Dead Meat (29 page)

“Alice Sylvester,” said Cusick. “Her name was Alice. A pretty, bright girl.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. If he was with Alice, and if Alice was killed, well…”

“Something could have happened to Buddy, too. Yes. I thought of that.” The chief unhooked his glasses carefully from his ears and placed them on his desk. Without them he looked much younger. His pale eyes showed intelligence and sympathy. “We’ve known each other a long time,” he said softly, studying Tom’s face.

Tom nodded. He did not return Cusick’s gaze.

“But we haven’t been friends,” continued the policeman.

“No. No, we haven’t.”

“But that is not important here,” said Cusick. “Look. I won’t try to bullshit you, even if, under the same circumstances, you’d probably try to bullshit me. Mr. and Mrs. Sylvester think Alice was with Buddy last night. I don’t have to tell you the implications of that.”

“They think Buddy killed her,” said Tom tonelessly.

“We’ll check it out,” said Cusick. “See if anybody saw either of the kids. If they
were
with each other, we will bring Buddy in and read him his Miranda. Okay? If it looks like they weren’t together, we’ll still want to talk with your son, just like we’ll be talking with lots of other people. I don’t think I need to tell you that if you hear from him, or if he shows up, it’s in his best interest to get himself here pronto.” Cusick peered at me. “With a lawyer would be a good idea.”

Tom looked up at him. “Sure. That all makes sense. But the other thing—”

“The other thing,” said Cusick quickly, “is that we will put out an APB on Buddy. Is his car registered in his name?”

Tom nodded.

“Okay. And I want you to bring me a recent photograph of him.”

“Okay.”

Cusick picked up his glasses and began to polish the lenses on his handkerchief. He cocked his head. “How’s Buddy been doing with his problem?” he said in a new, gentler voice.

“He’s clean,” answered Tom after a moment. “I’m sure of it. He’s a new kid, really. Since the problem. Since he got back. He’s held the job at the computer store since he got out of school. Up and out of the house on time. They seem real pleased with him. He’s been pretty agreeable around the house. Getting along with me and Joanie again. He’s talking about college next year. And the girl—Alice—she’s been real good for him. A serious, adult relationship. We didn’t see that much of her. I don’t know, I think he’s still a little distrustful of us, but it’s been getting better. He wants to separate things in his life. He’s talked about that. It makes it easier for him to cope. Work, family, friends, each in their own little slot. But, anyway, since you arrested him, Harry, and since his probation and everything, I really think he’s seen the light.”

Harry Cusick was studying Tom as he talked, a small frown wrinkling his forehead. When Tom finished, Cusick nodded slowly. “That’s been my impression, too. But like I told you, Alice Sylvester used cocaine last night. You can see what my question is.”

“If they were together…”

“Right.”

“Buddy’s clean. I’m positive.”

The chief shrugged.

“Look,” said Tom, hitching himself up on his chair so that he was leaning over the desk. “When you busted Buddy two years ago and prosecuted him, I can’t tell you how wrong I thought you were. He was sixteen years old. A kid. He got in with the wrong crowd. He needed help and support, not courts and probation.”

“He was old enough to know better, and he was connected,” said Cusick. “He was selling cocaine to high school kids. He refused to give us names. I wanted to prosecute him as an adult. I thought he should have spent time in prison, to tell you the truth.”

Tom glanced my way. “Brady got us a good lawyer. It would have ruined my son to go to prison. He’s not a tough kid. Anyway, like I said, he’s done the rehab. He’s finished his probation. He’s reformed himself. What I started to say was that when you arrested him instead of bringing him home to his parents, I swore to myself that I’d get you. I could do that.”

Cusick nodded. “Hell, yes. I know that.”

“But you didn’t care.”

The chief shrugged. “It’s not that I didn’t care. I like my job. But I gotta do it, or I wouldn’t like myself.”

“What I’m trying to say, Harry, is that you were right in what you did. And even if you weren’t, I admire you for doing it.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Tom, but what you’re trying to say is, find your son for you.”

Tom nodded. “That, too. But I meant what I said. I do admire you.”

“If Buddy was with Alice Sylvester last night, we will have probable cause to get a warrant. We’ll search his car. We’ll take blood samples. We’ll do forensics on his clothing. We may arrest him. He will need an attorney. Nothing that has happened before this, no threat or promise you can make, will change that. Do you understand?”

“Of course.”

Cusick looked at me. “Mr. Coyne?”

“You’re right,” I said. “Although if it comes to that, you better make sure all the T’s are properly crossed.”

The chief grinned. “You can count on that. I am one helluva good T-crosser and I-dotter.” He hooked his glasses around his ears and stood up. “Tom, run home and get me a photograph of Buddy, will you?”

Tom and I stood up. “I’ll do everything I can,” he said.

Cusick came around his desk and moved to the door with us. As we started to walk out, the chief said, “Ah, Tom. One thing.”

Tom turned. “What’s that?”

“I want you to know I appreciate it.”

“What, my coming here?”

“No. You had to do that. No, what I appreciate is that you didn’t ask me to hush this thing up. A man in your position…”

Tom’s smile was forlorn. “Hey. I hope you won’t make a circus of this. But somehow I never thought you would. If Buddy’s name gets drawn into this thing…”

“No promises,” said Cusick. “But I’ll keep it in mind.”

The air outside was downright cold. A cloud bank had skidded in, obscuring the moon.

“Fall’s coming,” said Tom.

“Feels like it’s here.”

He put a hand on my arm. “Brady…”

“I’m with you, Tom. I’ll do what I can.”

“I’m not ready to drop the campaign. I’ve got to keep it going. But I want this handled right. Can I count on you?”

“When Buddy shows up, I’ll be there.”

“I’m concerned about the press.”

I shrugged. “You want a free government, you’ve got to have a free press. You’ve been saying stuff like that yourself.”

“I don’t want my son tried and convicted by the Boston
Globe.
”

“Sometimes it happens that way. It’s the price.”

“When it’s the son of a political person…”

“What do you expect me to do, Tom?”

“Two things. First, I want to be able to funnel inquiries to you.”

“That makes sense. I’m your attorney. What’s the second thing?”

“Help me find Buddy.”

“That’s the police’s job. They’re good at that sort of thing.”

“Harry Cusick’s a good cop, don’t get me wrong. But he’s still a cop. I want Buddy found. I want to know what he did last night, why he disappeared. If he’s found alive, I want him home. If something’s happened to him…”

“You want a private detective, then, not a lawyer. I know a few.”

Tom put his hand on my shoulder. “I am the Republican candidate for governor. I want this kept in the family. Am I asking too much?”

“You’re asking for something I have no expertise in.”

“Look,” he said, his voice low and intense. “Give me a day. One day. Give me tomorrow. I’ll give you some names, some places. If you strike out, Joanie and I will be climbing the walls by then anyway.”

“I dunno, Tom.”

“One day, Brady. Please.”

I shrugged and glanced up at the dark night sky. The breeze smelled damp. “Doesn’t look like tomorrow’s going to be much of a day for fishing. Okay. One day. I’ll come by the house first thing in the morning. You and Joanie get together tonight. Write down everything you can think of. Buddy’s friends. Places he hangs out. Anyplace you can think of he might go. Teachers, employers, whoever knows him. I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Tom sighed. “I appreciate it, friend.”

“Don’t expect miracles.”

“I expect discretion and intelligence.”

“Discretion, at least, I am good at.”

Tom pumped my hand and climbed into his new Buick. I got into my BMW. Sylvie was slouched in the seat, snoring quietly. I leaned over and kissed her ear. Her arm crept around my neck and hugged my face against her breast. “Is it time to eat the fishes with the ugly faces?” she mumbled sleepily.

“Too late,” I said, extricating myself from her embrace. “Gert’s is closed. We’re going home. I’ll cook us something.”

I started up the car and backed out of the lot. Sylvie’s hand crept into my lap like a shy puppy. “I do have great appetites,” she whispered.

“We’ll see how many of them we can satisfy.”

“Promise?”

I picked up her hand and gave it back to her. “I solemnly promise.”

T
HAT INFERNAL ALARM CLOCK
inside my head jangled me awake at five-thirty the next morning, as it always does. Syivie was sprawled on her stomach beside me, clutching her pillow over her head as if to keep away the sounds of artillery fire. When she was awake, she was gay and vibrant. When sleeping, however, the demons of her childhood flight from Hungary still tortured her.

I snuggled against her and lifted up the pillow to kiss her cheek. She moaned and twitched. Her leg kicked convulsively.

I rolled out of bed, stretched and yawned, and slipped into my jeans and sweatshirt. The coffee machine in the kitchen, on its own alarm system, had already begun gurgling. I retrieved my morning
Globe
from outside the front door of my apartment and took it to the table by the glass doors, leading out to the patio. Outside, six stories down, the gray ocean of the Boston harbor spasmed and kicked as restlessly as Syivie slept in the other room. Hard raindrops ticked against the glass.

The story was buried on page seventeen. The headline read:

“Body of Merit Scholar Found in Windsor Harbor.”

The body of seventeen-year-old Alice Sylvester, a senior student at Windsor Harbor High School, was discovered by Windsor Harbor police early Tuesday morning.

According to local police, the honor student had been strangled. Her fully clad body was found in a thickly wooded area near a parking lot by the high school.

The little North Shore community of Windsor Harbor is the hometown of Tom Baron, the Republican candidate for governor.

Windsor Harbor Police Chief Harry Cusick said, “The young lady was murdered. It appears she was strangled. We have no suspects at this time, but we are pursuing several leads. We have no further comment, pending a full report from the Medical Examiner.”

Gubernatorial candidate Baron, in a prepared statement, said, “The death of a young person is always a tragedy. Our prayers are with the family and friends of Alice Sylvester. This will hit our community hard. We trust the police will exhaust every resource to bring to justice the individual who committed this awful, senseless crime.”

I got up, poured myself a mug of coffee, and brought it back to the table. Then I reread the brief newspaper item. In Tom Baron’s “statement” I detected the fine hand of Eddy Curry. There was no mention of Buddy Baron. So far, at least, the press had not caught on to the possibility of a link between Buddy and Alice Sylvester.

I flipped through the rest of the paper, sipping my coffee, listening to the storm rage outside, and resenting the promise I had made to Tom Baron. I did not relish playing detective, even just for a day.

I solved the chess problem and had just begun to study the daily bridge hand when Sylvie staggered out of the bedroom. She had pulled on one of my T-shirts. It was big for her, but not by much.

I cocked my head and regarded her. “Fetching,” I said.

She yawned and stretched. The T-shirt rode up. More fetching yet. “I smelled coffee,” she mumbled.

She poured herself a mugful and sat down across from me. She propped up her chin with the palms of both hands.

“Isn’t that cold?” I said.

“What?”

“The vinyl of the chair where you’re sitting?”

Sylvie giggled. I got up and poured myself a second mug of coffee. When I returned she was reading the article on Alice Sylvester’s death.

“You will solve this crime, no?” she said.

“Probably not,” I answered, setting fire to my first cigarette of the day. “That’s not my job. But I will see if I can track down Buddy Baron.”

“That may be the same thing.”

“Maybe. I doubt it. Wouldn’t you like to put some clothes on?”

“First I will drink my coffee. Then you and I will have a shower. Then I will get dressed.”

“You will drink your coffee while I take my own shower,” I said.

“Brady is a poop.”

“This is true.”

After I showered, shaved, and dressed, I went back to the kitchen. Sylvie was at the stove, tending an omelette. I sat at the table to watch her cook. I thought of Julia Child and the famous chefs of Chicago and New Orleans and the other public television cooking series. I had my own idea for a can’t-miss series: The Great Bareass Cooks of America.

Sylvie would be a star.

After we finished eating, I knotted my tie and retrieved my raincoat from behind the sofa. It was a bit rumpled, but what the hell. It was going to get rained on anyway.

Sylvie followed me to the door. “When will I see you?” she said.

“I’ll call when I can. Don’t you dare straighten things out before you leave. The last time you did that, I lost my sneakers.”

“I put them in the closet.”

“They belong in the living room. Under chairs. Who’d ever think to look in the closet?”

I arrived at Tom Baron’s house in Windsor Harbor a little after eight. Tom and Joanie built their place on a high bluff overlooking the Atlantic, where the ninth fairway of Tom’s father’s golf course used to be. It’s a long, low, rambling place, with lots of glass and fieldstone and cedar sheathing. You could putt on the rolling sweep of lawn.