Mission Hill by Pamela Wechsler Read Free Book Online

boyfriend of yours, is he taking care of you?” Kevin says as we idle at a traffic light on Blue Hill Avenue.
    Like most of the people in my life, Kevin has never met Ty, but he knows about him. Kevin and I have spent hundreds of hours together since I started seeing Ty last year; he’s heard us on the phone, talking, laughing, making plans, arguing.
    â€œTy doesn’t take care of me. I’m a modern woman,” I say.
    â€œHe’s got a criminal record.” He turns to look me in the eye. “But you already know that.”
    I tell most people that Ty and I met at a party, which is true, albeit misleading. We were in a club, but not as invited guests—we were both working. Ty, a musician, was there to perform, and I was there to authorize warrants.
    There had been a stabbing on the dance floor earlier in the night, and he was a witness. It was a gruesome scene. The victim had his throat slashed and his gut ripped open. When I arrived, the first responders were slipping and sliding on the sticky, bloody dance floor.
    The case took about eight months to resolve, enough time for us to get to know each other pretty well. It’s hard to flirt over crime scene photos, but I always looked forward to our meetings, remembering to put on an extra coat of lipstick and spritz of perfume. Ty swears that he was initially turned on by my intelligence, but he seemed more interested in my butt. I caught him once—checking me out when I leaned over to pick up the bloody knife.
    He asked me out for a drink as soon as the trial was over, but while the jury was still deliberating. I complied with the state ethics rules and waited until the guilty verdict came down before accepting the invitation.
    Kevin knows that, as a matter of course, prosecutors run the criminal record of every potential witness. If he’s done the math, and I’m sure he has, it’s obvious that I learned about Ty’s criminal past before we got involved.
    â€œHow do you know about Ty’s record?” I say.
    â€œI don’t sell shoes for a living.”
    â€œYou ran his record without any legitimate investigative purpose—that’s a violation.”
    â€œHe has a conviction for D with intent, and it’s not a youthful indiscretion. It’s from 2010.”
    â€œThat was before my time.”
    â€œI’m just looking out for you.”
    â€œI wouldn’t expect anything less.”
    Kevin has been my guardian angel for years, starting with my first trial. Two weeks on the job, I had a shoplifting case from Neiman Marcus. I was so nervous that I forgot to introduce the key piece of evidence: a women’s suit. To add insult to injury, the suit was Chanel. Kevin was the arresting officer; he finessed my direct examination by answering a question that I had never asked.
    â€œYou spared me the humiliation of a not guilty on my first trial. I almost hope that you’ll screw up one day so I can return the favor.”
    â€œAin’t gonna happen.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œPossession with intent to distribute marijuana,” he says. “You can’t sell pot in this state unless you’re a doctor running a licensed medical marijuana dispensary. Is your boyfriend a doctor?”
    â€œNo, Detective Farnsworth, he’s not a doctor. And he doesn’t sell drugs anymore.”
    â€œYou’re a public servant, subject to public scrutiny. Getting involved with a convicted drug dealer isn’t the best road to career advancement.”
    â€œDuly noted,” I say.

 
    Chapter Ten
    Jackie Reed lives in a dilapidated triple-decker on drug-infested Samoset Street. The second- and third-floor porches are slanted forward, like they’re about to break off from the house and topple onto the sidewalk. We climb up the warped front stoop and look at the rusty mailboxes, hoping to learn the occupants, but the ink is faded. Kevin pulls out Jackie’s form twenty-six,