Mission Hill

by Pamela Wechsler

  “Did something happen to you, babe?” Ty says.

  I take a breath and show Kevin the note.

  “You know the guy from North Street, the one with the gold teeth?” I say.

  “Darrius Palmer,” Kevin says.

  Kevin is good, but I’m surprised he has this guy’s name on the tip of his tongue. “You know him?”

  “I don’t like the way he’s been eyeing you in court.”

  “What’s his deal?”

  “Darrius and Orlando met in juvie, bonded over being the youngest killers there. They’ve been running buddies ever since,” Kevin says. “Why? Do you think he’s the guy who wrote the note?”

  “I don’t know who did it.”

  I tell him about the elevator incident and what happened after I left the office tonight. I reiterate that I don’t want to give in. And that I refuse to live like a prisoner.

  “Can’t you arrest him?” Ty says.

  I shake my head. “Any dim-witted defense attorney will have the charges tossed and he’ll be out before lunch, smirking and planning his next move.”

  “If you won’t take a security detail, and we can’t lock him up, then I’m going over to his place and have a little chat,” Kevin says. “And then I’m going to arrange a surveillance team.”

  I start to protest, but he stops me.

  “We won’t put the tail on you—they’ll be following him.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Max is hosting a fund-raiser for Tim’s family today at Doyle’s. In a moment of weakness, I invited Ty to join me. I’ve never taken him to anything work related, which hasn’t been an issue since most nights he’s with his band, rehearsing, traveling, or performing. Today’s get-together is on a Saturday afternoon, and he’s not booked.

  Ty and I are in the bedroom, getting dressed. I make a mental note to avoid allowing him to be photographed anywhere near my boss. An image of Max standing with a convicted drug dealer could come back to haunt him when he seeks reelection or announces his run for mayor.

  “It’s weird, holding a party at the place where the guy was last seen alive,” Ty says.

  I slip into a black leather shell and turn my back to him. He picks up on my cue and zips me in.

  “The pub’s owner is a big contributor to Max’s campaign. Money trumps decorum.”

  “I hate politics.”

  That’s my opening. I pounce on it.

  “I won’t be offended if you don’t want to come.”

  “I’m coming. I want to.”

  I sort through my bureau and select a pair of skinny black jeans.

  “We can go out to lunch instead. There’s a new place in the seaport that I want to try,” I say.

  “You guys were good friends. You have to show up.”

  “No one will notice if I’m not there. I gave a donation to the scholarship fund. That’s all they care about.”

  Ty looks in the mirror and buttons his white shirt. “Cutting a check is great, but you should still show your face. Besides, I’m kind of curious to meet your friends.”

  “Owen and Max are my friends. The rest of them are just colleagues.”

  Ty steps into his cowboy boots and looks at me. “I’ve been wondering—have you been keeping me from them or them from me?”

  Both, I think. “Neither,” I say.

  I feel bad. I don’t want him to think I’m embarrassed about our relationship—I’m not.

  “You’ve never introduced me to anyone in your office,” he says.

  “I guess it’s a habit, or a neurosis. I compartmentalize—work, home, family. I’m sorry.”

  Ty doesn’t say anything. He forces a quick smile but I know that he’s looking for a better explanation—and he deserves one—but that’s as deep as I can dig right now.

  I kiss him, hoping this will punctuate the discussion, and move into the bathroom to look for my hairbrush. I check the cabinets and under the sink, and then settle for a comb. The downside to paying someone to clean and organize my apartment is that I can never find my stuff.

  When we get outside, the air is frigid and the sky bright and cloudless. I linger on the sidewalk, tilting my pale, sun-starved face up to the sun. During my last checkup, I was diagnosed with a severe vitamin D deficiency—a result of my unhealthy lifestyle. The only time I’m outside during daylight hours is walking back and forth between the courthouse and my office, or getting in and out of a police car. My diet doesn’t help—most of the time, the only calcium I ingest comes from the foam in my lattes.

  On Dartmouth Street, I slip my arm into Ty’s and lean my head on his shoulder. He pulls me closer and gives me a kiss. We seem to be back on track.

  “The sun feels good,” I say. “Maybe we should take a vacation, someplace exotic.”

  “Sounds great. Like where?”

  “Fiji or Bali.”

  “Let’s aim for a couple of days in Ogunquit this summer. You talk a good game, but I don’t see you leaving your murderers long enough to take a cruise around the world.”

  We take Ty’s Civic. As he drives along Tremont Street, we pass the Piano Craft Guild, a factory that was converted into artist studios and loft-style apartments. Around the corner is where number eleven, Theo McDaniel, shot and killed a fifteen-year-old boy and stole his bicycle. I look out the window.

  “You’re quiet. What are you thinking about?” Ty says.

  I consider sharing my thoughts. The sorrow I experienced the first time I met the victim’s mother. How I almost cried when she came to the arraignment wearing a large metal button imprinted with a picture of her son at his middle school spelling bee. How lonely I felt watching her sit by herself in the audience. How she hugged me, told me that she appreciated me, after the guilty verdict came in.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Are you freaked out about seeing Julia?”

  I don’t meet his eyes, unsure of where he’s going with the question.

  “I mean, it might be kind of awkward,” he says.

  “Awkward?” I look straight ahead.

  “Well, you were sleeping with her husband.”

  I guess we weren’t done with the argument that started in my apartment. I thought he was hurt or annoyed that I’ve never introduced him to Max or Owen, but that’s not it. This is about Tim. I’m shocked that he knows and that he’s decided to casually drop it into the conversation, today of all days. I look at him without responding.

  “I thought you should know that I know,” he says.

  “Okay.” I take a breath. “Is there anything that you want to ask?”

  “You were seeing each other before we met.”

  “Right.”

  “And after we met.”

  “For a little while.”

  “When did it stop?”

  “I don’t know, like six months ago. When you and I started to get serious. I don’t remember the exact date.”

  I do remember the exact date. Tim phoned me on July 1, at 10:00 P.M. and said we had to talk. He sounded tense, formal, distant. Abby, I have to break things off for good. I can’t see you anymore. This time I mean it. I need you to respect me and my family.

  I sensed that he was acting under Julia’s strict supervision. I pictured him making sure he uttered the words precisely as rehearsed. I wanted to argue with him, plead with him, but I could tell that she was sitting next to him, close enough to hear my reaction. I told him I understood and would respect his wishes.

  After we hung up, alone in my apartment, I opened a bottle of wine and got extremely intoxicated. Ty and I weren’t spending a lot of weeknights together yet, but I called and invited him over. After that, we started seeing each other more regularly.

  “Anything else?”

  “The rest can wait. I wanted to clear the air, since I’m about to meet his widow.”

  “I’m glad you brought it up. I don’t want to lie anymore,” I say, knowing that I’ll likely lie to him many more times.

  “No worries, I mean
people in glass houses, right?”

  “Right.” Wait. What? “You’ve been sleeping with other women?”

  “Would that surprise you?” He tries to gauge my reaction.

  “Who are you sleeping with? Groupies?” I am fully cognizant of the fact that I’m more upset than I have a right to be.

  Still several blocks away from Doyle’s, Ty pulls the car over and puts it in park.

  “I’m not going to be the only monogamous one in the relationship. If you’ve decided that you want to be exclusive, then let’s talk about it. But from where I sit, it seems like the only reason we’re even having this conversation is because Tim is dead.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Sure it is. You miss him and you don’t want to be alone.”

  I look at him and tear up. “I’m not alone, I’m with you.”

  “Not really.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You always have one foot out the door. It’s been almost a year, and you still haven’t decided if you can trust me, or if you even want to trust me.” He stops, considers his words. “When are you going to let me in? When are you going to let yourself be vulnerable?”

  He waits for a response but the truth is, I don’t know.

  “I can’t sit around and watch you self-destruct,” he says.

  “Then don’t.” I sound angry, but feel hurt.

  Ty pulls back onto the road, and we ride in silence. He stops in front of Doyle’s and lets the car idle. We watch a few police officers and prosecutors walk in the front door. It becomes clear that Ty isn’t coming inside with me. I guess I got what I wanted, after all. I step out and slam the door shut.

  He sits in the car and watches, making sure I get inside safely. Even in the heat of battle, Ty is a gentleman.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The back room at Doyle’s is jam-packed, noisy and hot, and it’s difficult to breathe. There is a blur of familiar faces—people talking, drinking, and stuffing their faces with ham sandwiches and sugar cookies. I move to a spot in a corner and make myself as invisible as possible, trying to formulate a strategy.

  Max is in the middle of the room, surrounded by a half-dozen young, eager ADAs all vying for his attention, trying to think of something clever and memorable to say. They’re wasting their time. Max is nodding, but his expression is vacant—he’s not listening to a word.

  Max’s wife, Cindy, and their twelve-year-old, Maxie, are standing off to the side with Julia. An arm’s length away is Max’s majordomo, Owen, and Chris Sarsfield. The men are talking, looking down at the floor, probably sharing a memory of Tim. Owen’s hand is resting proudly on the shoulder of his eight-year-old, Patsy, who is chomping on a blueberry muffin, shedding crumbs on the floor. Owen’s wife, Megan, is working the crowd, shaking hands, and extending sympathies. Owen and Megan were high school sweethearts. She’s a natural beauty. Her shiny black hair is pulled into a loose ponytail. She’s wearing jeans and an old green-and-white “Lombardo for DA” T-shirt.

  Owen steps up to the podium and taps on the microphone.

  “We have a great crowd, and I know Julia appreciates it. Our district attorney would like to say a few words.”

  Max puts down his pint and picks up the microphone.

  “Thanks for your generous contributions to the scholarship fund, which we’ve established at Tim’s alma mater, Boston College Law School. The award will be given to a student, selected by Tim’s family, who has exhibited excellence in academics as well as a proven commitment to public service. We want to capture the essence of Tim’s love for his job, his fellow citizens, and his community.”

  Max pauses for applause. After a minute, Owen raises his hands, signaling everyone to let him continue.

  “I also want to recognize Tim’s family. His parents couldn’t be here, but they send their heartfelt thanks. His wife is with us. Julia, you have been a rock throughout this horrific time. We salute your courage and support your determination. Please, know that you are not alone.”

  Julia moves slowly up to the podium, and everyone applauds, myself included. She’s nervous, soft-spoken. A wave of compassion and empathy hits me.

  “Tim would be both pleased and embarrassed by the love that you’ve shown us. Emma and I are blessed to have you as part of our extended family. I’m so grateful.”

  Max gives her a hug. An Irish band starts to play and I make my way to the coffee urn and grab a cup. Pushing through the crowd in search of the milk pitcher, I see Julia and reverse course. I look around for a safe harbor and am relieved to see Owen a few feet away, but Julia taps my shoulder before I get to him. Turning around to face her, I feel too ashamed to look her directly in the eyes.

  “Abby, I want to thank you,” she says.

  I don’t know her well and can’t tell if she’s being sincere or setting a trap.

  My hand shakes. “Thank me?” Coffee sloshes over the rim of the cup and pools on the saucer.

  “The scholarship money you donated to BC will pay the first recipient’s tuition for a full year. And the fund you set up for Emma, that was so unexpected and generous.”

  “The donations were supposed to be anonymous. But you’re welcome. If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate.”

  “I know you miss him too.” She exhales and pauses. “But you really screwed up our marriage.”

  I wish I could find a rock to crawl under. I miss Tim, but Julia was his wife and the mother of his child. My face is flush with shame.

  “It was over,” I say, as though that’s going to make it better.

  “Only because I threatened to leave and take the baby with me. If we didn’t have Emma, who knows what he would have done. It’s the only reason he married me. I was pregnant.”

  My heart pounds. That’s why he chose her. I thought that they had planned to get married before Julia discovered she was pregnant. I wish she hadn’t told me—it just revives the fantasy that Tim and I might have ended up together, after all.

  “I’m thirty-three years old. I can’t believe I’m a widow.” She starts to cry. “I promised myself I wouldn’t fall apart.” She wipes her eyes and shakes her head.

  “If I could go back and change things, I would.”

  I’d like to end it here and walk away, but I can’t turn my back and leave her standing alone. People are looking at us, trying not to gawk, but staring nonetheless. My coffee is cold, but I drink it anyway so I have something to do with my hands and mouth.

  “How could this have happened?” she says. “People are saying he was doing something wrong. Was he?”

  “I don’t know. Did he talk to you about what he was working on?”

  “He didn’t say, but I grew up in a police family. I could tell it was sensitive.”

  Some of the gossipmongers are still keeping watch. I turn my back to the room.

  “Is there anything you know that could help the investigation?”

  “If I knew anything, I would have told Middlesex.”

  “Did he ever talk about a federal investigation?”

  “An FBI agent came by the house a few times.”

  “Josh McNamara?”

  Julia stops talking, as though she’s considering whether to continue.

  “Please, tell me. We have our differences, but we also have a mutual interest in finding Tim’s killer,” I say.

  I turn to look over my shoulder and scan the room until I see Max, who is downing a pint and talking to Chris Sarsfield.

  “Do you know what they talked about?” I say.

  “Whatever it was, I assumed they didn’t want people in the office to know that they were meeting.”

  “Do you know how long they’d been working together?”

  “I don’t think that they were exactly working together. It seemed more like Tim was working for the feds.”

  “You mean as a special prosecutor?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Josh was … what do you call the guy you giv
e information to?”

  “A handler.”

  “Right. I think that Josh was his handler. Tim was going to wear a wire.”

  My mind races. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Tim was working as an FBI informant. Shocked, I excuse myself, take out my phone, and call Agent Josh McNamara.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  As the crowd inside Doyle’s dwindles, I locate a quiet corner table and deposit my coat and bag in the extra chair to discourage stragglers from joining me. Josh hasn’t returned my call, and after a ten-minute staring contest with my phone, I send him a text. Call Abby Endicott. I wait a few seconds and send another, with a 911 for emphasis. I don’t reveal what I want or why it’s urgent—Josh won’t rush to call me back if he learns that the exigency is purely one-sided. My discovery that Tim was a federal informant is hardly breaking news for him.

  A few minutes later, Josh calls and agrees to pick me up. We decide to meet around the corner to stave off potential gossip and speculation. If anyone sees us together, they’ll question what I’m doing with an FBI agent on the weekend. By Monday morning, everyone will surmise that we’re either working a case or having an affair.

  By the time I arrive at our meeting place, Josh is already there, waiting in a black SUV. We make small talk; he’s in no rush to find out why I called, probably because he’s figured it out.

  “I saw you,” he says as we drive past the dead-end street where Tim’s body was discovered.

  “When?”

  “The night Tim was killed.”

  I turn and look out the window, remembering the scene at the tow lot. The yellow tape. The press gathered at the perimeter. The pavement where Tim’s Yankees cap landed. The white tent shielding the horror of Tim’s body.

  Josh’s voice pulls me back. “I heard the calls come over the scanner, so I drove over. I didn’t stay long.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “Tim and I had business together.” He pauses. “He told me about the two of you.”

  Josh is trying to disarm me by catching me off guard, and he’s succeeded.

  “What did he say?”

  “That you were involved, romantically.”