Mission Hill (25 page)

I start toward the stairs but remember that the stairwell locks from the inside and my badge won't work on Max's floor. I take the elevator and get off on the executive floor. Owen buzzes me in and follows me into Max's office, where we find him behind his desk, finishing a beer.

“You look like you could use a drink,” Max says. “Let's all head over to the Red Hat. It'll be like old times.”

Back in the day, Max, Tim, Owen, and I would go out after work on Friday nights. Various others would join us, but we were the constants, and we all enjoyed the ritual. Tim was still single, Owen was still drinking, and Max's alcoholism hadn't yet fully blossomed. We'd walk across the street to the Kinsale and trade war stories from the past week. These days, going to bars with Max is a chore. His drinking got worse after he was elected into office, and it has been escalating in the past year.

“Stevie's got a hockey tournament,” Owen says, putting on his coat and grabbing his briefcase. “He made bantam. Can't miss it. Call if you need anything.”

“I've still got a lot of work to do on my closing,” I say after Owen is gone.

“Come on—I'm buying. Your old man told me you're a little short on cash these days.”

It's not like my father to talk about family business, least of all money, with an outsider.

“My father called you?”

“Actually, I called him. I'm thinking about running for mayor, and I formed an exploratory committee. I asked if he'd be my finance chair.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that he'd love to help, but only under one condition.”

“You switch to Republican?”

He laughs. “I'd never survive as a Republican in this city. Besides, it's not my party affiliation that concerns him.”

“Then what is it?”

“He wants me to fire you.”

I knew my father wouldn't give up on his mission to get me out of this office, but I didn't think he'd recruit Max.

“What did you say?”

“I told him you're my strongest player and I'm not letting you go. But if I'm elected mayor, I'll get you out of here by taking you with me to City Hall.”

“Clever. That'll light a fire under him.”

“It did. He agreed to host a fund-raiser at the Liberty Hotel next month,” he says, putting on his coat. “Come on—one drink.”

“Just one,” I say.

When we get outside Bulfinch, Carl is doing a live shot. We stand in the background and eavesdrop.

“A spokesman for the district attorney declined comment, but insiders have confirmed that Melvin Jones has close ties to this administration, both financially and politically. Jones has been a loyal donor and field organizer for the past three years. Also, reliable sources informed us that there is a link between Melvin Jones and his son's escape from the hospital. Some speculate that this will tie back to the district attorney.”

Max looks at me. “This is bad.”

I nod.

“Where did he get that bullshit?”

“I don't know,” I say. “Maybe Josh McNamara.”

“Fuck those feebs.”

I glance over at Carl, trying to hide my discomfort. Max knows a lot of people, and it wouldn't surprise me if someone told him they saw me with Josh over at the federal courthouse last night. I decide to say something about it in the bar.

It takes us about an hour to walk the few blocks to the Red Hat. Max stops every few feet to shake hands, answer questions about Tim's murder, and accept condolences. Both Sandra and Max's police detail, Detective Mark Jackson, walk a short distance behind us.

When we finally arrive, we take seats in a back booth. Sandra and Mark sit at the bar, where they can keep an eye on us as well as the front door. They're both armed and ready to pounce—they'd make a cute couple. It looks like Sandra thinks so too. She's flipping back her ombré hair extensions in between sips of Diet Coke, laughing enthusiastically at whatever Mark says.

Max orders a bourbon, and I ask for a Rolling Rock. The red wine here is always either sour or watered down.

Max waits until we're alone before speaking. “This isn't the first time a reporter has gone after me, but it's always been case related. This time it feels personal. Carl Ostroff is out for blood,” he says.

“He cornered me out on the street tonight.” I get this out up front to cover my bases in case Owen has already told him that he saw us talking. “He asked about a connection between you and Melvin Jones.”

I lean in to be sure my fake ruby camera captures his response. Max downs his drink and signals the waitress for another round. I've barely had a sip from my beer bottle.

“Ostroff created those rumors just so he could have something to report,” Max says. “What did you say to him?”

“I told him the truth.”

“Which is?”

“I don't know anything about it.”

“Here's everything you need to know—there's absolutely nothing to his bullshit.”

I shift in my seat and watch beads of sweat drip down the beer bottle and pool on the table.

“Does that mean what he's saying isn't true?”

“How can you even ask me that?”

I look away, ashamed of myself, but when I look back at Max, for a second, it seems like he's talking directly into the microphone on my jacket. The waitress brings over his second drink, and he downs it like medicine, in three quick gulps.

“Abby, we've known each other for over a decade. I've trusted you with the most sensitive cases in the office. Why the hell are you talking to the FBI behind my back?”

“That's the reason I stopped down to see you.” I try not to seem too eager. “Josh had Melvin in custody. He brought me over to the courthouse to talk to him.”

“What did he say?”

“He invoked.”

Max tries to catch the waitress's eye.

“What's the thinking? What's Melvin hiding?” he says.

“Money.”

“That's not a secret. Melvin gives big every election cycle, that's his game: the mayor, the council, the reps.”

“And to you.”

I nurse my beer. Max starts in on his third drink.

“They focused on what Melvin expects in return for his donation.” I say.

“He wants access, and that's what he gets. I take his calls and listen to his opinion on high-profile cases, but that's as far as it goes.”

“He didn't call you when Orlando was charged with murder?”

“No, I had no idea.”

Feeling jittery, I clasp my hands in my lap and cut to the chase. “What about the Big Dig?”

“He never approached me about that, either.”

“I think they've impaneled a federal grand jury to look into your dealings with him.”

Max puts down his drink and looks at me. “Did they subpoena you to testify?”

“Not yet, but they might.”

“Do you think I'm on the take?”

“Honestly, I don't know what to think.” I take a breath and exhale. “Did you have something to do with Tim's murder?”

I know this will upset him. I don't expect him to confess, but I want to send a message. The idea of Max involved in bribery or extortion is no longer out of the realm of possibility, at least not to me.

“Jesus, I would never, ever orchestrate the murder of one of my own.” He puts his head in his hands and looks like he's about to cry. “You know how things work. If word starts to get out that I'm under suspicion, I'll never recover. My reputation will be destroyed, my career will be over.”

My phone vibrates, and I'm happy for the interruption. I check the screen.

“It's Blum, probably calling about the alibi witness. I have to take it.”

I move to the back of the bar. Sandra swivels her bar stool so she can keep an eye on me.

“Orlando knows his back is up against the wall,” Blum says.

“Meaning what?” I say.

“He wants to plead guilty.”

I feel like I should pinch myself—this sounds too good to be real. It's noisy in the bar—maybe I didn't hear right.

“Orlando is agreeing to plea to murder and take a life sentence?”

“He won't plea to murder one, but he'll agree to a murder two.”

If Orlando pleads guilty to second-degree murder, he'll get a life sentence, but he'll be parole eligible in fifteen years. That'd be a good resolution, but not a great one. The only way to guarantee life without any possibility of parole is with a first-degree murder conviction. Still, I don't want to dismiss it out of hand.

I look over at Max, who is focused on his next bourbon, swishing it around in his glass.

“I need a little time,” I say.

“I figured you'd have to run it up the flagpole.”

“I'm not sure where Max is right now. It'll probably take me a while to find him. I'll call you as soon as I do.”

I hang up and return to our booth.

“Anything important?” Max says.

“No,” I say.

 

Chapter Forty-four

Sandra double-parks in front of the Metropolis, a diner in the South End, a high-rent, high-crime Boston neighborhood. Kevin is visible through the window, seated in a booth, scanning his phone and drinking coffee.

“Kevin will give me a ride back to the office. I'll see you there in about an hour,” I say, jumping out of the car.

Sandra watches me go inside and waits until I reach the booth and Kevin gives her the nod before pulling away.

I take off my coat and sit. “Orlando wants to plea to second.”

“Wow, that's out of left field. What do you think?”

Our multipierced, magenta-haired waitress pours me a cup of coffee and refills Kevin's. I ask for a chocolate croissant. Kevin orders scrambled eggs and turkey bacon.

“I want him to rot in prison,” I say.

“That's not nice,” the waitress says before moving on to the next table.

“I wouldn't be so quick to turn down an offer on a murder plea,” Kevin says.

“Second degree isn't enough. I want to hook him on a first.”

“It's a crapshoot. You never know what a jury is going to do.”

“I think they're going to do the right thing—convict his ass for first-degree murder and put him away for life.”

“You know how it goes—there could be one nutcase who hangs the jury and makes us do it all over again. Or worse, they could acquit. There's something to be said for having that bird in the hand.”

When the waitress delivers our food, we both dig in. I bite into the croissant, and powdered sugar snows all over my new black cardigan. Wiping at it with a paper napkin only makes it worse.

“I say we take the plea,” Kevin says.

“I think we should turn it down. He's a scary guy, and I don't ever want to see him back out on the street.”

“God forbid we lose, but if we do, people will think you rejected the plea because you've got an axe to grind.”

“This isn't about protecting my image.”

“What did Max say when you told him?”

I take a sip of coffee and then another. “I didn't tell him.”

“I'm no expert in office politics, but I know something about chain of command. You don't have the authority to make a binding decision on a murder plea.”

“I don't think Max can be objective.”

“You have to ask someone. Or, at the very least, tell them that he approached you with an offer.”

“I'm going to run it by Owen, but I want to get your blessing first.”

I finish my pastry. Kevin scoops up a spoonful of eggs.

“I'd feel better about it if we knew who their alibi witness is,” he says.

“I'm not sure Blum even has an alibi witness.”

“You think he's bluffing?”

“Ever since Volpe ordered him to disclose the name and address of his so-called witness, he's been dragging his feet and avoiding me.”

Kevin calls Nestor and asks him to go by Blum's office to lean on him and see what he can find out. Kevin picks up the tab, and we head over to Bulfinch, where Sandra is waiting. They've become quite a tag team.

After a few minutes of trying to figure out who the alibi witness could be, I come up empty. My phone rings, and I'm surprised to see that it's Owen calling from an inside line. It's a sunny Sunday afternoon, a time when he is usually running around a field with his kids.

He says he has an update on Tim's murder and asks me to come down to his office. Perfect timing—he's saved me the trouble of hunting him down to talk about the plea offer. I hope he's in a good mood, but in case he's not, I reach into my bottom desk drawer and dig under some papers, where I find Patsy's bracelet. Hopefully, it'll remind him of our friendship and grease the skids. I hook the bracelet around my wrist and push the sleeves of my sweater up to my elbows.

Owen is at his desk, sipping from a handmade “My Dad Rocks” coffee mug. The cup is misshapen and chipped, but he carries it around like a trophy. Owen's devotion to his kids and the pleasure that he derives from being a parent almost makes me want to have a couple of my own. Almost.

“How's the trial going?” he says.

“Blum is pulling some last-minute stunts.”

He looks at the bracelet and smiles.

“Middlesex is no longer running Tim's murder investigation,” he says.

I take a seat in an armchair with the Suffolk Law School seal laser-engraved on its crown.

“Who's handling it?” I say.

“The FBI is doing the investigation, and the U.S. attorney's office is taking over the prosecution.”

Josh is sneaky, but I would have expected him to let me know that there's been an official shift in the handling of the case.

“Why would Middlesex hand it off so easily? It's the most significant trial they'll ever have.”

“The feds are looking to impose the death penalty. You can't argue with lethal injection.”