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.