The Fens Read online

  “Where are you on Rudy Maddox, and why haven’t you called?”

  I tick off the list of what we’ve done so far, using my fingers to distinguish each action. “We talked to Rudy’s wife. We put a tap on the phones. We’re monitoring his credit cards. Surveillance is sitting on the house. We interviewed his teammates. And we met with the front office.”

  Stan reaches into a Dunkin’ Donuts bag, takes out a cruller. I didn’t eat dinner last night and forgot breakfast this morning—I’m tempted to ask for half. Too late. He devours most of it in one bite.

  “Who do you like so far?” he says. I don’t tell him speckles of powdered sugar are stuck to his chin.

  “We’re looking at the replacement catcher, Wayne Ellis.”

  “Cast a wide net. Take a hard look at everyone on the team, and the management—don’t forget the management.”

  I take a cleansing breath. “Good idea.”

  As soon as I get to my office, I disregard Stan’s directive and look for Wayne Ellis’s phone number.

  Amber, my assistant, knocks on the door. “Ed Stone is on the phone. He wants to meet with you.”

  The name is familiar but I can’t place him. “Who is he?”

  “He sounded like he knew you.” Amber does a quick Google search. “He’s a family law attorney.”

  Of course, Ed Stone—divorce attorney to the rich and philandering. My father contacted him a few months ago, after Dad moved out of the house and into the Harvard Club.

  “I don’t have time to deal with my parents’ drama.”

  Amber gets on the phone, tells him I can’t talk, then puts him on hold.

  “He says he represents Rebecca Maddox. He wants to know if you’ll come by his office.”

  “Tell him I’ll be there in an hour.”

  I don’t usually cede home-court advantage, but if Rebecca Maddox is spotted here, with a divorce attorney, the rumor mill will go into overdrive.

  I call Kevin and he swings by to pick me up. I expect Ed’s office to be in the financial district or the Seaport, with the other high-price attorneys, but it’s not. Ed’s office is in a brownstone on Dartmouth Street. Everything about the place is discreet and understated: the Back Bay location; the midcentury modern furniture; and the staff, who wear muted tones and speak in soft voices.

  We’re escorted into a conference room. Ed stands and introduces himself. Behind him is Rebecca Maddox, barely identifiable, in a Red Sox cap and fluffy scarf, triple-wrapped around her neck.

  “Rebecca wants to correct the record,” Ed says.

  As soon as we sit down, Kevin hits the rec button on his audio recorder.

  Ed puts his hand out to stop Rebecca from talking. “This is off-the-record.”

  “It’s important to be accurate,” I say.

  “It’s a sensitive matter and we’d like the conversation to be confidential.” Ed knows the rules, but it’s his job to make the ask and push for more.

  It’s my job to push back. “Confidentiality only applies to informants.”

  Rebecca hesitates, clears her throat, and looks at Ed, who nods. Go ahead, tell them.

  Rebecca keeps her head down, fixated on her $60 Bella Vita manicure. “I forgot to mention something. Rudy never came home on Sunday night.”

  “So, you lied to me,” I say.

  She doesn’t respond.

  “You’re telling us Rudy’s been missing for more than twenty-four hours,” Kevin says. “The last time you saw him was Sunday?”

  She nods, not looking up. “He does it all the time. Sometimes he doesn’t come home for a week.”

  She downs a glass of water. Kevin and I wait her out, not filling in the silence.

  Finally, she speaks. “I was embarrassed. The whole world doesn’t need to know our business.” She reaches across the table, slides the pitcher toward herself, and refills her glass. “There have been other women. A lot of them. Last week one of them called me.”

  “We need names,” Kevin says.

  “I don’t know who they are.” Rebecca twists her engagement ring, a flawless six-carat solitaire, and tears up. “Rudy is a good man, a good provider. I keep thinking he’ll outgrow it.”

  “The woman who called,” I say, “was she looking for money?”

  “Worse. She said they were in love.”

  I eyeball Ed, then Rebecca. “So you filed for divorce,” I say. “That’s why we’re here?”

  “Rebecca contacted me last week. We were considering our options,” Ed says.

  Kevin reads between the lines. “You were waiting for Rudy to put the ink on his new contract—to make it part of the community property.”

  Rebecca’s face sours, but she’s still beautiful. “That’s not fair, I loved him.”

  When pressed about the women, Rebecca is short on specifics and long on righteous indignation. She insists she doesn’t have names, and that Rudy doesn’t know she’s been thinking about divorce. By the sound of it, she’s still hopeful Rudy is going to return, but that could be an act. Revenge is as good a motive as any.

  Kevin and I head back to the car.

  “I’m not ready to cross her off the suspect list,” I say, “but we should still get the names of the other women.”

  “Moe Morrissey is Rudy’s closest friend, he might know something,” Kevin says. “Let’s see if we can crack the code.”

  Chapter Nine

  Chestnut Hill is a pricey suburb, about seven miles west of Boston. The architecture—Colonial, Gothic, Georgian, and Shingle—landed it in the National Register of Historic Places. The village hosts rolling green hills, protected wetlands, and upscale shopping malls. It’s also home to Moe Morrissey.

  We drive through Kenmore Square and past Fenway Park, where the Sox will play tonight. There’s a line outside the team store—in a show of both respect and opportunism, Donnie Rourke declared they’ll be offering Rudy Maddox T-shirts at half price.

  I crack my window and take in the pregame rituals.

  “Get your souvenirs here!” A street vendor trundles his cart on the bumpy sidewalk.

  GAME DAY PARKING $45. A sign spinner pirouettes with his placard, in the middle of the congested street.

  “Hey, lady, did you drop your keys?” A pickpocket distracts his mark while slipping his hand into her purse.

  It’s too late to turn around, so Kevin radios a description of the perp to some plainclothes detectives. We continue down Brookline Avenue—I feel a tinge of nostalgia. To my right is Winsor, where I went to high school and studied Mesopotamian history and French literature. To my left is Brigham and Women’s Hospital, where I’ve conducted countless interviews with stabbing, shooting, and sexual-assault victims. I long for those days, when I could interview my victims—because they had cognitive brain function.

  When we cross over the Jamaicaway, Kevin toots his horn at a Brookline police officer who is working a detail, directing cars around a construction site. The officer waves at Kevin and smiles.

  “Do you know a Brookline cop named Mike Chase?” I say.

  Kevin nods as he swerves to avoid a pothole. “We worked a bank robbery together, a few years back.”

  “What’s the rap on him?”

  Kevin nudges me with his elbow. “If you want, I can find out if he’s single.”

  I swat Kevin away and let out an exaggerated sigh. “When are you going to acknowledge that I have a boyfriend?”

  “Then why are you asking about Mike Chase?”

  I try to conjure up a believable lie. “Someone on my team was asking about him. He’s a witness in an upcoming trial.”

  Kevin gives me the side eye, not buying it, but plays along. “Chase did a nice job on our robbery case. He seemed like a stand-up guy.”

  I let it go at that. When Ty gives me the green light, I’ll tell Kevin and everyone else on the force what happened. I want everyone to know who Mike Chase really is.

  Kevin slows and turns down an unmarked driveway, stopping at a security gate
. He looks into the monitor, presses a button, and talks into an intercom. A woman answers and the gate slides open. The Morrisseys’ house is tucked away, surrounded by meticulously landscaped woods and surveillance cameras. We pass a lake, complete with swans, and a field, big enough to host the World Cup.

  “I guess pitchers make more coin than catchers,” I say.

  “Add a couple of zeros to Rudy’s paycheck; that’s what Moe rakes in.”

  Kevin parks next to the glassed-in gym and dance studio, and we get out of the car.

  “The garden has more flowers than the Arnold Arboretum,” he says. “And look at the house, it’s a friggin’ castle.”

  “I hope we don’t have to execute a search warrant here, it’ll take forever.”

  Twenty yards away, a young man is hosing down a Navigator.

  “You look familiar,” I say. “Where have I seen you?”

  He sloshes the sponge in the bucket; dirty water splashes onto my crocodile wedges. This case is killing what remains of my shoe collection.

  “I work in the locker room at Fenway.”

  “What’s your name?” I say.

  “Paul Tagala, but everyone calls me Tags.”

  Tags tells us that after hours he works for some of the players, doing things around their houses and running errands. Kevin asks a few questions about Rudy, but Tags doesn’t have much to offer.

  “I helped Wayne when he moved into his apartment, but mostly I work for the pitchers.”

  We hand him our cards, which he inspects and stuffs in his pocket.

  “Please, give us a call if you hear anything,” I say.

  Kevin leads the way, into the courtyard. We cross a small bridge that brings us over a koi pond and to the front door.

  “You must feel right at home in a joint like this,” Kevin says.

  “Hardly,” I say.

  Kevin doesn’t mean it as an insult, but that’s how it lands. This place reeks of new money. In my family, an unabashed display of wealth is vulgar. My parents own three homes—a five-story town house on Beacon Hill, a six-hundred-acre farm in Vermont, and a ten-bedroom beach house on the Vineyard. They also have a flat in Chelsea—London, not New York. None of their properties, however, are accessorized by anything that remotely resembles a moat.

  We’re greeted at the front door by Moe’s fiancée, Cecilia, a former runway model, who stands about twelve feet tall, with razor-sharp cheekbones and a swanlike neck. She brings us into the open kitchen, fully loaded, with a wood-fired pizza oven and Dacor WineStation.

  “Did you know whether or not Rudy and your sister are having marital problems?” I say.

  “He cheated before they got married, but Becca thought he’d outgrow it. I don’t know how she puts up with it.”

  Moe blusters into the room; the bruise under his eye has turned purple and yellow.

  “Rudy has problems keeping it in his pants,” Moe says. “Always did, always will.”

  “You should have told us when we talked to you at the ballpark,” Kevin says.

  “I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.” Moe points at his shiner. “I took a pretty hard blow to the head.”

  Cecilia takes an ice pack out of the freezer, hands it to Moe, and he presses it to the side of his face.

  “How are you feeling?” I say.

  “I’m fine. I’ll be back on the mound in no time.”

  Two young boys and their nanny come in the room, asking for a snack. Cecilia gives them each a box of organic apple juice and a box of raisins and walks them to the playroom.

  “We need names,” Kevin says.

  “I wish I could help, but I never asked for specifics.”

  “You’ve gotta know something,” Kevin says.

  Moe shakes his head. “Rudy has always been good at flying under the radar, staying out of the gossip columns. His endorsement deals have a morals clause and he didn’t want to risk it.” Moe looks around, checking to be sure Cecilia is still out of earshot. “Have you been to his apartment?”

  “Apartment?” I say.

  “We’ve only been to his house,” Kevin says.

  “He rents a place, in Weymouth. It’s where he brought his women. I don’t think Rebecca, or my fiancée, knows about it.”

  Cecilia comes back in the room. Moe hands her the ice pack. While she puts it back in the freezer, Moe writes down the address, folds it up, and palms it.

  “Thanks for talking to us,” Kevin says, extending his hand.

  Moe takes the cue, and when the two men shake, Moe transfers the paper to Kevin’s hand.

  Chapter Ten

  Kevin and I go back to headquarters, where we write up a search-warrant application. I’ve often declared that I could draft an affidavit in my sleep, and tonight I come close to testing my theory. I almost doze off between the paragraph about Rudy’s disappearance and the section that describes the location of his apartment. When we’ve drafted the warrant and established probable cause to search, we drive to the courthouse and get a judge to sign it.

  A couple of hours later, search warrant in hand, we travel to Rudy’s hideaway. About ten miles west of Rudy’s Cohasset home, Weymouth is the birthplace of Abigail Adams, wife of the president and the great-great-great-great-grandmother of my great-aunt’s sister-in-law.

  We get stuck at the Fore River Bridge, which has opened to let an oil tanker pass through. When we finally arrive, we find the entry team gathered outside Rudy’s apartment. The orange-and-green hallway reminds me of the Ramada Inn where we stashed a reluctant witness a few years ago.

  Kevin bangs on the door. “Police, open up.”

  There’s a battering ram in the truck—we could use it to force our way inside, but we opt for a civilized entry. I go to the rental office and ask for a key. It’ll attract less animus from the management, and less attention from the neighbors.

  “Jeez, I had no idea Rudy Maddox was staying here.” The building manager shows me the lease. “He must’ve used a straw.”

  “Who pays the rent?” I say.

  “A guy leaves cash—eleven hundred dollars. Every month, he leaves it in an envelope, slips it in the mail slot.”

  Back upstairs, Kevin uses the key to open the door; the officers go inside to conduct a safety sweep. I glove up and slip paper bootees over my shoes. Once Kevin gives me the all clear, I join him in the living room.

  Rudy’s one-bedroom apartment is a far cry from his Cohasset manse. It’s sparse, more man cave than the love nest I had envisioned. The walls are dimpled, the floors are carpeted, and the furniture looks like it was purchased at a fraternity yard sale.

  The search is easy to conduct since the apartment has few nonessentials. The officers check the closets, cupboards, and cabinets. Technicians dust for prints. I peek in the refrigerator, which has a six-pack of Molson ale. The freezer hosts a dried-up ice-cube tray and a bottle of Stoli. An unopened box of Oreos looks tempting; I consider taking a few—it’s a shame to let perfectly good cookies go to waste.

  Kevin calls me into the bedroom, where I find him holding an address book. “Rudy is old-school. He keeps a little black book.”

  “Does it have anything inside?”

  “Names—and they’re all of the female persuasion.”

  “Smart not to store that stuff in his smartphone.”

  Kevin drops the address book into a plastic evidence bag. As he searches through the next drawer, I pull the blinds and check out the view of the parking lot. As I turn back around, I notice that next to the window is a picture of dogs playing baseball. It’s crooked, which makes me anxious. I straighten it, but as I do, the nail comes loose.

  I take the picture down and lean it against the wall. “There’s a hole in the plaster.”

  “The landlord can send us the repair bill,” Kevin says.

  “No, that’s not what I mean. I didn’t make the hole—it looks like it was cut, intentionally.”

  Kevin comes over and pries off a square of plaster. He sticks his arm in
side the wall—all the way up to his shoulder—and feels around.

  “What’s in there?” I say.

  “He’s keeping a secret stash.”

  “Of what? Guns?”

  Kevin takes out his arm. He’s holding something but I can’t see what it is. “I’ll give you a hint. It’s green.”

  “Marijuana?”

  “Nope.” He turns and holds up a wad of cash, then another. The wall is full of money—thousands of $100 bills.

  Chapter Eleven

  We spend the next couple of days analyzing Rudy’s list of women. With not a lot to go on, mostly just a name and a city, we tap into our investigative resources. Our connection at the Registry of Motor Vehicles helps track down their driver’s licenses, which gives us an age, address, and photograph. Kevin taps into his database for a financial profile, which includes a list of employers. I log on to social media. A couple of clicks on Facebook and Twitter gives me what it used to take weeks to find out—information about relationship status, social activities, and recent dining experiences.

  Rudy doesn’t seem to have a type. The women are single, separated, divorced, and married. They are Caucasian, Asian, African-American. They’re Christian, Jewish, and Buddhist. And they live everywhere—from Detroit and Denver, to Minneapolis and Miami. They represent a cross section of the country, as American as apple pie and baseball.

  As much as I’d like to rack up frequent-flier miles, we don’t have time to make at-home visits. We decide to do triage via Skype. That way we’ll be able to lay eyes on each woman, assess her level of cooperation and credibility, and decide if she’s got relevant information. Then, we’ll either ask the local police departments to follow up, or we’ll bring them to Boston for grand jury. Kevin will pick them up at Logan Airport or the Greyhound bus terminal, depending on how crucial they are to the case and how generous Stan is feeling.