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Authors: William G. Tapply

Tags: #Suspense

BOOK: Shadow of Death
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I
slept fitfully, and when I woke up, sunshine was streaming through the windows and Evie had already left our bed. It was nearly seven-thirty, an hour later than I usually woke up.
I showered and shaved, pulled on a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, and went down to the kitchen, where I poured myself the day's first mug of coffee, and looked out the back window.
Evie was sitting at the garden table with Roger Horowitz. Henry was lying on the brick patio beside her. Evie and Horowitz were sipping coffee and talking and watching the birds flit around the feeders.
When I stepped outside, Henry scrambled to his feet and came over. I gave his head a pat, then went to Evie, who tilted up her cheek for a kiss, which I delivered.
“You're on the job early,” I said to Horowitz.
“Wanted to catch you before Julie got you on the clock.”
I sat at the table. “Sounds important.”
He nodded. “Might be.” He glanced at Evie. “We were
bemoaning the fate of the Red Sox,” he said. “I say it's the damn bullpen. She says it's the manager.”
“I say it's the Yankees,” I said. “If they weren't around, we'd be in pretty good shape.”
Evie stood up. “You boys have things to talk about besides baseball, I imagine, and I've got to go to work.”
I smiled up at her. “Tonight's my turn.”
She shrugged. “I'll try to call if I'm going to be late.” She smiled at Horowitz, blew me a kiss, and went inside.
Horowitz watched her go, then turned to me. “She's pissed at you.”
“You think so?”
“My system is fine-tuned for the signs,” he said. “You know Alyse.”
“Alyse always seems pretty easygoing to me.”
“Sure,” he said. “Evie seems the same way to me, too. Difference between knowing them and being married to them.”
I sipped my coffee. “You didn't come here to talk about women or baseball.”
He shook his head. “I wanted to, um, alert you.”
“Alert me?”
He shrugged. “Warn you.”
Involuntarily I touched my ribs, which hurt when I took a deep breath. In the shower I'd seen the purple bruise. It was in the shape of the toe of a boot. There was another bruise on my ankle. Like I needed to be warned.
But I didn't mention any of that to Horowitz.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I hope you didn't use the word ‘warn' around Evie.”
“Give me some credit, Coyne.”
“What do you want to warn me about?”
“I'm gonna tell you a couple things about Gordon Cahill you probably don't know,” he said. “Needless to say—”
“I know,” I said. “This is between you and me.”
“I'm trusting you here, Coyne,” he said.
“I understand. And if I need to be warned, I appreciate it. But there's no quid pro quo, Roger. I still can't tell you who my client is.”
He waved that notion away with the back of his hand. “Don't worry about it.”
“You saying what happened to Cahill had nothing to do with my client?”
“Nope. Didn't say that. Depends on who your client is, what he's up to, huh?” He cocked an eyebrow at me.
I shrugged.
“Anyways,” he said. “You know how on TV whenever a car crashes into something, it explodes in a dramatic black-and-orange ball of flame?”
I nodded.
“You ever see that happen?”
“Besides on TV?”
He nodded.
I thought for a minute. “No,” I said. “I've seen a few pretty bad accidents, but I've never seen a black-and-orange ball of flame.”
“That's because,” said Horowitz, “in the real world that hardly ever happens.”
“So you're saying—?”
“We got the report on Cahill's car from forensics yesterday,” he said. “Those little Corollas are tough. Only one way it could've gone up in flames like that.” He arched his eyebrows at me.
“I don't like what I'm hearing,” I said.
He nodded. “After Gordie got his tire shot and piled into that tree, somebody poured gasoline all over his car—inside and out—and touched it off.”
“Jesus,” I whispered. I blew out a long breath. “When it exploded, was Gordie—?”
“Was he alive? That what you're asking?”
I nodded.
“We're still waiting on the M.E. He'll tell us. You really want to know?”
I shook my head. “Not really.” I peered at Horowitz. “So they shoot out his tire, then set his car afire. Not exactly subtle.”
“Nope.”
“Like they're trying to make a point.”
He shrugged.
“Or,” I added, “they're just not very bright.”
“Or both,” he said.
“So what are you thinking?”
Horowitz planted his forearms on the table and leaned toward me. “Gordon Cahill grew up in South Boston. St. Monica's parish. Ring a bell?”
“Sure. That's where Whitey Bulger grew up. The home of the Winter Hill Gang. Big-time Boston mobsters.”
“Gordie didn't hang out with them. It's not like they were friends. Whitey Bulger's close to twenty years older than Cahill. Brother Billy's about fifteen. But Cahill was part of the neighborhood, part of that culture. The families all knew each other. They used to say, a young man grows up in Southie, he's got four choices. He works for Gillette, he works for the cops, he works on Beacon Hill, or he works for the mob.”
“Whitey and Billy Bulger and Gordon Cahill,” I said. “Between
the three of them, they did everything except make razor blades.”
“Those wiseguys Gordie busted in Haverhill back when he was undercover?” said Horowitz. “They did business with the Winter Hill Gang.”
“A lot of blood on their hands.”
“That's right. Drugs, extortion, loan-sharking, murder. You name it. They came down pretty heavy on the Winter Hill mob a few years ago. But those guys don't just go away.”
“So you think … ?”
“It's not so much what I think,” said Horowitz. “It's what I know. I know that Gordon Cahill had his name on the evening news for several months back there when he was testifying against all those shitbums. I know his testimony put away several of Whitey Bulger's old soldiers. I know that they've still got a lot of loyal friends in South Boston.” He leaned close to me. “I also know,” he said, “that guys like them have long memories. They place high value on loyalty, or their fucked-up version of it. Anybody from St. Monica's parish, cop or no cop, should be willing to die before he'd spill the beans against anybody from the neighborhood.”
“Or be prepared to die if he did,” I said.
Horowitz nodded.
“That was, what, ten, twelve years ago when Gordie worked undercover for the state cops?”
“Could be a hundred years. Doesn't matter. They never forget. Look,” said Horowitz, “it's a theory, okay? Far as I'm concerned, a theory worth pursuing. But it doesn't mean I'm not interested in other theories.”
“I really want you to solve this case,” I said. “But I can't tell you who my client is.”
He shrugged. “I came here to warn you, that's all.”
“Even though I hired Gordon Cahill for some case that has no connection whatsoever to do with South Boston mobsters, you still think … ?”
“Look,” he said. “Evie's a great kid, okay? Alyse thinks the world of her, and I do, too. She's way too good for you. But for some reason she seems to like you, and I don't want to have to come knocking on her door some night with bad news.”
“I'll be careful,” I said. “But even if some mobsters did kill Cahill for revenge or something, I don't see why they'd be interested in me.”
“Just keep an eye on your rearview mirror, Coyne.”
I remembered driving home the previous night through the Willard Brook State Forest. I was glancing into my rearview mirror the whole way.
Horowitz stood up, hesitated, then placed both hands flat on the table and pushed his face close to mine. “Anything you can tell me without violating your client's privileged status, I'd appreciate it, you know. Not even to mention your solemn duty as an officer of the court. This is now an official murder investigation.”
I looked up at him. “Have you shared any of this with the New Hampshire cops?”
“New Hampshire?” He narrowed his eyes at me. “You want to elaborate on that for me?”
I shook my head.
“Any other suggestions?”
“Not right now.”
“Okay. Good. Thanks.” He turned and headed for the garden gate, which opened out onto the back alley.
“You're allowed to use the front door, you know.”
“Parked in the alley,” he said. “Didn't want to arouse the curiosity of your neighbors.”
“Considerate,” I said. “Thank you.”
After Horowitz left, I went inside, refilled my coffee mug, and took it into my room.
I didn't know how to react to what Horowitz had told me. On the one hand, if a bunch of South Boston gangsters had killed Gordon Cahill out of vengeance for the testimony he'd given ten years earlier, it meant that the case he happened to have been on at the time was irrelevant.
Albert Stoddard was just some history professor who'd probably never set foot in South Boston.
On the other hand, Ellen Stoddard had been a hard-charging prosecutor for the D.A.'s office before she started running for the Senate. It occurred to me that she might have prosecuted a member of the Winter Hill Gang or two somewhere along the line.
I knew one thing for certain: Somebody had whacked me on the head and kicked me in the ribs and jammed the business end of a double-barreled shotgun against my forehead.
It was considerate of Horowitz to warn me. But I didn't need another warning.
I
opened my desk drawer, took out the notes I'd made from the obituaries I'd found in Albert's camp, and read them again.
I glanced at my watch. It was a few minutes after nine. In Kinkaid, Missouri, where Oliver S. Burlingame lived and died, I figured it was too early to call.
But it was a few minutes after nine in Bangor, Maine. Not an unreasonable time to receive a sympathy call.
I called information, which informed me that Mark Lyman's wife, Gail, wasn't listed. The phone was still in her late husband's name.
I didn't like the idea of what I was going to do, but I did it anyway.
When she answered, I said, “Is this Mrs. Lyman?”
“Yes, it is,” she said.
“Gail, right?”
“Yes, that's right. Do I know you?”
“I'm an old friend of Mark's,” I said. “My name is Brady Coyne. I just heard what happened. I wanted to express my condolences.”
She hesitated. “I don't recall Mark ever mentioning you.”
“We've been out of touch for quite a while,” I said. “Albert told me what happened.”
“Albert?”
“Albert Stoddard?” I made it a question.
“Mark never mentioned any Albert Stoddard, either. How did you say you knew him?”
“Oh, back from our New Hampshire days. Albert and Mark and Ollie Burlingame and I. When we were kids. We all hung out together.”
“I never heard of anybody named Ollie, neither,” she said. “All that was a very long time ago. Mark's family moved away from New Hampshire when he was a teenager. He never talked much about his childhood.”
“Well,” I said, “like I told you, Mark and I, we pretty much lost touch after he moved away.” I was making it up as I went along. So far, so good, I thought. “Still,” I continued, “there are a lot of happy old memories, you know? So had Mark been sick or something?”
“Well …” She hesitated. “Your friend Albert didn't tell you?”
“All he told me was that Mark, um, passed away.”
“Passed away. Ayuh. That's what he did, all right.” She chuckled sourly. “Well, okay, Mr. Coyne. To answer your question, I guess you might say my husband was sick. One morning last April after I left for work, he loaded up his .30/06 and drove to some woods outside of town, and he stuck the muzzle in his mouth and killed himself with it. I'd say that's pretty damn sick, wouldn't you?”
“Oh, jeez,” I said. “I didn't know that. I'm really sorry. How are you? Are you doing okay? That must've been a terrible shock.”
“Oh, hell,” she said. “I guess I wasn't that surprised. I
mean, you don't expect something like that to happen, but afterward, you look back, and you say, yes sir, the signs were all there, how could I've been so stupid?”
“He'd been depressed or something, huh?” I said. “That's pretty hard to imagine. I mean, back when we were kids …” I let the implications hang there like a question.
“I know,” she said. “When I met Mark, fresh out of the army, he was this carefree happy fella, this handsome soldier, full of jokes and stories, always laughing.” I heard her blow out a breath. “It all started falling apart last winter. I never saw it coming. One day he's fine, working hard, all involved in the church, the next day he's like this zombie, moping around, won't even talk to you. You think, well, he'll get over it. Winter's a bitch up here. Except he didn't get over it. He kept getting worse, and then he killed himself. I only wish he would've talked to me about it. I might've been able to help.”
“Get him to a therapist, maybe,” I said, just because it was my turn to say something.
“The money,” she said after a minute. “I think it was all about money.”
“Did he lose his job or something?”
“No, no. He was doing fine at work. I didn't even know about it until after he was dead and buried, when the lawyer was settling his estate. That's when we found out what he did. I can't forgive him for it. Depressed or not, I don't care. I'll be mad at that man for the rest of my days.”
“What did he do?”
“He emptied out Mark Junior's college account is what he did. We've been saving and sacrificing for over sixteen years so Markie wouldn't have to go to the state school if he didn't want to. Now it's gone. All of it. Cleaned right out.” She paused, then laughed softly. “Listen to me, will you? I don't
suppose you called up because you wanted to listen to my old sob story. What's done is done. I miss Mark and I love him. I truly do. But God help me, I'll be mad at that man 'til the day I die. I'm not proud of it, but there it is.”
“Well,” I said, “I guess under the circumstances anybody would feel about the same way.” I hesitated for a polite beat, then said, “What did Mark do with that money, do you know?”
“Up in smoke. Gone. Who knows?”
“Did he gamble or something?”
“Oh, Lord,” she said. “That's almost funny. Mark and I, we played cribbage for a penny a hole sometimes, and if I beat him for like fifteen cents, you'd think it was his life savings, and it'd take me a week to pry it out of him. Other than that, I don't think he ever even bet a beer on a golf match. Look—Brady, was it?”
“Yes. Brady Coyne.”
“Well, Brady, I've really got to go fix my hair and drive off to my job now. It was nice of you to call, and I'm sorry I had to tell you what I told you. Best thing is if you can remember your old friend the way you knew him when you were boys.” She laughed quickly. “Sure wish I could do that.”
After we disconnected, I sat there looking out the window and feeling sleazy. I didn't much like dissembling, particularly to bereaved widows, and I especially didn't like the fact that it seemed to come naturally to me.
Gail Lyman, I tried to convince myself, hadn't needed much prodding. She probably spilled out her sad story to every political pollster and vinyl-siding salesman who cold-called her while she was eating dinner.
Except, of course, pollsters and salesmen didn't pretend to be childhood buddies of her recently self-deceased husband.
Well, I wasn't done. I still had Oliver Burlingame's “accidental” death on my mind. I decided to exhaust all other possibilities before I got involved in lying to one of his survivors.
I called Julie and told her I'd be in around noon, and all she said was, “Okay. Whatever. See you then.”
Julie seemed to have resigned herself to my haphazard office hours, which scared me a little. Over the years I'd gotten used to being nagged about spending time in the office and accruing billable hours and scouting around for new clients. Julie had always taken her job seriously, and I knew it frustrated her that I sometimes didn't.
If I didn't pay her so well, I'd worry that she might go looking for a better boss.
I promised myself I'd put in a solid afternoon at the office and make Julie happy.
I went out to the kitchen and refilled my coffee mug. It was ten in the morning, which I figured would make it nine in Missouri.
Rand McNally helped me locate Kinkaid, Missouri, which appeared to be a suburb of St. Louis, and Verizon gave me the number for the Kinkaid branch of the St. Louis Savings Bank. I dialed it.
I waited through the recorded menu that listed all of my conveniently automated options, and I was rewarded, at the end, with an invitation to remain on the line and speak with an actual person, which I accepted.
“Good morning,” she said after less than a minute. “My name is Marla. How may I help you today?”
“Good morning, Marla,” I said, attempting to match her cheerfulness. “My name is Brady and I'm trying to get ahold of Ollie Burlingame.”
She hesitated, then said, “I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Burlingame is no longer with us.”
“Hm,” I said. “See, I'm an old friend of his, and we've been out of touch for a while. Last I heard, he worked there. Do you know how I can reach him?”
“Mr. Burlingame, um, well, the thing is, he died.”
“Oh, jeez. What happened?”
“I'm not sure I should—”
“This is terrible,” I said. “Did he have a heart attack or something?”
“Actually, I heard it was a fishing accident,” she said.
“No kidding.” I paused for a beat. “Marla,” I said, “the truth is, Ollie owed me money. Now what'm I going to do?”
“Get in line, I guess.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She cleared her throat. “I'm sorry, sir. I really can't talk about it. If there's nothing else … ?”
“No, that's fine, Marla,” I said. “You've been very nice.” And I hung up before I found myself telling her more lies.
A quick trip down the Information Highway revealed that Kinkaid, Missouri, had a weekly newspaper called the
Kinkaid Current
.
The paper's on-line archives went back only a month, and I found no mention of Oliver Burlingame in them. But I did get the name of the editor—Tamara Quinlan—and a phone number.
I paused to ponder my strategy. What sort of lie should I tell this time?
I made up my mind, dialed the number for the
Kinkaid Current
, and Tamara Quinlan herself answered the phone.
I took a deep breath. “Ms. Quinlan,” I said, “I'm calling from Boston and I'm looking into the death of one of your local people. Oliver Burlingame?”
“Why?” she said.
“Huh?” I said. “Why what?”
“Why are you looking into the death of this person?”
“Oh,” I said, “well, this Burlingame was originally from New England, so there's the local angle. I heard some things, and I'm thinking there might be a story in it.”
“Are you a reporter?”
“Oh, right. Sorry. Yes. Brady Coyne's the name.”
“What paper are you with?”
“Actually,” I said, “I'm a freelancer. Features, investigative stuff, you know? I do magazine work, too. So can you help me out with the Burlingame story? I checked your archives, but I didn't find anything.”
“What did you hear about Oliver Burlingame, Mr. Coyne?”
“Call me Brady,” I said. “What I heard was, he died in some kind of fishing accident and there might've been some money issues.”
She was quiet for a minute. Then she said, “Well, I don't see any reason why I can't tell you what I know. First off, Burlingame drowned in the Calcasieu River down in Louisiana. This was back in March. He was one of those passionate bass fishermen, had the fancy boat, all the gear, traveled to tournaments and stuff. Bass fishing's pretty big in this part of the country, you know. March is a little early for the bass around here, I guess, so Burlingame went off to Louisiana for the weekend because the fishing was supposed to be good down there. That's the way I heard it.”
“Drowned,” I said. “How'd it happen?”
“Nobody really knows. They found his boat, and a couple days later they found him.”
“No evidence of … ?”
“Foul play, you mean?” She chuckled. “I guess not. It's
unclear how thorough the police down there in Louisiana were, but they called it an accidental death.”
“Did you follow up on that angle?”
“Me? Follow up? Ha. Look, we're just a small-town weekly. I'm my only full-time employee. Folks here in Kinkaid, they want to know what the mayor intends to do about property taxes and whether the sewer's going to come up their street and what the school board plans to do about the music program. I don't have the time or energy or resources to go muckraking. It'd be fun, but that's not what we're about here. So if you want to go raking up some muck, God bless you. You get a story, I can pay you ten dollars a column inch.”
“Does that mean you think there's some muck in this story?”
“Well, you might want to check the money angle. There were lots of rumors flying around town. I actually thought about trying to write a follow-up story after we ran his obit, but I couldn't persuade anybody to talk on the record.”
“How about off the record?”
“Off the record,” she said, “Oliver Burlingame was apparently embezzling from the bank where he worked. They were going to fire him. If you can get confirmation of that, I'll buy your story.”
“He died before they had the chance to fire him?”
“That's right.”
“Convenient,” I said.
“Yes, that's what I thought,” said Tamara Quinlan. “People who knew him say Burlingame was about at the end of his rope. Off the record, they'll tell you he owed a lot of money, had a lot of pressure on him, and wasn't handling it very well. The people at the bank won't tell you anything, of course, on or off the record. Last thing they want made
public is that one of their employees—hell, their assistant branch manager—was dipping into the till.”

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