MACY ADAMS

Ten days ago Mitchell Browne's body washed up on the marshy riverbanks of the Charles, just a short distance from where I was standing. It was late afternoon. A gusty, dank breeze was blowing in my direction. Directly across the river I could see the Citgo sign, just six blocks from where the Red Sox played. Behind me the Hyatt Hotel rose up like a modern version of the Mayan pyramids.

Steadying the Nikon in my hand, I took several snapshots of the scene. Next to me a Hyatt Hotel security guard, an attractive dark-haired man in his thirties, was taking a deep drag from a cigarette. Like an addict getting a fix, the coiled tension left his body.

"What's your interest in this thing? Are you a reporter?" His Boston accent was pronounced. Harvard Yard would have rolled off his tongue as Hahvahd Yahd.

"Private investigator," I said. "I'm Macy Adams."

I walked to the edge of the water, trying to remember the exact details of the newspaper accounts I'd reviewed that morning. The Boston Globe's front page headline read "Nation's Foremost AIDS Expert Drowns in Charles." Two days later, "Drowning Ruled as Homicide." A week later, the arrest of Evelyn Browne created a media frenzy. "Widow of College Professor Arrested for Husband's Murder."

Evelyn Browne had retained David Silverman, one of Boston's most prominent defense attorneys. I had done investigative work for David before on a number of lesser cases. Still, I was surprised when he called the previous evening. Even more surprised when he asked me to join his team as an investigator. The Mitchell Browne murder case was bound to be the most prominent of Silverman's career thus far.

The security guard looked skeptical as he inhaled another dose of nicotine. "A private eye, huh?"

It was obvious the man didn't know what to make of me. The ultra-short, white tennis getup I was wearing didn't help. I'd dropped by the Hyatt on impulse, on my way home from a tennis match…

THE WIDOW

Boston’s Ritz-Carlton exudes the charm and elegance of a bygone era. Marble floors, oak-paneled walls, a cozy fireplace in the bar. Paintings scattered throughout showcased nineteenth-century gentlemen, surrounded by stately horses and noble canines, in pursuit of manly pleasures: riding, foxhunting, shooting. A decor designed to put Anglophiles and masters of industry at ease—also lawyers.

David Silverman was sitting next to a huge window overlooking the Public Gardens, immersed in the Globe, a look of intense concentration on his face. The martini glass in front of him was half-empty. He glanced up as I approached, and stood, towering above me in his six-four frame.

“Macy, so good to see you. I always knew you’d hang out your own shingle. How’s it going?”

“Fabulous,” I lied. I wasn’t about to tell him he was only my second client in six weeks since I’d left Investigative Enterprises. At this rate I’d end up knowing more about bankruptcy than entrepreneurship.

“The Globe is crucifying Evelyn Browne.”

“What are they saying now?”

“Something about rumored infidelities, the couple allegedly sleeping in separate bedrooms. It’s mostly innuendo. I don’t understand why this is turning into such a big story.”

Slipping into the seat opposite him, I ordered a glass of Chardonnay from the elderly waiter whose pinched expression mimicked that of the dogs in the paintings. Maybe he’d been looking at the paintings too long. Or maybe he was constipated.

“The police are real slow about sharing their files.” David signaled to the waiter, pointing to the bowl of nuts on the table. “Things aren’t going well, Macy. The case against Evelyn is stronger than I initially thought. I wish I’d known more before signing her on as a client.” His demeanor was serious. “To top it all off, I find Evelyn difficult to deal with.”

“How so?”

“We’ll get to that later.” David leaned closer and looked around to make sure we weren’t being overheard. “Let me lay out some of the police findings first. Evelyn and her husband had dinner at the Hyatt the night he was killed. The maitre d’ remembers them leaving around nine-thirty. That makes Evelyn the last person on record to see Browne while he was alive.”

“What happened after dinner?” I asked.

“According to Evelyn, they drove home together, and she went straight to sleep.”

“But the police don’t believe her? Why?”...

THE MISTRESS

“Rumor has it that you and Browne were having an affair.”

Dawn laughed, but it came out nervous-sounding. “You can’t be serious. That’s ridiculous.”

She wasn’t a very smooth liar.

“Is it?” I asked.

She looked away.

“Students often get involved with their professors,” I continued.

“Well, not at this school. We have a very strict code against that sort of thing here.”

Her tone was sanctimonious, which grated on my nerves.

“That may be. But nonetheless, I’m sure it happens. Even at the most prestigious institutions.”

“Well, it didn’t happen to me.”

“Look, let’s cut the bullshit and stop wasting each other’s time. I know that you had an affair with him.”

Her smile was superior. “If Evelyn Browne is spreading rumors—”

“It wasn’t real smart of you and Browne to get down and dirty right on the floor of his office. Someone saw you. And it wasn’t Evelyn. This person saw it all—right down to the yellow smiley faces on the panties you were wearing.”

Dawn’s face turned bright red.