The Graves Page 10

“It’s a good school.”

  “Yeah, and it’s all women. If I’m going to fork over seventy grand or whatever it costs in five years to send my kid to college, I want her attention on the books, not the boys.”

  I look around, take in the conifers and the calm waters of Lake Waban. All this serenity makes me nervous.

  “How about we head to the morgue?” I say.

  “Let’s stop for lunch on the way,” Kevin says. “I’m starving.”

  I direct him to Blue Ginger, an upscale Asian-fusion restaurant in Wellesley. Kevin has the salmon, and I get the sablefish. If I were with Ty, I’d skip the entrée and go right to the bittersweet chocolate cake, but I don’t want to be judged by Kevin, who seems to have appointed himself chief of the nutrition police.

  Kevin takes a few bites of his fish, then puts down his fork.

  “You gotta admit it seems funny that both our victims had all those loose Oxy pills.”

  “Drugs could be one more thing that ties these cases together,” I say.

  “I hope we don’t have another rape murder on our hands soon,” he says.

  A couple of professorial-looking men, with facial hair and oxford shirts, stop eating and look over at us.

  I shush Kevin. “Indoor voice. Restaurant behavior.”

  I look around the restaurant, at the other diners, who are enjoying their meals. The most pressing issue on their minds is probably whether they’ll get tenure or how they did on their orals. Kevin looks at my plate; I haven’t touched my fish. He slides sweet potato fries in front of me, and I grab a few. Then a few more.

  “They’ve got to have suppliers,” I say.

  “I can call the drug unit and see if they can line us up with a snitch.”

  I think about my favorite informant / drug dealer: Freddie Craven. “I know someone who’s been pinched a bunch of times for selling to college kids, and he knows most of the local slangers,” I say.

  “Do you think he’ll talk?”

  The last time I saw Freddie, he had his left hand wrapped around my throat and his right hand on my Rolex. I never turned him in to the police, and now that seems like a wise decision.

  “Freddie Craven will talk,” I say. “I’m positive.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I don’t tell Kevin about my encounter with Freddie Craven. There’s no need to get him all riled up. I’m over it; my knee has healed, and it was a good reminder that I need a new can of pepper spray. I am, however, still mourning the loss of my last bottle of Chanel No. 5, which is too expensive to replace right now.

  We drive to the Dorchester health center where Freddie’s mother works as a receptionist. At a traffic light near Emerson College, two twentysomethings link arms. They step into the crosswalk, captivated by each other, oblivious to the Mercedes zooming toward them, almost plowing them down. The squeal of the brakes and the blast of the horn bring them out of their amorous trance. I’m envious. I’ve only felt that kind of unambivalent attraction once, with Tim, and I’m doubtful that I’ll find it again. I love Ty, but I don’t know if I’ll ever stop doubting our relationship. I hope Caitlyn and Rose got to experience a moment of carefree abandon.

  When we arrive at the clinic, the waiting area is packed with people suffering from a variety of ailments. I imagine the possible diagnoses: influenza, conjunctivitis, lice. My stomach turns, my eyes water, and my head itches.

  Kevin knows that, for me, a room full of germs is like a torture chamber.

  “This must be hell for you,” he says, “all these sick people, spreading their diseases. You’re taking one for the team.”

  I shiver, then worry that I’ve got a fever. “I think I’m catching a cold.”

  “This is a step up from our last case, with the roach-infested apartment and sewer rats.”

  Kevin is always the optimist. I see a box of tissues, take one, and hold it over my mouth, in an attempt to filter the germ-infested air. A woman sees me walking in her direction and catches my eye. She leans back, crosses her arms, and sneers. “Shouldn’t you be downtown, putting away innocent people?”

  I don’t recognize the face, but I’ll never forget the voice. She was a hostile witness in one of my first felony trials. I cross-examined the stuffing out of her. The defendant, her boyfriend, is now serving a seven-to-ten for pistol-whipping and robbing a grocery clerk.

  Kevin puts his hand on my back and guides me toward the reception area.

  “I can’t take you anywhere,” he says.

  Freddie’s mother is at the desk, on the phone. I met her last year, when I was prepping him for trial. There’s no need to reintroduce myself.

  She covers the mouthpiece of the phone and rolls her eyes. “What’s he done now?”

  Apparently, I’m not a fan favorite at the clinic.

  “We need to talk to him,” I say.

  “Me, too. I haven’t heard from him in over a week.”

  “Any idea where he might be?”

  “Nope.”

  “We’d appreciate it if you could let him know we’re looking for him.”

  “Same here.”

  We turn to leave, but she calls out. “Wait a minute.” She scribbles something on an appointment card and hands it to me. “If you see him, tell him he’s got a dentist appointment on Tuesday.”

  We make our exit, just in time to avoid getting coughed on by a toddler with a runny nose and chicken-poxed face. As soon as we’re outside, I remove a bottle of Purell from my tote and slather it on my hands, all the way up to my elbows. If it wasn’t toxic, I’d pour the rest of the bottle down my throat.

  Kevin and I drive around the city, checking out places where Freddie has been arrested or seen recently: South Station, Mission Hill, the Boston Common. Then we visit areas where we know students go when they want to score drugs: the Theater District, the Fenway. We come up with nothing, or bubkes, as Kevin calls it.

  On my third lap around the Victory Gardens, my feet start to ache; I regret my choice in footwear. Today was supposed to be an office day, with a quick stop at Wellesley College. If I’d have known what we’d be doing, I’d have worn something more appropriate, like combat boots.

  “Should we call it a day?” Kevin says.

  “Let’s try one last place, Beacon Hill.”

  “What makes you think Freddie is hanging out there with the highfalutin folks?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  We circle the Hill, traveling down Charles Street, up Mount Vernon, past my parents’ house on Louisburg Square. I feel a tinge of guilt that I haven’t been by to check on my mother.

  We’re about to give up when I spot Freddie on Joy Street, sneaking out of a driveway. I hope he was just peeing in the alley, but it’s just as likely that he was doing a home invasion.

  “There he is,” I say.

  Kevin pulls onto the sidewalk, bolts out of the car, and chases after him. Freddie is no match for Kevin. Freddie is young and slippery, but Kevin has spent the last twenty years at the gym, doing sprints and squats for just this purpose. When Kevin catches up with him, he grabs Freddie by the shoulders and yanks him in, just as Freddie did to me a few weeks ago. I hope he experiences the same fear. Kevin pats him down and pulls a wrench from Freddie’s back pocket. I roll down the window.

  “Possession of burglarious tools is a crime,” I say.

  Freddie notices me for the first time. His face falls. If he was scared a minute ago, he’s petrified now.

  He clears his throat. “I wasn’t doing anything, I swear.”

  Kevin opens the back door and gestures him into the car.

  “Tell it to the judge, Mr. Goodwrench.”

  Freddie climbs in the car, and Kevin takes off.

  “Where are we going?” Freddie says.

  We don’t respond, choosing to let him sweat it out. Kevin cuts across Cambridge Street, onto Storrow Drive, and comes to a stop in front of the Nashua Street Jail. The location isn’t lost on Freddie. I turn to face him.

  “May
be we can help each other out,” I say.

  He fidgets, takes out a pack of Newports, slaps it against the palm of his hand, and removes a cigarette from the box. He fingers it, rolls it in his palm, then puts it in his mouth.

  “That’s not a cigarette, Freddie. You have a joint in your mouth,” I say.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Kevin puts out his hand, and Freddie surrenders the marijuana.

  “We want to ask you about the college girls who were murdered,” I say.

  “That wasn’t me, I swear.”

  Kevin turns off the engine.

  “Any idea where they were getting their Oxy?” I say.

  He shakes his head. “I’d tell you if I knew.”

  I show him a picture of Tommy Greenough.

  “Have you seen this guy before?”

  He looks at Tommy’s photo, his eyes widen slightly, revealing a hint of recognition.

  “You know him.”

  “Sure. He’s been all over the news.”

  A couple of uniformed corrections officers pass the car and walk up the steps to the jail. Kevin is losing his patience.

  “Get out of the car and put your hands behind your back.”

  “Enjoy your stay at Nashua Street. I hope you get a cell with a water view,” I say.

  Freddie stays in the car, fidgets with his Timex, which is probably stolen.

  “Okay, fine. I’ve seen that guy around LaVerne Street,” he says.

  “Have you sold to him?” Kevin says.

  “Maybe.”

  Kevin takes out his handcuffs and flips them open. Freddie sits on his hands. “Okay, yeah. I sold to him. Who hasn’t? That guy is always out there. He buys from lots of people.”

  “We’re going to need a formal statement. And you’re going to have to testify in the grand jury,” I say.

  “Whatever you want. Can I go?”

  “Go ahead. Screw,” Kevin says.

  Freddie looks at him, unsure.

  “Get out of here,” Kevin says.

  Freddie, a felon who doesn’t have to be told thrice, gets out of the car, starts to take off toward the Science Park T stop.

  I shout after him. “One more thing!”

  He freezes and comes back to the car window. “What?”

  “Your mother wants you to know you have a dentist appointment on Tuesday.”

  I hand him the appointment card through the window, and he watches us drive away.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Later, on my way home from work, I stop by my parents’ house to see how my mother is doing and to talk to my father. Odds are fifty-fifty that I’ll find them at home—a broken arm isn’t likely to slow my mother. The last time she stayed home and missed an event due to illness was after her brow lift. She’s a pro at concocting self-serving excuses to explain stitches and bruises. She’ll probably go with: I was dashing off to organize a charity event at the Vincent Club and I tripped on a squash racquet.

  Serena, the sanest member of the household, lets me in. She gives me a hug and takes my coat.

  “How is she?” I say.

  She wraps her hand around an imaginary glass, brings it to her lips, and tilts her head back. Drunk.

  “They’re having dinner,” she says.

  My parents are in the dining room. They never eat in the kitchen, even when it’s just the two of them. Growing up, my brothers and I were banned from that section of the house. My mother told us it was a place for staff, not family. I’d never cooked a meal or loaded a dishwasher until I was in law school, living in my first apartment.

  “Abigail, what a lovely surprise.” My mother’s words are welcoming, but her speech is slurred, and her tone is forbidding.

  My father musters up a smile. “Muffin, come join us.”

  I give my mother an air kiss and my father a real kiss, and then take a seat at the table. It looks like a normal night at home, except for the sling on Mother’s arm and the bags under my father’s eyes. Serena sets me a place and passes me a platter of roast lamb, rosemary potatoes, and green beans. I help myself to a large portion of everything.

  “How are you feeling?” I say.

  “Busy, busy, busy,” my mother says. “Our calendar is filled to the gills.”

  I take a bite of the lamb; the meat is rich and tender. My mother, more interested in the wine than the food, uses her fork to pick up a potato, inspects it, then puts it down.

  “Your friend popped in earlier,” she says.

  I’m not sure who she’s talking about.

  “Ty was here?”

  “No, your doctor friend. He stopped by my room. Right before I checked out.”

  “Before you were discharged, dear,” my father says in between bites. “It’s a hospital, not a hotel.”

  “His name was Aldridge.”

  I take a sip of wine. “Chip Aldridge?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  I downplay the connection to avoid further discussion. “He’s not really a friend. He’s more of an acquaintance.”

  She doesn’t let it drop. “He seems like a fine young man, and quite eligible.”

  My father backs her up. “His father was at Exeter a few years before me.”

  “We know his aunt and uncle, Nick and Nicki Lowell,” my mother says.

  My parents would love to have someone like Chip as a member of the family. He and Charlie could play tennis at Longwood. Our mothers could drink martinis while our fathers traded tips on insider trading and corporate greed.

  “He seems to fancy you.” My mother taps the rim of her wineglass, signaling my father that she wants a refill.

  I occupy myself by finishing my plate of food, hoping she’ll change the subject. She usually has conversational ADD, flitting from topic to topic, but tonight she’s glommed onto the subject of Chip Aldridge and won’t let go.

  “Maybe we should invite him for Thanksgiving,” my mother says.

  “We’ll be in Positano,” my father says.

  After dinner, I help Serena take my mother up three flights of stairs and change her into her nightgown. When she’s safely in bed, thumbing through the latest issue of Town & Country, I pour myself another glass of wine and join my father in his study. He’s seated behind his enormous mahogany desk, reading The Wall Street Journal.

  I slip into one of the leather club chairs.

  “Did you know Max is running for mayor?” I say.

  He looks up from the Journal and peers over his reading glasses.

  “I already cut him a check,” he says.

  I’m surprised Max went directly to my father.

  “He should have told me before he hit you up for cash.”

  “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Max hasn’t exactly been supportive of my efforts.”

  “What efforts?” my father says.

  I finish my wine and consider having another, but set the glass aside.

  “I’d like to be named as Max’s replacement,” I say.

  My father removes his reading glasses and takes his time folding the newspaper.

  “You want to be the district attorney?” he says.

  I rub my sweaty palms together. I can stare down the most vicious of criminals, but tonight I feel like a nervous schoolgirl.

  “I don’t expect you to support it, but I’m hoping you don’t work against me.”

  He sits back and smiles. “I’ve always said you’re a born leader.”

  “Really? I thought you wanted me to leave the DA’s office.”

  “I do, but if you insist on staying there, you might as well be the boss. You won’t have to be out at those miserable crime scenes, at all hours, chasing down felons. How do we secure that appointment?”

  “It’s up to the governor.”

  I know my father plays squash with him at the Harvard Club every Thursday, but I can’t bring myself to make the ask.

  He nods, a smile spreading across his face. “I’ll give him a call.”

  When
I came in the room, I was hoping my father wouldn’t sabotage my chances. I didn’t imagine that he’d tap his direct line to the governor. This is exactly what I need to push my candidacy past Cassandra’s and over the edge.

  “Don’t forget,” he says, “your great-uncle was in Reagan’s cabinet, and your grandfather worked for Bush.”

  “You know I’m a Democrat, right?”

  “Public service is an honorable profession, even for Democrats.”

  “Mom may not be as enthusiastic.”

  “Your mother isn’t your biggest obstacle. Tyson’s the one you should be worried about.”

  I take a breath, unsure of how to respond. I’d always wondered if my father hired a private investigator to look into Ty’s background, as he did when Missy and Charlie got engaged. I think I have my answer.

  “He’s grown on me,” my father says, “but it’s hard to present yourself as the chief law enforcement officer for the county with an ex-con boyfriend.”

  I cringe at the description. “He can’t change the past.”

  “No, but you can plan your future. There are other men out there, men who are just as attractive and won’t put limits on your potential. Think about it.”

  When I get up to leave, my father offers to call his car service to take me home, but I prefer to walk. I tell him I want to get some air. I walk around the Public Garden, and when I reach Arlington Street, I take a small detour that lands me in front of Chip’s building on Commonwealth Ave. The lights on the third floor are on, the curtains drawn. I pause for a moment and think about how much less complicated life could be if I was with a guy like Chip Aldridge.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  My alarm sounds at five, but I’ve been awake for hours, thinking about Caitlyn and Rose, imagining how they felt during the final moments of their lives. I consider the options: panic, pain, resignation, peace. And I worry about who could be next.

  After my shower, I make coffee, turn on the TV, and flip through the local news stations. Channel 4 is running a story about campus safety, offering stale advice: Carry a whistle. Be aware of your surroundings. Walk in pairs. Channel 5 is featuring a creepy-looking martial arts expert who is demonstrating self-defense techniques. I think I prosecuted that guy for child abuse a couple of years ago. On Channel 7, Carl Ostroff is positioned in front of city hall, reporting on the election. I up the volume.