Shadow of Death (7 page)
Cahill had included no explanation for this little place in the woods. No doubt he'd intended to tell me its significance when I brought him muffins.
What was the point?
I looked at the close-up photo again, and then something caught my eye. It was a shape and a colorâa swatch of shiny green showing in a cluster of pine trees on the far side of the house. It was a color that didn't match the greens of the surrounding foliage.
I enlarged the photo on my computer screen, and then I knew what I was looking at.
It was a section of the rounded roofline and rear end of a Volkswagen Beetle.
Albert Stoddard drove a green Volkswagen.
Not to jump to unwarranted conclusions, but it did appear that Gordon Cahill had tracked down Albert Stoddard.
I popped up the documents on my monitor one at a time and skimmed through them again. Nothing as obvious as a green Volkswagen jumped out at me from the various collections of numbersânot surprising, since I didn't know what to look for.
At this point I didn't much care where Albert was or whether he was fooling around with boys. I cared about the fact that Gordon Cahill had been murdered.
I had no idea whether these documents that Gordie had collected in his investigation of Albert had any bearing on
what had happened to him around midnight on Sunday night on Route 119 in the Willard Brook State Forest somewhere between Ashby and Townsend.
what had happened to him around midnight on Sunday night on Route 119 in the Willard Brook State Forest somewhere between Ashby and Townsend.
I was briefly tempted to print out the whole batch of documents and give them all to Roger Horowitz. The hell with client privilege. Gordon Cahill had been murdered.
Nope. Gordie wouldn't do it. Neither would I.
I saved everything in my hard drive, shut down my computer, leaned back in my chair, and stared up at the ceiling.
After a minute or two, I found myself smiling.
That second boll weevil, the one who didn't go to Hollywood?
The lesser of two weevils
.
.
Bad, Gordie.
I
slept poorly, and when I finally decided I was awake for good, it was still dark outside. I lay there for a while, staring up at the ceiling. Evie was sleeping on her belly with her leg hooked over mine. I liked the feeling of her warm smooth skin against mine and the way she sometimes hummed in the back of her throat when she slept.
slept poorly, and when I finally decided I was awake for good, it was still dark outside. I lay there for a while, staring up at the ceiling. Evie was sleeping on her belly with her leg hooked over mine. I liked the feeling of her warm smooth skin against mine and the way she sometimes hummed in the back of her throat when she slept.
After a while I slipped away from her, went downstairs, and started the coffee. Henry, who'd been snoozing on the floor beside the bed, followed me. He went over to the back door, prodded it with his nose, and whined. I let him out into the backyard.
After my shower I slipped into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, poured a mug of coffee, fetched my portable telephone, pulled on a fleece jacket, and went outside to join Henry.
The sky was just beginning to turn from purple to pewter, and already some early birds were at the feeders. The nip of autumn was in the air. Pretty soon all the summer birds would be gone, and we'd be left with the year-rounders, the finches and chickadees and titmice, the juncos and nuthatches
and woodpeckers, who would depend on us for their meals during the frozen months.
and woodpeckers, who would depend on us for their meals during the frozen months.
I sipped my coffee and thought about what I had to do. It was a little after six in the morning.
The hell with it. I dialed Ellen Stoddard's unlisted home phone number.
After four rings she answered with a throaty, “Yes?”
“Ellen,” I said, “it's Brady.”
“You woke me up.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I don't get much sleep these days, you know.”
“It's kind of important.”
She sighed. “I suppose it is.”
“That detective I hired to follow Albert?”
She said nothing.
“He was murdered,” I said.
“Oh, dear,” she said.
“He was a friend of mine.”
“I'm so sorry.”
“I want to talk to Albert.”
“You can't do that, Brady.”
“Ellen, for God's sake, you're a prosecutor. You, of all people, know what needs to be done. Somebody killed a man. Albert probably has no connection to it, butâ”
“Albert's not here,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“You can't talk to Albert because he's not here. I haven't seen him since Friday morning.”
“Where is he?”
She sighed. “I have no idea.”
“I mean,” I said, “would you expect him to be there?”
“Of course I would,” she said. “He's my husband. We live
together. We sleep together most nights, have breakfast most mornings and drinks before dinner and everything, just like regular married people.”
together. We sleep together most nights, have breakfast most mornings and drinks before dinner and everything, just like regular married people.”
“Soâ”
“It's not like Albert,” she said. “Not like him at all.” She hesitated. “Brady, why don't you come over. I think we better talk about this.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now. Before Jimmy arrives. Before I have to wiggle into my panty hose and fix my face and go read a Winnie-the-Pooh story to the third-graders at the Baker Elementary School in Dorchester and remind the reporters about my commitment to public education.”
“I'll be there in less than an hour,” I said.
I went into my room, fired up my computer, and printed out the two photos of the ramshackle little house in the woods that Gordon Cahill had e-mailed to me the afternoon before he died. That took ten minutes.
I wrote Evie a note and headed out. It took me another ten minutes to walk to the T station at the end of Charles Street, about fifteen minutes to ride the Red Line outbound to the Harvard Square stop, and ten more minutes to walk from the T stop to the old Federal-period hip-roofed house behind the wrought-iron fence on the quiet side street off Garden Street in Cambridge where Albert and Ellen Stoddard had lived for as long as I'd known them.
As predicted, it took me less than an hour. I was one lawyer who didn't like to be late.
As I mounted the front steps, the door opened and Ellen stepped out onto the porch. She was wearing blue sweatpants and a red Mt. Holyoke sweatshirt and white socks. No shoes, no makeup. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail.
One curly wisp fell over her forehead. She looked about ten years younger than she did on TV.
One curly wisp fell over her forehead. She looked about ten years younger than she did on TV.
She gave me a quick hug, then pulled me inside. “Let's go to the kitchen,” she said. “I toasted some English muffins.”
I followed her through the house to the kitchen in back and sat at the table.
Ellen poured us coffee, put a plate of muffins and a jar of marmalade on the table, and sat across from me.
“Ellen,” I said, “about Albertâ”
“First,” she said, “tell me about the detective.”
So I told her how Gordon Cahill's front tire had been blown out by a load of buckshot, how he'd died in a fiery crash, and how, the afternoon before that happened, he'd sent me a collection of stuff about Albert via e-mail.
Ellen was shaking her head as I talked. When I finished, she said, “You can't think Albert had anything to do with that.”
“I don't know whether he did or not,” I said. “But I definitely think he should talk to the police. Roger Horowitz is on the case.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “I know Detective Horowitz. He's dogged.”
“Horowitz will make the connection to Albert sooner or later,” I said. “Our best chance for keeping it, um, discreet is if Albert goes to Horowitz rather than waiting for Horowitz to catch up with Albert.”
“That would mean telling Albert ⦔
“That you hired a detective to follow him. Yes, I guess it would.”
“If any of this got out, Jimmy would blow a gasket.”
I shrugged. “A man was murdered.”
“I'm sure Albert had nothing to do with that.”
“He's got a motive,” I said.
“He's got something to hide, you think?” she said. “So he kills the private investigator who's spying on him?” She let out a short laugh. “That's absurd.”
I thought about asking Ellen whether she had any suspicion that Albert was fooling around with boys, but it seemed pointless and unnecessarily hurtful.
“It's you and Jimmy who seem to think Albert might have something to hide,” I said. “Many murders have been committed to protect secrets.”
She shook her head. “Not Albert. He couldn't hurt anybody.”
“How many gentle, mild-mannered folks have you prosecuted for murder?” I said.
She looked down at the table and shrugged. “Point taken.”
“Ellen,” I said, “what the hell is going on? Where's Albert?”
“I don't know.”
“He's disappeared?”
“Sort of, I guess.”
“Has he everâ?”
“What, disappeared?” She shrugged. “Albert goes off by himself sometimes, if that's what you mean. More often lately. Since the campaign. But you know him. He's in his own head most of the time. He goes off hunting and fishing, or looking for collections of old documents, or he gets involved in his writing, and sometimes he loses track of the time. If he doesn't come home some night, I don't think much about it. I don't necessarily expect him to call, and more often than not he doesn't. Both of us, we've always been independent like that. He's got his life, I've got mine, and they're different lives, different worlds. We've always felt
that we enrich each other. We laugh sometimes about how it would be if I were an academic like him, or if he were a prosecutor like me. We figure we'd've been divorced years ago.” She smiled. “Our lives intersect in a lot of places, too. It's a good marriage, Brady. Different from most. Good, though.” She looked at me and smiled. “Very good.”
that we enrich each other. We laugh sometimes about how it would be if I were an academic like him, or if he were a prosecutor like me. We figure we'd've been divorced years ago.” She smiled. “Our lives intersect in a lot of places, too. It's a good marriage, Brady. Different from most. Good, though.” She looked at me and smiled. “Very good.”
“But ⦔
She nodded. “Recently he's been different, like I told you the other day. Maybe it's just the campaign. Hiring the detective was Jimmy's idea.”
“You haven't seen him since when?”
“Friday morning. We sat right here and had breakfast together.”
“Did he say anything?”
“We talked about the Middle East, as I recall.”
“Nothing about his plans for the weekend?”
She shook her head. “He teaches Tuesdays and Thursdays. His weekends start on Friday and go through Monday. Lately, with my schedule, we might not see each other for a day or two over the weekend.”
“So maybe that's all it is,” I said. “He took a long weekend, went fishing or something.”
“Maybe,” she said.
I looked at her. “You don't sound convinced.”
“Today's Tuesday,” she said. “He's got a nine o'clock class this morning. He should've been home last night.”
“So you
are
worried.”
are
worried.”
She nodded. “I suppose I am. What happened to that detective, that makes me worry more.”
“Do you have any reason to believe ⦠?”
“What?” she said. “That Albert could be in some kind of trouble?”
“If not in trouble,” I said, “in danger.”
“He's an historian, for God's sake. An absentminded college professor.”
I took a bite of English muffin and said nothing.
“I don't know what to think, Brady,” she said after a minute. “He's never been away for four days and nights without telling me.”
“Do you have any idea where he might've gone?”
“No.”
“Might he have slept in his office at Tufts?”
She rolled her eyes. “He doesn't even have a sofa in his office.”
I reached into my shirt picket, took out the pictures of the house in the woods that Gordon Cahill had e-mailed to me, and unfolded them on the table.
She glanced at the pictures, then looked up. “Where'd you get these?”
“Our detective e-mailed them to me the day before he was killed.”
“Why?”
It's where Albert brings his boys
, I was thinking. But I kept that thought to myself.
, I was thinking. But I kept that thought to myself.
“Do you recognize this place?” I said.
She peered at the pictures for a moment, then looked up at me. “Yes and no,” she said.
“Huh?”
“No, I don't actually recognize the place,” she said. “I've never been there. But yes, I know about it, assuming it's the place I think it is.”
“And what place is that?”
“Albert's retreat. His hunting camp, he calls it.”
“His cave,” I said.
She smiled. “Exactly. His grandfather built it, and then it was his father's, and now it's Albert's. It was a place where the men in his family went to get away from the women.” She smiled. “An old Stoddard family tradition, according to Albert. Makes perfectly good sense to me.”
“So Albert's a hunter?”
“Birds,” she said. “Grouse, pheasants, ducks. He and my father used to hunt together.”
“Where's this place located?”
“I'm not exactly sure. Somewhere near where Albert grew up, I assume.”
“Where was that?”
“Southwick, New Hampshire.”
“Never heard of it.”
“No reason you should. It's your typical old New England mill town off some back roads in southwestern New Hampshire near Mount Monadnock, and you probably wouldn't go there unless you got lost. Southwick has a general store and an old inn and a couple of antique shops, and not much else. Albert took me there once before we got married and showed me around. Said he needed for me to understand his roots. As I remember, it was mostly hills and ponds and dirt roads and pine woods and stone walls and a few dairy farms and apple orchards. In some surprising places you'd suddenly come upon a beautiful eighteenth-century brick colonial or a rambling old farmhouse that some rich people had fixed up. I liked it around there. It's a pretty area. Reminded me of the way New England used to be a hundred years ago.” She shrugged. “It's probably changed since then. Albert's family is all gone, and we never went back.” She looked up at me. “I haven't gone back, anyway. Maybe Albert has.
Maybe that's where he goes on weekends when he ⦠when he goes away.”
Maybe that's where he goes on weekends when he ⦠when he goes away.”
“I'm pretty sure it is,” I said. I placed my forefinger under the tiny blob of greenish yellow. “See this?”
She bent close to the print. “What is it?”
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