Mission Hill Read Free Page B

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.”
    â€œI’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?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Kevin says. “We’ll have to rip into every case he’s ever touched.”
    â€œMaybe the guy didn’t know who Tim was. It could have been a robbery gone bad.”
    â€œSo 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 about 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.”
    â€œI heard he was about to start a trial.”
    â€œHe impaneled a jury yesterday and was planning to give his opening tomorrow.”
    â€œWhich case?”
    My mouth is dry. I guzzle some water. “Orlando Jones.”
    â€œFrom 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