Scar Tissue (19 page)

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Authors: William G. Tapply

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Scar Tissue
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I opened the door for him, and he pushed past me. “Okay, Coyne,” he said. “We gotta—”
“I've got a buzzer, you know.”
He shrugged. “Figured you'd think it was a reporter and ignore me.”
“You're right.” I pointed at the telephone I was holding. “Make yourself at home. Be right with you.”
I went back into the bedroom. “It's Lieutenant Horowitz,” I told Evie. “I've got to go talk to him.”
“Sure,” she said.
“I'll call you.”
“Not tonight,” she said. “I've been worrying about you all evening. It's past bedtime, and you're okay, and now I've got to get some sleep.”
“I meant I'd call you later in the week,” I said. “We'll have ourselves a nice weekend. Maybe go somewhere. I don't mind museums.
“I'll call you,” she said. “Let's leave it that way.”
I looked at the phone for a minute after she disconnected. Then I put it back on its cradle and unplugged it again.
A
fter I hung up with Evie, I went out to my living room. Horowitz was standing at the glass sliders with his hands clasped behind his back, staring down at the harbor. The ferry was on its way out and some kind of barge was on its way in. Both craft were brightly lit. Their lights made wavy reflections on the wind-riffled water.
I stood beside him. “Kinda pretty, huh?”
He shrugged. He needed a shave, and his eyes were red, and his thinning black hair stuck up in clumps on the back of his head.
“You look like shit,” I said.
He rubbed his whiskery cheek with the palm of his hand. “You got a drink?”
“Sure,” I said. “I quit drinking, myself.”
“Yeah? Since when?”
I looked at my watch. “Little over an hour ago.”
He shrugged. “I want one. I don't give a shit if you have one or not.”
“An hour is long enough,” I said. “I'll join you.”
He followed me to the kitchen and slouched into a chair at the table. I poured each of us a drink, then sat across from him.
Horowitz held up his glass. “Pretty, ain't it? The way the light comes through?”
“I never noticed,” I said.
He took a gulp, held it in his mouth for a moment, then swallowed. He closed his eyes and sighed. Then he looked at me. “You're probably thinking you killed the bad guy today. Mystery solved. Case closed.”
I shrugged. “I've been trying
not
to think about it, to tell you the truth.”
“As soon as their ballistics boys match up that slug they dug out of your office wall with the ones they found in Sprague and the professor, run a couple bullets through Bobby Klemm's gun, that's how they'll play it.”
“How will they explain Klemm's motive?” I said.
Horowitz shrugged. “They won't. They don't have to. Why bother? They don't have to prosecute him. He's the killer, now he's dead.”
“So it's over,” I said.
“Good chance of it. Officially, anyway.” He arched his eyebrows at me.
“But—?”
“But that'll just be for public consumption, to give the media something, let everybody know they did their job, solved a multiple murder.” Horowitz dipped his finger into his drink, then touched it to his tongue. “They ain't going to leave it lay, though. Chris Stone might be an asshole, but he ain't stupid, and the same goes double for Gus Nash. It won't sit right with either of them. Why the hell would Klemm assassinate a mild-mannered college professor in a barn, plug a chief of police in that very same professor's motel room, and then try to rob a lawyer in his own office at gunpoint? Especially when the professor's kid just died in a car crash, and the professor happened to be that lawyer's client and lived in the same town as that chief?”
“Because Klemm was dealing in kiddie porn and those three people found out about it,” I said.
“Yeah, if you shared those photographs with them, that's maybe how they'd see it.”
“Well, I'm not going to do that,” I said. “The hell with motive. The bad guy's dead. That's good enough.”
Horowitz took another sip from his drink. Then he put it down on the table and leaned toward me. “Bobby Klemm was no child pornographer, Coyne.”
“Then who—?”
“I don't know. But I talked with some people this evening. People who knew Klemm.”
“Who?” I said.
He shrugged. “Don't matter who. Klemm was strictly a freelance gunslinger. Worked for hire. Killed people. That was his job. You want somebody dead, you pay Bobby Klemm, he'll do it. He was pretty good at his job, but he never had an original idea in his life. People I talked to, they laughed when I hinted at kiddie porn. Not Klemm. He wasn't smart enough.”
“So you're saying the real bad guy is some mysterious pornographer, and he hired Klemm to—”
“To kill the people who found out about it,” said Horowitz.
I nodded. “Okay. I get it. Jake Gold found those photos in his son's bedroom and went to his friend Ed Sprague. Sprague did some investigating, got a line on whoever it was, and—”
“Sprague's the one who killed those kids, don't forget,” said Horowitz.
“Right,” I said. “So Sprague was in on it.”
Horowitz nodded. “But he was sloppy. That accident made a mess for them. So they hired Klemm to clean things up. Didn't just whack the two of them, though. First he tortured the professor, who told him about giving you those photographs. Then Klemm set up Sprague in Gold's motel room. Then he went after you.”
“So I
was
right,” I said. “Klemm would've killed me.”
“No doubt about it. You and Julie both. Like I say, that was his job. Killing people. First he had to retrieve those photos.”
“But he failed.”
Horowitz nodded.
“Which means,” I said slowly, “whoever hired Klemm isn't done with me.”
“Not as long as you're holding on to those pictures.” He arched his eyebrows at me.
“You're saying I should just give them to Gus Nash?”
He shrugged. “Make him agree to tell the media that you've turned over important evidence in the case. Bad guys hear that, maybe they'll leave you alone.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And maybe not.” I shook my head. “I'm not gonna do it.”
“You might not have a choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look,” he said. “Nash and Stone know damn well Bobby Klemm doesn't walk into some law office to commit robbery, okay? Nothing random about this. It was
your
office he went into. You're Professor Gold's lawyer. Klemm had to be after something. Nash and Stone'll hound you for it.”
“Let'em,” I said. “I'll play dumb. Those photos are staying in my safe. Nobody knows they're there except you, me, and Julie.”
Horowitz gave me his Jack Nicholson smile. “I figured you'd say something like that. Just remember, there's a hundred Bobby Klemms out there. Nothing special about him. Whoever hired him will hire someone else.”
“You trying to scare me?”
Horowitz nodded.
“You're doing a good job of it,” I said.
“I figure you got a few days to play with,” he said. “It'll take'em that long to find a replacement for Klemm, and it might take Nash and Stone that long to connect the dots and figure out you got something the bad guys want. You better hope it's the cops who come after you first.”
“Then what?” I said.
“Then you probably ought to come across with those photos.”
“And if I don't?”
He shrugged. “You get too stupid and stubborn, Coyne, you'll have to deal with me.”
“You promised,” I said.
“Yeah, well, I had my fingers crossed.”
“Wait a minute—”
“I'll give you a few days,” he said. “See what happens. After that, fuck it. I'll come and get them photos myself.”
Horowitz held up his glass. It was empty. I took it, poured him a refill, and handed it to him.
He swirled the whiskey around in his glass. “I been working my ass off this evening,” he said. “Made a million phone calls, talked with some of my colleagues. Had a very interesting conversation with a couple guys in vice.” He took a sip, then peered at me. “I asked'em about the kiddie porn industry in Massachusetts.”
“I bet it's thriving,” I said.
He shook his head. “Internet's the way to go these days. They can upload, download, in, out, and offload this shit. Photographs, films, live stuff, even, whatever, buy and sell, hard as hell to trace.” He waved his hand. “Anyway, point is, from what the vice boys're telling me, no new players in New England have come into the game in the past year or so.”
“Did you describe those photos to your colleagues?”
He shrugged. “A description wouldn't do much good.”
“But you're saying these photos aren't being sold or traded?”
“Those photos are worth shit. Still photos, black-and-white, lousy quality? You seen the stuff you can rent at your local video store?”
I shook my head.
“A few years ago,” said Horowitz, “those photos might've been worth something. How old are they?”
“They're all recent pictures of Brian,” I said. “Okay, so what happens next?”
“So far, we got four murders,” said Horowitz. “Five, counting what you did today. Who's next, do you figure?”
“Me, I guess.”
He grinned. “That'd be my guess, too. You prepared to die to protect the reputation of a kid who's already dead?”
Brian, I thought, isn't dead. But I wasn't going to reveal that. Not to Horowitz, not to anybody.
“Of course I don't want to die,” I said.
“Then maybe you oughta—”
I shook my head. “You said I've got a few days. I only just saw those photos this afternoon. I haven't had much chance to think it through. It's all pretty confusing right now. But this is what feels right to me, okay?”
He looked at me blearily, lifted his glass, drained it, put it down on the table, then stood up. “You've always been a stubborn bastard, Coyne. No sense even talking to you.” He put both hands on the tabletop and shoved his face close to mine. “So, okay,” he said. “It's about time you started
thinking
and stopped going on what fucking
feels
right. Think about what I been telling you. You don't turn over those photos, and make damn sure the entire world knows you don't have'em anymore, there isn't much I can do for you.”
I looked up at him. “Oh, I'll do some thinking. I guarantee that.”
“Just don't go doing something stupid.”
I smiled. “I can't guarantee that.”
I
t was after midnight when Horowitz left.
I waited fifteen minutes to be sure he was gone. Then I put on my jacket, took the elevator down to the parking garage, and climbed into my car.
It occurred to me that I could be followed, and I didn't think it was paranoia. Whoever had hired Bobby Klemm knew that he'd failed. They weren't done with me.
Nor were the Boston police. Safe to assume that they considered me a suspicious character. After all, I had killed a man.
For that matter, I wouldn't have put it past Horowitz to stick somebody on my tail.
I didn't want to lead anybody to Brian Gold.
Traffic was predictably sparse on the Boston streets at half past midnight on a Monday night in February. I kept my eye in the rearview mirror as I wandered up and down and in and out of the hilly one-way streets in the North End, and I kept looping back around on myself until I was satisfied that nobody was following me.
Then I found Cambridge Street, hopped onto Storrow Drive, headed west, and took the Fenway exit.
It took me as long to find a parking space after I got there as it did to drive from my place on Lewis Wharf to the apartment behind Symphony Hall where Brian was holed up.
I figured somebody would still be awake. If I knew college kids, the night was young.
I found the building, went into the foyer, and squinted at the rows of buttons beside the mailboxes. I pressed number twenty-two.
A minute later the door buzzed. I pushed it open, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and knocked on the door at apartment twenty-two.
Jason, the kid who'd been there before, pulled it open, releasing a blast of amplified guitar into the hallway. He blinked at me. “Oh,” he said. “It's you.”
“You were expecting somebody else?”
“I certainly wasn't expecting you.”
“Sorry. Can I come in?”
He shrugged. “I guess so.” He stepped back, and I went into the apartment.
Two young women were sitting on the sofa. A blonde and a brunette. They were holding beer cans and watching MTV and jiggling their knees.
I smiled at them. They both smiled at me.
Jason went over and sat between them. “He's in his room,” he said. “He's probably asleep.”
“How is he?”
Jason shrugged. “I don't know. He hardly ever comes out of there.”
“I've got to talk to him.”
“That's up to him, I guess.”
I went down the hallway and knocked on Brian's door.
“What?” he called from inside.
“It's Uncle Brady,” I said. “We need to talk.”
He said nothing.
“Brian,” I said, “please. It's important.”
“Go away,” he said.
I tried the doorknob. It was locked.
“Listen to me,” I said through the door. “I know about the photographs. I know why you're scared. I know why you don't want to talk to your mother. Let me help you, okay?”
“Leave me alone,” he said.
“Dammit, Brian,” I said. “Pay attention. I know Sprague tried to kill you. He killed Jenny, and he wanted to kill you, too. You two were running away, right?”
Brian was silent.
“Help me get the bad guys,” I said. “It's time to talk to the police. You've got the answers. What do you say?”
What he had to say was nothing.
“We'll talk to your mother together,” I said. “Think of how happy she'll be to see you, to know you're okay. Come on, kid. Let's do it. You and me.”
There was no response from inside the room.
I waited a minute, then pounded on his door. “Brian, I swear if you don't answer me I'll break down this door and drag you out of there.”
I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned.
Jason was standing there glaring at me. “Leave the poor kid alone,” he said.
“Do you know what's going on?” I said to Jason.
He shrugged. “He wants a place to stay, he doesn't want anybody getting on his case. He obviously doesn't want to talk to you. So you better just go.”
“You haven't got a clue,” I said.
“Maybe not. None of my business. But if you don't get out of here, I'm calling the cops.”
“Look,” I said. “I'm a lawyer, and—”
“I don't give a fuck what you are,” he said. “You come barging in here, start threatening my friend, and I want you out. I'm gonna give you one minute.”
I looked at him, then nodded. “Okay. You're right. I'm sorry.” I took out one of my business cards and slipped it under the bedroom door. “I just put my card under your door,” I
called to Brian. “Think about what I said. You can call me any time. Okay, Brian?”
He did not reply.
I turned to Jason. “If you're his friend,” I said, “you should encourage him to call me.”
“He's in some kind of trouble, huh?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
I followed Jason back out to the living room, nodded to the two girls, and left.
As I drove back to my apartment on the waterfront, I replayed the scene in my head.
I definitely could have handled it better.
I
paced around my apartment for a long time after I got back from my abortive visit with Brian Gold. Bobby Klemm, I figured, would surely have killed Brian if he'd been able to find him, and since he hadn't, it meant that Brian was safe where he was, at least for a while. As far as I knew, Sandy and Jason and I were the only ones who knew that Brian was alive and hiding out in a Northeastern University student apartment.
Sooner or later, whoever had hired Klemm to kill me and fetch those photos would hire somebody else. I didn't know what to do about it. Horowitz was on the case. That was comforting. So was Gus Nash. They were pros.
After a while, I almost convinced myself that I'd done everything I could do.
When I finally went to bed, I read a whole chapter from
Moby Dick.
Melville's complex prose and richly detailed narrative cleared my brain and exhausted me. After I turned off the light, I smoked a cigarette in the dark and wondered whether Melville or Hawthorne or Henry James or Jane Austen could even find a publisher in these Stephen King and John Grisham times.
S
nowflakes the size of quarters were drifting down from a slate-colored sky when I woke up around nine-thirty the next morning. I stood behind my glass sliders sipping my coffee and watched the snowflakes swirl around over the black water before they touched down and the ocean ate them. Judging by the white mounds on the docks, nearly half a foot had fallen while I slept.
According to the folklore of Yankee farmers, big soft snowflakes mean a short-lived storm, but along the coast you can't tell. Inland, the flakes might be small and dense.
When I'd finally drifted off to sleep the previous night, I had dreams. In the only one that stuck with me, Bobby Klemm was lying there on the carpet in my living room. In my dream, Klemm was naked. He had the smooth, hairless body of a child, and blood was gushing like a Yellowstone geyser out of a softball-size hole in his bare chest. When I knelt beside him, he smiled and winked at me.
It was, I guessed, some kind of wish-fulfillment dream. According to Freud, they all are, although recalling it the next morning filled me with the same terrible dread and sadness I'd felt when I'd dreamed it, and I couldn't figure out what wish it fulfilled.
I liked the way the snowflakes dissolved when they hit the water, and I watched them for a long time.
When my mug was empty, I went back to the kitchen and refilled it, then took it into the bedroom, plugged in my phone, and called Julie at home.
Edward, her husband, answered. When I asked for Julie, he said, “Brady, can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure,” I said. “What's up?”
He hesitated. “Well, I don't like this.” His voice was soft, as if he didn't want Julie to hear him. “She's—both of us, actually—we're frightened.”
“I understand,” I said. “I was frightened, too. But it's over now.”
“Actually,” he said, “she's handling the—the shooting thing
pretty well. No, I mean the lying. You know how loyal to you Julie is. But she doesn't understand why you want her to lie, and neither do I. You can't lie to the police.”
“I've tried not to tell her anything, Edward,” I said. “The less she knows, the better. And I can't explain it to you, either. You both have to trust me.”
“I think she should tell the police the truth, Brady. I think you're wrong to ask her to do this.”
“Well, I can't stop her,” I said. “All I can do is advise her.” I lit a cigarette. “Look, Edward. She can't get into trouble unless she lies under oath in court, okay? Then it's perjury. If it ever gets to that, I'll be the first to insist that she blame me for misguiding her, and we'll both tell the whole truth.”
“Well, you're a lawyer, but—”
“You know I'd never do anything to hurt Julie,” I said.
“I know that.”
“Please trust me, Edward. Some very nice, very innocent people could be terribly hurt if it all gets out too soon.”
He hesitated for a minute, then said, “My concern is my wife, who also happens to be a very nice, innocent person.”
“Listen,” I said, “If I told you what I know, you'd agree with me. I know you would.”
“Lying to the cops, though,” he said. I heard him blow out a breath. “I don't know.”
I didn't say anything, and after a few seconds, he said, “Well, I guess you called to talk to her.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Hang on.”
A minute later, Julie said, “I've been trying to call you all morning.”
“I unplugged my phone,” I said.
“Reporters?”
“Yes.”
“I guess I should consider myself lucky,” she said. “Anyway, I wanted to know what we should do about your appointments today. When I couldn't reach you, I accessed our computer,
downloaded our schedule and phone directory, and took the liberty of rescheduling. I hope that was all right.”
“You're the boss,” I said. “And a most efficient and cybernetically clever boss at that.”
“Yes, I am.” She laughed softly. “It worked out well. Megan got a snow day from school. We're going to make cookies.”
“Julie—”
“It's okay,” she said quickly. “Edward's upset, but I'm not. I told those police officers what you told me to say. I trust you. Lieutenant Horowitz assured me he was in our corner.”
“I can't explain it to you,” I said.
“I understand. I don't want to know.”
“I assume we'll get our office back tomorrow.”
“That's what I figured,” she said. “I've lined up a busy day for you.”
“Maybe that's what I need,” I said. “A busy day talking with rich people about their money.”
“It would be nice if you put in a full day of billable hours for a change, separated those rich people from some of their money.”
“I'll do it,” I said. “But you won't. I want you to take the rest of the week off.”
“But—”
“Don't argue with me,” I said. “I will not dock your vacation or your sick leave time. Stay home or go shopping or go to the Caribbean. Just don't come to the office. Okay?”
She hesitated. “What's going on, Brady?”
“I'll tell you all about it when I can.”
“Will you be all right?”
“Sure.”
“Be careful.”
“Of course I'll be careful. I'll talk with you. Give Megan a hug for me.”
I spent the rest of the day reading and tying flies and watching it snow. I tried calling Sharon Gold several times, but I kept getting her answering machine. After the third try, I decided to
leave her a message. “Hope you're doing okay,” was all I said. “Give me a call.”
Maybe she'd decided to go stay with her mother for a while. I hoped so. It would be good for her to get away from Reddington. I assumed the police would keep Jake's body for at least a week. Until they released it, there was no reason for Sharon to hang around in that house full of ghosts and echoes.

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