Snake Eater (24 page)

I took the briefcase out to the reception area and sat at Julie’s desk to wait for the coffee machine to finish its job. When it did I poured myself a mugful and sipped it with a Winston.

It was five minutes of nine when I picked up my briefcase, locked up, and headed over to Government Center. It would be a twenty-minute walk.

“This is Phil Varney,” said Charlie when Shirley ushered me into his office.

He was a gangly guy with dark-rimmed glasses and sparse graying hair brushed straight back from his high shiny forehead. His jacket hung over a chair and his necktie was pulled loose and his cuffs were rolled up past his bony wrists. He looked as if he’d been at work for a long time already this morning. He was leaning against the wall tapping the bowl of a cold pipe in the palm of his hand. He came to me with his hand extended. “Pleasure, Mr. Coyne,” he said.

I shook his hand and nodded.

“Have a seat,” he said.

“I’ll stand,” I said. “I’ve only got a minute.”

“Let’s all sit,” said Charlie.

I shrugged and sat down. Charlie and Varney sat, too.

“FBI?” I said to Varney. “CIA? DEA? What?”

He glanced at Charlie, who said, “Don’t ask, Brady. Just listen. Okay?”

“Sure. Okay.”

Varney cleared his throat. “You did bring our property with you?”

I patted my briefcase.

He smiled. “Well, good. Why don’t you just give it to me and we can all get back to work.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ve just got a couple of questions first.”

“Brady…” began Charlie.

“I know,” I said. “What I don’t know won’t hurt me.” I looked at Varney. “Okay? Can I ask you a couple of things?”

He stopped tapping his palm with his empty pipe and pointed the stem at me. “Charlie’s right,” he said quietly.

I propped my briefcase up on my lap. “It’s only fair.”

Varney shrugged. I would have sworn he was going to say, “It’s your funeral.” What he actually said was “What do you want to know?”

Varney began to stuff the bowl of his pipe from a leather pouch. I lit a Winston. “I know that Daniel McCloud killed eight people,” I said. “I know two of them were small-time criminals, and I know his motive for those was personal. I also know that Brian Sweeney, Daniel’s best friend, killed him and Al Coleman. My first question, Mr. Varney. Daniel was killed because he’d written a book about the eight killings, and Coleman was killed because he’d read the book and he wouldn’t give it to you. Right?”

Varney took his time firing up his pipe. In a moment Charlie’s office was filled with pipe smoke. It was the kind of smoke that reminded me of summer campfires beside a trout river and October bonfires, a good rich masculine smoke.

Those perfumed tobaccos make me gag.

Varney gazed at me through the smoke. “Right,” he said.

“And you sent Sweeney after me because I had the photographs.”

He nodded. “Not to kill you, Mr. Coyne. You didn’t know enough to warrant killing. Just to get our property back.”

“He broke into my place. Didn’t find it. Shoved an arrow into my bed.”

“Sweeney had an unfortunate flair for the dramatic sometimes. But he was very good.”

“He was going to kill me, and Cammie Russell, too.”

Varney shrugged. “Our people are highly trained. They’re expected to use their judgment.”

“Improvise,” I said. “Do whatever’s necessary.”

“We try to avoid killing whenever possible,” said Varney.

“Incriminating, those photographs. Assignments. Daniel’s assignments. He was supposed to destroy those photos, wasn’t he?”

Varney turned to Charlie. Charlie said, “Brady, shit. Leave it, will you?”

“I can’t,” I said.

Varney stared at me for a moment. Then he said, “You’re right, Mr. Coyne. Daniel McCloud assassinated those six men. He did it well, and he was well paid for it. We assumed he had destroyed the photographs per his instructions.”

“A highly trained Special Forces soldier with skills adaptable to the home front,” I said.

Varney puffed his pipe and nodded.

“Wet work.”

Varney glanced at Charlie, then turned and smiled at me. “If you wish,” he said.

“Why’d he do it?” I said.

“Well, of course, the local police quickly identified him as the prime suspect in the William Johnson killing. It was sloppy. Performed with more passion than finesse. So, in a nutshell, we made a deal with him.”

“You got him off the hook for Boomer. In return, he was to provide services for you.”

Varney spread his hands. “Yes. Exactly. Now you know.”

“You paid him well.”

“Handsomely.”

“You got the marijuana charges dismissed.”

“It was the least we could do.”

“He killed Carmine Repucci, too.”

“That was his, not ours. We let him have it. Sort of a bonus.”

“And later you sent Sweeney to kill him.”

“Mr. Coyne,” said Varney, “I trust I don’t even need to remind you that if a single word of this conversation should ever be heard outside these office doors—”

“You’d deny it,” I said. “I know how the government works, and you’re right. You don’t need to remind me. Pretty damn effective, denial. And without the photographs or Daniel’s manuscript, who’d believe such a wild story? It would be stupid and fruitless for me to say anything about this.”

He smiled and nodded. “We understand each other, then.”

“Good,” I said. “Tell me about Sweeney.”

“Not much to tell. McCloud had suggested him to us, and we approached him. He was more than willing. Very proficient in his own right, Sweeney. Did some very good work for us. And then he was the obvious candidate for the McCloud job.”

“And the Al Coleman job, too.”

“Yes, Mr. Coyne. And the Coleman job, too.”

“Because he knew too much. Right?”

Varney’s pipe had gone out. He puffed at it without effect. He frowned at it, then laid it on Charlie’s desk. “I think that’s enough, Mr. Coyne.”

“One more thing,” I said.

He shook his head. “Enough, okay?”

“Who were those six men?” I persisted. “The men in the photographs.”

Varney sighed. “You could probably guess.”

I shrugged. “Government enemies. Men beyond the reach of the courts. Like that?”

“That’s it, Mr. Coyne,” he said. “End of discussion.”

“Yeah, okay,” I nodded. “I do have one more question.” I turned to Charlie, who had been sitting there quietly staring out of his window. “Charlie,” I said.

He turned to look at me.

“You knew all this?”

“Me?” He smiled. “Shit, no. Oh, I suspected something other than an electronic snafu when I lost those names off the computer. That’s why I tried so hard to ram it through your concrete skull that you should back off. Otherwise?” He shrugged.

I turned to Varney and lifted my eyebrows. He nodded. “Charlie knew nothing of this.”

“Then why are we here?”

“Here? You mean in this office?”

“Yes.”

“Would you have met me anywhere else, Mr. Coyne?” said Varney.

“Probably not.”

“I worry about you,” said Charlie.

“I know,” I said. “I’m glad.”

“Well, then,” said Varney. “Those photographs?”

“Sure,” I said. I unsnapped my briefcase and dug into it. I rummaged around, then looked up at him. “Damn,” I said.

“What?” said Varney.

“I thought they were here.” I dumped out my briefcase onto Charlie’s desk and pretended to look through all the papers. Then I snapped my fingers. “I remember now,” I said.

“God damn it, Coyne,” said Varney.

I shrugged. “Sorry. I’ll have to get them for you.”

“Damn right you will. Let’s go.”

“No. Not now. I’ve got to be in court today. Meet me at Locke-Ober’s at five-thirty. I’ll have the photos with me.”

“You better—”

I held up my hand. “Anyone who can arrange the murders of ten men doesn’t need to threaten me. I’ll be at Locke’s bar at five-thirty, Mr. Varney.”

He looked at me for a moment; then he smiled. “That’ll be fine, Mr. Coyne.” He held out his hand.

I shook it. “I’ll see you then.”

Charlie walked me out of his office, leaving Varney behind. “I hope the hell you know what you’re doing,” he whispered to me.

“Hey,” I said. “I forgot the photographs.”

He squeezed my arm. Hard. “Sure you did.”

I
GOT BACK TO
my office around ten-thirty. Julie looked up at me. “You said ten,” she said.

“You know me.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “Coffee?”

“I’ll get it.” I went to the machine and poured two mugs full. I gave one to Julie, then took the chair across from her desk. I lit a cigarette. “What’ve we got today?”

“It’s all on your desk, Brady. I had to rearrange some things. You’re pretty packed in from eleven on.”

“Cancel everything.”

“Oh, no, you don’t. You can’t—”

“Julie,” I said, “I’ll make it up to you. But you’ve got to do your thing. Tell them whatever you’ve got to tell them. Reschedule everything.”

She frowned at me. “This isn’t fishing, is it?”

“No.”

“Something more important.”

“Than fishing?” I pretended to dwell on that question. “I’m not sure I’d go that far. But it’s pretty damn important.”

I reached The Honorable Chester Y Popowski in his chambers at the East Cambridge courthouse at five of eleven. Pops always takes a recess at quarter of eleven—out of deference to his aging prostate, he says—and his secretaries all know me well enough to put me through to him.

Pops sits on the Superior Court bench. He’s been there for several years. We were classmates and friends at Yale. Now he’s one of my clients. “Hey, Brady,” he said into the phone.

“You finish taking your leak?”

“Blessedly, yes. What’s up?”

“What time do you expect to go into recess this afternoon?”

“Oh, the usual. Four, four-fifteen, at the latest. Wanna buy me a drink?”

“I do want to do that. And I will, as payment for the favor you’re going to do for me. But not today.”

“What’s today?”

“I just want your signature.”

“Sounds mysterious.”

“It is. And it will remain so. I’ll be there at four-fifteen.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Call Zerk for me,” I said to Julie. “If he’s not in, have him get back to me. Make sure it’s understood that this is very important.”

She snapped me a quick salute. “Aye, aye, sir.”

Julie knows when not to ask questions.

I spent the next two hours at my typewriter, getting it all down.

My phone rang a couple of minutes after one.

“I’ve got Zerk for you,” said Julie.

“Good,” I said. I pressed the blinking button on the console. “Zerk, I need a favor,” I said.

Several years earlier, when Julie was out on maternity leave, Xerxes Garrett clerked for me in return for my tutelage on his law boards. He passed and set up a practice in North Cambridge that has evolved into the mirror image of my practice. My clients tend to be wealthy, and therefore elderly and white. Zerk’s are mostly poor, young, and black.

He’s the best criminal defense lawyer I know. If he wanted to, he could become very rich very fast. So far he’s resisted it, for which I admire him enormously.

He’s also one of my trusted friends, for which I am grateful.

“Darlene say you been phoning me, man,” he said. “Something about urgent.”

“More like important,” I said. “You in court this afternoon?”

“That’s where I’m at right now. Another three minutes and I go try to keep Ellen Whiting’s boy Artie out of prison. He not a bad boy, she says.”

“You’re at East Cambridge?”

“I practically live here.”

“Meet me in Judge Popowski’s chambers at four-fifteen, can you?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Bring your notary seal with you.”

“Heavy paperwork, huh?”

“Yes. Heavy paperwork.”

Julie went out for sandwiches. I chose that time to use the photocopier. I didn’t want to risk her seeing a thing. By the time she came back with our tuna on onion rolls, I had the two manila envelopes stashed in my briefcase.

Pops and Zerk were both there when I arrived. They were munching carrot sticks from a plastic bag on top of Pops’s desk. When I went in and took the chair beside Zerk, Pops shoved the bag at me. I held up my hand and lit a cigarette instead.

“This’ll only take a minute,” I said.

“And you’re not going to tell us what it’s all about,” said Pops.

“Right. You don’t want to know.” I rummaged in my briefcase and removed the envelope that contained the originals.

I had typed three single-spaced pages. At the bottom of each I had left two lines. One for my signature and one for a witness. I spread the three sheets of dense typing on Pops’s desk. “I’m now going to affix my signature to each of these pages,” I said to the two of them. “After each one, Pops will sign to attest. Then Zerk will notarize our signatures.”

My two friends both nodded.

“You won’t read these pages,” I said.

“We ain’t so dumb,” said Zerk.

I nodded. “A fountain pen would give it the right flair,” I said to Pops.

He handed me the one he always wears in his shirt pocket.

I wrote my signature on the bottom of each page. Pops signed as witness. Zerk squeezed his notary public seal beside the signatures. Then I put the three sheets of paper back into the big envelope, along with the smaller envelope that held the six photographs and two index cards, the computer printouts from Charlie, and the two photocopies from Al Coleman’s notebooks.

“Tape,” I said to Pops.

He rummaged in the drawer of his desk and handed me a roll of cellophane tape. I taped up the envelope.

“Pen again,” I said.

Pops handed his pen to me.

I wrote across the envelope: “In the event of my demise, convey all contents unopened to Mickey Gillis at the
Boston Globe
.” I signed my name under it.

I handed the envelope to Zerk. He looked at it, then looked up at me. He showed it to Pops.

“Demise,” said Zerk, grinning. “Shee-it!”

“A technical term,” I said.

“Mickey Gillis,” he said. “That reporter who’s got the hots for you.”