The Graves

by Pamela Wechsler

  Kevin returns to his car, lets out a quick blast of the siren, and talks into the mouthpiece of his loudspeaker.

  “Boston Police, open up.” His voice echoes, bouncing off the brick buildings.

  A man cracks open the door. He’s about my age, dry-mouthed, skinny, sweaty, and shaky—like he’s popped one too many benzos.

  “Are you the manager?” Kevin says.

  “That’s right. Hank Palermo’s my name. What can I do you for?”

  Kevin flashes his badge, brushes past him, and I follow. The bar hasn’t changed in fifteen years. Same sticky floor, same stale beer smell, same wobbly wooden tables.

  “We fixed the ventilation system. And we got a guy coming in the morning to take a look at the drains.”

  “Relax. We don’t care about code violations,” I say.

  “We’re investigating a homicide,” Kevin says.

  “Homicide?” Hank says. “You got the wrong place. People come in here to listen to music and blow off steam. The only shots we have are tequila or peppermint schnapps.”

  Hank is chatty, but not in a helpful way, more in a nervous, please-don’t-pat-me-down-because-I’ve-got-a-pocketful-of-pills kind of way. Kevin takes out his cell phone and shows him a picture of our victim, surrounded by trash.

  “Do you recognize her?” Kevin says.

  Hank flinches but keeps his eyes on the photo.

  “Jeez,” he says, “she could have been in here before, but I don’t know.”

  “Do you remember seeing her on Thursday?” I say.

  “Thursday’s our busiest night. You know college kids. They start their weekends early. The place was packed. But not too packed, I mean. We keep a running head count, so we’re always within the occupancy limit.”

  “That’s not an answer,” Kevin says. “Do you remember her, yes or no?”

  “What was she wearing?” Hank says.

  “I wish we knew,” I say.

  Kevin looks up at the ceiling. “How many security cameras do you have?”

  “Three,” Hank says. “Front door, back alley, and one next to the safe.”

  “Let’s take a look at the footage,” I say.

  Hank leads us into a dank, windowless office and flips on the light switch, but nothing happens. “I’ve been meaning to change that bulb.”

  He powers on a computer, and the screen provides our only source of light. When Hank steps out into the hallway and closes the door, Kevin and I are left standing, elbow to elbow, in the dark. Not having showered in about twenty hours, I feel self-conscious.

  “Cramped quarters,” I say.

  We plant ourselves in metal chairs and reach for the mouse at the same time. I quickly pull away, as though I’d been zapped by an electric prod. Aware of my coffee breath, I pop an Altoid. Kevin twists his wedding band around his finger. His knee bobs up and down as he moves his foot. Tap, tap, tap.

  For the next hour, we sit, straining our eyes, looking at grainy video of couples, groups, and strays entering and exiting the bar. There are dozens of people, mostly students, wearing pretty much the same outfit: jeans, T-shirts, hip-length jackets, and an occasional baseball cap.

  The room is warm, and soon my eyelids grow heavy. I see a bag of Doritos on the table, tear it open. Anything to keep my body moving; otherwise, I might nod off.

  “There, that’s her,” Kevin says.

  Kevin freezes the frame, but it’s hard to get a clear picture. It looks like my victim, same body type and haircut. She’s chic, draped in a knee-length sweater coat. A scarf, possibly the murder weapon, is triple wrapped around her neck.

  Kevin calls out to Hank, who joins us.

  “That’s you, stamping ink on her hand,” Kevin says.

  Hank goes to lean on the doorframe, but his hand slips and he bangs his shoulder.

  “I relieve the bouncer sometimes,” he says, “when he needs to take a leak.”

  “The picture doesn’t jog your memory?” Kevin says.

  Hank says no, leaves the room, and returns to whatever it was that he was doing before we interrupted him—flushing his drug supply down the toilet, replenishing bottles of vodka with tap water, or skimming off the till.

  “Looks like our vic came in the bar alone,” I say.

  “I’m betting she didn’t leave alone.”

  Kevin is right. He flips the tape back on, and about twenty minutes later, the woman leaves the bar with a man. He has his hand on the small of her back and leads her out of view. He’s about six two, twentyish, with dark hair, a blue-and-white collared shirt, and a blazer. We take the video and print out a couple of still photos of the best frames.

  When we emerge, Hank is at the bar, pretending to polish the brass fixtures with a dirty dishrag.

  Kevin shows him a photo. “You know this guy?”

  “Sure. He’s in here all the time,” Hanks says.

  “A regular?”

  “A stuck-up prick.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He comes in here every Thursday night, acts like he owns the place. Last week, he asked me to put a Reserved sign on the back table so he could have his own private seating area. We don’t do that for anyone. Well, maybe if Tom Brady came in, especially if he brought his wife—yeah, definitely if he brought Gisele—but that’s it.”

  Kevin flashes a smile. “With that kind of snotty attitude, I’m guessing he’s a Harvard man.”

  I throw him a look, Very funny, then turn to Hank.

  “This guy, is he usually in here with the same woman?” I say.

  Hank shrugs. “Not that I’ve noticed.”

  “He got a name?” Kevin says.

  “Sure. He pitches his name around like it means something, like he thinks it’ll get him a medal or a key to the executive bathroom.”

  “Who is he?” I say.

  “Tommy Greenough.”

  I try not to react. The Greenough name is synonymous with Boston. The family is famous for their wealth, connections, and power. I think my father knows more than a few of them. Still, there are lots other people on this planet with the same surname.

  “Tommy Greenough, is he any relation to the senator?” I say, hoping the answer is no.

  “Yup,” Hank says. “He’s his oldest son.”

  Chapter Seven

  My cell phone dings once, softly, and I bolt upright. My body is always at the ready, even when my eyes are closed. Homicide prosecutors can’t afford to drift past the second stage of the sleep cycle into REM, especially when there’s a potential serial killer on the loose.

  I check the text; it’s from Max: Meet me at Victoria’s in an hour. There’s no need to RSVP; an invitation from the boss is a demand, not a request. I have no idea what he wants, but it’s not going to be good. Otherwise, he’d call me directly. Whatever he has to say, however, will pale in comparison to my news: Senator Thomas Greenough’s son is under suspicion for murder.

  When I’m done showering, I find Ty in the kitchen, drinking coffee and stirring something on the stove. He gives me a kiss and pops in a K-Cup.

  “What time did you get home?” he says.

  “Late. It was after four.”

  “I’m making oatmeal, steel cut.”

  When the Keurig lets out a final groan, Ty takes the coffee, adds a splash of soy from the fridge, and hands it to me.

  “Sorry, I don’t have time for breakfast,” I say.

  “I was hoping we could go out to Walden today, walk around the pond.”

  I sip my coffee, delaying my confession for as long as possible.

  “I caught a new case,” I say.

  “So that’s why you snuck out of the Liberty last night, without saying good night.”

  “You were busy, working.”

  “Babe, you said you were going to slow down, ease back into work.”

  After the shooting, I promised Ty two things: I’d try to have more balance in my life, and I’d be more forthright with him. I managed to keep my word, until now.<
br />
  “This is important,” I say. “It could be my first serial killer.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  If Ty is annoyed or disappointed, he doesn’t show it. Past boyfriends used to complain, call me detached and unreachable. Ty seems to take it in stride. He transfers my coffee from the cup into a stainless steel to-go tumbler, twists on the top, and hands it to me.

  “We’re supposed to have dinner with your family,” he says.

  “I’ll cancel.”

  “We bailed on them last time. Let’s get it over with.”

  Even though my parents and my brother both have homes on Beacon Hill, less than a mile away from my Back Bay apartment, I haven’t seen them in a couple of months. My relationship with my mother has always been strained, but recently, it’s been tense with the men in my family as well. Even though the main issue is my job, Ty knows my family hasn’t fully embraced our relationship. His response has been more mature than mine; he doesn’t want to contribute to an estrangement, so he’s trying to keep the lines of communication open.

  He digs into his jeans pocket and hands me my car key.

  “It’s parked on Berkley Street, near Marlborough. It may be low on gas.”

  We’ve had to share my car since his Corolla has been in the shop off and on, mostly on. At my urging, he bought the car at a police auction shortly after we started dating. It’s got a bullet hole in the trunk, and the radio is missing, but the price was right.

  Outside, it’s unseasonably warm, and I enjoy the short walk across Beacon Street, around the corner to Berkley. Ty isn’t the most reliable witness; predictably, my Prius isn’t where he said it would be. I circle the block until I find it on Clarendon Street, with a bright orange parking ticket tucked under the windshield wiper.

  Someone taps me on the shoulder. I clutch my tote, ready to inflict bodily harm. Fool me once.

  “Abigail? Abigail Endicott?”

  I turn to see a man who looks vaguely familiar. To be safe, I don’t commit to my name.

  “Can I help you?”

  “It’s me, Chip—Chip Aldridge.”

  I recognize the name—the Aldridges have deep roots in Boston. They’re related by marriage to many family friends: the Roosevelts, the Coolidges, and the Grants. I’ve probably met him more than once.

  “Sure,” I try to bluff. “You grew up on the Hill, right?”

  “No, but my cousins did. I grew up in Manhattan. My family used to summer near yours on the Vineyard.”

  He extends his hand and gives me a firm, proper handshake. I have a weakness for strong hands; it’s a sign of confidence. Chip looks like someone who could have spent his youth on Martha’s Vineyard: tall and lanky, with the hint of a suntan and expensive loafers.

  “We belonged to the Edgartown Yacht Club,” he says. “I met you at one of the dances, but you always had so many guys chasing after you, you probably don’t remember me.”

  He’s starting to look familiar.

  “How have you been?” I say.

  “Great,” he says. “I’ve seen you on TV a few times over the years. You’re a lawyer, right?”

  “Prosecutor. How about you? What do you do?”

  “I’m a surgeon.” That explains the hands. “I live a couple of doors down from here, on Comm Ave.” He sneaks a look at my unencumbered ring finger. “How about we get together sometime?”

  I’m tempted to accept, but think about Ty, at home, cleaning up the breakfast he made for me.

  “I’ve got a crazy schedule,” I say.

  “Me, too,” he says, “but I’m sure we can figure something out. Come on, there’s no harm in two old friends getting together for lunch.”

  He makes a compelling case, and not just because he reminds me of my high school crush—the tennis coach at Winsor. Besides, it won’t be a date—it’ll just be a lunch. I stuff Ty’s parking ticket in my bag and pull out a business card.

  “Give me a call,” I say.

  I get in the car and head up Mass Ave. to Victoria’s. It’s only a fifteen-minute ride, but it might as well be a million miles away. I drive past the Back Bay brownstones and gourmet grocers toward some of my other favorite haunts: Boston Medical Center’s emergency room, the first stop for some of my victims. The Pine Street Inn, where many of my witnesses reside. And the morgue.

  I park in front of Victoria’s, an old-school diner, open 24-7, ideal for law enforcement types. There’s a black-and-white checkerboard floor and barstools are lined up at the counter, where gooey blueberry pies and fluffy coconut layer cakes are displayed under glass domes.

  Max is seated in a booth, pounding the bottom of a Heinz bottle, splashing gobs of ketchup onto his home fries. He glances up at me, looks down, and stabs a fork into his omelet.

  “I told you to go home last night,” he says.

  “We had a late break in the case.”

  I look around for the waitress and hold up my empty coffee cup.

  “You’re taking on too much too soon.”

  “Come on, Max, you’ve known me for over a decade. Did you really think I was going home to sleep, in the middle of an investigation?”

  The waitress comes to our table, fills my mug. Assuming Victoria’s doesn’t supply soy milk, I take a sip of the black coffee. She clicks her pen and takes down my order: corned beef hash and biscuits. I’ve lost a lot of weight since the shooting last year, and don’t eat very often, so I’ll take the calories when I can find them.

  “I spoke with Cassandra,” Max says once the waitress is gone. “She offered to help with the case.”

  This is an annoyance but not a surprise.

  “Before or after it made the national news?” I say.

  Max plays it straight, which concerns me. We’re always mocking Cassandra for her love of the spotlight.

  “She could second seat you, carry some of the load.”

  “I don’t need help,” I say.

  “You might, after you hear the reason I called you here.” Max takes his time, finishes his plate of food. Then he looks around, leans across the table. “Ray Harris is resigning.”

  He’s got to be wrong.

  “No one gives up being mayor of Boston,” I say. “Once you’re in, it’s a job for life.”

  He smiles weakly. “Unless you get indicted.”

  “Ray is getting indicted?”

  Max sticks out his hand, signaling me to lower the volume.

  “The U.S. Attorney charged him with patronage violations,” he says. “She’s unsealing the indictments on Monday.”

  I put down my coffee, anxious about where this is going. Max has made no secret about his political ambitions.

  “You’re going to do it, run for mayor?” I say.

  “I’m assembling a committee, filing my papers this week,” he says.

  The waitress delivers my food. It looks delicious, with just the perfect amount of grease, but I’ve lost my appetite.

  “You love being DA. You’re seriously going to resign?”

  In Massachusetts, elected officials often step down before they’ve served out their term. They break their promise to the electorate and cash in their political capital, while it’s still worth something. Sometimes there’s a lofty presidential appointment, like secretary of state or ambassador to the Vatican, but mostly it’s about money. Either way, the governor will appoint someone to fill the seat until there’s an election. That person will have the advantage of incumbency next November, when the voters decide.

  “You should go for it,” Max says. “You’d be a shoo-in. You’re the hometown hero, with a million-dollar smile and an Ivy League education. The party will endorse you, the police union will support you, and the victims’ rights groups will rally around you.”

  My disapproving family members flash through my mind.

  “It’s not that simple.”

  Max signals for the check.

  “It’s a fucking no-brainer.”

  “My family has been pressuring me to
get out of public service since the day I was sworn in.”

  “They’ll get over it when they see you up on the platform, giving an acceptance speech, hobnobbing with all the muckety-mucks.”

  He crumples his paper napkin, puts it on the table, takes out his wallet, and starts to count bills. I have to tell him my news before he leaves.

  “Every politician in the state is going to distance themselves from me,” I say.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Our suspect from last night’s murder is Tommy Greenough.”

  He looks up, unsure if he’s heard correctly.

  “Senator Greenough’s kid?” he says.

  “We have a picture of him with the victim, leaving a bar a few hours before she was found. Right now, he’s our best suspect.”

  The waitress drops off the check. Max plasters a smile on his face and waits for her to leave.

  “Slow down and choose your words wisely,” he says. “That doesn’t make him a suspect. It doesn’t even make him a person of interest. At most, he’s a potential witness. That’s what we’re calling him. Got it?”

  I lean in close, forcing him to meet my eyes. “You want me to give him special treatment?”

  He doesn’t blink. “That’s exactly what I want you to do.”

  “But you always say: just worry about the cases, let me worry about the politics.”

  He drops three tens on the table and repeats his new catchphrase: “Tommy Greenough is a potential witness. Period.”

  “You’ve got egg on your shirt,” I say.

  “Screw you.”

  “No, I mean literally.”

  I dip my napkin into my water glass and wipe the goop off the front of his oxford. He stands, slides in his chair.

  “Keep me in the loop,” he says.

  I follow him out the door. When I reach my car, I check my phone and see that there are two missed calls from Kevin. I hit redial.

  “We got an ID on our victim,” Kevin says.

  “Who was she?”

  “Caitlyn Walker, aged twenty-one, scholarship student from Missouri. She went to Wellesley.”

  Four girls from my graduating class at Winsor went to Wellesley, as did my cousin Hattie and my aunt Lukie. Flustered, I drop my car key, and as I bend to pick it up, I fumble and drop my phone.