Shadow of Death (6 page)
O
n a Friday afternoon the previous May, Albert called me in my office. “I just turned in my grades,” he said. “I want to go fishing.”
n a Friday afternoon the previous May, Albert called me in my office. “I just turned in my grades,” he said. “I want to go fishing.”
I rarely turn down a chance to go fishing.
We met in front of Papa Razzi, the Italian restaurant near the Route 2 rotary in Concord. Albert transferred his gear from his Volkswagen to my BMW, and we headed for the Nissitissit River in Pepperell.
As we drove, I asked Albert what he thought about Ellen's decision to run for the Senate.
He turned to me and smiled. “I suppose I'll vote for her,” he said.
“It's going to change your lives,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “That's what I'm afraid of.”
Then he changed the subject.
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Before we moved in together, back when Evie and I saw each other mostly on weekends, we took turns cooking. Both of
us liked to put together meals for each other. Although neither of us was a particularly gifted chef, we were tolerant of each other's efforts and encouraged experimentation. So when we decided to buy the place on Mt. Vernon Street and share our lives, we figured we'd continue to have fun taking turns in the kitchen.
us liked to put together meals for each other. Although neither of us was a particularly gifted chef, we were tolerant of each other's efforts and encouraged experimentation. So when we decided to buy the place on Mt. Vernon Street and share our lives, we figured we'd continue to have fun taking turns in the kitchen.
But Evie worked long hours running the business end of things at Beth Israel Hospital, and Julie kept me pretty busy, too, so usually by the time we got home, all we wanted to do was sit outside in our little walled-in garden, have a gin-and-tonic or a Bloody Mary, watch the birds flit at the feeders, scratch Henry's belly, and talk about baseball or the movies or the sex lives of famous surgeons.
Except on weekends, neither of us had much energy or enthusiasm for cooking.
So we either ate outâthere were dozens of good restaurants within a fifteen-minute walk of Mt. Vernon Streetâor one of us brought home takeout.
It was my turn, so perhaps subconsciously inspired by the aromas that had seeped into the walls in the stairwell leading up to Gordon Cahill's office, I stopped at the Thai restaurant on Charles Street and picked up two helpings of Pad Thai and some salad that featured oriental cabbage, shiitake mushrooms, bean sprouts, and lemon grass.
By the time we sat down it was dark outside, so we ate in the kitchen. Henry lay under the table with his chin on my instep, alert for falling noodles.
After a while, Evie dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and said, “What's up, Brady? You haven't said five words since you got home. I've been doing all the talking.”
I smiled. “I enjoy listening. You tell good stories, and you've got a very sexy voice.”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “You can't fool me that easy. Something's eating at you.”
I nodded. “A friend of mine died last night.”
She reached across the table and touched my hand. “I'm sorry, honey. Anybody I know?”
I shook my head.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really. He was a PI working on a case for me.”
Evie's eyebrows arched. “Working on a case? What happened?”
“Car crash.”
“So it wasn't ⦔
“It was an accident, babe. Nothing to worry about.”
She smiled. “I do worry, you know. You always seem to get yourself intoâ”
At that moment the telephone rang. Evie got up and answered it. She listened for a moment, then looked at me and frowned. “Yes,” she said into the phone. “He's here. Hold on, please.” She held up the phone for me. “For you.”
I got up and took the phone from her.
It was Horowitz.
“I told you to call on my other line,” I said to him. I glanced at Evie. She was peering at me out of narrow, suspicious eyes.
“No you didn't,” he said. “You didn't say anything about any other line. When you lived by yourself, there was only one line. Why'd you have to go make things complicated?”
“You're interrupting my dinner, you know.”
“Yeah, really sorry. So whaddya got for me?”
“I talked to my client,” I said. “The answer is no.”
“You know I can handle it for you, Coyne.”
“Forget it, Roger. It's not going to happen.”
“You interested in what I found out?”
“Yes,” I said. “But not now. Now I want to finish my Pad Thai and bask in Evie's beauty. I'll call you later.”
“When you hear what I got to tell you,” he said, “you'll change your mind.”
“My mind isn't the relevant one,” I said. “I'll get back to you.”
When I hung up, I saw that Evie was still looking at me. “Basking in my beauty? Did you really say that?”
I smiled.
“Accident, huh?” she said. “Nothing to worry about, huh?”
I shrugged.
“That was Lieutenant Horowitz,” she said. “I know what he does.”
“Honeyâ”
“Your friend got murdered, didn't he?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I don't know.”
“And you're going to end up playing cops and robbers and getting shot at and ⦔ Her voice trailed off.
I went around the table, lifted Evie's auburn hair away from her neck, and nuzzled her. “I'm just a family lawyer,” I said. “Don't worry about me. Horowitz wants to know the name of my client, and I can't tell him, and once I convince him of that, it'll be the end of it.”
“Oh, right,” she said. “Fat chance. Dammit anyway, Brady Coyne. I know you.”
I kissed the magic place just under her ear.
“Cut that out,” she said.
I did not cut it out, and after a minute she sighed and arched her neck to give me easier access to her magic place. “Mmm,” she mumbled. “That's really not fair.”
After supper Evie and I took Henry for a walk on the Common, where we let him off his leash so he could trot around and sniff the benches and trash barrels and give chase to some squirrels. Henry was a little overweight, and he needed his exercise.
I figured by the time we got back home Evie would've forgotten Horowitz, but when I told her I was going to make a few phone calls and catch up on my e-mail, she said, “If Roger Horowitz tries to drag you into some murder case, you tell him that our divorce will be on his conscience.”
Henry followed me into my room and curled up on his dog bed. I pried off my shoes, propped my feet on my desk, and called Horowitz.
“Cahill was murdered,” he said.
“You're sure?”
“What else would a bullet hole in the left front tire of his vehicle mean?”
“Bullet?” I said. “What kind of bullet?”
“Who gives a shit.” Horowitz let out an exasperated breath. “For your information, it wasn't technically a bullet. It was a load of buckshot. Point isâ”
“I get the point,” I said.
“Ballistics can't do anything with buckshot.”
“I understand that.”
“But you've got a client,” he said, “and that client asked you to hire a detective to investigate somebody. It's that somebody I'm interested in.”
“What else did they find?” I said.
“Who?”
“Your experts.”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Same reason you told me the tire got shot.”
“To convince you to do your duty,” he said. “Right. Well, so far, nothing. They haven't dug into it yet. The M.E. hasn't had a chance to look at what's left of Gordie's body. He always procrastinates with charred corpses, for some inexplicable reason. The tire was obvious, though, and all by itself it tells us this was murder. And that, by God, should be enough for you.”
“Roger,” I said, “that is plenty for me. But I'm not the one who counts here. I will talk to my client again, given this new information. I don't want you to get your hopes up, though. My client has very good reasons for wanting to preserve our confidentiality. Anyway, Cahill had lots of clients, plus I imagine he accumulated a goodly number of enemies over the years, probably going back to his undercover days with the state cops. Those mob families have long memories.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I'm looking into that angle. There's too damn many suspects, actually. I just want to make sure I don't overlook anybody.”
“Whatever you come up with on your own is fair game, I guess,” I said. “But you can't expect me to help you.”
“I haven't ever helped you?”
I sighed. “Sure you have.”
“Well?”
“What did you find in his office?”
Horowitz laughed sarcastically. “You kidding? Cahill was worse than you when it came to protecting his clients' damn privacy. You'd think, an ex cop ⦔
“I'll talk to my client again,” I said. “That's all I can do.”
After we hung up, I tried Jimmy D'Ambrosio's cell phone. His voice mail invited me to leave a message. I declined. I
figured he'd know what I wanted and take his time returning my call, if he ever bothered to. I'd keep trying.
figured he'd know what I wanted and take his time returning my call, if he ever bothered to. I'd keep trying.
I swiveled around and turned on my computer. Having my own home computer was Evie's idea, and I was still trying to get used to it.
I checked my e-mail. A dozen or so new messages had come in since last time I looked. Charlie McDevitt, J. W. Jackson, Doc Adams. Fishing reports, probably, or maybe, even better, fishing invitations. I'd read them later.
There were a couple of commercial solicitations, which I deleted without opening, and a short note from Joey, my younger son, reporting from Stanford, where he was a sophomore.
Joey was a dutiful e-mailer, though his notes rarely amounted to more than Hi-I'm-fine-how-are-you.
Billy, my older son, was a fishing guide and ski instructor in Idaho. He didn't own a computer and, as far as I could tell, rarely even had access to a telephone.
I read Joey's letter. He was still fine. He liked his classes. He was writing for the school paper.
I didn't recognize the e-mail handle of the last message. When I opened it and saw who it was from, I got a shiver.
Gordon Cahill. A message from a dead man. He'd written it at one o'clock Sunday afternoon. Less than twelve hours before he died.
“These two boll weevils, they're brothers, they grow up in the cotton fields of Alabama,” his note began, without so much as a Dear Brady. “One of the boll brothers decides to head off to Hollywood and seek his fortune. The other one stays behind, eating cotton and making life miserable for the farmers. The first weevil becomes a famous movie star. The
second one doesn't amount to a damn thing, and he's known among his acquaintances as ⦠Well, I'll tell you what he's known as when I see you tomorrow. I'm attaching some documents here for you. Look them over, and we can talk about them Monday morning. Don't forget to bring coffee and muffins. And give some thought to those weevils.” He signed it “Gordie.”
second one doesn't amount to a damn thing, and he's known among his acquaintances as ⦠Well, I'll tell you what he's known as when I see you tomorrow. I'm attaching some documents here for you. Look them over, and we can talk about them Monday morning. Don't forget to bring coffee and muffins. And give some thought to those weevils.” He signed it “Gordie.”
Damn you
, I thought.
The last thing you say to me in your life has to be a pun? And a pun minus the punch line, at that?
, I thought.
The last thing you say to me in your life has to be a pun? And a pun minus the punch line, at that?
I smiled. It actually wasn't a bad way to remember him.
I downloaded all the documents he'd sent me, then skimmed through them. There were about two dozen pages that he'd apparently scanned into his computer. The four most recent months of Albert's MasterCard statements. Four months of phone billsâhis office phone at Tufts, his cellular phone, and the home phone he shared with Ellen. Four months of bank statements for his personal checking account. The quarterly statement from his stockbroker. The previous two years' joint tax returns. A statement from a national credit bureau. A year's worth of statements from his HMO.
There were also two photographs. Both showed a small, single-story wood-shingled house set in a grove of pine trees. The first shot was taken from about a hundred yards away, looking down a sloping dirt roadway. In this one you could see the glint of a woodland pond through the pine trees beyond the house and the rise of a round mountain in the distance.
The second shot was taken through a long lens. In this photo, the house nearly filled the frame, though the glimmer of the pond behind it still showed. In this shot it was apparent that the structure had fallen into disrepair. A screened
porch ran the full length of one side of the house, and the screen was torn and the corners had peeled down in a couple of places. The old white paint on the shingles was dirty and flaked. Behind the little house loomed the corner of another structure. It looked like a weather-beaten barn.
porch ran the full length of one side of the house, and the screen was torn and the corners had peeled down in a couple of places. The old white paint on the shingles was dirty and flaked. Behind the little house loomed the corner of another structure. It looked like a weather-beaten barn.
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