Mission Hill (28 page)

“You want me to immunize Melvin Jones?” I like the idea of forcing him to answer questions but am worried that it could backfire.

Always cautious, Owen says, “Let's keep our eye on the ultimate prize. What if he's involved in Tim's murder? We'll never be able to charge him.”

“We know Melvin didn't kill Jasmine, so we're not giving up anything,” Max says.

“What about your own exposure, Max?” Owen says.

“I have nothing to hide.”

“I think it's a bad idea,” Owen says.

In spite of Owen's misgivings, Max's suggestion and acquiescence in the plan bolsters my confidence in his innocence and Orlando's guilt. I return to my office and phone Kevin to make sure he's on board. After I write up a trial subpoena for Melvin, I call Josh to find out where Melvin is being held.

“Max was worked up,” I say. “I don't think he'd be so adamant about calling Melvin to the stand if he had something to hide.”

“We'll see.”

“I need to get him on the transport list so he's in court tomorrow.”

“He's not in federal custody anymore. He posted bail on our obstruction case this morning.”

“Where is he?”

“Back home in Weston.”

I spend the rest of the night working on an emergency immunity petition, e-mailing letters to all the district attorney's offices and the attorney general, notifying them of the proposal, and asking if they have any reason to oppose a grant of immunity. They all sign off and send the letters back.

Sandra drives me home. Walking into my apartment building, my cell phone rings. It's Kevin.

“Did you serve Melvin with the subpoena?” I say.

“Yup. He was in his living room, tossing back a frosty one. He's got a nice place out there in the burbs—huge swimming pool, tennis court, the whole nine yards. All gated and alarmed, totally secure. I wouldn't be surprised if there were snipers on the roof.”

“Was he cooperative?”

“He agreed to meet us in your office tomorrow morning, before court.”

“Was he surprised to see you?”

“Not really,” Kevin says. “I kind of had the impression that he was expecting me.”

 

Chapter Forty-eight

At a little after 5:00
A.M.
, Ty comes into the living room, wearing wool pants and a suit jacket. Not used to seeing him in anything other than jeans, I look up from my laptop and smile.

“Nice duds,” I say.

“I'm going to cook us up some oatmeal, the old-fashioned kind, steel cut. I want to fortify you before you head off to war.” He gives me a kiss. “I hear Melvin Jones is taking the stand today.”

“How did you know?”

“It's all over the Internet. He looks like a mean son of a bitch.”

“I have no idea what to expect. I'm prepared for hostile, would prefer cooperative, but will be happy if he doesn't throw a shoe at me.”

Ty moves into the kitchen and grinds coffee beans. “Mind if I come?” he says.

“To court? Really?”

“You've seen me perform, so I figure it's only fair if I see you.”

“I never knew you wanted to watch.”

While Tim was alive, seeing Ty in court would have made me uncomfortable. Even though Julia came to see Tim a couple of times, I never wanted Ty to be there. Now I welcome his support and feel ashamed that I've never invited him.

We finish breakfast, and when we get outside, Sandra is waiting. At my request, she's loosened the reins a little. I don't think I need security anymore, since Orlando has been caught and Darrius was arrested, but Kevin and Owen insisted that I keep the detail until after the verdict comes in.

Sandra double-parks on Cambridge Street, where Ty and I hop out for a quick Starbucks run. I've downed a few cups of coffee already, but this is going to be a long day.

We walk under the copper teakettle into Starbucks. The barista looks sleepy, but the line is short. We get our drinks: Americano for Ty; grande latte for me; and caramel macchiato for Sandra. As Ty goes to the condiment counter and pours soy milk into his coffee, I grab a slice of pound cake. The oatmeal was good, but Ty's whole vegan kick has me craving processed carbs.

Heading back to the car, we cross paths with Rodney Quirk, who is likely en route to his post in the coffee shop. While Rodney and I play a round of who blinks first, a cyclist cuts in front of me, almost knocking me down. I drop my coffee. Ty grabs my arm and pulls me out of the way. Rodney passes us, continuing in the opposite direction.

“Do you know that guy?” Ty says.

“Who?”

“The guy you were just staring at.”

I hesitate, weighing my options. I promised to be truthful with Ty, but that requires admitting weakness and possible paranoia. Lying allows me to cling to my precarious equilibrium and get through the day without being plagued with questions.

“I'm not sure. He looked kind of familiar. I may have prosecuted him years ago,” I say.

“What did he do?”

“Huh?”

“What crime did he commit?”

“I don't know—stole a car or something. I can't remember. It was a long time ago.”

While Ty goes back to Starbucks to replace my coffee, I wait in the car with Sandra.

“Kevin texted me,” she says. “He's at your office with Melvin.”

“I hope Melvin gives it up fast. I still have to prep for my cross of Orlando.”

She drops us off at Bulfinch and goes to park the car. “Tell Kevin that I'll be up in five minutes,” she says.

When Ty and I get off the elevator, I'm surprised to see Melvin, alone, in the reception area.

“Hello, Mr. Jones,” I say. “Where is Detective Farnsworth?”

Melvin rises from his chair. He's got good manners—I gotta give him that. He may have raised a murderer and committed a host of felonies himself, but he knows to stand when a lady enters the room.

“He said he'll be back in a minute,” Melvin says. “He told me that you'd be here with a female detective.”

“Have you been waiting long?”

“No. Actually, I was going to run across the street for a bagel, but I couldn't get out of the building. The stairwell and elevator doors are locked from the inside. Farnsworth probably thought I'd sneak out when he wasn't looking. But the truth is, I wouldn't miss this for the world.”

“Let's go get started.”

Ty looks at me and whispers in my ear, “Are you sure you're going to be okay with him—alone?”

I nod. Melvin is the least of my concerns. He's an aider and abettor, not a violent offender. Besides, Kevin will be here in a minute.

“Holler if you need anything,” Ty says.

“I'll do better than that—I'll whistle.”

I escort Melvin around the corner and into my office and close the door.

 

Chapter Forty-nine

Melvin watches as I hang my coat on the back of my door and take a seat behind the desk. I gesture for him to sit.

“I'm surprised you want me to testify,” he says.

“Why's that?”

“What I have to say isn't going to help your office or your case.”

“I hope you're not going to waste time with this ridiculous alibi theory.”

“That's not what I plan to talk about.”

“You shouldn't have tried to help Orlando escape,” I say.

“Do you want to give me a lecture, or do you want to listen to what I have to say?”

“Let's go over your testimony.”

I take out a notepad and scan the questions that I've prepared.

“Before you start, I have something to say and I think you're going to want to hear it.”

“I'm all ears.”

“There are things you don't know about how the folks in your office do business.”

I'm impatient but not disinterested. “Is this about Max?”

Melvin nods. “Yes, but it's not what you think.”

He starts to talk but stops when my office door swings open. We both look to see Owen barge in. His face is flushed, and he's breathing heavily, as though he just ran up a couple of flights of stairs.

Assuming he's here to read me the riot act for not taking the plea, I try to cut him off at the pass.

“I'm sorry, Owen, but we're in the middle of prep. I'll call you when we're done.”

He closes the door and leans against it. “Don't mind me. Pretend that I'm not even here.”

Owen is stubborn, but he's usually discreet. I can't quite get a read on what he's up to.

“Can we talk later?” I say.

“I'd like to hear what Melvin has to say.”

“I don't want to be rude, but we're pressed for time. I'll tell you about it later.”

“It's not safe for you to be in here, alone, with him,” Owen says.

“We're fine,” I say, wondering if we are, in fact, fine.

“Let him stay.” Melvin seems more clued in on what's going on than I am. “Owen, you should hear this. I was about to tell Ms. Endicott that someone in her office hasn't been playing by the rules.”

“That's rich, coming from you,” Owen says.

I'm confused and growing increasingly frustrated. Owen is loyal to Max, but Max authorized this meeting.

Melvin seems to be taunting Owen. “I got immunity, you know.”

“You don't need immunity,” Owen says. “You're not going to testify.”

“Yeah, he is,” I say. “I know you wanted me to take the plea, but I didn't. So I have to prepare.”

“You know why he wanted you to take the plea?” Melvin says.

“Because your kid is guilty as sin,” Owen says.

“Bullshit. He wanted you to take the plea because he doesn't want the truth to come out. He's worried about what I'm going to say.”

I turn to Melvin. “What are you going to say?”

Owen interrupts. “Who cares? He's a sleazeball liar who obstructed justice and aided and abetted in the escape of a murderer.”

My cell sounds. I let it go to voice mail. A second later, my office phone rings. I ignore that too.

“What's going on between you two?” I say.

“I paid bribes,” Melvin says. “About a hundred grand in all.”

“Shut up,” Owen says.

Melvin keeps talking. “It was to shut down the Big Dig investigation.”

My mind races as I try to process this. “So it's true. Max was taking bribes?”

“No—Max had nothing to do with it,” Melvin says.

I'm relieved but ashamed that I made the accusation. I wish I could take it back.

“Then who did you pay?” As soon as I ask the question, I know the answer. Stunned, I look at Owen. “You?”

Owen meets my eyes but doesn't speak.

“Yup—your friend Owen has a side business,” Melvin says.

“Shut the fuck up,” Owen says.

“Tim was getting close to indicting his ass,” Melvin says.

I catch a glimpse of the photo on my shelf—Owen, Tim, and me, smiling and hoisting our beer mugs. All these years, while we were working side by side, climbing the ranks of the DA's office, sharing moments of victory and defeat, Owen was taking bribes.

“I told Tim,” Melvin says. “He was going to give me immunity, and I was going to testify. He promised me that he wouldn't tell anyone, not even the FBI, until after I got out of the grand jury.”

That's why Tim didn't tell me what was going on. He was conducting an internal investigation of our colleague, our friend. I'm sure he wanted to talk about it, to get my input, and warn me, but he couldn't break confidentiality.

“Did you testify in the grand jury?” I say.

“I was supposed to, but I never got the chance.”

Owen and I lock eyes. His hand reaches into his coat and pulls out a black semiautomatic handgun. I freeze.

“Put it away, man,” Melvin says.

Owen isn't just an extortionist, he's a killer. Owen murdered Tim. I can hear my heartbeat as I picture the look in Tim's eyes as his friend stood in front of him, pressed a gun to his temple, and pulled the trigger.

The phones are ringing. Kevin is calling my cell. At the same time, Sandra is calling my office line.

“Don't think about answering.” Owen grips the gun, racks the slide, and points the muzzle at me. “Both of you, don't say a word.”

The gun looks like a .45 caliber, which means the magazine probably holds at least ten rounds of ammunition. I cling to the edge of my desk, my hands shaking.

“Owen, put the gun away,” I say. “You're only going to make things worse.”

Melvin bolts up out of his chair and tries to push Owen away from the door. Without hesitation, Owen turns and blasts off a round, striking Melvin in the thigh. He goes down, clutching his leg, moaning, grinding his teeth in pain.

“I should have done this months ago, but your house is like a fucking fortress.”

“Okay, man, whatever you want,” Melvin says.

Someone tries to push open the door, but Melvin is on the ground, blocking it. The door opens a few inches, slamming against his leg, and he shouts out in pain. Thank God. It has to be Kevin. Owen points the gun at the door.

“Kevin, we're in here. Be careful. He's going to shoot,” I say.

Owen fires another round. The bullet rips through the door.

“Farnsworth, I know you're armed. Put your gun down and leave it in the hallway, or I'll kill them both.” Owen walks to me, holds his gun at my head, and talks to Kevin. “Open the door, and come in with your hands over your head. Don't do anything stupid.”

The door opens slowly. It's not Kevin.

“What the hell is going on in there? Abby, are you okay?”

I'm shocked as Ty steps into view. We exchange shared looks of dread.

“Put your fucking hands up,” Owen says.

Ty raises his hands and locks his fingers behind his head. He looks down and sees Melvin, who is writhing on the floor.