The Fens Page 2

  “Moe Morrissey is the highest-paid player in the history of the sport, but he isn’t worth squat without Rudy Maddox,” Kevin says.

  On the next pitch, the batter blasts a line drive toward Moe, who ducks, but not in time. The ball strikes him hard, on the side of his face. My head throbs in sympathy. The park goes quiet; people stand to get a better look at Moe’s injury, while trainers and the team doctor race to the mound. I can’t see if Moe is bleeding, but the doctor puts a towel to Moe’s face. A couple of minutes later, the fans cheer in support and relief, as Moe lumbers off the field on his own.

  After Moe is replaced, the game ends in a rout and the stadium empties quickly. We flag down a security guard, who walks us to the dugout, where Donnie Rourke, the team manager, is dressing down a player. Donnie, a former athlete, seems to have lost most of his muscle tone, but not his brawn. We introduce ourselves; his handshake is firm but his expression is tepid.

  He signals us to follow him into the tunnel. He walks quickly and I have to struggle a little to keep pace. He barrels past the room where reporters are setting up for a postgame presser.

  “I’m in no mood for the hyenas today,” he says.

  We round the corner, avoiding detection, until we’re confronted by an ESPN sportscaster and his cameraman.

  “What happened out there, Coach?”

  Donnie, famous for his scowl and monosyllabic responses, doesn’t disappoint: “We lost.”

  The reporter isn’t dissuaded. “What’s your strategy going forward?”

  Donnie gives him the stink eye. “We’re gonna win.”

  Someone taps me on the shoulder. I look down to see a freshly manicured fingernail.

  “Abby?”

  I turn to see Emma Phelps, a former Harvard classmate. She looks different: her hair is thicker, her lips bigger, and her nose smaller.

  “What are you doing here?” She palms a microphone.

  I’m not entirely sure why I’m here, but if I were, I wouldn’t tell a reporter. I smile, try to act nonchalant, and hope she hasn’t caught wind of Rudy’s disappearance. “My family has season tickets.”

  Emma looks like a ditz, but she’s not. She was managing editor of our school paper, The Crimson, and she doesn’t miss much. “If I recall correctly, you’re a prosecutor. Are you working a case?”

  Before I can respond, Kevin comes to my rescue, whispers in my ear. We engage in fake conversation until Emma turns her attention, and microphone, to Donnie.

  “Why wasn’t Rudy Maddox behind the plate today?”

  Donnie ignores the question and walks away without saying a word. Kevin and I follow him to his office, where he takes a seat behind the desk. I scan the walls, jammed with memorabilia: old blueprints of the ballpark, team pennants, and pictures of some of Boston’s best—Carl Yastrzemski, Bobby Doerr, Ted Williams.

  Donnie’s knee bounces up and down as he arcs a baseball from one hand to the other.

  “We’d like to know your thoughts. Any idea why Rudy was a no-show today?” Kevin says.

  Donnie stops fidgeting and leans forward into a nonexistent microphone. “Nope.”

  “Is it out of character?” Kevin says.

  “Yup.”

  I didn’t expect Donnie to transform into a fountain of information, but given the significance of what’s happened, I didn’t think he’d treat us like the enemy.

  “How are Rudy’s prospects this year?” Kevin says.

  “Good.”

  Kevin’s phone vibrates; he checks the screen.

  “It’s the commissioner.” Kevin turns to Donnie. “Not my commissioner—your commissioner—and I bet he’s gonna pledge the team’s full cooperation.”

  Donnie’s face reddens as Kevin steps out into the hallway.

  “Do you think this could be a power play? Maybe Rudy’s trying to get attention or up his salary,” I say.

  Donnie clenches his jaw, as though it pains him to speak. “Rudy is one of the best catchers in the league—smart, aggressive, fast on his feet. Catchers are underrated, fans don’t always give them their due, but the guys on the team and in the front office know Rudy’s worth. He’s appreciated and well compensated, and he knows it.”

  I don’t believe anyone gets that kind of unconditional love, especially in the high-stakes, high-profile world of professional sports.

  “We’d like to talk to the other players,” I say.

  Donnie looks over at Kevin, who is standing just outside the door, one ear on the phone, the other on us. “Who do you want to talk to?”

  “How about the backup catcher, Wayne Ellis?”

  Donnie frowns. “Wayne is new to the team and I doubt he’ll have much to offer.”

  “He’s got the most to gain from Rudy’s absence.”

  Kevin wraps up his call, a few notches louder than necessary.

  “Sure, Commissioner,” Kevin says, “I’ll let Donnie know you expect his full cooperation.”

  As soon as Kevin hangs up, Donnie says, “Follow me. Let’s go find Wayne Ellis.”

  Chapter Four

  The clubhouse is empty, except for a lanky teenager, who is gathering wet towels from the floor and stuffing them into an oversize laundry bag. Donnie points out Rudy’s locker, which is unremarkable. His clean uniform, presumably the one he should have worn today, hangs on a hook.

  Wayne Ellis comes out of the shower room, wrapped in a towel, drinking from a bottle of blueberry-pomegranate Gatorade. As he tilts his head back to take a swig, I try not to gawk. He’s about twenty-one, which is over a decade too young for my interest; still, it’s hard to resist checking him out. He’s about six foot three, solid muscle, and his chiseled face is marred only by a small circle of pimples around the jawline.

  He holds a phone to his ear, but ends the call as soon as he sees Donnie.

  “You sucked out there today.” Donnie hurls a few more insults at Wayne, then introduces us.

  Wayne indicates his towel. “If you don’t mind, ma’am…”

  Ma’am—the word stings. I pivot and face the wall while Wayne drops his towel and slips into a pair of jeans. Kevin gives me the nod when it’s safe to turn back around.

  “Tell them whatever they want to know,” Donnie says, as though he’s been helpful himself.

  Wayne’s phone dings and he checks the screen. Donnie snatches it from Wayne’s hand and lobs it into a laundry bin. The teenage maintenance worker eyes the bin, unsure if he should pluck Wayne’s phone out of the pile of dirty socks.

  Donnie shoos him away and turns to Wayne. “You lost your focus. If I see that phone in your hand again, I’ll flush it down the john.”

  Donnie follows the towel kid out of the room, leaving us alone.

  Wayne, eager to heed Donnie’s instruction, speaks first. “What do you think happened to Rudy?”

  “It’s more important that we hear what you think,” Kevin says.

  Wayne’s cell lets out a muffled ding from across the room. He takes a step toward it but then stops himself.

  “I have to ask everyone this question, so don’t take offense,” Kevin lies. “Where were you last night?”

  Wayne looks up in the air and racks his brain, as though he’s solving a quantum physics problem. “I was at … I was at home.”

  “With anyone?”

  He hesitates and looks away. “I was alone.”

  “How do you get along with Rudy?” I say.

  “Great. He’s my mentor.”

  Wayne’s phone dings again. This time, he can’t help himself; he digs through the dirty socks and underwear and retrieves it. After checking the message, he hits the mute button and looks up. “It’s the first time I got to start on opening day. Folks are calling to congratulate me.”

  Kevin flashes a disarming smile. “Rudy being a no-show must be a big break for you.”

  Wayne smiles back. “It could have been, if I hadn’t sucked so bad.” He turns to me. “Pardon my French.”

  We ask Wayne a few more questi
ons and tell him we’ll be in touch. As I turn to leave, Moe Morrissey walks into the room, with an ice pack pressed up to his eye. He’s as handsome in person as he is on TV, even with strips of cotton jammed up his nostrils. He could, and probably will, become a movie star when his pitching career is over—which won’t be for a long time. He just re-upped with a $450 million contract.

  “Donnie told me you’d be in here,” Moe says.

  “How are you doing?” I try not to blush. “That looked like a nasty hit.”

  “It’s not the first time I took one to the head.” He moves the ice pack long enough to show a bruise starting to form under his eye, a swollen patch of red on his otherwise perfect dark brown skin. “The doc says it’s a minor nasal fracture. They’re gonna do a scan, but I’ll be fine. I’m more worried about Rudy.”

  “What do you think happened?” Kevin says.

  “At first, I thought maybe his car broke down or he got in an accident, but no one has heard from him. All I know is, Rudy would never miss a game on purpose.”

  Wayne is on the phone, talking loudly. “Yeah, Mom, I know … but we lost.”

  Moe glares at him, until he lowers his voice.

  “I’m pretty freaked out,” Moe says. “He should’ve at least texted me.”

  “I know pitchers and catchers have a special relationship,” Kevin says.

  “It’s more than that—Rudy and I are practically related. My fiancée and his wife are sisters.”

  I remember reading something about that in People last month, when I had my highlights done. The Bond sisters: Moe’s fiancée, Cecilia Bond, and Rudy’s wife, Rebecca Bond Maddox. Moe’s arm brushes against mine; a flash of heat spreads across my face. Kevin throws me a look. Pull it together.

  I clear my throat. “What can you tell us about his personal life? Was he into drugs, alcohol?”

  Moe shakes his head, an emphatic no.

  “Gambling?” I say.

  “His biggest vice was chewing tobacco.”

  “Does his wife know anything?” Kevin says.

  “I don’t think she even knows he’s missing yet.”

  “She didn’t come to the game?” I say.

  “No, and I doubt she watched it.” Moe senses my skepticism. “She’s got a new baby.”

  A new baby. In my experience that could be less—or more—of a reason to disappear, depending on how much Rudy wants to be a dad.

  “Do you know where we can find Rebecca?” I say.

  “I’ll reach out to her,” Moe says.

  “We’d like to be the ones to tell her what’s going on,” I say.

  It’s important that we gauge Rebecca’s initial reaction and determine if it’s genuine. The spouse always has to be eliminated as a suspect.

  As Moe walks us out of the park, I consider seeking permission to go onto the field and take a once-around-the-bases. Tagging home plate would be a thrill, and it’d give me bragging rights around the office, but someone is probably lurking in the bleachers with a cell phone. The last thing I need is a YouTube video of me frolicking around Fenway while Rudy Maddox’s whereabouts are unknown.

  Moe makes a call to his fiancée, hangs up, and reports his findings. “Rudy’s wife, Rebecca, is at a spa called Bella Vita.”

  Kevin takes out his phone. “I’ll check the address.”

  “Don’t bother,” I say.

  It’s been months since I’ve been to Bella Vita, but I don’t need directions. I know exactly where it is—on Newbury Street, one of the chicest streets in Boston. I follow Kevin out to the car. Rebecca Maddox sounds like my kind of witness.

  Chapter Five

  My first meetings with victims and witnesses usually take place in places like battered women’s shelters, hospital emergency rooms, or the morgue. Bella Vita is a welcome change of venue. A trip to Fenway, followed by a spa, is as good as it gets for a homicide prosecutor.

  When we round the corner, from Arlington to the first block of Newbury Street, traffic is at a standstill. The area is jammed with hard hats, delivery trucks, and daredevil jaywalkers. We park in my usual spot, the loading zone in front of Brooks Brothers. When Kevin turns off the ignition, I’m so distracted by the window displays in Valentino and Armani that I open my door without looking, narrowly missing a cyclist. She gives me the finger as she whips by.

  Bella Vita is between Clarendon and Dartmouth Streets, above a shop that sells hand-smocked pinafores for toddlers. At $300 a pop, the outfits are exquisite but impractical, appealing to only the most anachronistic Bostonians—like my mother, who bought most of my baby clothes here.

  When we get off the elevator, I approach the receptionist. She recognizes me immediately. “Ms. Endicott, I don’t see you on the appointment list.”

  “I’m not here for a service. I need to speak with Rebecca Maddox.”

  “Is she expecting you?”

  I ignore the question. “It’s urgent.”

  While she goes out back to find Rebecca, I survey the shelves, stocked with my favorite balms, cleansers, and moisturizers. I ferret out the samplers, roll up my sleeve, and squirt lavender body cream on my forearm, massaging it in all the way up to my elbow.

  Kevin picks up a copy of Men’s Health and sinks into the leather sofa. I grab the latest issue of Vogue and join him. I try to tune out the background music, soft jazz, so I can focus—the article on Schiaparelli’s spring collection requires my undivided attention.

  Kevin digs into his pocket and hands me a handkerchief.

  “What’s this for?”

  “You’re drooling.”

  I wave him off. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

  Flipping through the pages, my senses go into overdrive. Silky chiffon scarves, crisp poplin blouses, and swingy fringe skirts. Last year, when my parents chopped down the money tree and ended my monthly disbursements, I had to give up a lot—but nothing else was as painful as fashion. I was prepared to let my membership at the Athenaeum lapse and to forgo daily lattes at Starbucks, but quitting Saks and Barneys, cold turkey, has been excruciating.

  My government salary barely covers the interest on the debt I’ve accumulated, never mind rent and food. To be fair, my parents gave me advanced warning: they told me they wouldn’t support my career choice anymore. It’s too dangerous. You almost got killed. If you want to keep working there, you’re on your own. I didn’t take them seriously, but they made good on the threat. I don’t know how I’ll ever get out of the red, but I do know it’s worth it. I can’t quit my job, not even for fashion.

  A woman, dressed in what resembles surgeon’s scrubs, comes into the reception area and reports that Rebecca Maddox is in the lounge. Kevin puts down his magazine and starts to rise, but she stops him: “It’s a ladies-only zone.”

  Kevin looks at me and shrugs. “Have at it.”

  Kevin is downplaying his disappointment; he’d love to get a gander at a roomful of rich, self-indulgent, half-naked women.

  As I walk past the sauna and steam, I can hear my moisture-starved cheeks cry out for help. A dozen women, wrapped in white terry-cloth robes, are scattered around the lounge. Rebecca Maddox is on a recliner, near the soaking pool, with a layer of diamond paste slathered onto her face. She has paraffin wraps on her hands, foam separators between her freshly polished toes, and a towel turban covers her hair.

  A familiar-looking aesthetician finishes applying a layer of goop to Rebecca’s throat and says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had an appointment.”

  I wish it were a deep pore extraction, not a missing persons investigation, that had brought me here. I smile, turn to Rebecca, and show her my credentials. Rebecca glances at my badge, then does a double take. She bolts upright and tightens the belt on her robe.

  “Has something happened? Is it Chloe? Is my baby okay?”

  “Your daughter is fine.”

  I pour her a glass of cucumber water and we relocate to the women’s locker room.

  “Your husband didn’t show up for the gam
e today.”

  She looks at me, confused, and searches my face. “What do you mean? Where is he?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

  “Why didn’t anyone call me?” She rifles through her locker until she finds her cell phone. “Holy crap, look at all these texts.”

  Her hands shake as she scrolls through her messages. Not finding anything from her husband, she types out a text: Where are you? Call me. She hits send and holds the phone tightly, checking it every few seconds. “Now what?”

  “It’s important to stay calm.” A hair dryer whirs in the background, forcing me to raise my voice a notch. “Think about the last couple of days—did he say anything, or do anything, that might give us a clue?”

  “No, nothing—he was his normal self, excited about the start of the season.”

  “What about the baby? Is he excited to be a dad?”

  “Yes. Of course. What are you implying?”

  “I’m sorry, but we have to consider everything.”

  Rebecca lets it go, a sign that she’s genuinely worried, and I feel bad I had to ask. Her eyes dart around the room; she starts to breathe quickly.

  “He’s never been five minutes late for anything, let alone the season opener.” She grabs her chest and starts to hyperventilate.

  I look around for a paper bag, but the closest I can come up with is a plastic shower cap. I scrunch the sides together and hand it to her. “Breathe into this, slowly.”

  It takes her a minute to regulate her breathing. If this is an act, it’s an Academy Award–worthy performance.

  “I have Xanax.” She reaches into the side pocket of her satchel, pulls out a pill bottle, and swallows a tablet, using the cucumber water to wash it down.

  “Was he in an accident? Was he carjacked? I told him not to drive that Bentley.”