“My assistant can order in from Abe & Louie’s. The firm will pick up the tab.”
This line of argument gives me pause. I love Abe & Louie’s signature salad, with apples and pistachio nuts. I weigh my options as an ambulance speeds past, siren blaring.
“I can’t accept lunch,” I say. “It’d be considered an unlawful gratuity.”
“I’ve paid for your meals before. You didn’t protest when I took you to L’Espalier.”
His tone is playful, bordering on flirtatious, but I have no interest in revisiting the past. Any kind of relationship with opposing counsel, even a platonic one, is asking for trouble. Besides, I’ve already got my hands full of non-romantic flirtations.
“That was fifteen years ago, before I took an oath of office.”
He’s not ready to concede. “We have free parking.”
Time to shut this down. I fire my best and final shot.
“We can’t validate parking, but we can issue indictments,” I say.
“See you later,” he says.
Josh is stubborn, but not at his client’s expense. I’d rather have won last week’s bail argument than today’s venue debate, but I’ll take my victories when I find them. I call Kevin and let him know the plan.
“What’s the catch?” he says.
“There isn’t one.”
“Everybody’s working an angle.”
“It fits their narrative. His press aide can send out a release, saying that the whole family is continuing to cooperate with the investigation.”
“You bring the coffee,” Kevin says. “I’ll bring the handcuffs.”
I can barely hear him. There’s loud clanging and groaning in the background, like someone is being tortured.
“I don’t even want to know where you are,” I say.
“It’s called a gym. People come here to stay healthy and blow off steam. Google it.”
“For your information, I went to SoulCycle last week.”
This is technically true; I did go there. What I don’t reveal is it was to meet Ty after his spin class, before we ate plates of pasta at Toscano. Kevin knows he doesn’t have the full story.
“If you say so, but you’re going to have get into fighting shape. Campaigns take a lot out of you.”
He’s right; campaigns are strenuous both physically and psychologically. As we talk, I log on to Yoga Plus and sign up for a beginner’s class. Then I check out Lululemon’s website. I’ll need to be properly outfitted; I order $98 yoga pants, a $108 hoodie, and a $78 mat. After we hang up, I rethink the yoga commitment, cancel the class and the mat, but keep the clothes.
A couple of hours later, Kevin comes by.
“There’s a slew of cameras out front of the office,” he says.
“Josh must have tipped them off so they could document his arrival.”
When Josh arrives, I’m not surprised to see he brought his own stenographer to transcribe the meeting. It’s a small power play, a signal he doesn’t trust us and that his clients have deep pockets. He shouldn’t have bothered; I’m well aware of his mistrust; the feeling is mutual, and his Brioni suit is evidence enough of his exorbitant billables.
Senator Thomas Greenough strides in after Josh. He’s about six two, with a shock of gray hair and a killer handshake.
“Abigail Endicott, it’s nice to finally meet you,” he says.
He takes a seat at the head of the table and settles in, as though he’s about to carve the Thanksgiving turkey. I have to assert control or he’ll commandeer the meeting.
“As you know, I’ve been conducting an investigation involving your sons,” I say.
He acts as though he didn’t hear me. “You know, your father was a couple of years ahead of me at Exeter. He was a helluva football player.”
Even though my father never mentioned anything about knowing Greenough, it’s likely they travel in the same circles.
“We’ve been by your son’s fraternity house,” I say.
I want to unsettle him, put him on the defensive, but he keeps talking. “I don’t know if your old man told you, but I dated your aunt Percy, took her to her junior prom at Emma Willard. I was the one who introduced her to your uncle.”
“Which uncle?” I say. “She’s been married six times.”
Josh nods to the stenographer, signaling it’s time to start typing.
“How can we help you today?” Josh says.
I turn to the senator. “In the spirit of cooperation, we’d like your consent to access computer drives and financial records.”
“That’s what subpoenas and search warrants are for. Should I assume that a judge already turned you down?” Josh says.
I try to bluff. “We thought you could expedite the process.”
Josh grins. “Anything else we can do for you, counsel?”
I didn’t really expect him to agree to the request, but we’ve both accomplished our goals. The lines are drawn; I let them know that I’m not backing down, and Josh let me know that he’s going to say one thing and do the opposite. I stand; Kevin and Josh follow. The senator remains seated, shakes his head at the stenographer, who puts away her machine.
“How’s your mother?” he says.
My heart pounds. “Fine, thank you.”
“Alcoholism is a terrible addiction.”
The senator’s strategy has emerged. He’s going to make this personal by threatening to expose and embarrass my family. I have to beat him to the punch. Game on.
Chapter Nineteen
After Rose Driscoll went missing, her parents, Ed and Delia, traveled from Indianapolis to Boston, spending most of the fifteen-hour drive on the phone with me, asking the same heartbreaking question again and again. Could she still be alive? I told them about the search, the police officers and scores of volunteers, and I tried to prepare them for the worst. Still, we all held out hope until the bitter end.
There was reason for optimism. Rose, a junior at BU, was by all accounts both book-smart and street-smart, not one to wander off into dangerous neighborhoods alone. She was last seen leaving the Mugar library; security cameras captured images of her walking out of the building, onto Commonwealth Ave. Other cameras picked her up, entering Pavement and emerging a few minutes later, coffee cup in hand. She was last seen walking in the direction of Kenmore Square. Then she vanished.
There was no evidence of an abduction or robbery. Two days later, her body was discovered, a few miles away, in King’s Chapel Burying Ground. To her parents, Rose is a memory, but I’m just getting to know her.
Ed and Delia returned home, to Indiana, and buried their daughter. That was before Caitlyn went missing, before we thought it might be part of something bigger. Now the Driscolls are back in Boston to collect her belongings. Kevin gives me a ride to Bay State Road, a quiet tree-lined street tucked between chaotic Kenmore Square and the Charles River. I ask him to drop me a few blocks away from Rose’s dorm; the short walk allows me time to shift gears, from aggressive prosecutor to compassionate advocate.
When I arrive at the dorm room, the Driscolls greet me with familiar zombie-like hugs, the same lifeless hugs I get from most of my victims’ families. They’re surrounded by boxes, evidence of Rose’s unfinished life. I take a seat on the single bed, and we talk while they continue their packing; both seem set on autopilot. Delia folds T-shirt after T-shirt, no matter that they’re tattered and stained. Ed removes framed photographs from the wall.
I tread lightly. “How’s your family holding up?”
Delia seals a box of T-shirts and moves her attention to a pile of sweaters.
“Our youngest keeps asking when she can visit Rose. She doesn’t understand what’s happened. I’m not sure I do either.”
“Did you speak with the grief counselor?”
She shakes her head. I know enough not to push; everyone has their own timetable. They continue to work quietly for a few minutes until Delia stops and looks over at me, as though she’d forgotten that I was there.
>
“Do you think it was one of those Greenough boys?” she says.
Ed pries a nail from the wall with his bare fingers.
“That’s what they’re reporting on the news,” he says.
Even if I could tie the Greenoughs to the murders, I wouldn’t be able to reveal it to anyone outside law enforcement. I’m not here to provide details of the investigation. I’m here to give reassurance that I’m invested, and to show I care.
Ed untacks a snapshot from a bulletin board above the desk: Rose, eating a drippy blue Popsicle, dressed in an armadillo costume.
I look around for something to do, some way to help, and begin to sort through a mound of sweatshirts. I smooth, fold, and stack them, handling each one with more care than I give to my most elegant silk blouses. Near the bottom of the pile is a gray hoodie with a bulge in the front pouch. I turn my back to the Driscolls and pull out an uncapped aspirin bottle. Inside, there are about fifty round white pills; one side is branded: OC, the other side is marked: 80. I’ll send the pills to the crime lab for an official chemical analysis, but I don’t need a scientist to tell me what they are: 80 mg OxyContins.
“Did your daughter have any old injuries?” I stuff the pills in my pocket and turn around. “Was she ever treated for pain?”
“Freshman year, she was biking to class, fell, and hurt her shoulder,” Ed says.
Often that’s how a habit starts—treatment for an injury turns into an addiction. I open a drawer, pull out a stack of blue jeans, and feel inside the pockets. Finding nothing, I pile them into a cardboard box. Maybe Rose’s murder was a drug deal gone bad. At this point, every motive is still on the table.
Sounds from other dorm rooms fill the silence. Music, laughter, chatter. Can I borrow your poli sci notes? Are you going to the Delta Tau party? I was like sooo wasted last night.
“What is the other girl’s name?” Ed says. “The one from Wellesley?”
“Caitlyn Walker,” I say.
“Did she and Rosie know each other?” Delia says.
“We haven’t found a connection.”
Delia takes a threadbare sweatshirt, hugs it close to her chest, and inhales, filling her lungs with what remains of her daughter’s scent. I wonder if Caitlyn used drugs, too. I’ll have to look into it.
Ed removes textbooks from a shelf, one by one, and examines the spines: Freeing the Natural Voice, Fundamentals of Abnormal Psychology, Introduction to Logic. Delia pulls a strip of duct tape from the roll, rips it off with her teeth, and seals the last of the boxes. A few minutes pass until the silence is interrupted by a knock. Some of Rose’s hall mates offer to help carry things out to the car.
“We’ve got to get on the road, hon.” Ed rubs Delia’s back in small circles.
As the students load the last group of boxes onto dollies, Delia surveys the room one final time, her eyes stopping at the Keep Calm and Call Your Mom poster on top of one of the piles.
I take a Starbucks bag out of my tote and clear the rasp of sadness from my throat. “You have a long drive ahead of you.”
I hand her the bag, my standard care package, filled with biscotti, fruit, and bottles of water. She thanks me and smiles, using only her mouth; her eyes remain expressionless. I promise to keep them apprised of any developments in the investigation and wave good-bye.
Outside, it’s turned dark and raw, and it’s starting to drizzle. I jaywalk across Commonwealth Ave., passing a lone student; her eyes are glued to her phone, earbuds in. Someone could snatch her off the street before she knew what hit her.
I stand in front of her, blocking her path. She looks at me, more annoyed than startled, and removes one of the buds.
“Be careful,” I say. “You should be aware of your surroundings.”
She rolls her eyes, puts the bud back in her ear, and continues on her way. I’m not surprised. Most college students think they have absolute immunity to danger, whether it’s alcohol poisoning, date rape, or murder.
Thunder rumbles in the distance, and the sky explodes, spewing pellets of icy rain. I fish around the bottom of my tote for the compact umbrella that I keep with me at all times. One thing in Boston that’s less predictable than the murder rate is the weather.
A car hits a pothole and splashes a puddle of dirty water all over me. A gust of wind overtakes my umbrella, flipping it inside out. I try to push it back into place, but the metal stretchers are too mangled. An empty taxi drives toward me, slows, and flashes its lights, but I wave it off and walk the rest of the way home.
Chapter Twenty
The next day, Kevin and I drive to Wellesley College to interview Caitlyn Walker’s roommate, Nadine Franklin. Detectives have taken Nadine’s statement, but we want to meet her, see where Caitlyn lived, and get a sense of what her life was like. Wellesley is about a half-hour drive from BU and couldn’t be more different. BU is urban and coed; Wellesley, suburban and women-only. BU has more than 18,000 undergrads; Wellesley has fewer than 2,500. But the schools share something in common: the shock and grief over the loss of two promising students.
Nadine lived with Caitlyn in a three-story apartment building on the outskirts of campus. We ring the bell and hear a lot of yipping and scratching coming from inside. Nadine opens the door and greets us; behind her are an unidentifiable number of shaggy dogs that are sniffing and snorting and scrambling to get out.
“Stop it, you guys. Chill.” She extends her leg to block their escape.
Once they appear to have calmed down, we slowly step inside. An enormous, furry, something-doodle jumps up excitedly, licks my hand, and shreds my hose.
I let out three sonic sneezes. “I’ve got really bad allergies.”
“They’re rescues,” she says as though her benevolence will bolster my immune system.
The apartment is tiny, and the floor is cluttered with slimy tennis balls, metal water bowls, and dogs, lots of dogs. Milk crates serve as bookshelves, a cable spool substitutes as a coffee table, and low-back beach chairs provide enough seating for three.
Nadine gestures to one of the chairs. “Have a seat.”
Easier said than done, especially in heels and a pencil skirt. I bend backward, grab hold of the rickety aluminum arms, and drop into the webbed seat; it’s so low that my butt touches the floor. Kevin, clearly the brains of the operation, remains standing. I’m tempted to grab his leg and hoist myself back up.
“The dogs and I have been staying with my father in Pittsfield. After Caitlyn was killed, I took the rest of the semester off.” Her hand trembles, and she tears up. “I just came to pick up some of my things.”
“Do you feel like you might be in danger?”
She hesitates, chooses her words. “I don’t know, maybe. I didn’t want to come back here at all, but I needed my stuff.”
I wonder what she’s holding back.
“I understand. You must be pretty shaken up. We were hoping you could give us a sense of what Caitlyn was like as a roommate, as a person.”
“We were really close sophomore and junior years, but this semester we each kind of did our own things.”
“Did you have a falling-out?”
As we talk, I alternate between coughing and sneezing. I have to blow my nose, but my packet of tissues is in my tote, which a German shepherd has dragged to the other side of the room. Kevin reaches in his pocket and hands me a white handkerchief. He’s the only man I know, besides my father and brother, who still carries a cloth handkerchief.
“Caitlyn and I got along fine, but we hardly ever saw each other,” Nadine says.
“Why is that?” Kevin says.
“I work part-time in an animal shelter, so I’m up and out early. Caitlyn didn’t get home until late, and she was usually still asleep when I left in the morning.”
“Do you know where she went at night?” I say.
“All I know is that she wasn’t dressed for the library.”
“You mean like she was going out on the town?” Kevin says.
I
throw him a look. Out on the town?
“More like she was going to a party or something, always in a short skirt, a crop top, that kind of thing.” She pauses, then adds, “She was really pretty.”
A bulldog, gnawing on a red stiletto, rubs up against me. Nadine wrestles the shoe from the dog.
“This was Caitlyn’s shoe.” Her voice cracks. “The dogs miss her, too.”
My eyes itch; my throat constricts. I need to take a break. I clumsily lean forward onto my hands and knees, and Kevin helps me stand. The conversation continues as I head into the bathroom.
I hear Kevin say, “Did Caitlyn have a boyfriend?”
“She didn’t really talk about guys.”
My suite mates at Harvard would have said the same about me. Not because my dating life was a state secret, but because most of my boyfriends in college and law school weren’t worth mentioning; they were overconfident, overcapitalized, and underwhelming, like Josh King.
“Did men ever stop by the apartment?” Kevin says.
Nadine doesn’t respond. He continues to probe.
“Did you ever hear her talk to anyone on the phone?”
“No, not really.”
In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my eyes, then snoop around in the medicine cabinet and open the drawers. Hidden beneath a couple of washcloths is a soap dish with a dozen loose pills. Some are marked GG 258—which is another name for Xanax—and the rest are Oxy. I take the pills and rejoin Kevin and Nadine; this time, I have the good sense to remain vertical.
“Was Caitlyn into drugs?” I say.
“No way.”
I show her the soap dish. She’s not impressed.
“Everyone takes something—Adderall, Ativan, Vyvanse—but I’d know if she was an addict.”
I doubt that. Most users, at least most educated, high-functioning users, can keep their addictions under wraps for years. My brother George being exhibit A.
We thank Nadine and make our way across the five-hundred-plus acre campus, around the golf course, back to the car.
“I’d like to send my daughter to a place like this,” Kevin says.
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