“This is where I was on the night Rudy went missing,” Emma says. “I was reporting on the game.”
She takes out her iPad and holds it up.
“Cut to the chase. What’s on the tape?”
“First, we have to reach an understanding.”
“Show me what you have.”
“You have to promise me an exclusive.”
“I don’t make blind agreements.”
Emma and I both competed on the debate team, or debate union as it’s called at Harvard. She never backed down from her position, and neither did I.
“There has to be a compromise,” she says.
“Give me an offer of proof.”
“Paul Tagala is on the tape. I didn’t know it until I was in the editing booth today.”
I look out at the Citgo sign, masking my excitement. This could be the break we’ve been looking for.
“Deal. Show me Tags on that tape and you get the exclusive.”
She hits play. It’s Emma, reporting, talking into a mic. She pauses the video and zooms in on the background, hits play again. A man comes out of the ballpark, wheeling a large laundry bin. His face is obscured by a Red Sox baseball cap. When he looks over, into the light, he freezes.
“He’s looking at me. He can see that someone is on the roof.”
It could be Tags, but it could be a lot of other people.
As I’m about to dismiss her, she stops me. “Keep watching.”
She restarts the tape and we watch as the man hunches over and pushes the laundry bin until he’s out of sight. About four minutes later, an SUV pulls onto the street; its headlights are off, and the driver isn’t visible. The car takes a quick turn, away from the news crew, and speeds off. Emma stops the footage, capturing the rear of the car, and zeros in on the license plate.
“A source at the registry ran the numbers.”
“The plate came back to Paul Tagala?”
She nods.
“And you think Rudy’s body was in the laundry bin he was pushing?”
“Don’t you?”
As much as I’d like to, I can’t argue with her. She’s probably right.
“I’ve lived up to my end of the bargain,” she says.
I resist the urge to grab the tablet from her hand, stuff it in my tote, and run. Too bad I have to obtain the evidence lawfully. The rules require either Emma’s consent, or a grand jury subpoena—and right now, I don’t have either.
“Tell me what you’re looking for,” I say, hoping she doesn’t ask to be there when we find the body.
“I want to be there when you find the body.”
I feign surprise and take a moment to consider. “I’ll have to talk to my detective.”
I want to welsh on the agreement and force her hand with a subpoena, but that would be career suicide. Prosecutors are only as good as their promises.
As she makes her way down the ladder, I stay behind and text Kevin: Meet me outside Gate D. I’d like to send out an SOS text to the fire department, requesting someone to come carry me down the ladder. Instead I work my way, slowly, back to the ground.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Emma and I round the corner, from the alley, onto Yawkey Way. Kevin is already there, standing in front of Gate D. He sees us before we see him. I can’t make out his features, but I know he’s not smiling.
“He’s cute,” Emma says as he approaches. “Married?”
I throw her a look. As if.
“What’s going on?” Kevin plays it neutral, masking his surprise and disapproval of what he’s seeing. I take his arm and usher him a few feet away from Emma.
“I know what it looks like, but before you rip me a new one, hear me out.”
Kevin keeps his voice at a whisper. “Have you gone over to the dark side?” He’s never been shy about expressing his disdain for members of the fourth estate. “No wonder you went on a secret spy mission—you knew I’d talk you out of it.”
“You’re going to change your tune when you see what I discovered.”
“You’re the last person I’d suspect would leak information that could hurt our case. That’s what you’re doing, right?”
“Not exactly.”
I signal Emma, who hands me the tablet, and I play the video for him. “According to Emma, the plate comes back to Tags.”
He keeps his back to Emma but speaks loud enough for her to hear. “I’m going to run it again. I don’t trust reporters.”
He uses his iPad to connect with the database at the Registry of Motor Vehicles. It checks out—it’s Paul Tagala’s car. That means Tags transported Rudy’s body somewhere, and we have to find out where that is.
“What’s the catch?” Kevin says.
I hesitate and close my eyes, preparing to get an earful. “I agreed to let Emma be present when we search for the body.”
Kevin is quiet. Silence is the worst kind of reprimand he can give. He walks away; I follow, pleading my case.
“You make deals with the devil every time you use an informant.”
“This is different. If word gets out prematurely, it could compromise the investigation.”
“We need that tape. It’s the link that will prove Tags’s involvement in Rudy’s murder.” I take a breath. “She uses us, we use her.”
Kevin takes a minute before speaking. “Fine. Tell her where I’m parked. She can follow us, but not too close.”
While I work out the logistics and ground rules with Emma, Kevin calls off the search in Fenway. Everyone is curious about why it’s over, but Kevin just tells them it’s being suspended for now. As soon as Kevin is able to review the Pacer data, he charts out Tags’s trip from the ballpark to his home in Dorchester.
“Rudy’s body has to be somewhere between the two locations,” Kevin says.
The search teams are redeployed to cover the seven- mile route, and they’re instructed to look inside any container big enough to stash a body, or body parts.
As we drive past Boston Medical Center, I consult the map. I’ve been in this area five times in the last month—twice to the hospital to visit victims and interview their doctors, and once to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. Last Sunday, I was a couple of blocks over, at the Goodwill donation trailer, dropping off clothes and linens that I don’t have space for in my closets anymore.
“Let’s take a detour to the Goodwill,” I say.
Kevin assembles a crew, who sort through the donation bins and drop-off trailer. There are dozens of shopping bags, full of shoes, coats, and T-shirts—but no Rudy. When we’re done, we walk past a homeless man, who is digging through a trash can. I hand him a five and we get in the car.
“Isn’t there a dump around here?” I say.
“There’s a transfer station in Roxbury.”
Kevin flips on the light and siren and speeds up Albany Street. Cruisers and unmarked police cars stay close behind. I’m glad I can’t see Emma, but I’m sure she’s not far away.
Within a half hour, a couple of dozen uniforms and plainclothes detectives are scouring the trash containers and scrap heaps. I wait near the entrance gate and use the time to call Stan.
He’s not surprised when I give him the update. “Yeah, I know. Emma Phelps is reporting live from the transfer station.”
My jaw clenches. I have no doubt that Rudy’s body is here. Emma could have at least waited until we make the notifications to next of kin. This is not how Rebecca should learn about her husband’s death.
“Where is she?” I say.
“Near the back gate. How the hell did she find out?”
Before I can make up an answer, Kevin calls me over.
“Gotta go,” I say.
I rush toward a group of officers who are huddled near a heap of scrap metal. When I reach them, they make space for me. Kevin nods and I look down.
Half of his head is missing and his body is decomposing, but there’s no mistaking who he is. Rudy Maddox.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Death notifications land like lightning bolts. They shoot from the sky, often without warning, bringing fear, chaos, and destruction. I’ve experienced it from both sides. I’ve delivered the news: I’m sorry to tell you that your husband has been the victim of a violent crime. And I’ve received it: Abby, your brother has passed away. We need you to go to the morgue to identify his body.
When a victim has been missing for a period of time, it’s still shocking when you learn the body has been discovered—but it’s not unexpected, and sometimes, it’s a relief. There is nothing more to hope for, but finally, there is something tangible to grieve. And maybe there are answers.
Now that we’ve found Rudy’s body, we want to make the notification as quickly as possible. Kevin and I set out to Cohasset to talk to Rebecca. It’ll be tough to hear the news, but it will be worse if she learns about it by watching Emma Phelps’s report.
“Let’s call Moe and see if he can meet us at Rebecca’s,” Kevin says. “She’s gonna need all the support she can get.”
I reach for my phone and see a dozen texts, most from Stan. The news has hit the stratosphere. “Word is out.”
Kevin steps on the gas, as though he can outpace the internet.
When I call Moe, he picks up on the first ring.
“I heard,” he says, his voice cracking.
The sound of a woman crying echoes in the background. “Is that Rebecca?”
“No, it’s my fiancée, Cecilia. We’re in the car, on our way to Rebecca’s.”
“We’ll meet you there.”
When we arrive, the light above the front door is on, casting a blurry glow in the marine layer. Moe opens the door. The last remnant of the bruise under his eye is still visible, and he gestures us inside.
Rebecca is in the living room, head in hands. She’s being comforted by her sister, Cecilia, and the nanny, Holly. The women are in their nightclothes: Holly in boxers and a tank; Cecilia in pajama pants and a T; Rebecca in an oversize Red Sox shirt.
Rebecca looks up at us, her eyes full of tears. “Tell me it’s not true.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
I tell her about finding Rudy in the transfer station, leaving out the parts about the condition of his body.
“That’s it,” she says, “there’s nothing more to hope for.”
“You can hope that they catch the bastard,” Moe says.
Phones ring constantly. Holly leaves the room to answer the house phone.
Moe looks at his cell, pockets it, and says to us softly, “They’re saying on the news that Tags did it.”
“Did he?” Cecilia says.
“He’s our prime suspect,” Kevin says.
Moe shakes his head. “There’s no way.”
“We’re building a strong case against him,” I say.
“He’s been in and out of our house,” Moe says.
“Maybe he was going to kill you too,” Cecilia says.
“Why? Why would he do that?”
“We’re not certain of the motive,” I say.
“We need to know if there’s anything strange about Tags’s relationship with either Rudy or Wayne,” Kevin says.
Moe shakes his head. “As far as I knew, Tags was a good kid, a hard worker. He said he was using the extra money we paid him to take care of his family.”
“We let him near our kids,” Cecilia says.
The baby starts to cry; her voice shrieks through the monitor. Rebecca goes upstairs and we can hear her sob as she tries to comfort her child. Moe puts his arm around Cecilia, who lets out a gasp and then a torrent of tears.
“Rudy was living beyond his means,” Kevin says. “Was he gambling?”
“You mean betting on games?” Moe says. “No way.”
“He had a lot of cash that was unaccounted for,” I say. “It could have something to do with his murder.”
This is a good place to end the conversation. It will give Moe something to think about, in case he’s holding back. I tell them I’m going to continue with the grand jury. “I’ll let you know when we’ve secured an indictment.”
Outside, the sun is coming up over the ocean; there are no clouds, no ranges of hues, just a ball of fiery orange. We drive along the rocky shoreline and I doze off somewhere between Hingham and Weymouth. I wake myself up when my head snaps forward. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I see that we’re a couple of blocks from my apartment.
“I need to lock in Emma Phelps’s testimony and get that video into the grand jury,” I say.
“I’ll serve her, pronto. If we’re lucky, I’ll catch her right when her head hits the pillow. Once she sees the subpoena, she’ll never get to sleep.”
Upstairs, Ty is in bed, snoring lightly, and shows no signs of stirring. I have to be in court in a few hours, and I decide to stay awake until then. If I go to bed now, I’ll never be able to rally for the grand jury. I put a cup of Starbucks in the Keurig and turn on the news. It’s no surprise that Rudy is the lead story on every station.
I flip to Emma’s report; there’s an establishing shot of the transfer station. I pour cream into my coffee, dump in a heaping spoonful of sugar, and gulp it down. As soon as the acid starts to burn in my gut, I decide that from now on I’m going to switch to herbal tea. Then, I make a second cup of coffee and watch a long shot of Rudy’s lifeless body being zipped into the body bag and hoisted onto the stretcher. The assistants slide the gurney into the back of the van and slam closed the double doors. My stomach churns when I think about Rebecca, and I hope she doesn’t watch the video.
Overly amped up after my third cup of coffee, I notice Ty’s laptop is open. Staring at the screen for a minute, I will it to come out of sleep mode. When it remains dark, I know I shouldn’t, but I brush my fingers against the mouse pad and take a peek. He’s usually working on something music related, but not today.
Ty has been doing research: police-community relations; racial profiling; illegal stop and search. He’s composing an agenda for a meeting of the governor’s commission. At last, he’s making good on his promise; he’s going to report what happened in Brookline.
Hearing footsteps behind me, I whip around to see Ty.
“Babe, you shouldn’t be looking in other people’s stuff.”
Busted. “Sorry, occupational hazard.”
I smile. He doesn’t smile back. He turns on the kettle.
“I’d say I’ll never do it again, but I promised not to lie anymore.”
“It’s not funny.” His body stiffens, his face is serious. “Look, I don’t have anything to hide, but that doesn’t mean you can snoop through my stuff.” Ty rarely expresses anger, so for him, this is a warning shot. I’ve crossed a line.
“I know, you’re right.” My cell phone sounds. I check the screen. “I have to take this.”
“Of course you do. Say hi to Kevin.” He turns his back and walks away.
“For your information, it’s Stan,” I lie.
I walk into the bedroom and close the door. “Hi, Kevin. What’s up?”
“Emma Phelps has been served. And she’s not a happy camper.”
“Good, mission accomplished.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It’s a lot easier to secure an indictment in the grand jury than it is to get a guilty verdict at trial. In the grand jury, only a majority of the twenty-three-member panel is required to reach a decision; in felony trials, twelve jurors must reach a unanimous verdict. In the grand jury I only need probable cause to get an indictment; at trial, the standard is proof of guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. And grand jurors can consider hearsay evidence, but trial jurors can’t. An indictment doesn’t do me any good if I can’t prove the case at trial.
When I walk in the grand jury room, most of the panel are scanning news reports on their tablets, or thumbing through The Globe or the Herald. As soon as they see me, they put their papers down, close their tablets. The grand jurors have been eagerly awaiting my appearance, and almost everyone is excited. The ex
ception is the physician’s assistant, seated in the front row. She’s angry the Sox have lost their last three games, and she seems to think it’s my fault.
“Moe lost his best friend. His game is off, he may never recover,” she says. “Now we have no shot at the championship.”
I ignore the comment, try to keep them on course. “This morning, you’re going to hear testimony from one witness.”
“Is it one of the players?” someone says.
“No.”
The group lets out a communal sigh of disappointment, but they perk up when I announce the name of the witness.
“Emma Phelps, the TV lady?” the physician’s assistant says.
I nod and set up the TV screen. Emma has been subpoenaed and so has her video. I want to play the footage while she’s on the stand. She can describe what she saw: Tags leaving the stadium, pushing the laundry bin. Her testimony will support my theory that Rudy was in that bin, dead. And that Tags is responsible for the murders of Rudy and Wayne.
When I go out to the waiting room, I almost don’t recognize Emma. She’s scaled down her act by about five octaves; her hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, and her makeup is minimal. She looks as if she needs sleep as badly as I do, which makes me smile.
“Emma, you’re up.”
As she follows me into the grand jury room, she suppresses a yawn. I administer the oath and she answers the preliminary questions begrudgingly—name, occupation, employer. It takes her a while to recall how long she’s been with the station. She’s sluggish, expressionless, a far cry from her chipper TV personality.
Since Emma is being difficult, I needle her by asking her age.
“Thirty-seven.” She glares at me. “Same as you.”
I’m thirty-six, but this isn’t the time to quibble.
“I’m going to play the video from the night Rudy disappeared.”
I cue up the machine and extend my hand, waiting for her to hand me the footage.
“I didn’t bring it.”
I try not to react. “It was subpoenaed.”
She looks me directly in the eye. “I’m asserting my rights under the First Amendment to the United States Constitution.”
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