Close to the Bone (9 page)

“He had a lot of confidence in himself,” she said. “He used to say that the fish bit best in the rain. He liked weather.”

The cop turned to me. “Mr. Coyne, you were friends with Mr. Cizek, is that right?”

I nodded.

“Good friends?”

I shrugged. “Yes, I’d say we were good friends. We used to fish together. I was his family lawyer.” I glanced at Olivia. She was peering at Kirschenbaum. “I did the Cizek’s will and a few other legal odds and ends for them. Paul and I haven’t been out fishing for a couple of years. We ran into each other now and then. Professionally, I mean. We threw business each other’s way.”

“You knew him pretty well, then?”

“I felt I knew him better a few years ago. Since he went private, we saw less of each other.”

“What about recently?”

“I referred a client of mine to him, so I saw him several times this past fall and winter.”

“That would be Falconer?”

“Yes. He defended Glen Falconer. Actually, Roger Falconer, Glen’s father, is my client.”

“And Mr. Cizek was successful in his defense of Mr. Falconer, as I remember.”

I nodded.

“How did Cizek seem to you recently?”

“I haven’t seen him since February. He was depressed. Confused.”

Kirschenbaum arched his eyebrows.

“I recommended he get some counseling. I got some names for him, but I don’t know if he ever followed up on it.”

He turned to Olivia. “What about enemies, ma’am?”

She shrugged and looked at me.

“Lawyers make enemies,” I said. “Paul had high-profile cases. He defended people who were accused of serious crimes, and he was often successful. There are always victims of serious crimes. He was threatened in court last winter. The husband of the woman who was killed by the drunk driver Paul defended.”

Kirschenbaum nodded. “I remember hearing about that.” He turned to Olivia. “Where were you last night, Mrs. Cizek?”

Olivia glanced at me, then turned to Kirschenbaum and smiled quickly. “After about eight o’clock, I don’t have an alibi.”

“Oh, I wasn’t looking for an alibi,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I was just wondering where you were.”

“Home alone.”

“When was the last time you talked to your husband?”

“A few days ago. Wednesday, I think it was. We talked on the phone for about an hour that evening. We were working out the terms of our separation.”

“How did your husband seem?”

“Stressed out. Sad. Depressed.”

“Did you argue?”

“No. We never argued. In all the time we’ve known each other, we haven’t argued.”

Kirschenbaum leaned forward. “Mrs. Cizek, I want to ask you a hard question.”

She nodded. “All right.”

“Was your husband involved with somebody else?”

“A woman, you mean?”

He spread his hands.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“Then that’s not what caused…?”

“Our separation?” She shrugged. “No. Not as far as I know.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe. He’d grown awfully distant over the past couple of years.”

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Were you—”

“No. I wasn’t involved with anybody. I was still involved with Paul.”

Kirschenbaum glanced at his papers for a moment, then took off his glasses and stuck them on top of his head. “I guess you understand what we’re looking at here,” he said to Olivia.

“You think Paul’s dead,” she said.

He glanced at me, then nodded. “It’s the logical assumption. The Coast Guard is searching for a body. The problem is, we don’t know where he was when he—if he went over. The tide was running, there were heavy winds, we don’t know how long the boat had been adrift before it was spotted. A few boats broke away from their moorings in the storm last night. But your husband trailered his, so that’s out. He’s not at his house. You haven’t heard from him.” He flapped his hands. “We try not to jump to conclusions, but…”

Olivia nodded. I could see her jaw muscles bunch and clench. “You’ll keep me informed?” she said in a low voice.

“Of course,” said Kirschenbaum. “And if you hear anything, you’ll tell me.”

“Yes.”

“You too, Mr. Coyne.”

“Sure,” I said.

“You’ll be available, then?” he said to Olivia.

“Don’t leave town, right?” she said, trying to smile.

“I’ve got your number,” he said.

Outside the police station, Olivia stopped, turned to me, and pressed her face against my chest. I put my arms around her and held her against me.

“I tried to keep it together in there,” she mumbled.

“You did fine,” I said.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“We can only wait.”

“That’s the hardest thing.”

I patted her shoulders. “I know.”

I
FULLY AGREED WITH
Olivia. Waiting is hard. It’s always better to do something, no matter what it is.

I drove her back to the Friendly’s parking lot and gave her a hug. She climbed into her red Saab, and I waved to her as she headed home to Lynnfield. Then I turned around and drove back into Newburyport.

On my first try I went right past the Cashman Park boat ramp, the municipal launch area. I’d met Paul there a few times for fishing excursions, but that had been a couple of years earlier and at night. I remembered it was just before you cross Route 1 into town, so I turned around, drove back along the narrow street that paralleled the river, and found the entrance tucked alongside a big brick factory building.

The parking area was crowded with vehicles on this Saturday noon in June. Most of them had boat trailers attached. I found a slot near the entrance, wedged into it, and climbed out of my car.

I meandered down to the concrete ramp that slanted into the Merrimack. An elderly guy wearing baggy blue shorts and a plain white T-shirt was taking money from a young couple who were launching a small motorboat.

When they finished their transaction, I approached the man. He was wearing a cap that advertised Surfland Bait &Tackle. Tufts of white hair poked out from under it. “Excuse me,” I said.

He turned to me, and I saw that his sun-browned face was patched with large, irregularly shaped freckles. “Hiya,” he said. “You launching?”

“No. Can I ask you a couple questions?”

He shrugged. “About what?”

“Do you know Paul Cizek?”

He cocked his head and squinted at me. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Paul’s lawyer.”

He nodded as if that made perfect sense. “Cops was already here. I told ’em everything.”

“Did you see Paul last night?”

He smiled, and a maze of wrinkles spread over his face like a sudden breeze on a glassy pond. “Cops asked that. Told ’em I got off at seven. Mr. Cizek, he usually launches later, just around sunset. Night fisherman. He’s got a season pass, see, so he don’t need to do business with me. And usually he takes out before I get here in the morning. I bump into him once in a while. Usually, he’s in and out when I’m not here.” He shrugged. “I didn’t see him last night. Nope.”

“So you wouldn’t know if he had anybody with him.”

He shook his head. “Usually when I see him he’s alone. Except for the fish. Often as not, he brings a keeper back with him. Good fisherman, Mr. Cizek. He can find ’em. Guess something happened to him, huh?”

I nodded. “The Coast Guard found his boat last night. He wasn’t on it.”

“Wish I could help you,” he said. “Nice guy, Mr. Cizek. Friendly, you know? Treats a man like a man, if you understand me. Not like some of ’em.” He jerked his shoulder at the parked cars. “I mean, I s’pose I’m just the guy they give their money to. But still…”

“Mr.—” I began.

“Randolph,” he said.

“Mr. Randolph—”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Randolph’s my first name. They call me Dolph, mostly.”

I held out my hand. “I’m Brady. That’s my first name, too.” We shook hands. “Dolph,” I said, “I’m trying to figure out what happened last night.”

“I sure don’t know.”

“What do you think?”

“Me?” He smiled. “Cops didn’t ask me that. Guess they didn’t figure I could think.” He jabbed his forefinger at my shoulder. “Tell you what, though. They think Mr. Cizek went over in the storm. I don’t buy it. Not him. Not in that Whaler of his. No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. Cizek’s a good sailor. Knows this river, knows the tides, knows how the winds work. He goes out last night, he knows where to go. Big seas like that, he’s got his spots. Night like we had, he knows the bait gets blowed close to shore, in on the beaches, near the rocks. He fishes in weather all the time. Ain’t gone over before, no reason he would last night.” He paused. “Tell you what else. Say something did happen. What’d happen would be, he gets blowed onto the rocks, maybe, or onto some beach. See, that’s where Mr. Cizek’d be. Where the bait is, which is where the fish are. Where’d they find that Whaler of his?”

“Adrift,” I said. “Out past Plum Island.”

Randolph shook his head. “Don’t make sense. He wouldn’t of been fishin’ outside. He’d of been inside, workin’ the rocks and jetties. Was it bunged up?”

“Huh?”

“You know. The boat. Was it bunged up? Like it got blowed against the rocks.”

“I don’t know.”

“You might maybe want to find out.”

I nodded. “Good idea.”

“I don’t buy it,” he said again. “Not Mr. Cizek.”

He pointed out Paul’s car, a Jeep Cherokee with a trailer hitched behind it, and I went over and looked at it. But I didn’t see anything that told me what had happened that night.

So I waved at Randolph, climbed back into my car, and drove through town and out Water Street to the Coast Guard station. I found a parking spot across the street. A long, double-wide driveway led past a hangar-shaped garage down to the water, and I followed it, half expecting to be halted by an armed sentry. But nobody seemed to notice me.

On the left was what I took to be the administration building, a low, rambling structure with a well-manicured lawn and flower gardens ablaze with marigolds and impatiens. Out back on a basketball court a gang of young men in shorts and T-shirts were playing volleyball. There were lots of shouts and curses and good-natured laughter, and I stopped to watch. They played with vast youthful energy and enthusiasm. One young fellow with a blond ponytail dove for a spectacular save, and I figured he’d have scabby knees for a month.

When he stood up, his teammates slapped his bottom, and I saw that he was a woman. In fact, several of the players were women.

None of them took notice of me, so I wandered down to the water. Half a dozen Coast Guard vessels of various sizes and configurations were moored there, along with a few other boats.

One was a Boston Whaler. I moved out onto the end of the short dock and read
Olivia
on her transom. From what I could see, she had not been bunged up at all.

I looked around, but still nobody seemed to be paying any attention to me. So I sat on the edge of the dock and slid aboard
Olivia.

She was a sixteen- or seventeen-footer, with a center console, no cabin, shallow draft. A good boat to fish from, broad-beamed, high-sided, and open, but not made for the high seas. A tall antenna poked up from the console, and I remembered fly casting from the bow in the wind and snagging my line on it. Sure.
Olivia
had a radio, so if Paul had been in trouble, he’d have called for help. But Lieutenant Kirschenbaum hadn’t mentioned any Mayday call from Paul, so I assumed he’d made none.

Whatever happened had happened suddenly and without warning.

I looked around the inside of the boat. Shipshape, the way Paul liked it. The rods with both level-wind and spinning reels were racked neatly in their holders along the gunwales. The lines were coiled and the bumpers stowed. I lifted the lid of the built-in bait box at the stern, but it was empty. So was the fish box beside it. I lifted the hatch in the bow and counted the life jackets. There were four, which was the number he always carried.

I went back to the console. I noticed that the key was in the ignition. The dry storage at its base was empty. It’s where Paul always kept his tackle box.

I sat on the seat behind the wheel and lit a cigarette. No bait, no tackle box. It was puzzling.

“Can I help you, sir?”

I looked up. It was the ponytailed volleyball player.

“How can you do that without skinning your knees?” I said.

She frowned. She looked to be about Billy’s age. My older son had just turned twenty-one. “Pardon me?” she said.

“The way you were diving on the court for the ball.”

She smiled. “You’ve gotta know how to do it.” She hesitated. “You’re not supposed to be here. This isn’t your boat, is it?”

“No. It belongs to a friend of mine.”

“You better come up.” She held her hand down to me. I took it and she helped me climb back onto the dock. “They brought her in last night some time,” she said. “Found her adrift.”

“I know. My friend was probably on it.”

“Oh, geez,” she said. “I thought it had just busted a mooring or something.”

“No,” I said. “It was launched from a trailer. I’m just trying to figure out what might’ve happened.”

“One of the guys was talking about it,” she said. “They got a call a little after midnight. Someone spotted her with nobody aboard. So they went out and brought her in. She was just the way she is now. Ignition and radio both off. No anchor over the side.”

“And no bait and no tackle box.”

She cocked her head. “So?”

“My friend used her for fishing. He’s a bait fisherman. He wouldn’t go out without some eels or bunker or whatever the bait of the hour might be. He always brought bait with him.”

She shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t last night. Maybe he was casting plugs or something. Maybe he was drift-fishing, so the engine was turned off, and he was leaning over or casting or something, you know, off balance, and a swell caught him and just flipped him out. He wouldn’t’ve had a chance to use the radio if it happened like that.”

“No tackle box, either,” I said.

“It could’ve gone over, too. It was pretty choppy out there last night.” She shook her head. “But, you know—”