Mission Hill (16 page)

I spend an hour working on my closing argument. I read it to myself out loud, editing and rewriting as I go. I avoid reflecting on what happened earlier in the hallway, preferring to tuck it away, deep in my subconscious, until after the trial.

When my eyelids start to grow heavy, I call it a night. I decide to use extra precautions on my walk home by taking a new path. I choose a route that's circuitous but will keep me on well-traveled streets.

Passing the construction zone in front of City Hall, I stick close to other pedestrians. Parts of the sidewalk are closed, requiring us to traverse narrow paths marked by black arrows and orange-and-white blockades. The Government Center T stop is closed for renovations, and some of the surrounding buildings are boarded up.

I look up at the enormous copper kettle that hangs from the building on the corner of Cambridge and Court Streets. The shiny metal teapot spouts delicate puffs of steam into the cold, still night air. An engraving on the front of the kettle declares that it has the capacity to hold
227 gallons, 2 quarts, 1 pint, and 3 gills of tea
. The artifact is reminiscent of the city's history of rebellious tea tossing. It's uniquely Boston, quaint and charming. A few years ago, the building that it hangs from was renovated and converted into a Starbucks.

The Downtown Crossing area, usually bustling with shoppers and tourists, is desolate and creepy. There are a couple sketchy-looking men lurking in the doorway of E. B. Horn Jewelers. A rat the size of my brother's Yorkie darts by. I regret my decision to take this route, but I'm well past the point of no return. I think my brother was right: my judgment isn't the best these days.

Near Temple Place, I grow increasingly aware of a shadowy figure. He's too far away for me to make out his features, eye color, hair color, or facial hair, but it looks like he's wearing a light-colored overcoat. From this vantage point, he looks taller than Rodney Quirk and shorter than my new friend from the North Street Posse. As I pick up the pace, so does he.

There are a few people within earshot, but most of them appear homeless and as helpless as I feel. I reach into my tote and grab hold of the Mace that Ty gave me last month. I was hesitant to accept it, but now I'm glad I did. I cradle the canister in my palm, keeping my hand inside my purse, and flip off the safety switch. I feel around for the spray nozzle, my finger at the ready.

Around the corner, in front of the Ritz-Carlton hotel, there are two bellmen, wearing crimson uniforms with gold epaulets. They're hailing cabs and unloading pieces of luggage from the backs of limos. A doorman opens the heavy glass door, and I walk inside the hotel lobby and take a seat in one of the plush leather chairs, relieved to be surrounded by activity.

The concierge gives a group of German tourists restaurant recommendations. A bellman passes by, wheeling a brass luggage cart. A woman takes a seat at the bar and orders a glass of Cabernet. I'm tempted to do the same, but alcohol will only make things worse. I think about walking up to the reservation desk, checking in under an alias, and hiding from the world.

After a few minutes, I pry myself from the chair and head outside, and the bellman puts me in the back of a cab. The ride home takes about four minutes, and I spend the time convincing myself that no one was following me. By the time we reach Berkeley Street, I come to the conclusion that I'm narcissistic, maybe even paranoid.

When we arrive at my building, I give the driver an extra five and ask him to wait until I'm safely inside. Manny is at his desk in the lobby. He stands and greets me with enthusiasm.

“You slayed him today,” he says.

“Slayed?”

“The news station live-streamed from the courtroom. You're taking no prisoners.”

I do my best to muster up a smile. “Is Ty upstairs?”

“I haven't seen him. But I just got on duty an hour ago.”

Gabe, the maintenance guy, sees me in the lobby, comes over, and hands me the key to my apartment.

“You're all set with the sink,” he says.

“Was there a problem with my sink?”

“The guy from the fixture place came by. He said that you ordered a new faucet. He was here to install it.”

“I didn't order a new sink—my sink is fine.” My stomach drops. “You let a stranger in my apartment?”

“I'm sorry—I thought that's why your boyfriend left the key.”

“Ty left the key for my housekeeper, Lilia.” My mind races as I try to figure out who it could have been. “What time was he here?”

“He came in at around noon.”

That rules out anyone from North Street, or at least my friend with the gold teeth, since he was busy sitting around the back of the courtroom all day, glaring at me.

“I'm sorry,” Manny says. “I'll talk to the day guy when he comes in for his shift.”

I want to ream them both out but yelling won't help, and it'll make me more agitated.

“I'll call the police,” Manny says.

“No, I'll do it,” I say.

 

Chapter Twenty-nine

I wait in the lobby for Kevin, who arrives in a matter of minutes. Soon there are a dozen police officers inside my apartment. Detectives search to make sure no one is hiding in a closet or under my bed. The bomb squad sweeps for explosives and checks for hazardous materials. Technicians dust for prints and search for stray hairs. Once they give the all clear, Kevin and I go inside.

“Nice digs,” he says. “I knew you were hoity-toity, but this place is above and beyond. Like by a mile.”

“Please—it was hard enough to get you and the rest of Boston PD to take me seriously.”

“I'll keep it under my hat.”

Kevin may not recognize the Kenneth Noland hanging over the sofa, but he's got a discerning eye. He can tell that it's an original and that it's expensive. He zeroes in on a handcrafted cherry-red Murano table lamp and smiles.

“This light looks like it cost more than my car,” he says.

“I don't want to hear about it.” My voice cracks. “Seriously, not tonight.”

“You could probably work anywhere. Hell, looks like you don't have to work at all. But here you are, fighting the fight.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “You're crazier than I thought.”

I fight tears. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

“Crazy in a good way, like jumping out of planes or swimming with sharks.”

I walk around the apartment, hoping to find that something is missing, that this was a run-of-the-mill breaking and entering. I'm disappointed to find that my jewelry and silver are in the wall safe. I open my desk drawers and see that my checks are all there, untouched. Nothing is missing.

“What do you think they wanted?” I say.

“They probably grabbed something small, and you won't notice it's not there until later. Or maybe they didn't take anything and just wanted to scare you.”

We hear someone come in the door and call out, “Hello?”

Kevin puts one hand on the small of his back, where he keeps his gun. He uses his other to nudge me behind him.

“It's Ty,” I say before Kevin fires off a round, “my boyfriend.”

Ty sees us in the living room. Kevin slowly returns his Glock to his waistband. The two men check each other out with interest and suspicion.

“Ty, this is Kevin. Kevin, this is Ty.”

They shake hands, each with his own misgivings about the other's presence.

“What's going on?” Ty takes off his coat and hangs it in the closet.

“Someone may have come in here this afternoon,” I say.

“Broke in is more like it,” Kevin says.

I smile and try to downplay it. “It was probably nothing—a repairman with the wrong address.”

“We checked. Restoration Hardware doesn't make house calls,” Kevin says.

“Nothing was taken. Nothing is broken. Let's not blow it out of proportion.”

“I think you should move out for a few days,” Kevin says.

“No way.”

I look to Ty for support, but he seems to be siding with Kevin.

“We can stay at my place,” he says.

“I'm in the middle of trial. I'm not moving—it's too disruptive.”

“Then I'll arrange for protection,” Kevin says.

“Closing your eyes isn't going to make it go away,” Ty says.

Both men aren't backing down. I put up my hands, not in surrender but in annoyance.

“Enough,” I say. “Don't patronize me.”

Kevin surveys the living room and checks the sliding glass door to be sure it's secure.

Ty points to Melvin Jones's Big Dig files on the floor. “That box was on the dining table when I left this morning.”

“Are you sure?” I say.

“Positive. I ate a bowl of cereal on the couch. I didn't want to move your stuff. I figured you had some kind of system going.”

There's a knock on the door. Kevin goes to answer it and lets Manny and Gabe back in.

“We watched the security video, but it isn't much help,” Manny says.

“Do you remember what the guy looked like?” Kevin says.

Gabe does his best, but he would be a lousy witness. “He had a baseball cap on.”

“Did you see if it had a logo? Something that might give us a gang affiliation?”

“I wasn't paying attention,” Gabe says. “He asked for the key, I handed it to him, and he left it on the desk when he was done.”

“All the same, I'm going to have you come by the station and look at mug shots.”

After Gabe gives his contact information to Kevin, he and Manny leave.

“Is Abby going to be okay staying here?” Ty says.

“I don't want a security detail, and I'm not carrying a gun.” I take a breath and think about Tim. As much as I want to convict Orlando, I don't want to end up with a hole in my head. “But I do have to tell you something.”

“What's up?” Kevin says.

“Did something happen to you, babe?” Ty says.

I take a breath and show Kevin the note.

“You know the guy from North Street, the one with the gold teeth?” I say.

“Darrius Palmer,” Kevin says.

Kevin is good, but I'm surprised he has this guy's name on the tip of his tongue. “You know him?”

“I don't like the way he's been eyeing you in court.”

“What's his deal?”

“Darrius and Orlando met in juvie, bonded over being the youngest killers there. They've been running buddies ever since,” Kevin says. “Why? Do you think he's the guy who wrote the note?”

“I don't know who did it.”

I tell him about the elevator incident and what happened after I left the office tonight. I reiterate that I don't want to give in. And that I refuse to live like a prisoner.

“Can't you arrest him?” Ty says.

I shake my head. “Any dim-witted defense attorney will have the charges tossed and he'll be out before lunch, smirking and planning his next move.”

“If you won't take a security detail, and we can't lock him up, then I'm going over to his place and have a little chat,” Kevin says. “And then I'm going to arrange a surveillance team.”

I start to protest, but he stops me.

“We won't put the tail on you—they'll be following him.”

 

Chapter Thirty

Max is hosting a fund-raiser for Tim's family today at Doyle's. In a moment of weakness, I invited Ty to join me. I've never taken him to anything work related, which hasn't been an issue since most nights he's with his band, rehearsing, traveling, or performing. Today's get-together is on a Saturday afternoon, and he's not booked.

Ty and I are in the bedroom, getting dressed. I make a mental note to avoid allowing him to be photographed anywhere near my boss. An image of Max standing with a convicted drug dealer could come back to haunt him when he seeks reelection or announces his run for mayor.

“It's weird, holding a party at the place where the guy was last seen alive,” Ty says.

I slip into a black leather shell and turn my back to him. He picks up on my cue and zips me in.

“The pub's owner is a big contributor to Max's campaign. Money trumps decorum.”

“I hate politics.”

That's my opening. I pounce on it.

“I won't be offended if you don't want to come.”

“I'm coming. I want to.”

I sort through my bureau and select a pair of skinny black jeans.

“We can go out to lunch instead. There's a new place in the seaport that I want to try,” I say.

“You guys were good friends. You have to show up.”

“No one will notice if I'm not there. I gave a donation to the scholarship fund. That's all they care about.”

Ty looks in the mirror and buttons his white shirt. “Cutting a check is great, but you should still show your face. Besides, I'm kind of curious to meet your friends.”

“Owen and Max are my friends. The rest of them are just colleagues.”

Ty steps into his cowboy boots and looks at me. “I've been wondering—have you been keeping me from them or them from me?”

Both,
I think. “Neither,” I say.

I feel bad. I don't want him to think I'm embarrassed about our relationship—I'm not.

“You've never introduced me to anyone in your office,” he says.

“I guess it's a habit, or a neurosis. I compartmentalize—work, home, family. I'm sorry.”

Ty doesn't say anything. He forces a quick smile but I know that he's looking for a better explanation—and he deserves one—but that's as deep as I can dig right now.

I kiss him, hoping this will punctuate the discussion, and move into the bathroom to look for my hairbrush. I check the cabinets and under the sink, and then settle for a comb. The downside to paying someone to clean and organize my apartment is that I can never find my stuff.