacket and tie, at his boarding school in Switzerland. Me, dressed as Lady Macbeth for my seventh-grade class play at Winsor. What’s done cannot be undone.
“Hi, Kevin,” I say. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to let you know, our vic’s mother is flying to Logan in the morning. She’s coming to pick up the body,” Kevin says.
I accidentally bang my elbow on the piano, igniting a pitch-perfect C-sharp. “Has she been autopsied?” I say.
“Yup—I just got off the horn with the doc.”
“What’s the COD? Strangulation?”
“Get this: she drowned. There was water in her lungs.”
I look out the window at Louisburg Square; the candles on a couple of the jack-o’-lanterns have been extinguished by the wind.
“Was it fresh or salt water?” I say.
“Fresh, probably tap. Looks like she was killed in a bathtub,” he says.
“Did you serve Tommy Greenough with the subpoena?”
“I handed it to him an hour ago.”
I peek into the library, survey the scene. Suzanne is sucking up to my mother, asking for help getting on the symphony’s board of trustees, while my mother polishes off her martini, pretending to care. My father, my brother, and Larry are yammering on about mergers and acquisitions. Ty is thumbing through a book of Turner landscapes.
“Swing by and get me,” I say. “We can prep for grand jury.”
“It’s Saturday night,” Kevin says.
I catch Ty’s eye, look toward the door: Want to get out of here? He raises his eyebrows and smiles. He’d love an excuse to cut out. My father will be disappointed, but he has guests to entertain. My mother won’t care. I’ve made an appearance, and to her, that’s what matters.
“I’m getting paid overtime,” Kevin says. “You should enjoy whatever you’re doing and jump back in on Monday.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I don’t have anything important going on.”
Chapter Nine
Suffolk County grand juries are made up of twenty-three citizens, but it only takes sixteen votes to secure an indictment. Today’s panel is well into their second month of hearing cases, at a rate of about seven felonies a day. They get a steady diet of stabbings, shootings, robberies, rapes, and murders. While the witnesses testify, the jurors sit in worn leather chairs listening, reading the newspaper, snacking, and doing the sudoku.
I walk into the grand jury room and flip on the recording device.
“I’m opening a John Doe investigation into the facts and circumstances surrounding the death of Caitlyn Walker, whose body was discovered in Public Alley 257 in East Boston.”
A juror seated in the back row, a graphic designer from Hyde Park, unwraps a fresh batch of coconut brownies and takes one for herself. She offers the plate to her seatmate, a retired postal worker, who takes two and passes them on.
“I read about this case in the Herald,” the postal worker says in between bites. “This is about that girl from Wellesley College.”
A few jurors start to stir and whisper to each other. I turn off the recorder.
“You’re allowed to consider outside sources,” I say, “but please wait to hear the evidence as it unfolds.”
A very pregnant fortysomething ignores my reprimand.
“Is this case connected to that other girl who got killed, the one from BU?” she says.
Before the panel makes up their minds and issues indictments, I’d better put in some evidence. I turn the recorder back on.
“I’m going to call my first witness: Thomas Greenough Jr.”
The room quiets. A man in the first row sets his knitting aside. The postal worker sits up straight in his chair and brushes crumbs off the front of his sweatshirt. A few members of the panel take out their notebooks.
Tommy Greenough enters the room, followed by his lawyer. I’m not surprised he’s represented by counsel. It’s someone I recognize, but wasn’t expecting: Josh King, a former law school classmate. Josh and I were on law review together. We dated for a few months, but he found me avoidant and elusive, and I thought he was a crashing bore. Smart move by the Greenoughs, choosing someone who is equal parts competent and annoying.
I raise my right hand, signaling Tommy, who mimics the gesture.
“Do you solemnly swear the testimony you will give in this hearing will be the truth?” I say.
He sits back and says something unintelligible.
“Please keep your voice up,” I say. “The microphone records, but it doesn’t amplify.”
Josh whispers to him. Tommy nods and then speaks loud enough for all to hear.
“I swear to tell the truth,” he says.
“Do you understand you have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be used against you?”
Tommy looks at Josh, who urges him on. “Yes,” Tommy says, “I want to testify. I’m here to help.”
After the preliminary warnings, admonitions, and introductions, I hold up a picture from the Crazy Fox security tape.
“I’m showing you what has previously been marked as grand jury exhibit one. Do you recognize the two people depicted in the photograph?”
“Yes and no,” he says.
“Please explain.”
“The man, that’s me.”
“And the woman?”
Tommy picks up the water pitcher, fills his cup, and takes a series of small sips.
“I can’t say for sure,” he says.
“Can’t or won’t?” I say.
He pours another cup of water, downs it in one gulp.
“I’m unable to identify her,” he says.
“Your hand is touching her back,” I say.
“That doesn’t mean I know her. Women approach me a lot.”
Josh puts his hand on Tommy’s arm, hoping to shut him up.
“You didn’t leave the Crazy Fox with this woman?” I say.
Tommy raises his voice and rolls his eyes. “Obviously, we both left at the same time,” he says.
“Where did you go after you left the bar?”
“Where did I go?”
Josh stands and says, “Even though my client would like to respond, I am advising him to assert his Fifth Amendment right and decline to testify further.”
Josh would never walk his client into a murder indictment, but I had hoped to get a little more out of Tommy. Now that he’s invoked, I can’t ask any more questions unless I offer him immunity, and that’s not going to happen.
I shuffle some papers, try to gather my thoughts.
“You are excused, Mr. Greenough,” I say.
The panel seems disappointed when I tell them that’s the only witness for today. Outside the grand jury room, Kevin is seated on a bench, waiting for me. We walk to the elevator in silence and get on an empty car.
“You think we jumped the gun by calling him to testify so soon?” Kevin says.
“No, I was able to lock him into a story. The minute we prove he knew Caitlyn, talked to her, bought her a drink, or anything else, he’s screwed,” I say.
“Why do you think he was so eager to come in and testify?”
“Usually, I’d think it was a ploy to try to get immunity, but Josh knows I’d never fall for that. There’s gotta be another reason.”
We get off the elevator. The lobby is buzzing with lawyers and defendants.
“We need to find where Tommy went after he left the bar,” Kevin says.
“There was no one else on the tape with him,” I say.
“Maybe we’re going at it the wrong way. Let’s see if we can figure out who went into the bar with him.”
Outside the courthouse, there’s a full-blown press conference going on. Tommy and Josh are surrounded by cameras and microphones.
“Who put the word out?” Kevin says.
I survey the crowd, point
to a woman who is positioned behind a layer of reporters. She’s petite, in the middle of the pack, but you can’t miss her in her trademark peacock-blue suit.
“That woman is Sally Springer,” I say. “She runs the biggest crisis communications firm in town. She was probably up all night, scripting every syllable of Tommy’s testimony.”
“The best defense starts with a good presser,” Kevin says.
We listen to Josh play fast and loose with the truth. “My client extends his deepest sympathy to the Walker family and will do whatever he can to help bring her killer to justice. We have cooperated fully with investigators. Unfortunately we don’t have much information to offer.”
Josh knows I can’t refute anything he’s saying; prosecutors aren’t allowed to talk about what went on inside the grand jury room, not even to correct a lie. That’s why they came to the grand jury—so they could claim they’re helping, even though they’re not. Clever move.
Reporters shout out questions. “Tommy, what were you doing at that bar?” “Who were you with?”
Josh puts his hands up, gestures dramatically. “Tommy was enjoying a glass of beer. We’ve supplied the grand jury with all relevant information.”
“Tommy, isn’t there anything you want to say?” a reporter says.
Tommy crosses his arms, looks at the pavement. “Yes, of course,” he says, even though his body language screams no. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”
“What about the other girl, Rose Driscoll? Did you know her?” Carl Ostroff says.
Sally Springer steps in. “That’s all. Thanks, everyone. The police have asked us to limit our access to the press, to allow them to do what they do best—solve this horrific crime. This is the only public comment we’ll be making.”
When the Greenough posse is done misleading the media, a couple of reporters notice me and smell blood.
“Abby, do you want to comment?” Carl Ostroff says.
I break through the mass of microphones and cameras, walk away.
Carl stays on my heels. “Off the record?”
Kevin and I ignore him, cut across the plaza, and descend the steep stairs. I check my text messages, skipping past most of them. An unfamiliar number catches my eye. Feeling like an impromptu lunch? Meet me at the Four Seasons. Chip Aldridge. I should say no. My life is complicated enough. Besides, things are going better than ever with Ty. There’s no sane reason to mess with that. I text Chip back. Sure. See you in fifteen minutes.
The Graves Page 4