Mission Hill (11 page)

“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.”

Owen sounds judgmental, but I'm pretty sure he's trying to help. I want to ask him how long he's known. How long everyone has known.

I consider my words and speak slowly. “I admit it, I was involved with Tim.”

Feeling flustered, I drop my ID. When I bend to pick it up, Owen swipes his badge over the sensor and the lock clicks open.

“They tell us in the program—you're only as sick as your secrets,” he says.

I step into the hallway and turn back to him. “That's all, I don't have any more secrets.”

 

Chapter Twenty

Yesterday the polar vortex blasted cold air into Boston, and the temperature never got out of single digits. Today it's upwards of fifty degrees. I take advantage of the disintegration of the ozone layer and go for a walk to clear my head.

I stroll up Cambridge Street to Panera, order a latte, resist the cranberry muffins, and head back to the office. Noticing that FBI agent Josh McNamara is about a half a block in front of me, I pick up the pace and try to catch up with him. Josh looks squeaky clean, with his close-cropped hair and spit-shined shoes, but he's still a fed, not to be trusted.

I want to run into him but don't want to appear too eager, so I chase after him until I'm a few steps behind and then slow down, acting as though our encounter is pure happenstance. I expend so much effort trying to appear casual that I catch my heel in a crack in the sidewalk, lose my footing, and spill coffee on my white blouse.

I mutter to myself in frustration, “Nice move.”

Josh hears me and turns around as though he knows I was secretly chasing after him. “Abby, hi. You okay?”

“Oh, hey.” I try to sound surprised.

“I'm sorry to hear about Tim. How are you guys holding up over there?”

“We're doing okay.”

“We're all thinking about you. Let me know if I can do anything.”

He starts to walk away. I try to keep pace.

“Actually, since we've run into each other, I was wondering, were you and Tim working on something together?”

He assumes an expressionless G-man look. “Why do you ask?”

“I know you worked the Big Dig case together last year.”

“That case was closed out.”

“Tim mentioned something about meeting with you. I'm not sure if it was connected to the Big Dig. I thought you might need someone to pick up the ball.”

“Come on, Abby, don't bullshit me. We've known each other a long time. I've always admired the fact that you're a straight shooter. If you want to ask me something, then ask.”

I pause, look around, shrug. “Okay, what were you and Tim working on?”

“Sorry, can't talk about it.” Josh grins. “Classified.”

He disappears inside his Center Plaza office building. I struggle to hold on to my belief that Tim wasn't dirty, that he didn't contribute to his own death, that he won't be the cause of mine.

At the intersection of Cambridge and New Sudbury Streets, waiting for the pedestrian light, I get the creepy sensation that someone is staring at me. I glance to my right, and there he is. Rodney Quirk. My stomach drops. I'm not used to seeing him out on the street in the middle of the afternoon, away from his perch in the coffee shop.

I should have handled this a long time ago. I've got to stop it from getting worse. He hasn't done anything to me or made any overt threats, but he wants something. I'm in as safe a place as I can be, in a crowd of people, in front of the FBI building, across from the DA's office, and half a block from a Boston police station.

I clench my jaw and look him in the eye. “You're taking your show on the road?” I say.

He looks at me blankly.

“What do you want, Rodney?”

“Ma'am?” he says.

His voice surprises me. It's quiet; there's no rasp or edge to it like I had imagined. In all the time I've known Rodney, I've never heard him speak. His public defender always served as his mouthpiece. Rodney would whisper something in his lawyer's ear, and the lawyer would repeat it for the court.
Yes, Your Honor. Not guilty, Your Honor.

A horn blasts. Rodney and I both spin around to see a man who was texting and walking almost get sideswiped by a Tahoe. As the man jerks sideways, his phone falls from his hands onto the street and is crushed by a bus. He stumbles backward. Rodney breaks his fall and helps him to his feet.

“You okay?” Rodney says.

“Thanks,” the man says. “I almost got killed.”

The white pedestrian light flashes, directing me to walk. I cross the street, leaving Rodney behind.

 

Chapter Twenty-one

My brother's wedding is being held at the Gardner Club, a couple of blocks from the Statehouse, across from Boston Common. The club was founded in the 1800s and hasn't changed much in either attitude or décor. Membership fees are steep, but you can't buy your way in, because it's not about money. It's about ancestry. It's a dated and elitist institution. My parents dine there at least once a week.

I've been at the morgue all day, doing trial prep with the medical examiner, and I'm running late. I retrieve my floor-length black velvet Armani from the trunk of my car and change in an unoccupied autopsy room, which has more space and better lighting than the bathroom.

I slip into the dress, step into a pair of black Jimmy Choos, and throw on a strand of my great-grandmother's pearls. As I start to sweep my hair up into a chignon, two coroner's assistants come charging through the doors, pushing a gurney with a fresh body on top. I dab a drop of Chanel No. 5 behind my ear and decide to finish my makeup in the car.

When I'm done primping, I call Ty and let him know that I'm on the way. He's waiting on the sidewalk in front of my building, deep in thought, probably composing music in his head. He gets in the car and leans over to give me a kiss, and the knot in the back of my neck relaxes.

“You clean up nice,” I say.

“You look beautiful, babe,” he says, “but you smell like disinfectant.”