The Graves

by Pamela Wechsler

  “Today is my meeting with the governor’s office,” I say. “Do you think this shirt looks okay?”

  “You look great,” he says.

  “You don’t think it’s too much?”

  “Too much what?”

  “Too flashy, too expensive looking.”

  “Babe, it’s a white shirt.”

  “Actually, it’s cream, and it’s silk. Maybe I should wear cotton.”

  I pull a dozen outfits from my closet, finding fault in each. The dress is too dressy. The suit is too suity. The skirt is too sexy. I decide to stick with the cream blouse and black skirt suit. It’s hard to go wrong with Armani.

  It’s impossible to find parking near the statehouse. Even the illegal spots are occupied. It’s about a mile and a half from my apartment, so I decide to walk. On the way, I get a call from Kevin.

  “Do you have time to take a trip to the ME’s office?” he says.

  “I have something personal to do this morning, then I’m all yours.”

  I don’t reveal where I’m going. Telling Kevin about my interview ahead of time will just add to the pressure.

  “Relax,” he says. “You’ll do great.”

  “How do you know where I’m going?”

  “I don’t sell shoes for a living.”

  I decide to stop at the Starbucks on the corner of Beacon and Charles Streets for one more jolt of coffee. At the counter, I place my order and, as I’m putting my wallet back in my tote, hear the sound of Chip Aldridge’s deep, confident voice. I shouldn’t be surprised to run into him here; it’s the midway point between his apartment and the hospital.

  He’s behind me, in line. “A double espresso, please.”

  My heart beats a little faster, and it’s not from caffeine. I turn to say hello.

  He does a double take. “Hey, I’ve been thinking about you.”

  He pays for his order, accepts change from the cashier, and drops two dollars in the tip jar. When he smiles, a surge of warmth rushes though my body. It’s undeniable; there’s a crackle of chemistry between us.

  “I have a meeting up the street at the statehouse,” I say as though I have to explain my presence.

  We move to the pickup counter.

  “How’s the murder business?” he says.

  “Booming,” I say, “unfortunately.”

  There’s a loose eyelash on his upper cheek; without thinking, I press my index finger to his face and hold it out for him to see.

  “Make a wish.”

  He exhales a stream of air on my finger, catching the lash and sweeping it away. I find myself making a wish, too. One kiss. Just one—to see how it feels, to get it out of my system.

  A voice calls out. “Abby? Is there an Abby here? Grande soy latte for Abby?”

  Chip touches my arm. I look down at his hand, and he points at the barista. “They’re calling your name.”

  I take the coffee, say good-bye, and flee so quickly that I forget to snag a couple of sugar packets. This is bad. I cheated on Ty once, and when I confessed, he broke up with me. It was painful, and it’s taken a while to repair the damage. Yet here I am, flirting with the idea of doing it again.

  When I arrive at the governor’s office, the legal counsel’s receptionist tells me they’re running behind schedule. I take a seat in the reception area, out of sight from the doorway. I’d rather not be noticed by the reporters and gossipy statehouse hacks as they pass by.

  After about twenty minutes, the door to the conference room swings opens, and I’m surprised by who pops out: Cassandra. She smiles as though expecting to see me, and I try to do the same.

  “They’re so nice,” she says. “You’ll love them.”

  “Them? I thought it was just a meeting with one person.”

  “There’s three. Oh, I have to tell you—it was so funny, turns out the chair of the search committee is best friends with my aunt. It’s such a small world.”

  I know I shouldn’t be nervous; both my connections and my capabilities trump Cassandra’s.

  She points to my mouth and makes a circle. “Your lipstick is smudged.”

  I look around for a ladies’ room so I can do a quick makeup check, but the receptionist calls my name.

  “They’re ready for you.”

  I rub my index finger across my teeth, try not to smile, and hope that there’s not a streak of lip gloss covering my front teeth. Cassandra was probably just messing with my head.

  In the conference room, there are six, not three, people. I’m introduced to them quickly, and I try to commit their names to memory by focusing on something about them that will stick in my mind. I shake hands, wondering if they’re looking at my enchanting smile or my smeared lipstick, and take a seat at the head of the shiny mahogany table.

  Lennie Potter, a man with a polka-dot pocket square, speaks first. “Your qualifications as a litigator and a manager are impressive.”

  Potter: polka dots. “Thank you, Mr. Potter,” I say.

  Jenna Overmeyer, a woman with an underbite, speaks next. “We’re concerned about your electability. We want to appoint someone who can win the election next November.”

  Overmeyer: underbite. I try to stay on message. “I understand your concerns, but I have significant fund-raising commitments and I’ve worked on numerous campaigns, including both Max’s and his predecessor’s.”

  “The Back Bay and Beacon Hill don’t carry enough votes to get you elected county-wide,” says a man whose name I’ve already forgotten. “Our concern is Roxbury, West Roxbury and Hyde Park.”

  I hold my ground. “I’ve been working in the neighborhoods for a decade. I’ve been a fixture in the district courts, neighborhood-watch meetings, and churches. I have a strong base of support.”

  That seems to placate the group, albeit slightly. They pepper me with a series of policy questions about mandatory minimum sentencing, three strikes, and the death penalty. I’m against all of them, but the committee doesn’t really seem to care. They’re itching to get to the next subject.

  Polka Dot takes the lead. “We understand you have a case involving Senator Greenough’s son.”

  I don’t tell him that the case now involves the senator himself. “I’m sure you appreciate that I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”

  Underbite pipes in. “I’m sure you appreciate that he’s a very powerful and influential player.”

  I lean forward for emphasis. “I didn’t choose this case. I’m just following the evidence. I have to go where it takes me.”

  Forgot-her-name smiles. “If you throw a punch at Senator Greenough, it’d better be a knockout.”

  An assistant taps on the door and sticks in her head; she reports that the meeting has run over and it’s time to move on to the next candidate. I stand, shake hands, and thank everyone for considering me.

  Polka Dot walks me to the door. “We’ve also learned that your fiancé has a criminal record. This could have significant impact on your candidacy.”

  Fiancé? Cassandra must have told them that Ty and I are engaged in order to heighten their concerns and rattle me.

  “Tyson, my boyfriend, is a good man who made a mistake. He’s accepted responsibility and moved on with his life. Isn’t that what a DA asks others to do? Rehabilitation is a cornerstone of the criminal justice system.”

  “That’s true, at least in theory.” He stands in the entryway, nods, and smiles at a passerby. “The governor is looking to appoint someone who will win come election time. He’s not looking to ally himself with a loser.”

  “I don’t plan to lose,” I say.

  He starts to speak, hesitates. “Look,” he says, “if you really want to be the district attorney for Suffolk County, then you should rid yourself of any encumbrances.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  My next meeting is at the medical examiner’s office, but I have time to kill. I could walk back to Bulfinch, but I’d rather not. Cassandra is probably roaming the hallways, bragging about
her interview with the governor’s counsel, telling everyone that she saw me in the waiting room. I don’t want to subject myself to an interrogation. The past few weeks have been stressful, both inside and outside the office—the investigation, the victims’ families, my family, the election. I need to decompress.

  Saks Fifth Avenue is my Prozac. Some people visit therapists or go to the gym; I head to Saks. It’s a family tradition, and it starts early. When I was in seventh grade, nervous about a Latin test or the school play, my mother knew exactly what to do. She’d phone my father’s driver, tell him to let me off in front of the Prudential Center, and I’d go to the Endicott version of the Happiest Place on Earth: Saks.

  The store was mesmerizing back when I was thirteen, and it holds the same appeal today. The piercing glare of the artificial lights, the impenetrable clouds of perfume spritzes, the cacophony of sales associates.

  I Uber over, promising myself I’ll just look around, visit with my old friends Stella McCartney and Carolina Herrera. I don’t need anything, which is fortunate because I can’t afford anything.

  Before I’m halfway up the staircase to the second floor, a couple of sales associates see me and light up. The two women practically trip over each other.

  I try to lower expectations. “I’m just looking.”

  They back off a little, but they’ve both waited on me dozens of times, and they’re not dissuaded.

  “Abigail, it’s been a while! Is everything okay?”

  “We just got in a new shipment of suits.”

  People in here know me by sight, name, and vice. Favorite designer: Prada. Most flattering makeup foundation: Laura Mercier. Shoe size: seven and a half. Dress size: six, except when I’m on trial, when it drops to four.

  “There’s an aubergine Loro Piana cashmere sweater. It’ll look fabulous on you,” one of the women says.

  “It sounds divine.” And expensive. “But I’m really just browsing.”

  Her face drops in disappointment. “Let me know if I can help.”

  In the shoe department, I’m practically assaulted by a salesman, touting a spectacular pair of Pierre Hardy boots. My willpower is waning. I think about the pile of unpaid bills and final notices in my apartment. I have to get out of here.

  I take the escalator down, and on my way to the exit, I pass the men’s department. Ty turned thirty-six a couple of weeks ago. We celebrated with dinner at the Beehive, a neighborhood restaurant in the South End that offers his favorites: oysters, Red Betty IPA, and live jazz. We had a fun night, but he deserves more.

  I scan the display cases, filled with sunglasses and wallets, and peruse the shelves, stacked with blue jeans and messenger bags. I sort through racks of coats until a Rick Owens leather jacket sings his name. It’s perfect: soft, rugged, and beautifully constructed, just like Ty. Before I can get it off the hanger, a salesclerk sprints to my side.

  “Gift wrapping?” she says.

  I have no business buying this.

  “Please,” I say.

  While she puts the coat in a glossy red box, I notice a rip in the side of my Prada tote, probably from Freddie’s assault. I move to a case of women’s bags. A laser-cut Givenchy satchel catches my eye. The salesclerk sees me ogling the bag.

  “We just got it in.”

  “How much?” I say.

  “It’s $2,895.”

  The bag plus Ty’s jacket will cost the same as two months’ condo fees. I’m not sure how late I am on my most recent bill, but I decide to take a gamble.

  “Put it on my house account.”

  I hold my breath while she punches some keys and looks at the screen. She frowns, tries again.

  “The computer is saying that there’s a stop-hold on your account.”

  Maybe I can get out of here before she calls security. I look at the door and consider making a run for it.

  “Never mind,” I say. “I’ll come back later.”

  She’s determined to get the commission on the sale, and she’s not giving up.

  “It must be a glitch. I’ll put in an override,” she says.

  As she rings up the coat and the satchel, a call from Kevin comes in.

  “Ready to see some maggots?” he says.

  She ties a white ribbon around Ty’s gift box.

  “Maggots?” I say.

  She looks up, then back down, pretending not to eavesdrop, and slides the box into a shopping bag.

  “Where are you?” Kevin says.

  “I’m in the middle of Saks.” The line goes quiet for a minute. “Are you still there?”

  “Sorry to interrupt. Call me when you’re done.” He sounds tense, abrupt.

  Kevin has never been judgmental about any of my shortcomings, including my spending habits. This seems like an odd time to start taking my inventory.

  “Why are you being weird?” I say.

  “How do you want me to act? You just told me you’re in the middle of sex.”

  I laugh so hard that I startle a makeup artist, who smudges eyeliner on the lid of her client.

  “I’m in the middle of a store—Saks, not sex.”

  “Even worse. Do yourself a favor: put down the merchandise, turn around slowly, and come out with your hands up.”

  “I’ll surrender, but I’m taking the contraband with me.”

  Kevin picks me up outside the front door; I toss Ty’s box into the trunk of his car and keep the new satchel up front with me. I use the ride time to transfer my most essential belongings from my old tote to my new one. A packet of tissues, a bottle of hand sanitizer, two bottles of water, a scarf that needs to go to the dry cleaner, a pair of gloves, my badge, my wallet.

  “That sack is like a clown car,” Kevin says.

  When we arrive at the ME’s office, Reggie introduces us to the forensic entomologist, Floyd Carver, a twentysomething with sweaty palms and a limp handshake. Every time we meet Floyd, it’s like Groundhog Day; he never seems to remember either one of us, even though we’ve had at least a half-dozen consults with him.

  Floyd’s lab is one of my least favorite places on the planet. There are dead bugs everywhere: centipedes, cockroaches, caterpillars. Everything in here makes me gag. There are even a few live worms, squiggling around in glass cases.

  “That Dumpster was a gold mine,” Reggie says.

  Floyd pries open a petri dish, uses tweezers to remove a dried-up maggot, and puts it under the microscope. I don’t need to get up close and personal with the legless larva; I’ll put that off for as long as I can, until closer to trial prep. For now, I want the bottom line.

  “Were you able to make an assessment about Caitlyn’s time of death?” I say.

  Floyd looks through the scope, turns the focus knobs, and waves me over. Not wanting to appear uninterested, I lean over the instrument and think about Caitlyn. Kevin knows that insects and corpses are not my favorite part of the job.

  “Let me take a look.” He squints into the scope, looks back at me, and shrugs. “Yup, looks like a dead maggot.”

  “Can you summarize your findings?” I say.

  “Suffice it to say, you’ve been operating under a false assumption.” Floyd is enjoying his rare moment in the spotlight and wants to drag this out.

  Reggie cuts to the chase. “Caitlyn Walker might have gone missing on Thursday night, but she was murdered on Friday, within a couple of hours of when her body was discovered.”

  “How does that jibe with the autopsy results?” I say.

  “Decomp and rigor put her time of death between Thursday and Friday. These insects narrow the time frame to Friday evening,” Reggie says.

  I sit on one of the stools at the counter. I accidentally bump my elbow against a glass case filled with fruit flies, causing them to buzz around, trying to escape.

  My phone vibrates; so does Kevin’s. We check the screens, then look at each other.

  “We’ve got to go,” I say.

  “What’s up?” Reggie says.

  I show him the tex
t. Missing Person: Valerie Jackson, Tufts freshman. Last seen yesterday at 9 p.m. Possible victim #3.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Kevin and I drive to the Tufts campus in Medford, about twenty minutes outside of Boston. Tufts is tough to categorize. Size-wise, it’s somewhere between BU and Wellesley, not quite big and not quite small, with five thousand students. The vibe isn’t quite bustling urban or bucolic suburban. It’s not as internationally known as its neighbors in nearby Cambridge, Harvard, and MIT, but it’s a good school, with a competitive admissions process.

  Rush-hour traffic heading north is at a standstill. When we reach the Zakim Bridge, Kevin flips on the lights and siren, and zigzags from lane to lane. I feel carsick, so I turn off the heat and crack my window. As we veer right, onto the exit ramp, I call the police chief to let her know we’re a couple of minutes away.

  I hang up and tell Kevin what I learned. “Valerie Jackson, eighteen years old. Video surveillance shows her going into the Tisch Library a little after seven and leaving a little after nine. That’s the last time there’s a record of her alive.”

  “Where do her folks live?” Kevin says.

  “Her mother passed. Her father lives in Somerville.”

  “A townie.”

  “She’s getting financial aid, like Rose and Caitlyn.”

  Kevin swerves around a pickup truck, and my nausea intensifies. I keep my eyes trained straight ahead, on a street sign, a trick my doctor gave me when I had positional vertigo last summer.

  “Who phoned it in?” he says.

  “The roommate. She noticed Valerie didn’t make it home last night. She tried calling and texting her, but when she didn’t get a response, she walked over to campus police and filed a missing persons.”

  “At least the kids are paying attention to the warnings.”

  We arrive at the campus police station, where Tufts police chief Stephanie Menton is waiting. She’s a beefy woman who looks like she could go a few rounds against Mayweather. Her handshake makes me want to get on my knees and say uncle.

  It’s a short walk to Hodgdon Hall, where Valerie lives. Or lived. A couple of uniforms are keeping watch outside, checking IDs. For the time being, access is limited to residents only.