Mission Hill

by Pamela Wechsler

  “Hey, babe,” he says.

  I pour myself a glass of Merlot and sit across from him. Trying not to come off as overly prosecutorial, I lean back and sip my wine.

  “What have you been up to?” I say in the most casual tone I can muster up.

  He looks at me and hesitates.

  I don’t wait for a response. “Are you chatting with women online? Is that what you do when I’m not around—find Internet hookups?”

  “Babe, chill.”

  “Were you on Tinder checking out the local talent?”

  My use of the phrase local talent is proof that I’ve been spending too much time with Kevin.

  “Come on,” Ty says. “Don’t interrogate me.”

  If he were a suspect, I’d sit silently and try to maintain eye contact long enough to make him uncomfortable—often an effective way to elicit a confession. So that’s what I do. He breaks in less than a minute.

  “I’ve been reading old obituaries.”

  That’s not what I was expecting to hear. “Why?”

  “When your father was here, he mentioned someone named George—that he died. I wanted to know who he was.”

  Hearing George’s name knocks the wind out of me. “What did he say?”

  “That you suffered more than your share of loss. I thought maybe you’d been married and were a widow or something.” He searches my face for a reaction.

  “George was my younger brother.” I sip my wine and then busy myself by refilling the glass, even though it doesn’t need a refill.

  Ty sees me struggling. “I’m sorry, babe,” he says.

  “Why all the espionage? You could have just asked.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be straight with me. I know you love your secrets.”

  “I don’t have secrets.”

  He gets out of his chair, moves next to me on the sofa, and takes my hand. “What happened? How did he die?”

  I take a breath and consider whether to be truthful or to toe the family line and say that George died of heart failure.

  “My brother was a junkie.”

  “He died of a drug overdose?”

  I nod. “Six years ago.”

  I get up and look out the window. Webs of ice have formed in the corners of the glass. The park below, with a slide, jungle gym, and climbing rocks, is deserted and desolate. I remember being with George at the Dartmouth Street playground. I picture him—five years old, on a swing, pumping his legs back and forth, trying to gain momentum. Push me, Abby. Push. Again. One more time. George always wanted more.

  “He was an addict since high school, maybe earlier. He’d show up at family dinners high as a kite. When he nodded off at the table, we’d all keep eating, chatting about current events and the stock market.”

  Ty stands and picks up a photo from the mantel: George, Charlie, Crystal, and me. We’re all wearing swimsuits at the Coral Beach Club in Bermuda. Crystal’s mother had to work during our school vacations—my parents invited her to join us and paid her fare.

  “This him?”

  “That’s George.”

  “Who is this girl with you?”

  “A friend.” I turn and look out the window at a cluster of birds, flying across the river in a V formation.

  “From high school?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You two must have been tight if she went with you on vacation. When’s the last time you hung out?”

  My phone rings. I check the screen. “I have to answer this,” I say. “It’s Kevin.”

  “Can’t you two take a break for one night?”

  I’m taken aback by his response. I don’t think Ty’s ever snapped at me before. I consider sending Kevin to voice mail, but press the call-accept button and walk into the bedroom.

  “We found Warren Winters,” Kevin says.

  I sit on the bed, relieved. “Great. Will he talk?”

  He hesitates. “That’s not going to be possible.”

  I clear my throat. “Where is he?”

  “Floating in the harbor.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kevin navigates us through the narrow streets of Chinatown, where a woman, wearing fishnets and four-inch platforms, leans in the passenger-side window of a Lincoln. Kevin blasts a quick blip from his siren. When she turns to look at us, the car speeds off. Kevin waves at her. Keep moving. She steps onto the sidewalk and gives us the finger.

  We sit in silence at a red light.

  “You doing okay?” Kevin says. “You’re pretty quiet.”

  “Do you think I did right by George, getting his drug case dismissed?”

  Kevin doesn’t blink at the non sequitur. “You did what anyone would do for family. He got busted, you had the juice to help him out, and you did.”

  At the next block, the woman is negotiating with another potential customer. This time when Kevin blasts the siren, she retreats and walks away.

  “Maybe things would have turned out differently if I’d let him go through the system,” I say.

  “He’d have wound up in Bridgewater. You know what that place is like.”

  I look out the window; a couple of students, backpacks slung over their shoulders, leave a restaurant. They chat and look at their cells as they cross the busy street, oblivious to the oncoming traffic. The man nearly gets plowed over by a taxi.

  “If he was locked up, they’d have kept him alive.”

  At the next traffic light, Kevin turns and touches my arm.

  “For a little while, maybe. And then what? Don’t second-guess yourself.”

  “I don’t think I ever thanked you properly.”

  “It was no big deal on my part. The drug cops would’ve dropped the charges if you’d have asked them yourself.”

  “You spared me the humiliation. I appreciate it.”

  “You come through for me in all sorts of ways.”

  He looks at me. We lock eyes for a few seconds until I look away.

  I force a laugh, trying to deflect. “Signing your overtime slip hardly compares.”

  “I’m serious. You’ve never lost one of my cases. You’ve never let my evidence get suppressed. You’ve never refused my late-night phone calls.”

  “That’s what I signed up for when I took this job.”

  The light turns green, but Kevin idles at the intersection.

  “Tell that to the rest of your colleagues. This is about more than work. You believe in what you’re doing. You’re the real McCoy.”

  We look at each other again, but this time I don’t look away. Admittedly, I’m conflicted about Ty and grieving over Tim, but there’s no denying it: our attraction has been building. The sexual tension is palpable. I wonder how he’d react if I asked him to pull the car over and rip off my clothes.

  A car behind us beeps, and the driver yells out the window, “Wake up, buddy! The light is green!” Kevin waves at the driver and moves through the intersection.

  The valet in front of the Boston Harbor Hotel lets us park out front on Atlantic Avenue. I can see my breath as we walk under the towering archway that leads us behind the luxury hotel and office complex that make up Rowes Wharf.

  Unis and technicians have gathered on the dock where, during the day, commuters board water taxis that shuttle them to and from the South Shore. The terminal is closed for the night, illuminated by portable police kliegs.

  Businessmen, tourists, and wedding guests are standing in the windows of the high-rises, looking down on us. They are in offices, hotel rooms, and banquet halls, pulling back the drapes, craning their necks, trying to figure out what the activity is all about. They’ve paid a hefty price for their panoramic views of the waterfront, and they probably didn’t expect the cost to include the sight of Warren Winters’s bloated, waterlogged corpse.

  A few minutes after we arrive, members of the Boston police dive team, wearing masks and wet suits, hoist his lifeless body onto the wooden pier. People snap pictures with their cell phones. They’ll Instagram the images to thei
r friends back home in Cleveland or Kansas City. A memento of their trip to Boston.

  A small but rowdy group of twentysomethings spill out of a bar and assemble on the cement walkway that runs the length of the hotel and office complex. In varying degrees of drunkenness, they elbow each other, hankering to get a better look. They should turn away before it’s too late. A murder victim is not someone you want to see up close, especially after he’s been dragged out of the harbor. I consider warning them, but they won’t listen. They never do. They’ll have to learn the hard way.

  Warren is splayed out on a plastic tarp. The on-call medical examiner, Dr. Lisa Frongello, is leaning over him. A gold cross dangles from her neck.

  She gloves up, kneels down, and takes Warren’s face in her hands. She twists his head and moves his wet hair, exposing a small hole in his scalp.

  “He was shot before he was dumped.”

  I stand in a low crouch and take shallow breaths. “Is that the entry wound?”

  “Looks like it. Judging by the size and shape of the opening, it’s probably a small-caliber, maybe a .22.”

  “How long do you think he’s been in the water?”

  “I’d guesstimate at least five hours.” She points at bite marks on his face and arms. “He’s been gnawed at by marine life.”

  His hands are gray, his feet unshod. I avoid looking directly into his eyes.

  “Any other wounds?”

  “I’ll check when I get him out of these clothes.”

  The air is frigid, and my feet start to feel numb. I stand, shifting back and forth in place to keep my circulation going.

  “They did a piss-poor job of dumping him,” she says. “Sign of amateurs. Pros would have weighed him down with bricks or something.”

  “They wanted us to find him,” Kevin says. “They’re sending a message.”

  When Lisa is done with her preliminary assessment, her assistants zip Warren into a body bag and lift him onto an awaiting gurney. The spectators continue to watch, but the party atmosphere has quieted. They stand, frozen in place. Their faces are ashen, their expressions grim. They’ll never be able to wipe Warren from their memories.

  The ME’s assistants slide the gurney into the back of the coroner’s van and slam the doors.

  Warren Winters is no more.

  “This is on me,” I say to Kevin.

  “No, it’s not. You had the case for about a minute. Nestor told me Warren was offered protection, but he turned it down.”

  “It was an empty offer, and we both know it. We can’t even protect our own.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Max requested a briefing on Tim’s murder investigation, and Middlesex ADA Dermot Michaels is here to give an update. Dermot sits across from me in Max’s conference room, fidgeting with his golf ball cuff links and tapping his pen against the side of the table.

  “He’s almost a half hour late,” he says. “I’ve got a lot on my plate today.”

  Technically, Dermot and I are colleagues, but he feels more like an adversary. There’s a history of competitive condescension between Middlesex and Suffolk County prosecutors; Middlesex thinks we’re a posse of reckless cowboys, and we think they’re a bunch of pampered suburbanites. We’re both more than a little bit right.

  “Max is the elected. He sets the schedule,” I say.

  “He’s your boss, not mine.”

  If Dermot weren’t so annoying, I’d let him know that he’s planted himself in Max’s seat, and he might want to move his ass. We sit in silence, both checking our cell phones. I’ve got about ten texts and e-mails. Ty: I rented a tux for the wedding. The condo board: Received your check for January, but you still owe for November and December. The medical examiner: Warren Winters COD is a single gunshot wound to the head.

  Max breezes in, his eyes a little bloodshot. “Sorry we’re late.”

  “It’s my fault,” Owen says. “Patsy’s parent-teacher conference ran long.”

  It’s hard to know if Owen is telling the truth or if he’s covering for Max. I suspect the latter.

  “Dermot, do you mind moving? You’re sitting in Max’s chair,” Owen says.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Dermot gets up. “I didn’t see a seating chart.”

  Max shrugs off the remark. “Let’s get started. What’s going on with the invesh-tigation?”

  Owen quickly takes the reins, hoping Dermot doesn’t notice Max’s slurred speech. “What can you tell us?”

  “We’re making progress—everyone agrees that it was a murder for hire.”

  “Who do you think is behind it?” Owen says.

  “It looks like Orlando Jones ordered the hit.”

  Even though Dermot is just articulating what everyone already believes, my chest tightens with a flood of emotions. Rage, sadness, fear.

  “Any ideas about who pulled the trigger?” Owen says.

  “It’s safe to assume it was someone from North Street,” Dermot says.”

  I picture the man with the gold teeth, sitting in the back of the courtroom, smiling at Orlando.

  “What’s your working theory on motive?” I say.

  “Orlando wanted to threaten Warren Winters and convince him not to testify or, if that didn’t work, kill him. Orlando’s crew was having trouble locating Warren, and time was growing short. Orlando figured that if he got someone to kill the prosecutor, that would buy him at least a week.”

  Max looks at Dermot and then at me. “You think Orlando Jones is that callous, that he did a murder to buy himself an extra seven days?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I know he’s that callous.”

  “People have killed for a lot less,” Dermot says.

  “What’s your evidence?” Max says.

  “The proof is in the pudding. Tim is dead, Orlando got his continuance, and your star witness was found floating in the harbor,” Dermot says. “Now that Warren is dead, your case against Orlando is going down the toilet.”

  “That doesn’t sound like evidence,” Max says. “It sounds like conjecture.”

  “The simplest answer is usually the best one,” Dermot says. “You’ll see.”

  Dermot clicks his pen and closes his leather-bound notebook, preparing to wrap up the meeting. I swivel my chair to face him.

  “Did you run Orlando’s BOP?” I say.

  “I haven’t had a chance to go through it yet.”

  I slide a copy of Orlando’s criminal record across the table. “It looks like he could have been working as an informant.”

  Owen tries to play it off as though he’s not particularly interested, but he flips through the papers, scanning every word. “Who was his handler?”

  “He’s not registered with the Boston PD. He might have been working for Tim,” I say.

  Max grabs Orlando’s BOP from Dermot. “No way. I don’t buy it. I would know if Tim was using him as an informant.”

  “I opened a grand jury and plan to start presenting tomorrow,” Dermot says. “I’ll explore it.”

  “You should also take a look at Orlando’s father, Melvin,” I say. “He has a closed investigation that could have a tie-in.”

  Max slams his hand on the table, startling me. “If you’re talking about the construction project, forget it. Don’t waste your time.”

  “There’s an obvious connection,” I say. “Tim had involvement with both father and son. It’s worth checking out.”

  Max puts his palm up. “Stop. Melvin Jones was a bad businessman. Period. He’s not one to get involved in premeditated murder.”

  “He could have had something personal against Tim.”

  “That’s crap. I don’t want to reopen the Big Dig invest.” Max’s face reddens. “You’ll never solve this case if you’re running around, chasing shadows.”

  Owen throws me a look. Enough. Best to let it drop.

  When the meeting breaks up, I take the stairs back to my office. As I swipe my badge to unlock the door, Max approaches me from behind, frightening me, and follows
me into the stairwell. The door slams behind us. I turn to face him, and he moves toward me, backing me up against the wall. He leans in, close enough for me to smell his breath, minty fresh, with mouthwash to cover the odor of alcohol.

  “Don’t ever contradict me in front of outsiders.”

  Having crossed the invisible line into my personal space, he is gesticulating wildly. His voice echoes up and down the stairwell.

  “Got it, sorry,” I say.

  “Middlesex is like a sieve. I don’t need Dermot Michaels spreading our confidential information all over town. Next thing, The Globe will have another scope up my ass about the Big Dig. I don’t want to reopen those wounds on top of everything else we have going on right now.”

  “Understood.”

  The stairwell door lock clicks open, and I’m relieved to see Owen. He can be overprotective—or, as Kevin calls him, a buttinsky—but that comes in handy at times like this.

  “Everything okay in here?” Owen looks at me, knowing that it’s not.

  Max keeps his angry focus on me. “Abby and I are reviewing the office org chart. I was reminding her that I sit at the top, and she’s somewhere below that.”

  Owen takes Max’s forearm and moves him backward. “We’re all under a lot of pressure. Let’s keep in mind that we have the same end game.”

  Max relaxes a little and retreats. “Get me the Melvin Jones file, in case the press office starts getting calls about it.”

  Max pushes on the door, fumbles for his pass key. Owen takes out his and swipes it; the lock clicks open and Max exits into the hallway.

  “Inch tells me that you showed up on the security video in Tim’s office last week for over an hour,” Owen says.

  “It’s not exactly a state secret that there are cameras in the hallways. I wasn’t trying to hide anything.” I try not to sound too defensive.

  “You shouldn’t have disturbed the scene without prior approval. We’re going to have to disclose it to Middlesex.”

  I’m not sure what he’s intimating. “What’s the problem? Am I being looked at for something?”

  He frowns and shakes his head slightly. “Let me offer a piece of friendly advice: own up to the relationship. We all know that the cover-up can be worse than the offense.”