Back when I rented the condo on Lewis Wharf, I didn’t have an office in my home. Another way to look at it would be: The whole place was my office. All four rooms were my space, and only mine, to occupy and use and mess up any way I wanted. I always tried to avoid doing office work at home, but when it was unavoidable, I used the kitchen table or the coffee table or the balcony that overlooked the harbor. I did most of my phone business sprawled on the bed.
When Evie and I moved into our place on Mt. Vernon Street, it was she who insisted I take the back bedroom off the kitchen for my office. When I told her I didn’t need any office, that the very word “office” gave me the willies, she said, “Call it your cave, then. Every man needs his own cave.”
I figured she just wanted to try to contain my mess someplace where she could close the door on it. But I quickly found that I liked my cave. Needed it, in fact, just as Evie
said. I hadn’t shared my life or my space with anybody for eleven years.
A week or so after we moved in, Evie gave me a carved wooden sign she’d had made. It said: “Brady’s Cave.” We screwed it onto the door.
I retreated to my cave often. I even found myself doing more work at home and less at my law office in Copley Square. I had a desk and a telephone and a computer and a little TV in there. There was a sofa bed for my naps and a dog bed for Henry’s. I stacked my fly rods in the corner and my other fishing gear in the closet. One whole wall was a bookcase, and I had it stuffed with fishing books and novels and biographies. Not a damn law book in the whole place. My desk sat under a big window that looked out onto the patio garden so I could watch the birds while I talked on the phone.
Our deal was: I’d keep all my junk in my cave, and no woman would enter without permission, including the housekeeper.
So that morning after Evie left for work, I whistled up Henry, and he and I went into my little room. He curled up on his bed in the corner, sighed blissfully, and closed his eyes. I sat at my desk, found the scrap of paper Jimmy D’Ambrosio had given me, and dialed the number on it.
It rang only once before Ellen Stoddard answered. “Yes?” she said cautiously.
“It’s Brady Coyne.”
She laughed. She had a great, uninhibited, throaty laugh. From anybody other than the Democratic candidate for U.S. senator, I would’ve called it a sexy laugh. “Thank you very much,” she said. “I just won five dollars.”
“Huh?”
She laughed again, and I decided, candidate or no candidate, it was a sexy laugh. “I had a bet with Jimmy,” she said. “I said you wouldn’t agree to do it without checking with me. He said he could convince you. He has quite an inflated opinion of his persuasive powers.”
“You’re in favor of this, then?”
“Yes, Brady, I guess I am.”
“You want me to hire a PI to tail Albert?”
“It’s necessary.”
“I’d like to talk with you about it.”
“You mean, talk me out of it?”
“No,” I said, “that’s not what I meant.”
“It’s no big deal, Brady,” said Ellen. “Women hire people to check up on their husbands all the time.”
“It’s always a big deal.”
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose you’re right.” She hesitated. “I can’t talk now. I’m taping some TV spots in half an hour. How about lunch?”
“Can you break away?”
“Actually, I’d love to. Just you and me. No speechifying, no interviewing, no worrying about my makeup.” She hesitated. “What about that place you always go to? Skeeter’s?”
I laughed. “Skeeter’s is a sports bar, Ellen.”
“I like sports. Especially the Red Sox. Anyway, I hear Skeeter’s has terrific cheeseburgers.”
Cheeseburgers and baseball. My kind of senator. “Skeeter’s it shall be,” I said.
“Wonderful,” she said. “I’ll be there at noon.”
I had no court appearances or client appointments scheduled for the day, so I called Julie, my secretary, and told her I’d
be working at home. Julie wasn’t happy about my increasingly slothful attitude to my law practice, billable hours, as she kept reminding me, being our lifeblood, but I assured her I’d keep track of all billable phone calls and work hard on the briefcase she’s filled with paperwork and sent home with me the previous afternoon. She hemmed and hawed and then said, well, Megan, her daughter, did have a soccer game after school …
Quid pro quo. The lawyer’s creed. I took the day off, my secretary got to leave the office a few hours early. A classic plea bargain.
I spent the morning dutifully catching up on my paperwork and making phone calls, and a little after eleven-thirty I walked over to Skeeter’s, which was hidden at the end of an alley in the financial district. Ellen had made a shrewd choice. Skeeter’s was always pretty quiet during lunchtime, and the State Street regulars who went there for cheeseburgers and beer cared more about sports than politics. They might recognize Ellen—Jimmy D’Ambrosio made sure her face was on the news most nights—but they wouldn’t bother her.
If Nomar Garciaparra or Antoine Walker walked in, that might be another story.
I waited at the end of the alley, and on the dot of noon a black Ford Explorer stopped by the curb and Ellen got out. She was wearing big round sunglasses and a pale blue business suit. I was, as always, surprised by how small she was, even in heels. On TV she appeared to be a big, sturdy woman. She’d always had that solid presence about her. But in person, she was almost petite.
I stepped forward and stuck out my elbow. She smiled and hooked her arm through mine, and we went in.
Each of the four big-screen television sets behind the bar was tuned to a different channel. You had your choice of European soccer, women’s golf, an old Sugar Ray Leonard boxing match, or the 1973 Super Bowl. All the sets were muted. There were a dozen or so patrons sitting at the bar with their backs to the door, about an equal mix of men and women, all in business suits. They were talking quietly among themselves, and they didn’t even turn around when Ellen and I stepped inside.
When he saw us, Skeeter looked up from behind the bar and smiled. I arched my eyebrows and pointed at an empty booth toward the rear, and he waved his hand and nodded.
Ellen sat with her back to the room. I slid in across from her.
She pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head, put her forearms on the table, and leaned toward me. “This is deliciously clandestine, Brady Coyne. I’m tempted to have a beer.”
“The hopeful junior senator from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, drinking beer in some dingy bar at noontime?” I said. “What would the voters think?”
“Frankly, my dear,” she said, “I don’t give a damn.”
“That wouldn’t be cynicism I detect in your tone, would it?”
“I’m just tired.” She blew out a breath. “I do want to be senator,” she said. “But I’ve grown to loathe campaigning. There’ve been a hundred times I’ve been ready to bag the whole thing, just try to get my life back. If it wasn’t for Jimmy—”
I held up my hand, and she stopped.
Skeeter had come over. “Mr. Coyne,” he said. “How you doin’?” He nodded at Ellen. “Ma’am?”
“Ellen Stoddard,” I said, “have you met Skeeter Cronin? He played a little second base for the old town team.”
Ellen smiled up at him. “I watched you play. Your uniform was always dirty.”
Skeeter shrugged. “That was a long time ago. You folks came here for privacy, I bet.”
“Privacy and lunch,” I said.
We ordered cheeseburgers and draft beer, and after Skeeter left, Ellen said, “Did Jimmy try to bribe you?”
“Offered me what he called a cushy job. Mentioned a federal judgeship.”
She smiled. “I told him that wouldn’t work.”
“Jimmy seemed pretty intense this morning,” I said.
“Jimmy’s intense all the time,” she said. “He wants to win. Claims this is his last campaign. ‘It’s me last hurrah,’ he keeps saying.”
I smiled at Ellen’s effort to imitate Jimmy’s imitation of an Irish brogue. “Hard to believe,” I said. “It would be the end of an era. Jimmy D.’s been getting Massachusetts Democrats elected for close to forty years. I’d’ve thought the tumult and the shouting were in his blood.”
“I’ve offered him a job,” she said. “He says he’s going to take it.”
“If you win,” I said.
“When we win, is how Jimmy puts it,” she said.
We paused while Skeeter delivered our beers. Then I said, “You better tell me what’s going on with Albert.”
She combed her fingers through her hair. “I wish I knew. He’s acting … weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Like he’s hiding something. Like he’s done something
he’s ashamed of.” She waved her hand in the air. “Like …” She let her voice trail away.
“Like?” I said.
“I don’t know. Like he’s having an affair, I guess. That seems to be what Jimmy thinks. Jimmy doesn’t have much of an imagination. I guess there are lots of things a man might want to hide from his wife.”
“What do you think?” I said.
Ellen shook her head. “Truthfully, I don’t know how Albert would act if he was having an affair, since as far as I know it’s never happened. But I do know my husband, and I’m convinced there’s something going on. Something’s eating at him, and whatever it is, he won’t talk about it. It’s not like him to hide things from me. Makes me think it’s something bad. It’s got me very concerned.”
“Jimmy’s worried that Albert’s going to lose the election for you.” I arched my eyebrows at her.
“Well, if that’s what happens, it wouldn’t be fair to me or all the people who’ve worked so hard for us. Jimmy’s got a point there.” She shook her head. “But truthfully, it’s Albert I’m worried about, more than the damn election. Albert and our marriage.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t like the idea of being married to a senator,” I said.
“He was pretty supportive up until a few weeks ago,” she said. “Attended most of the planning meetings, made some phone calls, helped raise money, even appeared in public with me a few times, as much as he hates that part of it. Anything I asked, really, he was happy to do. We even talked about my living in Washington and how his teaching obligations would mean he’d have to stay here, and he was all right with that. Then it all began to change.”
“Changed how?”
“I hardly see him. He comes and goes at odd hours. He’s avoiding me, Brady. It’s like he’s got some nasty secret and he’s afraid if he so much as says good morning to me he’s going to reveal it.” Ellen shook her head. “I can’t be any more specific than that.”
“Sounds like a man with a guilty conscience.”
Ellen shrugged.
“Is he working on a new book or scholarly monograph or something?”
“I don’t think that’s it. He’s worked on books and monographs before and never acted like this.”
“So maybe he is having an affair.”
“Maybe he is,” she said. “His world is full of pretty coeds. All I know is, the TV and the newspapers have started to notice.”
“Notice what?”
She waved her hand. “Just that Albert’s not around as much as he used to be. They’re asking questions, and whatever is going on, I refuse to have them find it out before I do. It’s none of their damn business. So will you do it?”
“You want me to hire a private investigator?”
“I can’t think of anything else.”
“I guess I can’t, either,” I said.
When I got back home, I dialed Gordon Cahill’s number.
It rang four times, and then his sleepy voice mumbled, “Yeah, Cahill.”
“Gordie,” I said, “it’s Brady Coyne.”
“Christ,” he muttered. “What time is it?”
“Two in the afternoon. Did I wake you up?”
“All-nighter.” He yawned. “What’s up?”
“I got a job for you.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I will when you get here.”
“Oh-ho,” he said. “One of your not-on-the-telephone jobs, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“So why me?”
“You’re the best, Gordie. Everybody knows that.”
“Yeah, bullshit.” He sighed. “You at home?”
“Yes. Use the back door off the alley.”
“Gimme an hour. Make sure there’s coffee.”
Henry and I went for a walk, and then I brewed some coffee and filled a carafe, and I was waiting at the table in the garden when there came a knock on the patio door. “It’s me,” called Gordon Cahill.
“It’s not locked.”
He unlatched the door, came in, and headed straight for the coffee. He poured himself a mugful, then sat down across from me. “So this vulture is getting on an airplane,” he said. “He’s got a big paper bag under his arm.”
“Oh, jeez,” I said. “Here it comes.”
“The flight attendant says to him, ‘May I see what you’ve got in that bag, sir?’ The vulture opens the bag, and the stewardess looks in and sees that there are two dead raccoons in there. She looks at the vulture and shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. We’ll have to put one of these raccoons in with the cargo.’ The vulture says, ‘How come?’”
Cahill paused, sipped his coffee, and peered up at me.
I sighed. “Okay, Gordie. How come?”
“Airline policy,” he said. “Only one carrion per passenger.”
Aside from his unfortunate penchant for bad puns, Gordon Cahill was one of those utterly bland, forgettable guys who might sit beside you for nine innings at Fenway Park, and that same night, when he came into the bar where you were having a drink, you wouldn’t make the connection. He was somewhere in his fifties, with brown hair going gray on the sides and thin on top. He was neither tall nor short, fat or skinny, handsome or ugly. He had a roundish face and bluish-gray eyes and a quick, shy smile when he chose to show it. He drove a sand-colored four-year-old Toyota Corolla, which was one of the most unnoticeable cars ever made.
I happened to know that Cahill had been there for the Saigon evacuation, ended up in a VA hospital, then put in twenty years with the Massachusetts state police, including several years undercover, before he took his retirement and opened his own shop on St. Botolph Street, just a few blocks from my office in Copley Square.
“How busy are you?” I said to him.
He shrugged. “I’m always busy.”
“Too busy for another case?”
“You think I’m here because I heard there was coffee?” he said. “What’ve you got?”
I pushed the manila envelope Jimmy D’Ambrosio had given to me across the table toward him.
Cahill put his hand flat on top of it. “Tell me about it.”
“Not much to tell,” I said. “I want to know what this guy does with his spare time.”
“Who’s the client?”
“Me,” I said.
“No,” he said, “I mean, the fiancée, the wife, the employer, the insurance company, or what?”
“Just me, Gordie.”
He shrugged, fumbled in his shirt pocket, and put on his reading glasses. Then he opened the envelope, took out the photos and papers, and studied them for several minutes while he sipped his coffee. When he was finished, he looked up at me over the tops of his glasses. “Albert Stoddard, huh?”
I nodded.
“Husband of the former cover girl for the Essex County D.A.’s office? The guy who’s the future senator’s husband?”
“Provided she wins the election.”
“He’s a college professor, huh?”
“Yes. At Tufts. History. Been there close to twenty years.”
“And you suspect him of …?”
I shrugged. “He’s acting weird, quote unquote. Furtive. Evasive. Like a man with a guilty conscience. He might be fooling around.”
Cahill nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I get the picture.”
“I knew you would,” I said. “That’s why I wanted you for the job. You’ll do it?”
“Why not?”
“This has got to be superconfidential,” I said.
He smiled. “I’ve been doing this work for a while, you know.”
“I know, Gordie. I just—”
“Had some pretty high-profile clients. Never once …”
“I apologize,” I said. “I trust you.”
“You better,” he said. He stood up and tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket. “You hear about the Buddhist monk, went in for a root canal?”
“Oh, jeez.”
“Dentist wanted to give him a shot of Novocain,” he said, “but the monk refused it.” He arched his eyebrows at me.
“Gordie, I’m warning you—”
“Monk said he wanted to transcend dental medication.”