Scar Tissue (21 page)

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Authors: William G. Tapply

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Scar Tissue
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I
worked alone in my office all day Thursday. I heard nothing from Gus Nash and Chris Stone, but I wasn't fooled. I figured the two of them were digging around, looking for some way to confront me with a contradiction, spring an embarrassing tidbit of evidence on me, nail me in a lie.
I didn't hear from Horowitz, either, also no surprise. Even if he'd come up with something, it wasn't like Roger Horowitz to think of sharing it with me. He'd get ahold of me if he needed me for something.
The last time I'd talked to Evie, she said she'd call me, which meant that she didn't want me to call her. So I didn't.
Something was bugging her. Me, I assumed. I didn't like it, but when I tried to be objective about it, it wasn't hard to understand. I wanted to hear it from her, get a handle on it, talk it out with her, get our lives back. I didn't like not having a weekend with Evie to look forward to.
But she didn't call. Normally, I wouldn't notice. We rarely talked much during the week. But for the past few months, our weekends together had been a given. We didn't have to discuss them or plan them. We just assumed we'd spend them together.
Before she spent that Saturday at the Museum of Fine Arts with her friend Mary, and then Sunday down at Foxwoods in Connecticut, Evie and I had spent at least one day and night of every weekend together since around Thanksgiving.
I started to pick up the phone to call her a dozen times, and each time I resisted the impulse.
So when my phone rang Thursday night just after I'd finished my Melville bedtime reading and turned off the light, I grabbed it fast before she could change her mind.
“Hi, honey,” I said.
There was a momentary silence, then a soft laugh. “Sorry to disappoint you. It's just me.” It was Sharon.
I propped myself up in bed and got a cigarette lit. “How are you? Are you okay?”
She hesitated. “I guess it's all relative. Aside from being afraid and depressed and really,
really
angry, sure. I'm okay.”
“Dumb question,” I said.
“No, it's okay. Believe me, I've been dealing with a lot dumber stuff than that lately.”
“Are you home?”
“Oh, yes. Back in my haunted house.”
“You've been away,” I said. “I've tried to call you several times.”
“I've been at my mother's in Wisconsin. It was easier to go than to argue with her. I just got back this afternoon.” She cleared her throat. “So why were you trying to call me? Is anything new?”
I couldn't say anything about Brian, as much as his secret was burning a hole in my heart.
And I didn't want to tell her about Bobby Klemm. That would raise questions I didn't want to lie to her about. I figured the Wisconsin newspapers hadn't carried the story.
“Nothing's new,” I said.
“I'm wondering about Jake … his body …”
“I don't know, Sharon. I guess the police will be in touch with you when … when they're done with him.”
She was quiet for a minute. I stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray on my bedside table.
“Hey, Brady?”
“Yes?”
“Would you do me a favor?”
“Of course.”
“Have dinner with me tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“I really need to talk about things.”
“Okay,” I said. “Sure. I'd like that.”
“It's a Friday night, you know.”
“I know.”
“Aren't you—?”
“I'm free,” I said. “Dinner would be great.”
“I'll cook,” she said.
“You don't have to do that. Why don't we go to a nice restaurant, let people wait on us.”
“No,” she said. “I'd like to cook. I'm a pretty good cook, you know.”
“Well, if you insist.”
She laughed. “I absolutely insist.”
“I can be there around seven,” I said.
“Wonderful. I'll see you then.”
After we disconnected, I stared up at the ceiling in my dark bedroom.
M
arch had come in like an angry beast. Friday was the second day of the month, and for the second day in a row, a cold, insistent wind blasted icy pellets of frozen rain against my office window.
When my phone rang in the middle of the morning, my first thought was Evie. My second thought was that I already had a date for the evening. I couldn't break it if I wanted to, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to.
I grabbed the phone on the second ring, cleared my throat, and said, “Brady Coyne.”
There was a moment of hesitation. Then a male voice said, “I hope to hell you're satisfied.”
“Huh? Who is this?”
“It's Jason.”
It took me a minute. “Oh,” I said. “Jason. Brian's roommate.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Make that former roommate.”
“What're you talking about?”
“He's gone.”
“What? Gone?”
“Disappeared, man. Flown the coop. Skipped town. Outta here. Gonzo.”
“Where—?”
“If I knew where, you can be damn sure I wouldn't tell you, so you could go there and scare the shit out of him again. I don't know where he is. He left and he took all his stuff with him.”
“When did this happen?”
“Sometime Wednesday when I was at class. The day after you were here. I didn't think much about it at first. None of my business where Brian goes. But two days and two nights he's been gone now, and I figure he wants to be someplace where you can't get at him.”
“Jason,” I said, “did Brian talk to you about any of this? Why he's been staying with you, why he's so upset?”
“I know his old man got murdered, if that's what you mean.”
“He was with you before that happened, wasn't he?”
“Yeah. He was.”
“But he didn't—”
“No. I don't know why he wanted to stay here. He was hiding out, that's all I know. I didn't ask, and he didn't tell me. I figured it was stuff with his parents. All he said was, he needed a place to crash for a while.”
“And you don't have any idea where he'd go?”
“No.”
“You understand that he could be in danger,” I said.
“I guess I was thinking that, yeah.”
“So if you know where he is—”
“I don't know, man.”
“If you do, or if you figure it out, you've got to tell me.”
“Why? You're the one who scared him off.”
“I don't think it was me,” I said. “I think it was the … the situation.”
“Well, I don't know where he went.”
“Do me a favor,” I said. “No. Correct that. Do Brian a favor. If you hear from him, or if he shows up, let me know.”
“He's in some kind of danger, huh?”
“Yes,” I said. “It's serious stuff, Jason.”
“I'll think about it,” he said.
I
saw clients and conferred with attorneys for the rest of the day and tried to keep thoughts and speculations about Brian Gold's ominous disappearance out there on the fuzzy fringes of my consciousness.
I'd done what I thought was the right thing, I told myself, and it had apparently backfired. It was useless to second-guess myself.
I did it anyway, of course.
I
t was chaotic without Julie there to run things, get the decks cleared on a Friday afternoon, and I ended up staying late to clean up the leftover paperwork, write myself some reminders, and in general clear my conscience so that I wouldn't feel I had to come in over the weekend or lug my briefcase home with me.
I had more important things to do on the weekend.
When I looked at my watch, it was nearly six-thirty. I'd never get to Reddington by seven, so I called Sharon and told her I was running a little late.
“No problem,” she said. “Take your time. The driving might
be bad.” I heard music in the background. It was The Band, singing “The Weight.”
“I'll be careful,” I said.
She hesitated. “If you don't want to …”
“I'll be there.”
I stopped at a florist on Newbury Street, debated roses, decided they might imply something I didn't intend, and bought a mixed bouquet of what they called “spring blooms.” Then I went to the gourmet wine shop next door and took the salesman's advice on a midpriced bottle of white and one of red.
I drove home, changed out of my office pinstripe into Dockers, shirt, sweater, and boots, and checked my answering machine.
No messages.
Friday evening, and Evie still hadn't called.
T
he frozen rain was turning to snow and it swirled in my headlights on the Mass Pike, where the speed limit had been reduced to forty. The plows weren't keeping up with the snow, and it was accumulating on the pavement, but the idiots still passed me going seventy. They threw slush against my windshield, blinding me while my wipers struggled to catch up, and I kept expecting to come upon a car in the median strip heading in the wrong direction with his headlights aimed at a cockeyed angle into the sky.
Where were the speed traps when you needed them?
I pulled up in front of Sharon's house in Reddington a few minutes before eight. I lugged the flowers and wine to the front door and rang the bell.
She opened the door a moment later. She was wearing a red sweater and blue jeans. Her feet were bare. She had her black hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and tied with a red-and-black silk kerchief. She wore pale pink lipstick and had done some subtle things to her eyes that didn't quite disguise the dark circles under them.
She smiled when she saw me, but the sadness showed in her
eyes. She tiptoed up, kissed my cheek, and hugged me quickly. “It's wonderful to see you,” she said.
I was holding the flowers in one hand and the bag with the wine bottles in the other. My return hug was awkward.
When she stepped away from me, I held out the flowers. “Spring blooms,” I said. “Pushing the season a bit optimistically.”
She smiled and poked her nose into them. “They're beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.”
“And wine,” I said, holding up the bag.
“Nice,” she said. She blinked several times.
Please don't cry,
I thought.
This is going to be hard enough for me.
I lifted my nose and ostentatiously sniffed the air. “Umm, yum,” I said. “Apple pie, huh? Smells good. I'm hungry.”
She smiled. “Me, too.” She turned and headed for the kitchen.
I took off my coat, hung it in the hall closet, and followed her.
She was standing at the counter cutting the ends off the flowers and fitting them into a vase. “You know,” she said softly, “I can't remember Jake
ever
bringing me flowers.”
I had nothing to say about that. I sat on a stool and watched her. She took her time arranging the flowers.
“I shouldn't have said that,” she said after a minute. “About Jake. He tried.”
“He loved you,” I said stupidly.
She looked up at me. “I know. Why don't you open the wine, let it breathe.”
“Which one?”
“We're having shrimp. I hope—”
“I love shrimp,” I said. “The white, I guess.”
I got the wine open, and Sharon finished arranging the flowers. She put them on the dining room table, and then we went into the living room.
“How about a drink?” she said.
“I gave up booze the other night,” I said. “Fell off the wagon about an hour later. I think next time I might make it for two hours. Bourbon and a handful of ice cubes would be great.”
She went over to a sideboard and poured drinks. “Want some music?”
“Wasn't that The Band you were playing when I called?”
“Yes.”
“Play it again.”
She put my drink on a napkin on the coffee table in front of me, then went to the corner and turned on her stereo. The Band started singing “Up on Cripple Creek.”
Sharon came over and sat at the opposite end of the sofa from me. She tucked her bare feet under her and held up her drink. I picked mine up, leaned over, and clinked glasses with her.
“Tell me the truth,” I said. “How are you?”
“Actually,” she said, “it was probably a good thing, spending time with my mother. She's just one little bundle of gray-haired energy. We went shopping and we cleaned her cellar and she had people I haven't seen since high school over for dinner, and I even convinced her that I really did want to talk about Brian and Jake. She surprised me. She listened and she understood and she didn't insist I talk to her priest. I think I'm … coming to grips with it. I'm starting to realize I've got a life to live and I might as well start doing it.” She sighed and shook her head. “I have my moments, still. It's going to take a while. I know that.”
The Band was singing “It Makes No Difference,” a very beautiful, very sad love song that always got to me. I found myself thinking about Evie.
“I'm okay about Jake, I think,” said Sharon after a couple of minutes. “I saw—I had to identify his body. They wanted me to look at a video, but I told them, I said I want to see him, not a picture of him. So I know Jake is dead, you see? But Brian … . . .” She shook her head. “I still can't …”
I hitched closer to her and took her hand.
Don't give up on
Brian,
I wanted to tell her.
I'm going to bring him home to you if it's the last thing I do.
But I said nothing. I wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do, and I felt like a hypocrite, sitting there sympathizing with her about her dead son when I knew he was still alive. But I'd given my word.
“What about you?” said Sharon after a minute. “How are you doing?”
“Me? Oh, I'm fine.”
“So why aren't you with your lady tonight?”
I smiled. “Because I'm here.”
She nodded. “You men all think you've got to be so damned stoic. Jake was that way. So was Brian. Just fifteen, and he had already learned to keep it all inside.”
“Keep what inside?” I said.
She shrugged. “I don't know. Whatever was bothering him. Nothing particular, I guess. Kids that age, they think everything is so important, you know?”
I nodded. “Was anything different before—?”
“Before he died?” She smiled quickly. “It's okay, Brady. You can say it.” She shook her head. “To answer your question, I don't know. Yes, maybe. I thought he was, you know, just being a teenager. Noncommunicative. Not telling us where he was going or where he'd been or what he was doing. Staying out late. Locking his bedroom door. I tried to get him to talk, but he made it clear he didn't want to, at least not with his mother. I didn't think too much about it. Everybody I know who has teenagers always says the same thing. You just have to get through it. It used to make Jake crazy. Of course, Jake was the last person on earth Brian would talk to.” She cocked her head and frowned at me. “Why are you asking?”
Because your boy is still alive,
I wanted to tell her.
Because he has a secret, and he thinks it's so terrible that he'd rather you believed he was dead than have you hear it.
I waved my hand. “No particular reason,” I said. “What about the girl? Jenny? What was she like?”
“I hardly knew her,” Sharon said. “Brian brought her home a couple times. I kept asking him if he'd like to have her for dinner or something, but he wasn't interested in that. She was almost two years older than Brian. She looked about twelve, but I had the impression that she was ten times more mature than he was. I used to think about them—you know, together. Petting. Her seducing him. Having sex.”
I sipped my drink and remembered the photos. “Remember when you were that age?” I said.
She smiled. “God, do I. I hate to think I'd ever forget.” She shook her head. “It was so strange, coming home last night. It felt like I'd been away forever. I expected it to be hard. You know, like Brian would be here, and Jake. But it wasn't like that. The house was empty, but that wasn't it …”
I waited, and when she didn't continue, I said, “What, Sharon?”
She shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. It's just—it felt like someone had been here. I don't mean like ghosts.” She turned to me and put her hand on my arm. “Brian's bedroom door was ajar.”
“Yes?”
“I've kept it shut ever since—since he died. I didn't want to see in there. Jake used to go in, but I didn't. I would've sworn I shut his door when I went to my mother's.”
“You probably left it unlatched. A draft or something blew it open.”
She nodded. “I guess so. It just felt spooky. When I saw it open, I had this overwhelming feeling of panic. Like Brian had come back, and if I looked in there, I'd see him, hunched over his desk doing his homework.” She tried to smile. “I know. I'll have times like that for a while. I'll hear something, think it's one of my men coming in the room, or the phone will ring, or the floor will creak, and …” She waved her hand. “Well, anyway. About ready for dinner?”
“I'm famished.”
“I've just got to saute the shrimp. They'll only take a few minutes.” She pushed herself to her feet. “You relax, enjoy your
drink, sing as loud as you want to the music. I'll call when it's ready.”
“Actually,” I said, “I need to use your bathroom.”
“Off the downstairs hallway or top of the stairs. Your choice.” She turned and went into the kitchen.
I went upstairs. The bathroom was next to Brian's room, which was my actual destination. Sharon had latched his door. I opened it, went in, and closed it behind me. The room looked the same as it had last time I'd been there.
I knelt in front of the steamer trunk at the foot of his bed, lifted the top, pulled out the blankets, removed the false bottom, and peered in.
The scraps of torn-up money were gone.
My first thought was Brian. He'd slipped into his house while his mother was away to remove the last evidence of his shameful secret.
The money and the photos, hidden away in his trunk. He'd been paid to pose for those evil pictures. Or to keep his mouth shut about them. Dirty photos, dirty money.
Brian had ripped up the money.
I wondered why he hadn't destroyed the photographs, too.
Jake had found the photos and brought them to me for safekeeping, and then he'd gone looking for the people who'd corrupted his son.
He'd found them, too. Or else they'd found him. They'd watched while Bobby Klemm tortured Jake until he told them everything he knew. Then they'd had Klemm kill him, and they set about to clean up after themselves.
They sent Bobby Klemm to kill Ed Sprague, and then Klemm went to my office to retrieve the photos … and to kill me.
Then somebody came here, to Sharon's house.
Maybe it had been Brian.
It wasn't Bobby Klemm. He was already dead.
I realized that any vague thought—or hope—I might've still had that Bobby Klemm had been acting alone was wrong. As
both Horowitz and Gus Nash insisted, Klemm was just the hired gun. This was not over with yet.
Jake had probably carried a house key in his pocket. They'd taken it when they killed him—whoever “they” were—and they used it to slip into Sharon's house. Maybe they came specifically for that ripped-up money. Maybe they had to be sure that all the photographs were gone. Fortunately, they'd come while Sharon was at her mother's.
I fitted the false bottom back in the trunk, returned the blankets, and shut it. Then I closed Brian's door behind me, went into the bathroom, and flushed the toilet.
I washed my hands and splashed water on my face. Should I tell Sharon that whoever had hired Bobby Klemm to torture and kill Jake might have a key to her house? If I did, I'd have to explain about the money scraps in Brian's trunk, which meant I'd have to tell her how her son had earned that money, and about the photographs, and I'd have to tell her about Bobby Klemm, and why Jake had been killed, and why Klemm had come to my office, and what I had in my safe.
And I'd have to tell her that Brian was still alive, or at least he had been a couple nights ago, but now he had disappeared again, thanks to my bumbling.
I decided to tell Sharon nothing.
If that turned out to be the wrong decision …
I couldn't allow myself to think about it.
I went downstairs. Sharon had replaced The Band with Dave Brubeck. A pair of tall candles flickered on the dining room table, and the vase of spring blooms sat in the middle. She'd set places with heavy silver and linen napkins. My open bottle of white wine sat in a pewter ice bucket.
I followed the aroma of garlic and butter into the kitchen. Shrimp scampi, with wild rice and asparagus.
Sharon was at the stove with her back to me. She was wearing an old-fashioned flowered apron tied in a bow behind her waist.
“Smells awesome,” I said.
She smiled over her shoulder. “Go sit. I'll bring the salads.”

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