“Thanks, Santos,” I say. “Booties?”
He offers up a cardboard dispenser filled with blue paper shoe covers, and I take two.
“If I was you, I wouldn’t be in a rush to get over there,” he says.
“I appreciate the heads-up, but at this point, I’ve pretty much seen it all.”
“Yeah, me too. But this one is really bad. I wish there was a way to un-see what I just seen.”
The sight of a dead body repulses me. I know that it’s important to view the decedent firsthand, that every corpse tells a story, but I prefer to get the information secondhand from the medical examiner. When I was new to the homicide unit, I forced myself to attend every autopsy. Once I made my bones, had several convictions under my belt, I begged off.
Memories of those procedures still haunt me. The bodies of my victims, splayed out on a cold, hard slab. The medical examiner holding a scalpel, slicing into the torso, making a Y-shaped incision, and prying open the flaps of skin. The lab assistant plopping the rubbery, reddish-brown liver onto a scale, and dumping the stomach contents into a plastic container. And there’s the smell, the unforgettable combination of odors, formaldehyde and freshly cut bowels. I tried all sorts of tricks to mask it. Wearing heavy perfume. Breathing only through my mouth. Drinking from a can of Coke with a smear of VapoRub under my nose. Nothing worked.
I glove up, steady myself on a hydrant and slip the booties on over my pumps. Carl Ostroff, an anchor from Channel 7, charges over. Carl has camera-ready good looks, overbleached white teeth, and perfect hair, but he’s not afraid to roll around in the mud. We have about as good a relationship as a reporter and a prosecutor can have. I leak information to him when it serves my case, and he gets the exclusive. He hasn’t double-crossed me yet, but chances are that he will.
Carl stops just short of the crime scene tape and pushes a microphone in my face. A klieg light flips on, blinding me. I block the glare by cupping my hands over my eyes, and stare at him. He’s not dissuaded.
“I’m here behind Lattimore’s Towing with Abigail Endicott, chief homicide prosecutor for the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office. Abby, I know this has to be a difficult one. What can you tell us?”
“This better not be live.”
He waves off the cameraman. “I thought you’d want to go on the record, share some thoughts about the victim.”
“Come on, Carl, I just got here.”
“Yeah, but you know, right?” He seems genuinely confused.
Kevin is moving away from the tent, rushing toward me. His right arm is extended, palm facing me, like a traffic cop.
“Hold up, Abby. Let’s talk for a minute.” Kevin takes my elbow and tries to turn me in the opposite direction, but I jerk my arm away.
“Enough of this protective, paternalistic bullshit,” I say. “Everyone knows what’s going on but me. Who is it?”
“I wanted to tell you in person.”
“Okay, I’m here. Tell me.”
On the periphery of the white tent, a technician holds a magnifying glass as he meticulously dusts a Ford Taurus for prints.
“That’s a detective’s car,” I say.
“No, the vic wasn’t a detective,” Kevin says.
He starts to explain, but something catches my eye, distracting me. It’s ten feet away, on the pavement, encircled by a chalk outline, a few inches from an orange cone evidence marker. I stare in disbelief.
“Abby, listen,” Kevin says.
“It can’t be.”
Everything starts to swirl in slow motion, the noise around me sharpens into a shrill hum. This is worse than anything I ever could have imagined. The reports got it wrong. It’s not a cop.
“Try to breathe,” Kevin says.
I take a few steps closer to get a better look. There’s no mistaking what it is: his trademark blue-and-white NY Yankees baseball cap.
Plenty of people wear Yankees paraphernalia in Boston—students, tourists, my uncle Dalton. But there’s only one man who has the irreverence, bravado, and sense of humor to wear a Yankees hat while tossing back a pint at Doyle’s or sitting behind the wheel of an unmarked Boston police car.
I know who it is but I have to see for myself. With Kevin by my side, I inch forward and peer inside the tent. There he is—Tim Mooney—with a bullet hole in his head.
Chapter Five
Tim and I started our careers together. We shared an office in the decrepit Suffolk Superior courthouse, before it was evacuated and condemned, like one of my crime scenes. There were eleven of us crammed into a windowless room, buried between floors. Chips of paint, most likely lead, fell from the walls. It was unbearably hot in the summer and even hotter in the winter. The water dispenser was permanently out of repair and the only bathroom was public—sometimes it doubled as a shooting gallery for defendants who needed a heroin fix.
We were district court prosecutors, earning $27,000 a year, working long hours under impossible conditions. Unwilling victims berated us, sleazy defense attorneys challenged our ethics, political hack judges mocked us. And we loved every second of it.
Now we’re each assigned to our own offices, windowed and carpeted, in a modern building, One Bulfinch Place. Most prosecutors at our level have plaques, commendations, citations, adorning their walls. The only decorations in Tim’s office are snapshots of his wife and daughter tacked to a bulletin board. My walls are filled with pictures too—mug shots, crime scenes, and murder victims. I don’t keep any family photos, birthday cards, or posters from my favorite museums. Nothing that could give visitors a clue about who I spend time with or where I go outside of work.
“You’re shaking.” Kevin unscrews the cap from a water bottle and hands it to me. “Here, drink this.”
I force the breath out of my throat. “That baseball hat—it’s Tim’s.”
“I’m sorry. I know you guys were close.”
Kevin doesn’t know the half of it. No one does. People think that we’re the kind of friends who would eventually realize we were meant for each other. Like Ross and Rachel or Mulder and Scully. The truth is that Tim and I dated secretly, off and on, for years. He’s the only man I ever felt sure about. I was convinced that he was the one, even after he broke my heart.
Four years ago, Tim met Julia at a retirement party for her father, a Boston police sergeant. We were all introduced to one another at the same time. We got into a discussion about TV cop shows, each declaring our favorite. Mine was Prime Suspect—the British version. Tim’s was Law & Order—the original version. Julia’s was Monk. I don’t think that Monk qualifies as a cop show, but I didn’t want to seem petty, so I didn’t debate the issue.
Tim was okay looking, kind of short at five eight, nondescript with his rep ties and boy’s regular haircut. But there was something about his quiet self-confidence, his resolve, that was apparent upon first meeting him. He made you feel lucky to be in his presence. Julia was drawn in, just like I was.
Everything about Julia was gentle: her laugh, her smile, her flowing auburn hair. Tim was attracted to her immediately, and she to him. She’s everything in a partner that I’m not: trusting, patient, nurturing, reliable. She was the perfect mother, the perfect wife. Tim, however, was not the perfect husband.
We continued our relationship after they married. If it had been up to me, I would have let our affair go on forever. Tim broke it off six months ago, after his daughter was born, but we remained close. I held out hope that he would come to regret his decision, searching for signs of affection and desire every time he smiled or touched my arm.
My head throbs. My mind races. “Who killed him?”
“I don’t know,” Kevin says. “We’ll have to rip into every case he’s ever touched.”
“Maybe the guy didn’t know who Tim was. It could have been a robbery gone bad.”
“So far, it looks like a hit. His credit cards and cash are still in his wallet, keys in the ignition.” He lowers his voice and leans in. “What do you know a
bout his personal life? You knew him better than most.”
I wonder if Kevin is signaling knowledge of our relationship. It never occurred to me that he might know, but it makes sense that he would. He’s seen us together umpteen times, and he’s a master at deciphering body language—maybe he picked up on our unspoken intimacy.
Embarrassed, I avert his eyes. “I don’t know anything that would make him a target.”
“I heard he was about to start a trial.”
“He impaneled a jury yesterday and was planning to give his opening tomorrow.”
“Which case?”
My mouth is dry. I guzzle some water. “Orlando Jones.”
“From the North Street Posse?”
Boston doesn’t have the large centralized gangs that inhabit L.A. or New York. Most of our street gangs are disorganized, scattered, with new ones popping up every few months. North Street is one of the more established neighborhood gangs. They’ve been around for decades and continue to have a strong criminal presence in the city.
Tim and I discussed the murder when it first came in. Over the past year, we strategized and analyzed holes in the case. Yesterday, the last time I saw him, I helped him craft his opening, the one he’ll never deliver. Orlando Jones sprayed bullets into a crowd of people sitting on a porch, drinking beer, enjoying a summer night. He shot three people: the first is dead; the second might as well be dead; and the third is living in fear.
“Your boss is here,” Kevin says, looking over at Max, who is still huddled with the mayor.
Max is my boss, but he’s also my friend. He helped me learn the ropes when I began my career in Boston Municipal Court, and he mentored me after I was promoted to the homicide unit. In the courtroom, he was a prosecutor’s prosecutor—sharp, steady, and fearless. Since he was elected DA three years ago, he’s become more political, reluctant to make the tough calls. Some say he panders to the media and special interests. I think he’s just finding his sea legs.
He lumbers toward us, looking slightly disheveled. He missed a button on his trench coat, making one side higher than the other. Clumps of black hair stick out from under his scally cap. He takes pains to ensure that he is positioned with his back to the cameras, aware that reporters are filming, capturing his every move.
“Christ, this is unfucking believable.”
Max, a former basketball player at Providence College, is a foot taller than I am. Even at this distance, I can smell the booze on his breath. I wonder whether he’d been drinking before he got word of the murder or had a quick shot after he heard the news. Knowing Max, it’s both.
“I’ve got to get out to Roslindale and talk to his wife, Julie,” he says.
“Julia,” I say.
“Julia. Julia.” He repeats the name, attempting to improve the likelihood that he’ll remember it. “Tell me, what the fuck am I going to say to Julia?”
“She doesn’t know yet?”
“She knows. Owen drove over to the house when the call came in. He’s staying with her until I get there.”
Owen Guilfoyle is Max’s chief of staff, his loyal apostle. He’s a policy wonk and a numbers cruncher, but he’s also got political savvy, and if you dig past a few layers of machismo, you’ll find compassion. Max gets to play good cop; he dispenses the promotions and salary bumps, announces arrests and guilty verdicts. Owen is stuck playing bad cop; he doles out the discipline and pink slips, and apparently, he’s the guy who has to go to your house in the middle of the night to tell you that your husband is dead.
“I never thought I’d see the day when one of my own would be killed. On my watch,” Max says.
“Do you know who he was with at Doyle’s?”
“Chris Sarsfield and Owen were there. They said that they saw Tim with a detective, Nestor Gomes.”
“Nestor and Tim were working the Orlando Jones case together.”
“Have you thought about who you want to run lead on the investigation?” Kevin says. “We should start papering potential witnesses with subpoenas and get the canvass going.”
Kevin is clearheaded, two steps ahead of the rest of us. This isn’t the first time he’s been through this kind of crisis. Unfortunately, in the past couple decades, four Boston police officers have died in the line duty. None, however, was gunned down by an assassin.
“There’s a clear conflict. As much as I hate it, I’m going to have to bring in outsiders,” Max says. “I’ve called Middlesex.”
Mayor Harris comes over and interrupts. “Sorry, Max, but we should get this presser going. We have to keep the calm. The news is leaking out, and people are going to start to panic.”
The mayor leaves us to take his place, front and center, at the podium.
Max takes a deep breath and exhales. “I’ve got to get this over with.”
I take a tin of Altoids from my pocket and offer it to him. His hands tremble as he struggles to grasp one of the tiny white mints and pop it in his mouth.
“You may want to fix your coat,” I say.
He rebuttons his trench, pushes his shoulders back, and moves toward the scrum.
Chapter Six
Max usually loves to stand behind the microphone and hold court with the press, but not tonight. He joins Mayor Harris and Commissioner Paula Davies, who are already at the podium. Reporters jockey for position. Camera lights flick on. The mayor squints and leans into a tangle of microphones.
“At approximately two o’clock this morning, Timothy Francis Mooney, head of organized crime in the district attorney’s office, a beloved and respected member of the law enforcement community, was gunned down. He was on his way home to his wife and child in the very city that he was sworn to serve and protect. Like the rest of you, I’m in a deep state of shock. This is a sad day for all of us.”
As soon as he pauses to catch his breath, a dozen reporters hurl the same question. “Do you have any suspects?”
Commissioner Davies steps up. “Not yet. We’re following every lead and asking for the public’s help. If anyone saw anything, has information that could assist us, please contact our TIPS line. All calls will be strictly confidential.”
“Is there any reason to believe that this was a random attack? Should residents be concerned? Does this mean it’s open season on prosecutors?” Boston Tribune reporter Teresa Lynch calls out.
Teresa is sporting a dowdy brown suit and shiny platinum hair, kind of like a human mullet. She’s always searching for the most sensational angle to a story. Max adjusts the microphone and glares at her.
“No, this is not open season on prosecutors. And it never will be. Make no mistake about that. And you’re an insensitive moron for suggesting the possibility.”
Max’s face reddens and beads of sweat form on his forehead. He never loses control like this in public. If Owen had been here, he’d do something to reel him in. The mayor sees it as an opportunity to make Max look unstable during a time of crisis. He takes over, looks into the cameras, keeping his tone measured.
“Everyone should use their common sense. I’d urge residents to take precautions, but we don’t believe this was a random incident,” he says.
Carl Ostroff raises his hand but doesn’t wait to be called on. “Since Mr. Mooney was assigned to prosecute organized crime, do you think this could have been a mob hit?”
Max moves back to the microphone and regains control. “We’re not going to speculate—that would be irresponsible. We’re obviously at a very early stage of the investigation.” He pauses and looks out into the audience. “Tim Mooney’s family, his friends, and the entire law enforcement community have suffered an immeasurable loss tonight. We are all grieving. I promise you that we will find the bastard who is responsible for this atrocity and hold him accountable.”
Reporters shout out a few more questions, but the officials walk away from the cameras. The press conference is over.
Max returns to finish our conversation. “Tim started the trial—he’s already sworn in the jury. Wheth
er we like it or not, the clock is ticking, and we need to think about who’s going to take over.”
Once a jury has been sworn, the trial has officially commenced, which means jeopardy has attached. There’s no do-over. The Constitution mandates that the case continue to its conclusion—otherwise, it’s double jeopardy and the bad guy walks. We all know that’s not an option.
“Chris Sarsfield has impressed me lately,” Max says. “I’m going to tap him to finish the trial.”
“Chris is good,” I say, “but he’s still pretty green when it comes to murder.”
“We’ll assign him a second chair, someone from appeals to help out with the motions and jury instructions.”
“Orlando Jones was my case. I want it back. Please, let me—”
I look at Max and choke up, unable to get any more words out. He fills the silence.
“Abby, we’ve already been down this path.”
When Orlando Jones emerged as a suspect last year, I grabbed the case, but Max took it away and reassigned it to Tim. Orlando and I have a history that few people know about. I revealed the details to Max’s predecessor when I applied for my job, and I told Max last year when the case came in.
Orlando gave me my first taste of the criminal justice system. Our paths crossed seventeen years ago, when I was in high school and he was in middle school. My senior year at Winsor, I was a Latin scholar, preparing to compete in the Junior Classical League, a national geek-fest for high school students. My best friend, Crystal Park, and I were at school one afternoon, practicing our declensions. Crystal was a scholarship student, and she had to go to her babysitting job. I stayed behind to get in some more studying.
When Crystal left school, it was starting to turn dark, but there was still a lot of traffic on the Jamaica Way. She took the shortcut to the trolley, through a wooded area. Orlando jumped out of the bushes, shoved a knife in her face, and demanded her backpack. Crystal panicked, tried to flee, and ran into the busy street. A couple of motorists saw her fall in front of an oncoming car. Orlando said she stumbled and tripped, but I think he pushed her.
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