Dead Winter (13 page)

A female voice dripping cornpone and grits said, “Slavin, Jones” into the phone the next morning.

“I’d like to speak to one of the lawyers,” I said.

“This
is
one of the lawyers. It’s what we’ve got here. Lawyers. We’re an office plumb full of lawyers. Now, you just tell me what you want, I’ll hook you up with the right one. Divorce? Tax? Personal injury? Estate?”

“I’m calling from Boston. About Nathan Greenberg.”

“Right,” she said, as if she knew it all along. She hesitated. “You’ll have to talk to Mr. Slavin, then. He’s been handling this.”

“I don’t care who I talk to,” I said, “but I’m not the police.”

“Mr. Slavin’s already talked to the police.”

“All I want to know is why Greenberg was in Boston.”

“I’ll see if Mr. Slavin will talk to you.”

A moment later a man’s voice said, “Who is this?”

“My name is Brady Coyne. I’m a lawyer. I’m calling from Boston. I’m inquiring about the Greenberg case.”

“Your police have already gone through their motions. What is your interest?” His voice lacked any discernible accent whatsoever.

“It’s complicated,” I said. “I’m trying to establish a connection between Greenberg’s death and the death of a relative of a client of mine.”

I heard Slavin sigh. “I spoke with a policeman on the telephone. Greenberg was in Boston for a client. What happened to him does not appear to be related to his business.”

“How can you know that?”

Slavin cleared his throat. “I told the police why he was in Boston and what kind of a man he was. It was they who seemed to feel his death was unrelated.”

“What did his client want that brought him to Boston?”

“Well, you know I can’t tell you that.”

“Without your client’s permission.”

“Technically.”

“How might I get your client’s permission?”

“I suppose I might ask for it.”

“Would you?”

He laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Your police,” he said. “They never asked that.”

“What I’d like to do is talk to Greenberg’s client.”

“It’s possible.”

“Mr. Slavin,” I said, “what kind of man
was
Greenberg?”

“Pardon me?”

“You said you told the police what kind of man he was.”

He hesitated. “That’s right. I did try to explain this to your police. It’s no great secret hereabouts.” He cleared his throat. “Let me put it this way, Mr. Coyne. Nathan Greenberg was a pretty fair country lawyer. He didn’t mind taking certain kinds of cases. You know, the sorts of cases that others might find, ah, distasteful. But cases that do need to be handled. In fact, he preferred them. For that reason, he was an important member of this firm. But, frankly, he was a rather unpleasant person. Most of us down here are not terribly distressed at his, ah, passing. Shocked, yes. Something like this is always a shock. But our firm will survive. And candidly, we will not miss Nathan Greenberg.”

“Can you say more about that?”

“His—well, his attitude toward women, actually.”

“Sexually, you mean?”

“Well, really, sir…”

“Was he brutal, is that it?”

Slavin said nothing for a long moment. Then he said, “I’ve already told you more than I should have, Mr. Coyne. I’m sure you understand.”

I thanked Slavin and told him to have Greenberg’s client call me collect. He said he would, or else he’d get back to me himself.

I tried Horowitz. He wasn’t in. I left my number. I tried to call Marc Winter and reached Des. He sounded depressed. Marc was out. Des said he’d ask him to return my call. I tidied up a will. I dictated a couple letters to Julie. Smoked a cigarette. Smoked another one. Called Kat at her office. Kat said she was busy but looked forward to fishing with me. She made it sound like an assignation.

Marc called me back. “Maggie ever mention a guy named Nathan Greenberg?” I asked him.

He hesitated, then said, “Not that I remember.”

“This’d be a lawyer from North Carolina.”

“Nope. Don’t think so. Why?”

“A hunch. Can I ask you something more personal?”

“You can ask.”

“Maggie’s sexual preferences?”

“Jesus, Brady.”

“I mean, was she into sadomasochistic stuff?”

“Chains and leather and whips, you mean?”

“I guess that’s what I mean.”

“Not with me she wasn’t. You think someone smashed in her head because it turned her on?”

“Maybe it turned him on.”

“She was healthy, Brady. Innovative, but, you know, conventional. She—”

“Hey,” I interrupted. “I don’t want any details. You answered my question.”

Horowitz returned my call about two thirty. “I thought of pretending I didn’t see this message,” he said.

“Appreciate it. On Maggie Winter and Nathan Greenberg again.”

“How’d I guess?”

“Any chance of talking to whoever’s in charge of the cases?”

“Look, Coyne. I have dutifully shared your insights with the two officers, okay? They told me to say thank you very much, they think they can handle it now.”

“Did you tell them about the possible link between the two murders?”

“How do I make this clear to you?” Horowitz paused and snapped his gum. “They thought of it all by themselves. They’ve done almost as much homicide work as you. They think your speculations are interesting. They are even taking a look at the possibility that the Winter woman stuck knives into Greenberg. They have your number. I gave it to them, in the hopes that they might actually call you, so you would stop calling me. I gather that so far this hasn’t worked.”

“No one has called me.”

“Coyne,” said Horowitz, “it’s not like you and I are big buddies.”

“We’re not? Jeez. I would’ve said we were pals.”

“Call it what you want. You are becoming a pain in the ass, okay? I mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings. But—”

“You already did.”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“I guess I can take a hint.”

“Just call us even,” he said. “You don’t owe me, I don’t owe you.”

“But I do. I owe you lunch.”

“Forget it. Stop calling me. I will release you from your obligation.”

“Fuck you,” I said good-naturedly, but he had already hung up on me.

It was getting close to four o’clock, and I had already tidied up my desk and announced to Julie my intention to leave, when the call came from North Carolina.

I ducked back into my office and took it at my desk. “This is Victoria Jones,” said the same gone-with-the-wind female voice that had answered when I called. “Mr. Slavin asked me to call you.”

“Victoria of Slavin, Jones?”

“No. That would be Gregory Jones. He’s dead. No relation. Around here Jones is a pretty common name.”

“It’s not that rare around here, actually. What did you find out?”

“Nate Greenberg’s client has agreed to talk with you.”

“You can’t just tell me the nature of his business in Boston?”

“No. That’s up to his client.”

“Give me his number, then.”

“I can’t. In the first place, it’s a she. Second, she doesn’t have a phone. Third, she’s nervous. Willing, but nervous.”

“What are you saying?”

“Piedmont Airlines,” she said. “Unless you’d enjoy twenty-four straight hours on a Greyhound.”

“If I decide to go down there, will you help me set it up?”

“Mr. Slavin said I should do whatever I could to help you.”

“I’ll be in touch, then.”

I went back to the outer office. Julie had shrouded her computer with its dust cover. She was brushing her hair.

“What’re you doing?” I said.

“Getting ready to go.”

“One thing?”

She sighed. “I figured.”

“See if you can get me a flight to Asheville.”

“Asheville, what?”

“North Carolina. Try Piedmont.”

She rolled her eyes. “Like for when?”

“Friday. Returning Saturday.”

She pressed the tips of her fingers together under her chin and bowed. I went back into my office and poured myself a shot of Jack Daniel’s. Flying to Asheville was the sort of move that, if I weighed its merits, I would not make. I recalled the advice of Machiavelli: “It is better to be impetuous than cautious, for fortune is a woman, and if you wish to master her, you must conquer her by force.”

Julie—and my ex-wife, Gloria, as well—never hesitated to remind me, whenever I cited these immortal words, that while Machiavelli undoubtedly had been a male chauvinist of the first rank, he might be excused on the grounds of pervasive cultural bias. But a contemporary man who chose voluntarily to quote him deserved gelding, twentieth-century Boston differing as it did from fifteenth-century Florence.

They never let me finish the quote before they started screaming. It went like this: “… and it can be seen that she lets herself be overcome by the bold rather than by those who proceed coldly. And therefore, like a woman, she is always a friend to the young, because they are less cautious, fiercer, and master her with greater audacity.”

It was odd that, before my consciousness was raised, millimeter by millimeter, kicking and screaming, by the women around me, I found nothing offensive in Machiavelli’s metaphor.

I sipped my Tennessee whiskey and stared out at the gloomy skyline. Sulky, sodden clouds had been dribbling misty rain all day. I wondered if Kat would try to beg off our surfcasting expedition. I decided not to let her. If she wanted to fish like a man, she should enjoy misery the way a man does. Anyway, the weather, if anything, would enhance her chance of nailing a bluefish in the surf.

Julie scratched on the door. “Enter.”

She came in, bearing a notepad.

“Sit,” I said. “Please sit,” I hastily amended. “Shot of Black Jack?” Sure.

I went to the sideboard and poured a generous finger into a glass. I set it in front of Julie and resumed my seat. She took a quick, nervous sip, then put it down and picked up her notebook. “Departing Logan at 7:05 Friday morning. Forty-minute layover in Charlotte, arriving in Asheville at 10:23 if you don’t fly into the side of a mountain, which might serve you right. Returning Saturday. All for a mere $462.50. With seven days advance booking, it’s only $170.50. Except you couldn’t fly on a Friday, and you’d have to stay over a Saturday. Nobody except Piedmont flies into Asheville from Boston.” She put the notebook down and took another sip.

“What’s this all about?”

“I did what you asked.”

“I mean about me crashing into a mountain.”

“How long you known the Scarlett O’Hara broad?”

“You mean Miz Jones.” An insight—some connection between Julie’s knee-jerk distress when I quoted Machiavelli and her instinctive jealousy whenever I talked to any woman other than my ex-wife—flitted in my mind. There was an irony there. I didn’t bother pursuing it. “This is business,” I said. “The Winter case.”

She smiled. “A case, now, is it?”

I shrugged. “Whatever you’d like to call it. It’s Marc’s wife, and he’s sort of a suspect, and the police are incompetent.”

She nodded with mock sagacity. “Ah. You’re going to solve it, then.”

I lit a Winston. “Maybe.”

She stared at me until she made me smile.

“Hey,” I said. “It’ll be a little adventure. I’ve never been to Asheville.”

“Me neither. I don’t feel especially deprived. I’ve never been to Nome, either.”

“I’d like to go to Nome someday,” I said.

Julie downed her drink. “The tickets will be waiting for you at the window. You should get there at least a half-hour early.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll be in tomorrow?”

“Of course. I work here.”

“I was wondering,” she said.

I called Slavin, Jones. Victoria Jones was unavailable, so I left a message. I would be arriving at 10:23 Friday morning and would call her from the airport.

Julie and I walked out of the office together. “You’re leaving early,” she observed while we waited for the elevator. “Got a hot date?”

“Going fishing.”

“Oh,” she said, smiling. She sounded relieved, and I felt an unaccountable pang of guilt.

Actually, I had a date to go fishing. I remembered the way Kat Winter had kissed me in the parking lot. A hot date to go fishing, maybe.

K
AT WAS WAITING ON
the side lawn when I pulled into Des’s driveway. She was wearing cutoff jeans, sneakers, and a pink and white tank top under a man-sized beige windbreaker. She had found one of Des’s old long-billed fishing caps, which had been liberally stained with motor oil and fish gore. Her short hair was tucked up into it.

“I love your chapeau,” I said as I climbed out of my car.

“Daddy says it’s good luck.”

I squinted up at the sky. “Might rain some more.”

She shrugged. “So we get wet.”

A pair of surfcasting spinning rods leaned against her Saab. A big rusted tackle box sat on the driveway. Kat gestured to the gear. “He said this is all we’d need. You want to bring some beer?”

“Nope. Don’t like to drink and fish. Afterwards we can stop somewhere if we’ve got something to celebrate.”

I cranked the window on the passenger side of my BMW and pushed the rods in. “Going to be tight quarters for you in the front seat,” I said to her.

“I’ll just have to squish over close to you.”

“It’s a short drive.”

She climbed in the driver’s side and clambered over the console into the other seat. I got in and started up the engine, and had just shifted into reverse when Barney came waddling importantly out from the back of the house. Des was right behind him. He held up his hand. I waited for him to approach my car.

“I just got a call from Marc,” he said.

“And?”

“He’s at the police station.”

“Are they going to arrest him?”

“He didn’t know. Fourier wanted to talk to him again.”

I glanced sideways at Kat. “Did he want me there?”

Des shook his head. “No. He was just telling me not to wait dinner for him. No, you two go ahead, have a good time. Bring me back a blue. I want to try this recipe. You slather them with mayonnaise and sprinkle on a lot of dill before you grill them.”

“Why don’t you come along?”