Mission Hill (10 page)

I ignore the comment and take a forkful of pie. Even though Kevin is disappointed or angry, Tim isn't here to explain or defend himself. Much of what I've learned has taken me by surprise, but I'm not going to throw him under the bus. I love him as much as ever, secrets and all.

“Why wasn't Melvin charged? His negligence cost a decent, hardworking family man his life,” Kevin says.

“Politics. There was plenty of evidence, but Max wouldn't authorize the indictments because he didn't want to go out on a limb and piss people off,” Nestor says.

“He's one lucky son of a bitch,” Kevin says.

“They're one lucky family,” Nestor says.

“Meaning what?” I take a sip of water, unsure of where this is going.

“Orlando dodged some bullets too.”

Kevin looks at me. “We know he had a juvenile conviction, but he did time on that.”

“After he got out of juvie, he had a lot of cases dismissed,” Nestor says.

“Yeah, we know about that too,” I say. “Those cases were dropped because the victims refused to cooperate.”

“Did you know about the gun case he picked up about eighteen months ago?”

My chest tightens. “Orlando was arrested on a gun case? Eighteen months ago?”

“It was a total bag job—like someone waved a magic wand and made the charges disappear.”

“The victim probably got cold feet,” Kevin says.

“Nope, no civilians were involved.”

I put down my glass to avoid spilling water on myself and clasp my hands in my lap.

“Then why was the case dismissed? Did you talk to the arresting officer?”

“The detective told me that when she showed up in court for the motion hearing, the case had already been broomed. The fix was in.”

There's no way Tim knew about this case—he would have told me about it.

“Which ADA stood up on it?” I say.

“Chris Sarsfield, from your gang unit.”

I call Chris, let it ring about five times, call again. He finally picks up. There's an announcer talking and a lot of drunks yelling at each other in the background.
Get him. Hit him. Kill him.
Sounds like he's at a Bruins game.

“Do you know if Orlando Jones ever worked as an informant?” I say.

“Doesn't sound familiar. Hum me a few bars,” Chris says.

“Tim's murder case, the one that I'm trying right now. It looks like the defendant had an earlier gun case out of Dorchester.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember. Tim asked me to get rid of that case.”

Kevin and Nestor are looking at me. I cup my hand over my mouth and look at the floor.

“Did he tell you why?” My voice is trembling.

“Nope, and I didn't ask.” Chris is barely audible through the screaming fans. “The score is tied up, and there's a power play—I gotta go.”

I hang up and look at Kevin. “Tim was the one who wanted to get the charges dismissed.”

“Then Tim wanted something from Orlando,” Kevin says.

I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. If he was in bed with Orlando Jones, I want to believe it was for a good reason. I just have to figure out what that reason could be.

 

Chapter Seventeen

Ty doesn't seem to hear me when I open the door to my apartment, step inside, and take off my coat. I find him in the living room, drinking a beer and typing on his laptop. When he looks up and sees me, he immediately switches to his home screen, the
Rolling Stone
website. Clearly, he doesn't want me to know what he's up to, which surprises me because he's never been shy about his Internet interests. The few times I walked in on him when he was surfing for porn, he didn't flinch.

“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 their 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.