The Graves Read online

  Somehow my encounter with Chip, however brief, struck a chord. He’s charming and handsome, but it’s more than that. He reminds me of the fun parts of being an Endicott. Summers on the Vineyard, sailing, bodysurfing, eating fried clams. It will be fun to reconnect, reminisce. It won’t go any further than that.

  I tuck my hair behind my ears, reapply a coat of lipstick, and check my teeth in the mirror. As soon as I snap my compact closed, I notice Kevin is watching me.

  “Hot date?” he says.

  “Just a lunch,” I say. “Do you mind dropping me off at the Four Seasons?”

  “Fancy schmancy. My lunch meetings usually take place at Finagle a Bagel.”

  “It’s not what you think,” I say.

  “Baloney,” he says.

  Kevin is a human lie detector, which is probably why he has the highest solve rate in the city. And he’s relentless.

  “Are you stepping out on that boyfriend of yours?” he says.

  “For the thousandth time, his name is Ty. And, for the record, no, I am not stepping out on him.”

  I check myself, knowing that my agitation is evidence of my consciousness of guilt.

  Kevin looks at me and shrugs. “Fine. If that’s how you want to play it, that’s how we’ll play it,” he says.

  Chapter Ten

  The maître d’ escorts me into the Bristol Lounge, and I fiddle with my phone as we cross the dining room, pretending to check e-mails—anything to avoid eye contact. There’s a strong possibility someone will recognize me; I’d rather not have to explain my presence.

  Chip Aldridge is seated at a table overlooking the Public Garden. He’s casual compared to the other diners, in a cashmere sweater and corduroys; a sign of irreverence and confidence—qualities I find most attractive in a man. I should duck out before it’s too late.

  He stands and surprises me with a kiss on the cheek. Not a fake air kiss; his lips actually make contact with my skin, and it feels good enough to make me drop my phone. He picks it up and hands it to me.

  “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show,” he says.

  “Sorry, I was tied up in the grand jury.”

  “That’s the best excuse I’ve ever heard, and the most intriguing.”

  He smiles and pulls out my chair. When he touches me on the shoulder, I feel the excitement of possibility that comes with a first date. As the waiter takes our orders, I remind myself this is not a date. It’s just two old friends catching up.

  I take in the view across the street at the Public Garden. The bronze statues of Civil War heroes and abolitionists, perched atop granite bases. The weeping willows that surround the lagoon. The two men engaged in a drug transaction, cash in exchange for a small glassine envelope that most likely contains heroin.

  “When I was ten, my grandmother used to take me here for tea,” I say. “I felt grown-up, special. I’d always get the same thing: a pot of chamomile, a plate of scones, and a side of lemon curd.”

  “Sounds like a nice ritual.”

  “We’d chat for a while, then she’d disappear, for about an hour. I’d sit at the table, reading or drawing. It didn’t occur to me until years later, when my grandfather filed for divorce, that she was having an affair and she was using me as her cover.”

  “We have a lot in common. I was my father’s alibi, but he used to take me to the track. We’d come home and lie to my mother, tell her that we were at the ball game.”

  I try not to sink too deeply into the comfort of compatibility. We enjoy our lunches, lobster salad for me and scallops for him, and the waiter delivers dessert menus.

  “The blood orange sorbet looks tempting,” I say.

  Chip orders a bowl and two spoons.

  “Your job sounds exciting, prosecuting murderers,” he says.

  “Sometimes a little too exciting.”

  He leans in, eager to be in the know, and lowers his voice. “Are you involved in the Wellesley student’s abduction that’s been all over the news?”

  “I am, but I can’t talk about it.”

  “Attorney-client privilege?”

  “Something like that.”

  The waiter delivers our sorbet, and I dig in.

  “Tell me about your work,” I say.

  “This morning, I operated on a concert pianist who shattered his elbow in a skydiving accident. The surgery went well, but it’ll be a long time before his next performance.”

  Talk of musicians and concerts makes me think about Ty. After he was shot, it took months for his shoulder to heal. His physical therapy ended a few weeks ago, but he’s still having a hard time maneuvering the sax. A flash of guilt lands in the pit of my stomach. I put down my spoon and check my watch.

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” I say.

  I take out my wallet and offer to split the bill, to make it seem less like a date, but Chip acts as though he doesn’t hear me. As we walk through the dining room, he places his hand in the center of my back, igniting a spark of electricity. I tense up and look around.

  “I’d like to do this again,” Chip says.

  I would love to do it again. By any objective standards, Chip is attractive, but I think there’s more at play. Maybe I’m trying to sabotage my relationship with Ty.

  “That’s not a good idea,” I say.

  He looks at me for a minute and flashes a high-wattage smile.

  “It was good to see you,” he says.

  We pass through the lobby in silence. As we near the door, I start to walk a little faster, and he keeps pace. The doorman flags down a taxi, and I take the short ride back to Bulfinch Place. On the way back to the office, I promise myself to tell Ty about the lunch. He’ll be curious about Chip, because he’s interested in my past, but I doubt he’ll ask a lot of questions. My criminals have taught me the best way to avoid fallout from a bad decision is to get in front of it.

  Chapter Eleven

  My victims, Caitlyn Walker and Rose Driscoll, have taken over my office. Their crime scene photographs and autopsy diagrams are spread out on the desk. Their grand jury transcripts line the windowsills. Their case interview notes and police reports cover the floor. I sit and think about where to start.

  Kevin taps on the door and takes a seat across from me.

  “How was your date?” he says.

  “It wasn’t a date,” I say a little too abruptly.

  “Just so you know, I’m all for you playing the field.”

  I take a beat, try to relax, knowing he has my best interests at heart.

  “Why don’t you like Ty?” I say.

  “Plain and simple—I think you’re too good for him,” he says.

  “If anything, he’s too good for me.”

  Kevin shakes his head in disbelief. “You could have anyone. Why him?”

  “We’ve got a yin-yang thing going,” I say. “Nothing seems to faze him, which makes me slightly less neurotic.”

  “You’re dating him because it saves on Prozac?”

  “Ty is smart, handsome, talented, and a great guy,” I say, more to reaffirm my own feelings than to convince Kevin. “You’d like him.”

  I wonder if Kevin is jealous of Ty. I bristle every time Kevin mentions his wife.

  He drags his chair in front of my computer screen and looks through the Crazy Fox security video, hoping to discover who Tommy came into the bar with. I use my laptop to research the Greenough clan. Thomas is the senior senator from Massachusetts, elected twenty-two years ago. His wife, Elizabeth, teaches French literature at Georgetown. They have two sons. Tommy, the oldest, runs a nonprofit for veterans—a sure sign of political ambition. Robert, the youngest, is a senior at MIT, studying urban planning.

  Kevin sees something on the computer screen.

  “Bingo,” he says.

  The video shows Tommy, holding up his ID as the bouncer inspects it. He gets his hand stamped and pays the cover charge. Behind him is a man with the same aquiline nose, broad brows, and square chin.

&nbs
p; “That’s gotta be Tommy’s kid brother,” Kevin says.

  I compare the video with the family picture posted on Greenough’s website. “It’s definitely Robbie Greenough,” I say. “Let’s take another look and see if Robbie was around when Tommy left the bar.”

  Kevin finds the tape of Tommy and Caitlyn leaving the bar and hits play.

  “There he is. That’s Robbie, off to the side,” Kevin says.

  “That means all three of them were in there together,” I say. “And all three of them left together.”

  We’re distracted by chatter in the hallway. I check my watch; it’s exactly five. The DA’s office has a lot of clock-watchers, but a mass exodus is unusual. Cassandra Lester strides past my office.

  “Where’s everyone going?” I say. “Is it another bomb scare?”

  Cassandra made a play for my job while I was out on leave, and she was not a member of the welcome committee when I returned. She stops, hesitates, then swivels around to face me. She’s like a flashing neon sign, demanding: Look at me. Her hot-pink suit, her chunky gold-plated necklace, her overprocessed blond hair. She’s not half-bad in the courtroom; what she lacks in intellect and preparation, she makes up for in theatrical performance.

  “Everyone is headed to the Parker House,” Cassandra says. “Max is announcing his run for mayor.”

  I turn to go back in my office, but Kevin blocks the doorway.

  “You should get over there and show your mug, let people know you’re interested,” he says.

  “Who said I’m interested?”

  “The Herald is naming you as Max’s most likely successor,” Cassandra says.

  If someone from the media is tossing my name around, it’s flattering and affirming, but not plausible. I’d never get the political support, especially with the Greenough investigation looming. Besides, I don’t want the job.

  “They’re probably batting everyone’s name around,” I say.

  I stand aside to let a group of gang prosecutors get by.

  “If you don’t want the appointment,” Cassandra says, “let me know.”

  “Why?” I say.

  “Because I want it.”

  She smiles at the thought, fastens the rhinestone buttons on her coat, and jumps on the elevator.

  “You’re nuts,” Kevin says. “You’d be great at Max’s job.”

  “I’m a trial attorney, not a politician.”

  I walk back into my office, and he follows.

  “It’s not brain surgery. You can learn that stuff. You ask for money and kiss some keisters,” he says.

  “The governor will never appoint me,” I say, “not in a million years.”

  “You should give it a shot. Think about it: Wouldn’t you rather have Cassandra work for you, than vice versa?”

  I consider the idea of Cassandra as my boss, and don’t like what I see. I stand, take my coat from a hanger on the back of my door, and slip it on.

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” I say.

  I walk quickly, across City Hall Plaza, onto School Street, and through the revolving doors of the Parker House. The hotel is an all-purpose venue for prosecutors. The ballroom is where we host fund-raisers. The lounge is where we celebrate guilty verdicts and commiserate over acquittals. The rooms upstairs are where we stash our witnesses.

  I nudge my way into the Kennedy Room. The space is small, the air is stale, and it’s jammed full of people—perfect campaign optics. I grab a Lombardo for Mayor button and pin it on, careful not to rip a hole in my jacket. Armani doesn’t grow on trees, not anymore.

  Max is at the podium, his wife, Cindy, by his side. Their son is next to her, looking wholesome and supportive. They know the drill.

  “Ray Harris’s resignation comes as a shock to all of us,” Max says. “Corruption, a violation of the public trust in any form, is unacceptable. I’ve spent my entire professional career fighting crime at all levels, in the streets, in the boardroom, and in the statehouse. I take my role of chief law enforcement officer as sacred. And I’ll do the same when I’m elected mayor.”

  Max pauses for a booming round of applause; he doesn’t take questions from the press. He knows to quit while he’s ahead. He and Cindy work the crowd by dividing and conquering. Cassandra elbows her way to his side, making sure to hijack as many photos ops with him as possible.

  Carl Ostroff sidles up to me. “Word on the street is Cassandra has been working her contacts, lobbying for Max’s job.”

  “Have you heard if anyone else is interested?” I keep my voice to a whisper.

  “All the usuals: a community organizer, a couple of city councilors, and a nutcase.”

  “They’re not mutually exclusive,” I say. “Don’t quote me on that.”

  “You already sound like a politician. For what it’s worth, the statehouse press corps is giving you the odds,” he says.

  I smile, clench my jaw, and do my best ventriloquist impression, in case anyone is lip-reading.

  “Do me a favor,” I say. “Fan the flame.”

  Carl opens his notebook, flips to a blank page.

  “Any movement on the coed killer invest?” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “No.”

  He closes the notebook. “Throw a guy a bone. Have you interviewed anyone else in the Greenough clan? How about Robbie?”

  “Not yet, but he’s next on my list.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Tommy’s brother, Robert Greenough, lives in the Alpha Beta Zeta house in the Fenway section of Boston. The fraternity was chartered eighty years ago and has a rich history of brotherhood, community service, and binge drinking. The neighbors call police regularly to complain about loud parties, trash, and drunk students passed out in the front yard.

  We circle the block until we find an empty parking space in front of my favorite museum, the Isabella Stewart Gardner. Kevin and I walk around the corner to the Alpha house, a three-story brick building. I’ve been here twice. The first time was for an assault that put a sophomore engineering student in a coma for six months. He suffered permanent brain damage and had to relearn how to hold a fork and tie his shoes. The second time I was here, the victim wasn’t as fortunate. A seventeen-year-old pledge was hazed, forced to drink until he passed out, and died.

  Other than that, my experience with fraternities is limited. At Harvard, men don’t pledge fraternities; instead, they punch final clubs. Generations of Endicott men, including my father and brother, were members of the ultraexclusive Porcellian, along with Theodore Roosevelt, Henry Cabot Lodge, and the Winkelvoss twins. I never had much interest in what went on inside the clubhouse, or Old Barn as it’s called. I imagine that, like all male-only clubs, there was drinking, networking, and more drinking.

  The shades at the fraternity house are drawn and the windows are closed, but we can hear Maroon 5’s “Moves Like Jagger” from the sidewalk. Kevin presses on the bell, bangs on the door a couple of times, counts to ten, and turns the knob. It’s unlocked.

  “Hello?” Kevin says.

  We step inside to find a young man in the foyer. He’s holding a red plastic cup of beer.

  “Can I help you?” he says.

  Kevin flashes his badge. “We’re looking for Robert Greenough.”

  The man directs us into a large, wood-paneled room, where clusters of students are talking, shooting pool, and playing a competitive round of beer pong. A banged-up metal keg is on the floor, in front of a fireplace. Robbie Greenough is in the center of the room, chalking a pool cue, boasting about his game. He’s disheveled, in a privileged kind of way: tousled hair, torn khakis, and a T-shirt that says ACK, which is the abbreviation for the Nantucket airport.

  “Robbie, the cops are here to talk to you,” the man says.

  Robbie hesitates, puts down the stick, and moves toward us.

  “My lawyer says if you’re here to search the place, you need a warrant.”

  He’s been well prepped.<
br />
  “We’re not here to execute a warrant,” I say.

  Kevin eyes a purple bong on the floor. “At least not tonight.”

  Kevin staked his claim on bad cop, which means I play good cop.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” I lower my voice. “You don’t want everyone to know your business.”

  Robbie nods to a woman with shiny black hair and Clark Kent glasses.

  “Emma is going to come with us,” he says. “Nothing personal, but my lawyer said I should have a witness.”

  He walks us into what must have been the smoking room, back when people smoked. The walls are mahogany, the chairs are leather, and the bookshelves are dusty.

  “Were you in the Crazy Fox last Thursday, with your brother?” I say.

  I look at him hard, try to gauge his reaction, see if he’ll admit to what we already know.

  “I go there sometimes,” he says.

  “It’s a yes-or-no question,” Kevin says.

  “Yes.”

  Emma elbows him. “You told me you were studying,” she says.

  “What time did you leave the bar?” I say.

  “Why did you lie to me?” Emma says.

  Emma has gone rogue, and Robbie’s not sure how to handle it. He looks at her, then at me, as though he’s trying to assess who poses the greatest threat. He chooses Emma.

  “I didn’t lie,” he says. “I went to the library earlier. Then I went to the bar.” Robbie turns to me. “I stayed there until around closing.”

  Kevin shows him a photo of Caitlyn Walker. “Do you remember seeing this woman?”

  Robbie glances at the picture, then at the floor. Emma can’t take her eyes off the photo.

  “That’s the woman from Wellesley, who was killed.” She grabs Robbie’s arm. “Did you see her? Tell me. Did you know her?”

  Robbie shakes her off, throws her a look. Shut up.