Dead Winter (8 page)

Marc returned. “I told her. She’s petrified of the guy. But she’ll stick to the story. You tried to sell her insurance. She told you she wasn’t interested. Still,” he added, “you ought to be careful. Al’s not a guy to fool around with.”

“Ah, he’s not so tough.”

Marc cocked his head and examined me. He grinned. “It’s all relative.”

“You probably should take care yourself.”

He nodded.

We got into the car and headed back to Des’s house. “Andy corroborated your story,” I said.

Marc nodded. “Of course she did.”

“You’ve put her into a tough spot.”

“I didn’t know Maggie was going to get killed,” he said softly.

I pulled into Des’s driveway. Marc got out of the car and then leaned in. “Why don’t you come in, get yourself cleaned up?”

“Good idea.”

Des was seated at the kitchen table eating a sandwich and watching a little portable television. When Marc and I went in, he looked up. “My word! What happened to you?”

“I had a disagreement with a gentleman on insurance,” I said. “Not everybody believes in the importance of insurance.”

“You should act your age, Brady,” said Des mildly, and returned his attention to the television.

I climbed the stairs to one of the upstairs bathrooms. I found myself favoring my right leg, the one with the bum knee. In the mirror I saw where the skin had been scraped off my cheekbone. I took off my shirt and doused my face and chest with water. “Act your age,” I said to my reflection. “Good advice,” my reflection replied.

I went back downstairs. Des offered me a sandwich, but I declined. “Getting beat up always ruins my appetite,” I said. “Anyway, I’ve got to get back to the office.”

I told Marc to let me know if the police summoned him again, said good-bye, and went out to my car. Des followed me. “I’ve got to know,” he said to me.

“I don’t think Marc did it, if that’s what you mean.”

He nodded. “I thought I was prepared for anything. I mean, after Connie left…”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “If Marc was with you until nine thirty last night—”

“I went to bed around nine. Marc was here then.”

“Then he’s in the clear.”

“He was with a woman, wasn’t he?”

I nodded.

Des shook his head. “If only Connie…”

“If only my uncle had steel wheels,” I said, “he’d be a choo-choo train.”

Des nodded doubtfully. I slid into my BMW and pointed it at Copley Square.

J
ULIE WAS HUNCHED OVER
the computer processing words when I got to the office. She looked up when I walked in, frowned, returned her attention to her keyboard for a few beats, and then did an exaggerated double take.

“Oh,
sir!
” she said. She leaped to her feet and made a swooping curtsey. “So
wonderful
of you to grace us with your presence. Welcome to our humble law office.”

“Julie, cut the shit, will you? I got about three hours of sleep last night and I’m in no mood.”

“Several of your clients are in no mood, also.” She glared at me out of the corners of her eyes and returned to her seat. “You got a bunch of messages on your desk, if you feel like looking at them.”

“I am prepared to get to work,” I harrumphed.

“Don’t strain yourself.”

I pivoted and strode toward my inner office.

“Looks like the truck won,” called Julie.

I stopped and touched the abrasion on my cheek. “It was a draw.”

I detoured to Mr. Coffee, poured myself a mug, and took it into my sanctum. Julie had left a pad of yellow legal paper in the precise center of my otherwise clear desk. I eased into my chair, lit a Winston, sipped my coffee, and read the list of phone messages she had noted for me.

First were the weekend calls from the machine:

Dr. Adams, Friday P.M., regretting missing you, wondering about your banker’s hours, to try you at home.

Nathan Greenberg, Sunday, 3:00 P.M., will try again Monday first thing. Urgent, quote-unquote. Did not identify himself further.

Unidentified woman, sultry voice, claiming wrong number. I doubt it.

Next Julie listed the calls she had taken during my absence in the morning:

Dr. Adams again, wanting to report on fishing trip and make you jealous. No need to return call.

Mr. Paradise, calling from pay phone. Cautions extreme secrecy.

Mr. McDevitt, wanting lunch. Has new joke. Refuses to share with me.

Mr. Ellard. Massachusetts Bar. Your professional association, not the joint around the corner. Reminding you of your article on trusts vis-à-vis new tax laws. I told him it was in the mail. I’m typing it now.

Ms. Winter. No message.

I picked up the pad and took it back out to the reception area. Julie had the computer clicking like a muted Western Union telegraph. I touched the back of her neck. She turned her head and looked up at me without missing a beat.

“Take a break,” I said.

“Can’t. Your article is late.”

“How’s it sound?”

“I’m typing it, not reading it.”

“Oh.”

“Actually, I fixed it up. It’s pretty boring, but at least it’s now in proper English. Your spelling wobbles.”

“Of course it’s boring. It’s supposed to be.”

She stopped typing, sighed, and swiveled around. I placed my hands on the front of her shoulders, bent, and kissed her forehead. “Sorry I was late. Sorry I didn’t call-She shrugged. “It’s what I expect.”

“Come on. Lighten up, kid.”

She smiled. “If I didn’t pout, you’d be upset.”

“True.”

“Were you really in a fight?”

“I was attacked by a cowardly bully.”

“The lady’s husband?”

“Actually, yes. But it’s not what you think.”

She grinned. “Sure.”

“Tell me about these calls,” I said.

She took the pad from me and squinted at it. “Not much to add.”

“Who’s this Greenberg?”

“Don’t know. He didn’t identify himself.”

“Did he call back?”

She frowned. “No. He said he would. He was very emphatic about it, actually. Said he’d call early and keep trying until he got through.”

“Well, I guess he changed his mind. You told Charlie McDevitt to forget about lunch?”

“I told him I hadn’t heard from you, didn’t know when or if you’d be in.”

“Doc Adams?”

“He started to tell me about largemouth brown trout or something.”

“Bass? Largemouth bass? There’s no such thing as largemouth brown trout, Julie. You fish for brown trout with dry flies or nymphs on rivers like the Deerfield. Now, your largemouth bass—”

Julie crossed her eyes. “You can’t expect me to keep your fish straight. I have enough trouble with your girlfriends.”

“The fish are much more important,” I said. “Did Doc say where he went?”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t remember.”

“Come on, Julie. This is important.”

“For crying out loud, Brady.”

I held up my hands, a gesture of surrender. “Okay, okay. What about Frank Paradise?”

She smiled. “As usual. Refused to say his name. Assumes our phone is tapped or something. Tried to talk in code. He’s getting real paranoid, Brady.”

“He’s always been real paranoid. He’s probably invented something new, watching out for the pirates. What’d Kat Winter want?”

Julie’s mouth tightened in disapproval. “Oh, she’s so charming. Said it was personal, not professional. Somehow, the way she used the word ‘personal’…” Julie made her voice low and sultry in imitation.

“She’s a client, Julie. Not to mention the fact that I spent the wee hours last night with her father and brother in Newburyport.”

“Ah,” she said. “A day of fishing on the high seas and an evening of drinking beer and talking theology. No wonder you’re late.”

“Marc’s wife was killed last night.”

Julie stared at me. After a moment, she said, “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“No.”

“You really know how to smack a girl between the eyes, Brady Coyne.”

“I would’ve told you. But you were so damn grouchy I said the hell with it.”

“What happened?”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure. The police suspect Marc, of course. He’s in the clear, though, I think.”

“How is Mr. Winter doing?”

“Des? Des is okay, I guess. He seems perceptibly older each time I see him. I think he was fond of Maggie. He appeared more confused than anything. Flustered. As if God were playing dirty tricks on him.”

“I like him.”

“Me too. He’s had more than his share of troubles.”

“So all these phone calls,” she said. “I guess, by comparison, they’re not that important.”

“To the people who made them they are. This is what we have to keep in mind.”

She nodded. “I wasn’t the one wandering into the office at one in the afternoon.”

“When you get that article done, why don’t you take off the rest of the day?”

“Can’t. I’ve got responsibilities.”

I shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t suggest it.”

I went back into my office, pulled out a phone book, and tapped out the number for the Newburyport police. The guy on the switchboard put me through to Detective Fourier. “Fourier,” he said, not unpleasantly. “Can I help you?”

“It’s Brady Coyne. I was in this morning with Marc Winter.”

“Yeah. How you doin’?”

“Okay. Look. I need some information.”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got the medical examiner’s report. What’s it say about the time of death?”

He hesitated. “That’s police business, Mr. Coyne.”

“Oh, come off it.”

“I don’t talk about cases with citizens.”

“I’m hardly a citizen. I’m a lawyer. We’re in the same business. Marc Winter’s in the middle of this thing.”

“He’s a witness, that’s all. For now. You and he’ve got no rights.”

“I’m not talking about rights. I’m talking about professional courtesy.”

I heard him laugh quickly. “You want courtesy, Counselor, you came to the wrong place. You want courtesy, try this. Fuck off.”

“Now listen—”

He had hung up on me. I replaced the receiver on its cradle and said, “Up yours.”

I swiveled around in my chair and stared out at the smoggy Boston skyline. I couldn’t fathom Fourier’s refusal to talk with me. He had been relatively forthcoming only a few hours earlier in his office. I just needed a simple piece of information. If Maggie had died after ten o’clock on Sunday night, and if Andy Pavelich had told me the truth—and I believed she had—then Marc’s innocence seemed certain. If Maggie had died earlier than that, given Des’s vagueness, then I had to question whether Marc was using Andy for an alibi.

Fourier had called Marc a witness. “For now,” he had added. It was logical to suspect Marc. He had cited a witness who saw Marc pull up in his truck and go directly to the pay phone at the marina. Okay. None of that excused his refusal to cooperate with me.

I rotated my chair back to my desk and pecked out the number to the state police headquarters on Commonwealth Avenue. The receptionist transferred me to Inspector Horowitz’s secretary, who remembered me and switched me to Horowitz himself.

“Ah, Coyne,” he said cautiously. “I infer a request for a favor.”

An explosion sounded in my ear. “You still hooked on Bazooka?” I said.

“I’m chewing gum, yeah.”

“You better cut back. You’ll contract a case of TMJ.”

“I’m trying cigarettes. Whenever I get the urge to chew, I smoke a cigarette. It’s not working, though. I can’t shake the gum habit.”

“It’s a bitch. Look. You’re right. I need a favor.” I outlined the Marc Winter case for him. “I figure the state cops are involved somehow. Fourier’s shutting me out.”

“That’s his prerogative.”

“All I need is the girl’s time of death to nail down Marc’s innocence. No reason he can’t help me out.”

“You tell him you’ve got a witness for Winter?”

“I’m trying to avoid involving the girl. For obvious reasons.”

Horowitz popped a bubble. “So this is just to satisfy your own mind.”

“Right.”

“You want to buy me lunch some time?”

“You got it.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

We disconnected. I leaned back and laced my hands behind my head. There came a scratching on my door. “Come on in,” I called.

Julie opened the door. “The light went off your phone. Got a minute?”

“For you? Always.”

She took the chair beside my desk and placed a sheaf of papers in front of me. “Your masterpiece. Want to look it over before I send it out?”

I waved my hand. “No. It’s boring.”

“I made some changes.”

“Thanks. I trust you.”

She shrugged and reached for the papers. I put my hand on her wrist. “You’re looking especially beautiful today,” I said. “I like your hair that way.” It was true. Julie had clear, pale skin and shiny black hair. She was letting it grow. It fell in loose folds, framing her face and accenting her cheekbones.

She turned her face away and looked at me from under hooded lids. “Okay. What do you want?”

“Want?
Moi?
”

“Come off it, Counselor.”

“You got me wrong, kid.”

“Sure.”

I grinned at her. “I want you to see if you can figure out who this Nathan Greenberg is.”

“Oh. Is that all?”

I shrugged. “Shouldn’t be that hard. Try the phone books.”

“Oh, right. Simple. Supposing the guy’s from Florida or L.A. or something?”

“More likely he’s local, right?”

She frowned, and then she said, “I suppose so. He just didn’t sound…”

“Jewish?”

She shrugged. “I guess.”

“Jeez, Julie.”

“You really want me to try to get him, huh?”

“I’m curious,” I said. “He said it was urgent, he’d call first thing, then nothing.”

“The man changed his mind, right?”

I shrugged. “So humor me.”

She twirled around and went to the door. When she got it opened she turned. “You have any idea how many Greenbergs there must be?”

“Lots, I’ll bet.”

“Or how many Nathans?”

“I appreciate it.”

She closed the door behind her, somewhat more forcefully than was necessary. Julie and I sometimes got confused over our respective roles. Sometimes I actually acted as if I were the boss.