The Graves

by Pamela Wechsler

  “Name it.”

  “Call the governor and tell him you support me. He’s looking to you for a recommendation.”

  He drops his head.

  “You’ve already endorsed Cassandra, haven’t you?” I say.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Tell him you changed your mind, you discovered something in her past that could be an embarrassment to him. Tell him you’re throwing your support to me.”

  He doesn’t even pause to think about it.

  “Done,” he says.

  There’s no honor among thieves, and there’s no loyalty among lawyers, even when they’re sleeping together.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  When my father and I make plans to meet for lunch, there’s no need to specify a time or place. It’s always the same: one o’clock at the Downtown Harvard Club. There was a brief period when he stopped dining here, in protest to the new policy that granted Yale, MIT, and Fletcher School alumni membership privileges, but after a couple of months at the University Club, he relented.

  It’s a short walk from my office in Government Center to the Financial District. In less than a block, the landscape shifts from drab concrete bunkers to sleek steel skyscrapers. Not many of my law school classmates practice law in Boston, but those who do work in this part of town.

  Inside One Federal Street, I find the bank of elevators designated for the upper portion of the building. When I get off on the thirty-eighth floor, I see my father at the bar, reading The Wall Street Journal. Our short walk across the main dining room takes about ten minutes; he stops at every other table to shake hands and exchange pleasantries. Finally, we take our seats at his usual window table.

  The waiter is ready for our arrival, with two Arnold Palmers on his tray.

  “Haddock for you, Mr. Endicott?” the waiter says.

  My father, a creature of habit, smiles and nods.

  “Ms. Endicott, what can I get for you?”

  “Lobster salad, please.”

  Since I can’t afford to pay for lobster these days, I order it whenever someone else is footing the bill.

  After the waiter is gone, my father leans in and speaks quietly. “What’s on your mind, muffin?”

  “Max is in a bind.”

  “How much does he need?”

  No surprise that my father, famous for his negotiating tactics, cuts to the chase.

  “One hundred thousand.”

  He doesn’t flinch.

  “Should I ask what it’s for?”

  I explain the problem.

  “It’s best to pay the extortionist off,” he says.

  “I’m not sure if Max plans to pay you back,” I say.

  “I’d rather he doesn’t. Let’s consider it an investment in good government.”

  My father doesn’t care about government; he cares about access. And $100,000 will get him a lot of access. The waiter serves our lunch, which, like all club food, is acceptable but bland. As we finish our meal, a couple of fledgling venture capitalists stop by the table and fawn over my father. I smile and nod until they leave. Then I turn the discussion to family matters. My father hasn’t brought it up, but I know he’ll be disappointed if I don’t ask.

  “How’s Mom?” I say.

  “She’s coming home from the Vineyard tonight. You should come by the house.”

  “I’ll visit her when she’s an inpatient at McLean’s.”

  He snaps, a rare occurrence, especially in public. “I am acutely aware of your mother’s situation. I don’t need instruction from you.”

  My father signals for the check. As we wait, each of us want to smooth things over but are unsure how. My father looks up and smiles at someone who is standing behind me. I turn to see Chip Aldridge. My heart beats a little faster. He looks handsome in a blazer; his tie matches the exact color of his sapphire-blue eyes.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt,” Chip says. “I saw you over here and wanted to stop by and say hello.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Pull up a chair,” my father says.

  My father is a terrible actor. This is a setup. My father’s attempt to force me into a new job has failed; now he’s trying to find me a new boyfriend. He claims he likes Ty, but really he’s just tolerating him until someone else comes along. My mother probably has a role in this, too; she’s always nagging him to fix me up with a suitable suitor. Finding me a husband and a good winter coat are her ways of showing she cares.

  When my father stands and shakes Chip’s hand, I remain seated, avoiding the awkward, should-we-hug-or-shake-hands dilemma. Once Chip is settled, I put my napkin on the table and reach for my tote. I’m tempted to stay and flirt a little, but I refuse to be manipulated.

  “I’ve got to get back to the office,” I say. “It’s nice to see you, Chip.”

  “Muffin, stay for coffee,” my father says.

  “Can’t the criminals wait a few minutes?” Chip says.

  I don’t want to seem ungrateful—my father has generously agreed to supply a sizable amount of cash to help my boss and, by association, my career. That doesn’t, however, give him license to interfere with all aspects of my life.

  “Please, don’t get up,” I say.

  Ignoring me, they both stand.

  “Great seeing you,” Chip says.

  He puts his hand on my arm and squeezes. I feel the electricity that seems to live in his magical, healing hands. He smiles and kisses my cheek. Everything about him exudes confidence, including his kiss. I see why patients trust him.

  When I get outside, I start to compose a text to Max, to let him know that my father is on board, but decide to call him instead. It’s better not to leave a trail of evidence; that will only land us deeper in the quicksand. Max picks up on the first ring.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Mission accomplished.”

  I hear Cassandra in the background. “What? What did she say?”

  Max talks to her. “It’s all set.”

  I want to get off this call.

  “From here on out, it’s between you and my father,” I say.

  Max excuses himself from Cassandra. I hear a door slam. He turns on a faucet, presumably so the water will drown out his voice.

  “Jesus, Max, are you in a hotel? It’s like you’re begging to get caught.”

  “We’re not in a hotel.”

  He must be in Cassandra’s apartment. I’ve never been there, but I know she lives outside the city, in Watertown. I picture Max, standing in her bathroom, among the cheap perfume bottles, coral lipsticks, and sticky hair products.

  “I’ll see you back in the office,” I say.

  “Thanks, Abby. I’m going to call the governor and remind him about your competence and loyalty. He’d be lucky to have you serve as the interim district attorney.”

  Max and Cassandra deserve each other. I’ve been involved in politics enough to know it isn’t for the faint of heart, but hiding in your girlfriend’s bathroom and conspiring with her enemy are elevating things to a whole new level.

  As I ascend the steep steps behind city hall, a man on his way down the stairs brushes up against me. He rushes away, without looking back. It’s too late to get a look at his face, but I make a mental note of his height and weight, his oily reddish hair and dirty windbreaker.

  I dig into my tote to see if he’s taken anything. I find my wallet and badge, but I notice something else, an object that I haven’t seen before. It’s a black case made out of plastic, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. It looks like a car remote. I struggle to pry off the cover; inside there are some wires and knobs. I try not to panic, put the contraption down in some bushes, carefully, away from the foot traffic. Then I rush toward the street, take out my phone, and call 911.

  “What’s your emergency?”

  “This is Abigail Endicott, Suffolk County DA’s Office. I need the bomb squad.”

  When I get off the phone, I see a security guard behind city hall, wave him over, and fill h
im in. We try to evacuate the area, warning people to move away. I text Kevin, who is nearby, at the courthouse. A uniform arrives quickly, followed by other detectives, technicians, firefighters, and Kevin.

  Within minutes, Congress Street is shut down and traffic is diverted. City hall is emptied of government workers, politicians, and visitors. The tourists, vendors, and restaurant workers at Faneuil Hall are pushed back, in the direction of the harbor. News crews arrive and set up nearby.

  When the bomb squad arrives, they use a robot to retrieve the device and drop it in a secure tank. It’s x-rayed and inspected. I wait across the street until an officer, clad in a white spaceman suit, takes off his headpiece and waves to his sergeant. Some police brass join them, and they inspect the monitor and confer. Kevin is among the group. A couple of minutes later, a sergeant emerges, thumbs up.

  “False alarm,” he says.

  Kevin moves toward me.

  “What was it?” I say.

  “A tracking device,” he says.

  I’m humiliated for overreacting, calling in the bomb squad over a misplaced GPS. Kevin leads me to his car.

  “You did the right thing,” he says. “It was a lose-lose situation. If you didn’t call it in and something happened, it would have been worse.”

  “I’m an idiot,” I say.

  Kevin touches my arm. “It could have been an explosive. Last year, underreacting almost got you killed.”

  “I shut down Government Center.”

  He smiles. “Those hacks loved the distraction. If they knew how to write, they’d send you thank-you notes for getting them out of another boring city council meeting.”

  When the embarrassment subsides, a swell of panic hits.

  “This means someone has been following me.”

  Kevin doesn’t disagree. He drives to headquarters and, when we get out of the car, I remember that my old Prada tote is in his trunk. I pull it out, dig under the gloves and wrappers, and don’t feel anything. I tip it upside down and empty the contents. Mixed among the loose change and dry cleaning tickets is another GPS.

  “He must’ve been watching me for a while and lost track of me when I changed bags.”

  Kevin takes the device.

  “Banging into you like that, out in the open, he turned it up a notch.”

  “Maybe he knows I posted the ads on the Internet.”

  I meet with detectives and give a detailed description of the back of the man’s head; a positive identification is impossible. Kevin and I assemble a list of possible suspects: a Greenough; an Alpha Beta fraternity brother; a member of the senator’s staff; or someone who attended the sex parties, like a federal agent. Whoever it is, he knows we’re getting closer, he’s angry, and he’s coming after me.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Kevin and I go upstairs, to his office, where I hide in his cubicle and check my e-mails. The box is flooded with responses to the Internet postings. This morning I was worried no one would answer the ad, but now I’m overwhelmed by too many responses. It’s disheartening to learn that my fake Backpage profile attracted more men than my real one on Tinder.

  I scroll through the messages.

  “It’ll take weeks to meet up with all these freaks,” I say.

  Kevin looks over my shoulder. “Let’s do a compare and contrast.”

  We catalog the e-mails and create an Excel spreadsheet. All the men are looking for pretty much the same thing: sex with a sexy coed. There’s a similar theme to most of the screen names, with monikers like BigDaddy101 and GenerousToAFault. Some of the men ask directly about services and prices; we classify these as amateurs and set them aside. Several e-mails have similar grammatical errors, misspellings, and emoticons; we bunch them together as one, since they’re likely coming from the same person. When we’re done, we select five men, those who most closely match our victims’ profile responses, and use them as our starting point.

  “What should we write?” I say.

  Banter is not my forte. I can plea-bargain a murder case in my sleep, but negotiating a date is another matter.

  Kevin has a better read on the clientele. “I don’t think they need to get warmed up with verbal foreplay. We just need to give a time and place and seal the deal,” he says.

  “Then let’s keep it short and sweet,” I say.

  We decide on a simple response, one that leaves no room for misinterpretation. Would luv 2 meet. Where and when? I hit the send buttons on all five, and we call it a night.

  It’s been a long day; the GPS discovery was scary, and the e-mail exchange was creepy. I don’t want to go home to an empty apartment. I think about stopping by to visit my brother and Missy, when I remember Ty isn’t scheduled to perform tonight.

  “Drop me off at home?” I say.

  Kevin drives to my front door and waits for me to get inside. Upstairs, I’m happy to find Ty in the living room watching a rerun of Law & Order. I kick off my shoes and snuggle in next to him on the couch. He doesn’t seem to know about the bomb incident, and I don’t bring it up. There’s no point reliving it; it’d just make us both feel bad.

  When I move to kiss him, he doesn’t lean in to accept.

  “Is something wrong?” I say. “You seem preoccupied.”

  “Babe, I have to tell you something.” He lets out a yoga sigh. “I got a call today.”

  I immediately think something happened to my mother, and feel flashes of anger and concern.

  “Is everyone okay?”

  “Everyone is fine.” He gathers his thoughts. “It was from the governor’s office. They’re doing your background check.”

  I stand up, excited, and start to pace.

  “If I made it to this stage, that means they’re serious about my candidacy.”

  Max must’ve made good on his promise to screw over his girlfriend. I hope my father’s $100,000 check is as untraceable as my serial killer’s e-mail account. Otherwise, I’ll have to explain to the nominating committee what the money was for and why it’s not illegal. If anyone finds out about it, I hope it’s after I’m elected and sworn into office.

  I look over at Ty. “This is good news. Why do you look worried?”

  “The dude is digging deep.” He gets up and puts his arms around me. “They know about my conviction.”

  “It came up in my interview. It’s okay.”

  “It wasn’t the only time I sold drugs,” he says. “It was just the only time I got caught.”

  “I figured.”

  “They’re gonna find out. They’re turning over rocks. Someone has it out for you.”

  Outside, the sky is blanketed with puffy clouds. A sliver of moon is trying to shine through. I don’t have a right to be angry. Ty has never made a secret of his past. I knew what I was getting into when we started dating. I didn’t know, however, that I would have political aspirations, and that his past would impact my future.

  He steps back, away from me.

  “I know how much you want this,” he says.

  I try to imagine how someone with a healthy perspective on life might react, someone whose entire existence doesn’t revolve around work. After a decade of investing all of my passion and energy into my career, I realize how stunted I am in other areas. I do my best imitation of a normal, healthy, thirty-five-year-old woman.

  “It’s only a job,” I say.

  “We both know that’s not true. Your murderers are like my music.”

  “Whatever happens, I’ll survive.”

  Looking at Ty, I almost believe what I’m saying.

  “I think we should cool it for a while,” he says.

  My stomach drops. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “If you don’t get this appointment, you’ll start to resent me.” He hesitates. “I can live someplace else until we sort things out.”

  For a second, I think about agreeing. It would solve a lot of problems. For one, our relationship is getting stronger, which makes me want to sabotage it. Sometimes the pres
sure and burden of intimacy are too much. If Ty moves out, the balance that he brings to my life will go with him, and I’ll lose perspective. At some point, I’ll probably cheat on him, or I’ll do something else to destroy what we have. If we get it over with and break up now, I’ll be able to focus on things at work and the election. There’s only one problem: I love Ty.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The next morning, I go directly to my computer, anxious to discover if any of the creeps took the bait and accepted our date proposals. My inbox has messages from four out of the five men. I open the responses, reading each one carefully, trying to temper my excitement. Our perp could be one of these men, or not.

  Each prospective suitor suggests a different hotel: the Cambridge Marriott, the Sheraton on Route 128, the Lenox, and the Taj. The decision is easy. If I have to spend an evening sitting around a hotel room, waiting for a serial killer to strike, I prefer to do it at the Taj.

  I call Kevin, fill him in.

  “The Taj?” he says. “Leave it to you to set up a sting in one of the priciest joints in Boston.”

  “You’d rather drive out to Dedham?”

  “Fine, but we’re going to have to go dutch on this one,” he says. “Your office pays half, the department pays half.”

  “If we nail the guy, Max will cover the whole thing.”

  The prospect of catching the killer has me so jazzed up that, after one cup of coffee, I can’t sit still. I shower and dress; since I’ll be spending the day at a five-star hotel, I allow myself to wear a more extravagant outfit than usual. I opt for a cranberry Saint Laurent sheath and black suede Manolos. The frock is from last year’s collection, and the shoes are a little scuffed, but I’ll make do.

  I walk over to the Taj, which sits on prime real estate, at the corner of Arlington and Newbury Streets, across from the Public Garden. I haven’t been inside the hotel since it was the Ritz-Carlton, over a decade ago. It used to be a family favorite. My parents hosted countless Saturday-night dinners in the second-floor dining room and brunches in the street-level café. My mother still reminisces about the good old days, when the elevator operators wore white gloves and unaccompanied women weren’t allowed in the bar.