The Jinx. Jennifer Sturman

descending upon the breakfast buffet like vultures, most of them simultaneously talking on their own voice-enabled Blackberries. I helped myself to a bagel and cream cheese and another Diet Coke and found an empty chair. We needed to wait for a quorum to get things started, so I used the downtime to scroll through the accumulated e-mails on my own Blackberry before pecking out a quick message to Peter, wishing him luck with his pitch. Scott Epson was among the last to arrive. Today he was wearing a tie that put yesterday’s to shame—green silk dotted with little red golf tees. If he had been anyone else, I would have suspected sartorial irony.

      When the room had filled, I cleared my throat and called the meeting to order. “I’d like to thank you all for being here. I know how busy everyone is, but we have an ambitious hiring goal this year, and your participation is very much appreciated.” I said a few more words by way of introduction, reminding everyone of the qualities Winslow, Brown deemed desirable in its prospective employees, and then turned the meeting over to Cecelia to explain how everything would work over the next two days.

      I ate my bagel and listened while she smoothly ran through the day’s logistics. “We need everyone back here at five o’clock for the roundup session. Please don’t be late—we’ll try to finish up as quickly as we possibly can.” With that, she began handing out name tags and schedules.

      No sooner had she finished than the first students began trickling in for their interviews, neatly turned out in aspiring Wall Street wear. Cece efficiently matched them up with the pairs of bankers to which they’d been assigned and sent them off to the interview rooms. By ten past nine, she and I were the only ones left. I was relieved—Scott Epson hadn’t seemed to notice that I wouldn’t be interviewing that morning. If he had, I was sure he would waste no time in letting Stan know in some backhanded fashion that I was shirking my duties. My absence that morning could be easily explained, but I’d rather not have to explain it. The partners at Winslow, Brown had strange ideas regarding how one should prioritize one’s various commitments. The memorial service for a client seemed to me to be an important event, but firm lore was sufficiently rife with stories of bankers being called back from hospital beds, bar mitzvahs, honeymoons and graveyards to make me hesitant to publicize the trade-off I was making.

      I exchanged a few final words with Cece, thanking her and assuring her I’d be back by noon. Moments later I was in a cab bound for Trinity Church in Boston.

      Five

      The taxi turned from Eliot Street onto JFK Street, passing the police cars that still swarmed around the Weld Boathouse. We crossed the bridge over the river and made a left onto Storrow Drive.

      “What happened back there?” I asked.

      “Dunno,” the driver said. “But whatever it is, it’s sure screwing up traffic.”

      Unenlightened, I pulled out my phone and dialed Emma’s mobile number. I’d talked to her the previous day, on my way to the airport in New York, but she was my best friend, and we usually talked daily, at least.

      It took several rings before Emma picked up, and when she did, she sounded distracted. “Hello?”

      “It’s me.”

      “Oh, hi, Rach. I’m glad you called. Did you get into town all right?”

      “Yes. I’m in a cab on Storrow Drive right now, heading into Boston. Are you at Matthew’s?”

      “Yes. He just left for the clinic, and I was about to start on some sketches for a series I’ve been thinking about.” Now I understood the distracted tone. When Emma was starting a new series, her existence bifurcated into two worlds, one filled with ideas and shapes and color, and the other filled with reality. Needless to say, the former usually eclipsed the latter. Emma was a gifted artist, the daughter of a world-famous painter. After a difficult summer, during which she’d narrowly escaped an unfortunate marriage via a set of even more unfortunate circumstances, she seemed to be back on an even keel, happily dating Matthew and climbing to new heights of artistic success.

      “Anything interesting?”

      “Maybe. It’s too soon to tell.” I could almost feel the effort it took for her to pull her thoughts away from her work and back to our conversation. “But did you say you were going into Boston? I thought you were supposed to be at Harvard, interviewing. What’s in Boston?”

      “A memorial service. A client of mine passed away last week.”

      “It seems like a lot of people are dying lately,” she mused.

      “Like who?”

      “Actually, not a lot, I guess. It’s just that a patient of Matthew’s was found murdered yesterday, in Cambridge. And then hearing about your client. It just feels like a lot.”

      “What happened to Matthew’s patient?” I asked.

      “I don’t know, but the police want to talk to him today. She had an appointment at the clinic a couple of days ago. It probably hasn’t made the New York papers, but there have been six or seven prostitutes murdered in the Boston area over the last year—the police think Matthew’s patient might be the most recent victim.” Matthew worked at a free clinic in a particularly seedy neighborhood in South Boston, so it didn’t surprise me that a prostitute was among his clientele.

      “Matthew’s being interrogated by the police?” I commented, amused. Matthew was a skilled doctor and one of the kindest people I knew, but he bore more than a passing resemblance to Shaggy from Scooby Doo, and the mental image of him confronting hardened police detectives was an entertaining one, although he’d managed it with aplomb the previous summer.

      “Yes, I know. His second time in six months. He must be getting good at it by now.” Emma laughed at the thought. “On to happier topics, did you have a nice time with Peter last night?”

      I thought about last night. And the morning’s shower. “I always have a nice time with Peter.”

      “You sound like you’re blushing. Is he still too good to be true?”

      “Absolutely,” I sighed blissfully.

      “Well, I’m glad to hear you say it. Usually you’re so worried about jinxing everything that you refuse to admit you’re actually happy.”

      “You don’t want to mess with the Jinxing Gods.” To tell Emma I was rid of them was a bolder statement than seemed safe. It was one thing to have vanquished them in my mind—it was a wholly different thing to say so aloud.

      “There is no such thing.”

      “Okay, now you’re just tempting fate.”

      “I don’t know if I believe in fate, either.”

      “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. Next thing I know you’ll be looking for ladders to walk under.” The cab turned off Storrow at the exit for Back Bay. “I should let you get back to work,” I told Emma. “And I’m nearly at the church. But we’ll see you guys tomorrow night, at the kickoff dinner, right?”

      “Sure. I’m getting there early to help Jane cook.”

      “I wasn’t invited for that part.”

      Emma laughed again. “Gee. I wonder why not.”

      The taxi deposited me in front of the weathered stone and brick of Trinity Church a few minutes before ten. I joined the slow-moving queue to sign the guest book and then found a seat in one of the ornately carved pews halfway down the nave. The church was packed, which was fitting given Tom’s prominent role in the community. I could barely make out the tops of Barbara’s and Adam Barnett’s heads in the first pew.

      The service began, and I alternately stood, sang and sat as directed. The formal rituals that accompanied death always left me numb, and I had a bad habit of automatically tuning out during any sort of lecture. My eyes wandered, taking in the crowd. I recognized both the mayor of Boston and the governor of Massachusetts, along with one of the state’s U.S. senators. Several