Mission Hill

by Pamela Wechsler

  Tim never would have disclosed this, least of all to a fed. I struggle to stay on point.

  “The case that you and Tim were working, did it have anything to do with his murder?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Are the feds running their own investigation?”

  “Not officially.”

  Josh is giving me more information than I would have expected.

  “Meaning you are but you’ll deny it if anyone asks.”

  The sun is setting, and the glare is making it difficult to see. Josh pulls a pair of Ray-Bans from his pocket. There’s something familiar about his overcoat, something that makes me uncomfortable. Trying not to be obvious, I look it over, searching my memory.

  The day I chased him down on Cambridge Street and spilled coffee on myself, it was warm outside—Josh was wearing a suit jacket. Then I remember—it looks like the coat on the man who followed me home from work on the night my apartment was broken into. The man had the same build as Josh.

  It was him. Josh was the guy I saw in Downtown Crossing, the one who scared me and made me seek refuge in the Ritz. He was either tailing me or stalking me. I fear it’s the latter.

  My mouth is dry, my heart pounds. No one knows where I am or who I’m with. As an FBI agent, Josh must have a gun strapped to his ankle or hidden in the small of his back.

  I subtly rest my hand on the door handle. I consider pulling it open it and jumping out of the car, but we’re going at least fifty, and I’d probably get killed by oncoming traffic. My Mace is back in my apartment. I thought I was going to be with Ty all afternoon, surrounded by law enforcement, not alone in a speeding car with an armed psychopath.

  We approach the busy intersection near the Forest Hills T station. There’s traffic ahead at the red light, which should give me an opportunity to escape. As we near the line of cars, the signal turns green. We zoom through the intersection as the light turns from yellow to red.

  Having little to lose, I decide to put it on him and see how he reacts.

  “Why were you at Downtown Crossing the other night?”

  “Why were you there?” he says without hesitation.

  “I was walking home.”

  “You might want to consult a map. That’s not the most direct route from Bulfinch to the Back Bay.”

  “You’re following me.”

  He looks at me as though he were talking to an insane person. “Believe me, if I was following you, I would have caught you.”

  Realizing how ridiculous I sound, I backpedal. “Never mind.”

  He smiles, not looking like a guy who’s going to put a bullet in my head.

  “If I were you, I’d be looking over my shoulder too,” he says.

  We drive past Jamaica Pond, where a group of children are rolling snowballs and piling them atop one another to form a snowman. One of the kids takes a bite out of a carrot and then pushes it into the snowman’s face, giving him a stubby orange nose.

  “I know that Tim was your informant.”

  Josh doesn’t say anything.

  “What about Orlando Jones?” I say.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Josh is deflecting, but I’m not easily deterred.

  “He had a gun case that was dismissed—he was working for someone.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Do you have any idea how Orlando got his case tossed?”

  He shuts me down. “Where do you want me to drop you off, home or office?”

  When I open the door to my apartment, it’s dark and empty inside. Ty has a gig—I hope he’s planning to come by later. He was pretty angry when he dropped me off at Doyle’s.

  I check the bathroom and see that his toothbrush and razor are here, but since he doesn’t leave anything of substance, there’s no way to tell if he plans to return. I promise myself that when he comes back, I’ll clean out a couple of drawers and make space for him in one of the closets.

  I pour myself a glass of Sangiovese and decide to call him, be direct, confident. I’ll ask him about his plans, try to get a read on where we stand, and encourage him to come over.

  When the call goes straight to voice mail, I grow anxious, and my mind races. I have only a couple of seconds to decide what kind of message to leave. Conciliatory, angry, matter-of-fact? I don’t want to sound too pushy or desperate. I try to imagine what I would say to a reluctant witness, how I would coax him into doing what I want.

  When Ty’s voice directs me to leave a message and I hear the beep, I do the only thing I can think of—I hang up and grab my coat.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The traffic on Storrow Drive is light, eliminating any time to second-guess my decision to go to Cambridge. Chances are nothing good will come from surprising Ty at a performance, especially when we’re in the middle of a fight, but I keep driving. If I screwed up at work, I wouldn’t hesitate to fix things. Maybe it’s time to use this strategy at home.

  The car rattles as I cross over the bumpy steel grates of the Charles River drawbridge. When I reach Inman Square, the street is lined with hip coffee shops, restaurants, and traffic. I circle around twice, looking a for parking spot. Not finding any empty meters, I pull into the lot behind Olé. Luckily, a couple exits the restaurant, freeing up a space.

  It’s a short walk to Ryles, but when I arrive, there’s a line out front, twenty people deep. I reach in my tote, fully prepared to do what I haven’t done in years—badge my way in. A familiar-looking goateed bouncer is guarding the door. I rack my brain, trying to recall if he’s friend or foe.

  “Miss Endicott?” he says.

  “Albert?” I say.

  Albert Knowles was my star witness in the trial against number nineteen, Jerome Percival, who drove his Subaru into a crowd of Christmas carolers.

  Albert unhitches the red velvet rope and waves me through.

  “You came here on a great night,” he says. “Close your eyes and you’ll think the dude on the sax is Coleman Hawkins. You gotta hear him jam. He’s awesome.”

  The club is filled to capacity, dark and loud. Ty’s band is on break, and I debate whether to look for him backstage. Then I see him, bellied up to the bar, chatting up a woman who is hanging on his every word. She’s sitting on a backless bar stool, her left leg touching his knee. She has close-cropped jet-black hair, ripped jeans, and a suede jacket with fringe on the sleeves. I rub my fingers over my front teeth, in case I have a lipstick smear, and approach the cozy couple.

  Ty is midsentence when he sees me. He does a double take. “Abby, what are you doing here?”

  “I got off work early and thought I’d surprise you.” I suppress my jealousy and turn to his new friend. “Hi, I’m Abby.”

  “Oh, sorry. Abby, this is Vera,” he says, noticeably failing to claim me as his girlfriend.

  “Nice to meet you.” She extends her hand.

  “Vera writes for The Village Voice.”

  “You’re from New York?” I say, trying to suss out information.

  “I freelance. I live here, in Cambridge.”

  “Vera wrote that article about my band last summer. She’s a great writer.” Ty sounds a little too proud of his friend Vera’s accomplishments.

  I do the math and calculate that they’ve known each other for at least seven months, which is a long time, considering he’s never mentioned a word about her.

  “I had a great subject.” Vera smiles and touches his biceps for emphasis.

  She takes a swig from her bottle of Rolling Rock, looks at Ty, and fiddles with her silver skull earring. Albert comes by to tell Ty it’s time to start the next set. As he and Vera wrap up their conversation, Albert whispers in my ear.

  “Between us, I think you stand a shot with this guy.”

  “You think?”

  Albert returns to his post at the door, and I catch up with Ty near the stage.

  “How many more sets do you have?”

  “Two,” he says. “I’m going to be here late. And I�
�m sure that you’ve got to get up early.”

  “I don’t mind waiting.”

  “I’m going to crash at my place tonight.”

  I try not to react. “Okay, but I’d still like to hear you play.”

  He looks around the room and sees that the pianist and drummer are ready to perform. “Go home, Abby. Everything will work itself out.”

  “I could meet you at your apartment later,” I say.

  “Be sure you have Albert walk you to the car.”

  As I make my way to the door, Vera is settled in at the bar. The bartender hands her another beer.

  “Did you get his number?” Albert says.

  “He didn’t really seem interested.”

  “You want me to walk you to your car?”

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  When I get outside, the temperature has dropped, and I can see my breath. Hampshire Street has quieted, but there is still some foot traffic. I round the corner. Olé is closed for the night. My Prius is one of the few cars left in the lot.

  I take my key fob out of my tote, and as I’m about to hit the unlock button, someone approaches me from behind and presses something sharp and pointy against my throat. I don’t have time to react. I can’t see the blade, but I know that it’s there.

  “Don’t say a word,” a man says. “And don’t turn around.”

  I try not to faint as the man’s other arm wraps around my chest and yanks me in. His breath smells of cigarettes and beer. Out of the corner of my eye, the handle of the knife looks red. I hope it’s not blood.

  “Unlock your car.”

  I’ve handled enough kidnappings to know that the worst thing I could possibly do is get in a car with a knife-wielding assailant. I stand still, listening to his demands.

  “Give me your key. Where the fuck is your key?” He rummages through my bag.

  When he notices that my fist is clenched, he grabs my hand and peels open my fingers, uncovering the fob. I hit the red panic button, triggering the blare of the car alarm. As we struggle, he loosens his grip on me, giving me enough space to elbow him in the face. He slams me into the hood of the car. I throw the key fob under my car. He hesitates. We both hear footsteps.

  Someone is behind us.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” a man says.

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “Leave her alone.”

  The knife pricks the side of my neck and slices into my skin, and blood trickles out. He throws me to the ground, kicks me in the gut, and takes off.

  A man with shoulder-length gray dreadlocks sprints to my side.

  “Are you okay?” He helps me back on my feet. “You’re bleeding.”

  The man uses his cell phone as a flashlight and inspects my wound.

  “Is it bad?” I touch my throat and feel the wetness.

  “It looks like he just nicked you. Good thing—that’s a dangerous place for a cut.”

  He takes off one of his leather gloves and presses it to my throat.

  “You may want to go by the emergency room. You should have that looked at.”

  “I will,” I say.

  “The hospital is a few blocks away.”

  “Sure, I’ll go over there.”

  The man shrugs. He can tell that I don’t have any intention of going to the ER.

  “Thanks for your help,” I say.

  “Want me to call the police? I can stay with you until they get here.”

  “I’ll never be able to identify him.”

  He helps me search until we spot my key fob, and uses a tree branch to drag it out from under my car. I get in my car and he watches until I pull out of the lot.

  Turning onto Hampshire Street, I consider calling 911 or Kevin. I didn’t get a good look at the guy, but it couldn’t have been Darrius, because he’s got a police detail following him. Reporting what happened would draw attention away from Orlando and Tim, which would only hurt the case.

  I slow down as I pass Ryles. Albert is out front, smoking a cigarette. He sees me, waves, and shouts out, “Have a good night, Ms. Endicott!”

  “You too.”

  “Drive carefully—there’s a lot of crazies out at this hour.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The next morning, Kevin is waiting for me in the lobby of my apartment building, sitting in a leather chair, holding two cups of coffee. He hands me my latte and inspects the Band-Aid on my throat.

  “You nicked yourself shaving?”

  “Very funny.” Unable to muster up a smile, I sip my coffee.

  As we walk to his car, I consider telling him about what happened last night, but decide against it, promising myself that I’ll tell him as soon as the trial is over. Until then, I’ll be careful not to be alone.

  “It’s nothing.” I toss my tote in the backseat, get in the car, and close the door.

  “Don’t tell me it’s nothing. You’re hiding something under that bandage.”

  “I tried to cut off a price tag. Next time, I’ll remember to take the sweater off first.”

  He doesn’t laugh. “You should ask one of our witnesses to give you some lessons in how to sell a convincing lie.”

  We drive through the South End, into Mattapan.

  “Do you have a line on what Darrius has been up to?” I say.

  “A couple of guys from the gang unit have been keeping an eye on him. There was a little mix-up last night, but they’re on it.”

  I rub my fingers over the bandage. Darrius managed to elude surveillance last night. He probably knows that he’s being watched. I cover my mouth and turn to look out the side window. Any more information will only make me panic. I turn my attention to the trial.

  “What are we going to do if we can’t find Ezekiel?”

  “We’ll find him,” Kevin says.

  “I’m used to being blown off, but never when so much is at stake. All our eggs are in Ezekiel’s basket.”

  “We’ll see if we can shake some information from his boss.”

  We pull into the gas station and find Ezekiel’s manager, Freddy Stafford, in the garage, under the hood of a Honda, working a ratchet. This time I’m dressed for the occasion, in jeans and boots.

  “I’m Detective Farnsworth, we spoke earlier,” Kevin says. “This is Abby Endicott, with the DA’s office.”

  Freddy extends his greasy paw. “Good to know you.”

  It would be rude to just stand there, so I accept the handshake, making a mental note to wipe myself down with Purell as soon as I get back to the car.

  “You’re wasting your time coming all this way. Like I told you on the phone, Ezekiel isn’t here.”

  “We need to ask a favor,” I say.

  “No offense, but I don’t want to step in the middle of that murder. It sounds like a snake pit.”

  “Can you tell us where Ezekiel is living?”

  “I don’t have any idea.”

  A mechanic working on a car in the next bay turns on a hydraulic jack. Competing with the hiss of the machine, I raise my voice.

  “It’s crucial that we talk to him. If you don’t want to tell us where he is, maybe you could talk with him about cooperating.”

  Kevin steps in. “We can park a marked police cruiser outside your garage 24-7 for however long it takes. It could be there for days, maybe weeks, waiting for him to come back to work. We might even ask Inspectional Services to have a look around, see if there are any environmental code violations. Who knows, maybe Immigration would be interested in checking out your employee roster.”

  The whir of a power drill drones nearby. Freddy stops what he’s doing and looks up.

  “I’m telling the truth. I have no way of getting in touch with him.”

  “You must have some idea.”

  “All I know is that he called in sick a couple of days. Then he asked me for a week off, probably to avoid you all. Can’t say as I blame him.”

  I hand him my card. “Please call if you hear anything.”

 
; We head over to Ezekiel’s last known address, his mother’s house. Renée Hogan answers the door, wearing pink slippers and an orange waitress uniform, with sweat stains under the armpits. She stands in the doorway, looking exhausted.

  “Hi, Ms. Hogan, I know you met the other prosecutor, Tim. I’m Abby Endicott. I’ve taken over the case.”

  “Ezekiel’s not here,” she says without inflection.

  “It’s important that we speak with him.”

  “I haven’t seen him all week.”

  While I talk to Renée, Kevin shifts his body to get a peek inside the house, through the front windows.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No, but in all honesty, I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

  “I appreciate your candor.”

  “Mind if I have a look around inside?” Kevin says.

  “Go ahead.”

  Kevin walks into the apartment. I stay on the porch with Renée and try to keep her engaged.

  “I’m sure this has been a nightmare for your whole family,” I say.

  “My son has been through a lot, the shooting and all those surgeries. It’s been almost a year, and he’s still going to physical therapy. I swear he jumps out of his chair every time he hears a door shut.”

  “I’ve offered to refer him to a counselor. I’m sure he could benefit from having someone to talk to.”

  Renée looks in the doorway and watches Kevin push back coats in the front closet. “My son could benefit from being left alone,” she says. “Can’t you let him be? Let him heal. That man ruined his health and his peace of mind. Now you’re coming here, harassing us, making everything worse.”

  “It doesn’t seem like it right now, but I’m on your side.”

  “No, it doesn’t seem like that at all.”

  Kevin comes outside, shaking his head in defeat. We thank Renée, and she goes back in the house.

  Once we’re inside the car, Kevin says, “The room was stripped bare.”

  “Did it look like he just packed up today?”

  “Hard to tell. Did you get anything out of the mother?”

  “She made me feel guilty for hounding him and talked about how bad his health has been.” I pause. “She got me thinking.”

  “Don’t go soft on me.”