The Graves Read online

“Go away.”

  “I know you’re in there.” Max opens the door and takes a seat. He sits back and plunks his feet on my desk, exposing a hole in the sole of his shoe. “What’s the progress report?”

  I’m tempted to tell him to get out of my office, that I’ll fill him in when I’m ready. He’s been a lousy friend lately. He shouldn’t have assigned Cassandra to my mother’s case, and he should have supported my candidacy to replace him. Still, he’s the boss, and has a certain amount of control over my fate.

  “We’ve looked into the victims’ computers and texts. All four of them have been working as call girls,” I say.

  “Can forensics connect them to each other?”

  “The texts are all to different numbers, all to disposable phones. The e-mails are from untraceable accounts.”

  He gets up to leave. “You want to sit in the corner office, solve the case.”

  I can’t help asking, “Have you heard anything about the appointment? Do I still have a shot?”

  “You’ve got a lot of supporters in the statehouse. The ultimate decision is up to the governor.”

  Max’s assistant comes to the door to tell him he’s late for a meeting. When he’s gone, I change into sensible shoes and get in the car to drive out to Franklin Park, the location of today’s search for Valerie. Volunteers have been out all week with stacks of Have You Seen This Woman? flyers, passing them out in shopping malls, sliding them under windshield wipers, and stapling them to trees. Yesterday, a dive team used side-scan sonar to search Jamaica Pond.

  When I arrive at the search site, a couple of dozen volunteers are standing in an open field, side by side, a few feet apart from each other. They move in unison, keeping their eyes on the ground, scouring every inch of grass. In the more wooded sections, law enforcement personnel work in pairs; Boston police officers, state troopers, and FBI agents, all distinguishable by the logos on the back of their windbreakers. A K-9 officer follows his rottweiler, who is sniffing and snorting his way into the brush.

  Walter Jackson is easily distinguishable. He’s unshaven, wearing work boots and gardening gloves, using a metal poker to move around leaves and branches. He looks exhausted but determined. I step through brush and introduce myself. He kicks at a bump in the earth, sighs when he sees it’s a rock. He looks up at me, takes off a glove, and shakes my hand. There’s dirt and sweat on his forehead. I give him a bottle of water.

  “You should take a break,” I say.

  On my way over, I picked up a Bistro Box at Starbucks. I figured feeding himself is the furthest thing from his mind. When I offer it to him, he shakes his head. He’s not interested in eating or small talk.

  “Did you check her bank accounts?” he says.

  “There hasn’t been any activity.”

  He hesitates and looks down, afraid to ask the next question. “They say the other girls were prostitutes, and Valerie was, too.”

  I soften my voice and speak slowly. “We have evidence that Valerie was involved in similar activity, but that doesn’t change anything as far as we’re concerned.”

  “She was a good girl, never gave me any trouble.” He mops his forehead with a dirty napkin and takes a few gulps of water.

  “Valerie sounds like she’s a lovely young woman. And you have every reason to be proud of her.”

  A Tufts van, emblazoned with an elephant, the school mascot, pulls up. A half-dozen college students get out and look around. They walk over to the volunteer check-in: a folding table, with sign-in sheets, area maps, and whistles. The search coordinator directs them to an area of brush, and they get to work.

  “Do you think we’ll find her?” Walter says.

  “I do, but it may take time.”

  “I read that sometimes college kids get stressed out and run away, then they show up a few weeks later,” he says.

  “That’s true.”

  “And I heard about a kid who got kidnapped, and six years later, she escaped.”

  “It happens.”

  He looks at the ground and moves some debris around with his foot.

  “Tell me, do you think she’s alive?”

  A search dog barks. A couple of uniforms talk on their two-way radios. A local church group holds hands and prays. A pile of leaves scatters in the breeze.

  I look Walter Jackson in the eye and tell him a lie. “Yes, I think Valerie could still be alive.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  When I get home from work, exhausted and hungry, Ty is in the kitchen, cooking. We haven’t fully recovered from our argument about finances and my mother. We exchange polite hellos and halfhearted kisses, and I retreat into the living room to watch the news. Media interest in Valerie’s disappearance is already waning. Yesterday, someone leaked word that the women were working as prostitutes, and reporters are losing interest. It’s football season, and stories about the abduction and murder of four young women have been bumped by recycled accounts of the Patriots’ Deflategate scandal.

  I turn off the set and join Ty in the kitchen, where he’s chopping vegetables. He juliennes a yellow pepper and throws together a chicken stir-fry. The concoction sizzles in the wok, releasing the aroma of fresh ginger, combined with just the right amount of garlic. Not to be outdone, I show off my culinary talents by tossing a bag of brown rice in the microwave and opening a bottle of Malbec.

  Ty plates the dishes while I clear my papers off the dining table.

  “Anything going on with your investigation?” he says.

  He rarely asks about my cases, which works out well since I can’t reveal specifics, and even if I could, I don’t like to burden him with the tragedy of it all. I’m at a standstill, however, and he’s a good sounding board. Sometimes I test-drive arguments and theories on him before presenting them to my juries.

  “Have you ever done online dating?” I say.

  He takes a few bites of food and puts down his chopsticks.

  “If you don’t want to talk about work, just say so.”

  “I am talking about work. These women all posted ads and had their own websites.”

  I could have phrased the question differently, without making it sound personal, but this way it’s a twofer. I can probe, without admitting I’m probing, and further my investigation, all at the same time.

  “I’ve never done the online thing,” Ty says.

  I didn’t think so. Handsome, sexy musicians don’t tend to have problems meeting women; their challenge is fending them off. The few times I’ve shown up unannounced at Ty’s performances, there has been at least one smitten fan, seeking his attention and affection.

  “What about you? Have you ever met someone online?” he says.

  I push aside the broccoli and take a bite of chicken.

  “No,” I say, which is technically true.

  I’ve never actually gone out with anyone from the Internet. Once, however, after a month of too few dates, and a night of too much wine, a colleague and I posted our pictures on Tinder. We right-swiped and left-swiped and found some attractive candidates, but as soon as I sobered up, I deleted my account. I was petrified that a juror, defense attorney, or, worst of all, a defendant would see me on the site. For the next month, every time I came face-to-face with a felon, I’d wonder if his smirk or stare meant that he had seen my picture.

  “Are you thinking about answering personal ads to try and find the guy?” he says.

  “Why not? We do it to catch child predators,” I say.

  “Maybe you should go undercover, or whatever you call it, and post your own ad. You know—build it and they will come.”

  “I like the way you think.”

  There’s a fine line between setting a trap and entrapment, but I think I can make a solid argument for the former. We finish dinner and clear the table. While Ty does the dishes, I open my office-issued laptop. If I use my personal computer, I’ll never be able to disable the spam that will come from this kind of a search. The office account has a stronger filter.
/>   I scroll through some of the sites that my victims posted on. Ty sits down next to me, hands me a plate of homemade apple crumble, and checks out the screen.

  “I can’t believe women are still hooking up with strangers,” he says. “Everyone’s got to know that there’s a serial killer out there. What the hell are they thinking?”

  “They’re desperate, drug addicted, delusional, or all of the above.”

  In my tote, I find my file with the victims’ ads and compare them with one another, searching for common threads, words or phrases that attracted the killer. If the FBI profiler had shown any insight or originality, I’d call for a consult. Instead, I stick with Ty.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking for a description,” I say. “Five five, slender, blue eyes, blond hair.”

  “Babe, you’re describing yourself. This is supposed to be a fake profile.”

  I devour the dessert, dropping clusters of brown sugar all over the keyboard.

  “Hold on,” I say. “I’m not done. Nineteen-year-old, Boston-area college sophomore, discreet and sophisticated, seeks arrangement.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Ty says.

  I cast a wide net, covering all the sites that our victims used and throwing a couple of new ones to the mix. After I hit the send button, I take our dishes into the kitchen. A minute later, my phone sounds. It’s the office IT specialist.

  “Abby, did someone steal your laptop?” he says.

  My Internet activity must have set off an alarm bell. He thinks I’ve been using my office computer to troll the Internet for dates. I decide to have a little fun with him.

  “No, I have my computer with me. Why, what’s up?”

  “Um … I … don’t mean to get personal.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “I get notified whenever someone uses an official government-issued computer for inappropriate personal use.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “There’s been some activity on your account,” he says.

  His breathing is shallow. I don’t want to give him a coronary.

  “Relax, I’m working on a case,” I say.

  “It’s after hours, and what you do on your own time is none of my business, but you should know that your laptop is subject to public information requests.”

  Clearly he’s heard this excuse a few times before, and he doesn’t believe me.

  “I really am working an investigation.”

  “Sure, okay.”

  He’s still not convinced. I hang up, get back online, toss out the bait to a few more sites.

  “Now what?” Ty says.

  “We wait and see if I get any nibbles.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I’m out of bed at five, eager to discover if anyone responded to the ads. I brew coffee, open my laptop, and log on. My inbox is empty. Now I know what it feels like to be my old high school classmate Minnie Dorset when she had to take her second cousin to the winter ball.

  When I get out of the shower, I notice a couple of missed calls from Kevin on my cell phone. As I’m about to hit redial, another call from Kevin comes in. I pick up on the first ring.

  “This can’t be good,” I say.

  “Are you sitting down?” he says.

  I take a sip of coffee and prepare myself for the sting of bad news.

  “Do we have a new victim?”

  “It’s not about our case. Why do you have to go to a dark place right off the bat?”

  I stand and look out the window. The sun isn’t up yet. There’s a shadowy figure, a jogger, out on the footpath by the river. I can’t tell if it’s a male or a female, but I hope the person is safe, out at this hour.

  “You’re not calling me at five thirty in the morning to deliver good news.”

  “Remember the guy Cassandra prosecuted last year for extortion and identity theft?”

  “The Houdini Hacker?”

  “She must’ve pissed him off big-time, because he broke into the DA’s computer system. He’s threatening to release everything.”

  My mind races. Since Tim’s murder and the threat of exposure about our relationship, I’ve been careful about electronic communications, but there are things from my past that I don’t want to see on the Internet. There are deleted e-mails between me and Tim. And flirty exchanges between me and Ty from after we first met at a murder scene, before he testified in the grand jury, and while we waited for the jury to return their guilty verdict.

  “Don’t worry. So far it looks like the only account that’s been compromised is Cassandra’s.” Kevin reads my silence. “Do I hear a smile?” he says.

  “I’d never take joy in Cassandra’s misfortune.”

  “Uh-huh. The guy sent a ransom note. He’s asking for a hundred grand.”

  Cassandra must be in a panic. She’s got to have something unsavory on her computer. At the very least, she’s got snarky comments about difficult witnesses or parodies of incompetent judges—we all do. I can’t imagine Max will ever kick in that kind of money to cover for her; she’s a mediocre lawyer, easily replaceable.

  I hang up with Kevin, grab my things, and Uber to the office. I was going to walk, but I want to get in to see Max first thing. Plus, a potential scandal involving my best frenemy is enough to get my heart pumping. I’m going to count that as my cardio for the day.

  It’s a little after seven when I arrive at Bulfinch, and Max isn’t in his office yet. Upstairs, I pass Cassandra’s door; it’s closed, but the light is on. I remind myself not to gloat and devise a mantra for the day; I repeat it to myself, over and over. I’m not the kind of person who takes pleasure in someone else’s pain. I’m not the kind of person who takes pleasure in someone else’s pain.

  I knock and listen for Cassandra’s voice to tell me to come in, but the door swings open. Cassandra looks pale. Max, standing next to her, looks paler. She looks at him, he nods, and she steps aside so I can enter. As soon as I cross the threshold, she closes the door.

  “You heard?” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t believe it’s already out there,” Max says.

  Max loosens his tie. His face is splotchy and his forehead is damp with sweat. I haven’t seen him this rattled since Tim was killed. Max cares about his employees, but there seems to be something bigger on his mind. Maybe the hacker got into his files as well.

  “Who told you?” Cassandra says.

  “Don’t worry, it was a cop,” I say. “He’s discreet.”

  Max looks out the window and mumbles under his breath. “A discreet cop—that’d be a first.”

  He turns around and looks at Cassandra; they lock eyes for a few seconds. She touches his elbow. There’s something going on between them, something intimate. Suddenly, it all adds up: the preferential treatment, the unexplained case assignments, the unearned support.

  “You two are…” I can’t even say it.

  Cassandra finishes for me. “Screwing?”

  “Jesus, Cassie,” Max says.

  “Get used to it. Soon the whole world is going to know,” she says.

  I’m as suspicious and cynical as they come, but I never imagined that Max and Cassandra were having an affair. He’s got vices, including a long struggle with alcohol, but infidelity never seemed to be on the menu. Max and Cindy have been married for almost twenty years; they have a teenage son together. It feels like he’s cheating on more than them; it feels like he’s cheating on me.

  “This couldn’t have come at a worse time, in the middle of a mayor’s race,” he says. “Those e-mails are going to sink me.”

  I feel like telling him he’s on his own, he got himself into this mess, but I’m not going to kick him when he’s down.

  “No one cares about sex scandals anymore,” I say.

  “My wife does.” He chokes up. “She’ll leave me. I can’t do this without her.”

  “Thanks.” Cassandra turns her back on him.

  He walks to her, holds on to he
r shoulders, but she shrugs him off.

  “Come on, Cassie, you knew I was never going to leave her. I told you from the start.”

  I don’t need to be in the middle of this lovers’ quarrel. I walk toward the door.

  “Hold on, Abby,” Max says.

  I put my hand on the doorknob, ready to flee. Max puts his hand on the door to keep it closed.

  “The guy is shaking me down, looking for a hundred grand.”

  “I know where this is going,” I say. “Forget it.”

  Max looks at Cassandra and nods, signaling her to leave. She opens the door and turns to me.

  “I wouldn’t be too quick to say no,” she says. “You owe us for keeping your mother’s arrest under wraps.”

  Before I can respond, she’s gone. Max tries to do damage control.

  “She would never call the press. We’re all friends. Please, I need your help.”

  “You’re actually thinking about giving in to extortion? And you want me to help?” I say.

  “It happens all the time. Big companies pay off hackers, so do governments. Last year the Tewksbury and Swansea police departments paid ransoms. Abby, I’m desperate.”

  He takes my elbow, looks me in the eyes, and starts to cry. Like the skilled litigator that he is, Max has managed to put me on the defensive. He’s the one who’s done wrong, yet he’s making me feel like the bad guy.

  “I don’t have the money,” I say.

  “You father could write the check without blinking an eye.”

  “Why should I help you?”

  “We’ve got a long history.”

  This is exactly what I said to him when I wanted his support.

  “We’ve been through a lot together,” he says.

  I remember the suffering Max and I endured after Tim and Owen were killed. We’ve both had a hard time trying to get to the other side of the trauma, and we leaned on each other for support. I have to believe that a year ago, Max never would have behaved like this. It doesn’t excuse what he’s done, but I do have empathy. I almost strayed myself.

  “I’ll talk to my father,” I say, “but I want something in exchange.”

  I’m a friend, not a fool.