Randy St. George was my last appointment on Monday afternoon. Barbara Cooper, his wife’s lawyer, had faxed over some changes she wanted to make in their separation agreement, and I needed to explain them to Randy and help him decide how to respond to them. He thought they were insignificant. I reminded him that nothing in any legal document—no comma, no conjunction, no passive verb—was insignificant. If these changes weren’t significant, Attorney Cooper wouldn’t have wanted to make them. It was my job, as Randy’s lawyer, to understand their significance, however hypothetical, and then make sure he understood them, and then help him decide if we should let them stand. That’s why he was paying me the big bucks.
Randy and I ended up deleting a couple of those changes and leaving the others, and when I ushered him out of my office a few minutes before five, I saw Roger Horowitz sitting in the waiting room. He had an attaché case on his lap and a frown on his face. His knee was jiggling up and down like a piston.
I did not acknowledge his presence.
Randy and I shook hands, and when he left, I turned to Julie, who was tidying up her desk the way she does when she’s getting ready to leave for the day. “No other appointments, right?” I said.
She cast a quick glance past my shoulder in Horowitz’s direction. “No scheduled appointments, no.”
“Good,” I said. “I’m going home then.”
“Coyne,” said Horowitz from behind me. “Quit fooling around. We gotta talk.”
“Did you hear something?” I said to Julie.
She smiled.
“My imagination, I guess,” I said.
“He’s been here for half an hour,” she whispered.
“Tough.”
“He’s not going away, you know.”
“Please tell him,” I said to Julie, “that even if I wanted to, I can’t talk with him.”
She craned her neck and looked over my shoulder. “Mr. Coyne can’t talk with you, sir,” she said to Horowitz.
“Tell him he’s gonna talk to me whether he likes it or not,” he said. “Tell him I’ll follow him home, if that’s what it takes. Tell him I’ll convince Evie to let me in, and I’ll spend the night sitting on the foot of their bed ’til he talks to me. Tell him I’m not going away. Tell him he doesn’t want to piss me off any more than he already has. Might as well do it now.”
Julie shrugged, then looked at me. “He says—”
“Got it,” I said. “Thank you.” I turned around to face Horowitz. “Nothing’s changed, Roger.”
“Everything’s changed.” He stood up. “Let’s go into your office.”
I arched my eyebrows at Julie.
She nodded.
“Tell him he’s got ten minutes,” I said to her. Then I turned, went back into my office, and sat at my desk. I left the door open.
I heard Julie say, “You’ve got ten minutes,” and I heard Horowitz’s sarcastic guffaw.
He came in, closed the door, sat in the client chair across from me, and put his attaché case on my desk.
“Evie tells me she got you a cell phone,” he said.
I nodded. “She did. So what?”
“So gimme your number.”
“Why?”
“In case I want to call you. Why else?”
“I don’t want you to call me,” I said. “I don’t want anybody to call me on the damn thing.”
“You should cooperate with an officer of the law,” he said, giving me his wicked Jack Nicholson grin. “If you know what’s good for you.”
“I don’t even know the number,” I said. “Why would I want to call my own phone?”
“Turn it on. It’ll show your number.”
I shrugged, took the phone from my pocket, turned it on, and when my number popped onto the screen, I copied it down on a scrap of paper. Then I turned off the phone and slipped it back into my pocket.
I pushed the paper across my desk. Horowitz picked it up and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “You oughta leave your phone turned on,” he said. “In case somebody needs to get ahold of you.”
“All these years without a cell phone,” I said, “I’ve done just fine.”
“Some people might disagree with that,” he said. He took a deep breath, puffed out his cheeks, then blew out the breath. “I don’t appreciate you advising the bereaved widow to not cooperate with me,” he said.
I shrugged. “Advice is cheap.”
“Yours is,” he said. He flicked away that irritation with the back of his hand. “Anyway, I’ve been talking with Lieutenant Bagley from the New Hampshire state cops. I believe you made his acquaintance.”
I nodded.
“He’s with the Major Crimes Unit,” said Horowitz. “In New Hampshire murder is considered to be a major crime.”
“I guess it is most places,” I said.
“I’m not sure how sharp this Bagley is.”
“He seemed sharp enough to me.”
“Sharp or not,” said Horowitz, “Bagley’s got a murder on his hands, just like me. Funny how you have managed to pop up in the middle of both of them.”
“I wouldn’t say in the middle, exactly,” I said.
“Hell,” he said, “you found one body. The other body belonged to a guy who was working for you.”
“These are facts you don’t need me to confirm.”
Horowitz waved his hand. “Bagley and me, we’ve been comparing notes. The way you assumed we would when you gave him my name. You saved the two of us a lot of time finding each other. So thank you for that, anyway.”
I shrugged. “I’m an officer of the court.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Good for you.” He opened his attaché case, took out a manila folder, and put it on my desk. “You’ve been looking for a guy name of Albert Stoddard, who happens to be the husband of the Democratic candidate of our beloved Commonwealth for the U.S. Senate, whose
mother happens to be a client of yours.” He arched his eyebrows at me. “Which goes a long way to explaining your reticence about your case.”
“What do you want me to say?” I said.
He held up a hand. “All told, you’ve been up to Southwick, New Hampshire, three times in the past week. Asking questions of the townsfolk. Questions about Albert Stoddard, near as Bagley can determine, though he doesn’t seem to have determined much else. One of those townsfolk was an old guy named Farley Nelson, who you found garroted in his back yard day before yesterday. Who you’d been conferring with at the local inn just a few days prior.” He squinted at his notes. “Last Thursday, that was.” He looked up at me. “Have I got that right so far?”
I nodded.
“Well,” said Horowitz, “that’s about all Bagley can seem to pry out of anybody. I got the feeling there’s more, but like I said, I’m not sure how sharp he is.”
I wondered if Bagley had talked to the Goff brothers, or Helen and Carol at the real estate office, or Paul Munson, the young cop. If he had, I wondered if any of them had mentioned Bobby Gilman or Oliver Burlingame or Mark Lyman. I wondered if he’d followed up with Dalton Burke, and if he had, if he’d had any more luck with him than I had.
“Now me,” said Horowitz, “my first thought was that Gordon Cahill was killed by mobsters from the Winter Hill Gang. Revenge for his excellent undercover work ten, twelve years ago. It’s still a pretty good theory, and I’m not inclined to abandon it out of hand. But then I hear from Lieutenant Bagley about this other murder, and it makes me think, hm, I wonder if Gordie was driving home from Southwick, New
Hampshire, when he had his tire shot and gasoline poured all over him. And if that was what he was doing, I’m wondering if he was up there for the same reasons you’ve been going up there lately.” Horowitz arched his eyebrows at me.
“I’m not going to tell you who my client is or why they hired me or anything about them,” I said, carefully—if ungrammatically—using the plural pronoun in order to avoid using a gender-specific singular one.
“I’m not asking for a name,” said Horowitz.
“Then what do you want from me?”
He pounded his fist on my desk. “Dammit, Coyne. I want to know why you wanted to go to Albert Stoddard’s hunting camp in the first place. I want to know if you found anything there. I want to know what went on between you and that Farley Nelson that got him murdered. I want to know what questions you’ve been asking those people in Southwick, New Hampshire. What I really want to know is, what’s your theory on Gordon Cahill’s murder, and what do you think its connection is to this other one.”
I shook my head. “I gave Bagley your name, figured he’d do some snooping around, put two and two together, and so would you, and between the two of you …”
“Bagley hasn’t come up with much. Says he’s finding the local folks pretty unhelpful. He hasn’t got any theories about his case. He says the old guy didn’t have any enemies.”
“That’s obviously wrong.”
Horowitz nodded. “Bagley figures you’ve got a theory.”
I shrugged. “I really don’t.”
“He thinks you do.”
“Maybe he’s just not sharing with you.”
Horowitz narrowed his eyes at me.
“Are you sharing with him?” I said.
He shrugged. “I’m sharing what I think should be shared, sure.”
“Did you mention the Winter Hill Gang to him?”
Horowitz gave me one of his ironic smiles. “You’re the one who’s been talking with Vinnie Russo. You tell me.”
“Russo said it was amateurs,” I said. “Of course, he’s not the most reliable witness.”
“To answer your question,” said Horowitz, “no, I didn’t bother mentioning Whitey Bulger or the Winter Hill Gang to Lieutenant Bagley. They’d never kill some old farmer in his back yard.”
“Well,” I said, “I can’t help it if you guys can’t work out your petty territorial issues.”
“You better not criticize the way I do my job, Coyne.”
“Why not? You’re criticizing the way I do mine.”
“I’m just asking for your theory,” he said.
I waved my hand. “Do you have a theory?”
He blew out a long breath. “Two murders,” he said slowly. “Two different jurisdictions. Two different means. Two victims who apparently didn’t even know each other. They don’t look like they’re connected. But then, lo and behold, there you are, in the middle of both of ’em. Can’t be coincidence. So what we’ve got is two murders, one murderer, one motive. That’s my theory.”
I smiled. “It’s a start.”
“Albert Stoddard,” he said. “You think he killed Cahill when you put him on his tail, and then he killed the old guy who was going to tell you about it. That it?”
“I should terminate this meeting right now,” I said.
“But you won’t,” said Horowitz, “because you liked Gordie and you liked that Farley Nelson, and you feel responsible for what happened to both of them, and you really do
care about justice being done in spite of the fact that you’re a pain in the ass.” He reached across the desk and put his hand on my wrist. “Help us out here, Coyne.”
I pushed his hand away. “I’m not responsible for what you guys figure out by yourselves,” I said. “Good luck. I sincerely and profoundly hope you catch the bad guys. But I can’t help you, and it’s not fair that you should expect me to. I don’t want to talk to you anymore. So please go away and leave me alone.”
Horowitz opened the manila folder and pulled out some sheets of paper. “Got something for you to look at.” He handed one of the sheets to me.
It was an eight-by-ten glossy black-and-white photograph, evidently taken at night. It showed the burned-out corpse of a small sedan. Its hood was sticking up at a cockeyed angle, and the left front tire was flat, and the window on the driver’s side was smashed. In the photo, you couldn’t tell what the original color of the car had been. The paint had peeled and blistered, and it was all charred and blackened.
I blew out a long breath. “Gordie’s Corolla?” I said.
He nodded and handed me another photo.
I glanced at it, then pushed it away. “Jesus Christ,” I whispered.
“Take a good look at it, Coyne,” said Horowitz.
I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help it. I pulled it to me and looked again.
This photo was in color. It showed what I could only surmise by its general shape had once been the upper torso and head of a human being. Like the automobile, the skin was blackened and charred and blistered. It looked as if it had half melted. The hair, nose, ears, lips, and eyes were cinders.
The face was lumpy and unrecognizable. It was only vaguely human.
I put the photo face down on my desk. “I get your point,” I said.
He handed me another photo. When I turned my head away, he said, “Go ahead. Look at it. It’s good for you.”
I couldn’t help myself. I looked. This was also a color photo, although the dominant color was black. It showed Gordie’s entire body. It had been deeply burned from head to toe. The skin was peeling away in places, revealing patches of yellow and red. Instead of fingers and toes, there were lumpy little blackened stubs.
I swallowed back the bile that rose up in my throat. “I hope to hell you don’t plan on showing any of these to Donna,” I said.
“You think she’d change her mind about cooperating with us if I did?”
“I think she’d hate you forever.”
“I’m showing them to you,” he said. “I don’t care if you hate me forever.”
“I’ve never seen anything worse,” I said. “Doesn’t exactly make me think fondly of you.”
“You didn’t see him in person,” he said. “I did.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So now I’m having these dreams,” said Horowitz. “About old Gordie. I keep seeing him this way.” He tapped the photos. “We were really good friends, you know. He told the worst goddamned puns you ever heard.” He smiled, and for once I saw no irony in it. “I’m worried I’m losing my objectivity.”
“Is that why you shared these damn pictures with me?” I said. “Hoping I’d lose my objectivity?”
“Bet your ass,” he said.
I shook my head.
“Give me something, Coyne.”
“What? You know everything I know.”
“Who hired you?”
I shook my head. “Go away, Roger. Leave me alone. And take your damn pictures with you.”
“I’ll take ’em,” he said, “but don’t you forget them.”
“How could I?” I said.
Evie brought home take-out Chinese—Moo Goo Gai Pan for her, beef and broccoli with fried rice for me. She ate with chopsticks. I used a fork. Pretty much the difference between us right there.
Horowitz’s photos haunted me—as he’d intended—and several times while we were eating I found myself holding an empty fork halfway to my mouth and staring off into the distance. Evie kept frowning at me, but she didn’t say anything.
We had just put our plates on the floor for Henry to lick when my phone rang.
I made no move to answer it. Evie and I had a rule that we did not answer the telephone while we were eating.
“You might as well get it,” she said. “Talk to somebody, anyway.”
I arched my eyebrows at her.
She shrugged, then bent down for the dishes, which Henry had licked clean.
I went to my room and picked up the phone.
“It’s Helen Madbury,” said the voice when I answered. “From Southwick.”
It took me a moment. “Oh,” I said. “Helen. I don’t think I ever heard your last name.”
“It’s my ex-husband’s, actually. Did I interrupt your dinner?”
“We just finished,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Farley’s funeral is Wednesday. I thought you’d like to know.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Where and what time?”
“One in the afternoon at the Congregational church. That’s the white one right there in the village. He’ll be buried in the cemetery across the street. I’m having a little reception at my house after the interment. You’re invited.”
“That’s very kind,” I said.
“Farley liked you,” she said. “I assume you liked him.”
“I did. I liked him a lot.”
“Well,” said Helen, “I hope you can make it.”
“I’ll try,” I said.
After I hung up with Helen, I went back to the kitchen. Evie and Henry were not there.
I found them both upstairs. Evie had changed into her nightgown and was under the covers reading a paperback book. Henry was curled up beside her.
I sat on the bed. “You look like you’re ready to go to sleep.”
“Pretty tired.” Evie licked her finger and turned a page in her book.
“Hell,” I said, “it’s only eight-thirty.”
“Long day.” She kept reading.
I didn’t say anything.
Neither did she.
Finally, I said, “I just got invited to a funeral.”
“Mm,” she said. “That’s nice.”
“Farley Nelson,” I said. “The old guy up in New Hampshire I was telling you about.”
“You didn’t tell me much.”
“Well, I know. I—”
“Don’t,” she said. “I don’t want to hear your lecture about the sanctity of client privilege again. If you can’t talk to me, fine.”
“Honey,” I said, “listen—”
“No.” She snapped her book shut and plucked her glasses off her face, then turned and looked at me. “If you think I don’t understand, you’re not giving me very much credit. You think I want you to tell me confidential secrets?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“No doubt,” she said. “Listen, Brady. For the past week or so you’ve done nothing but mope around. You are monosyllabic on those rare occasions when you speak at all. Mostly, you avoid me altogether, as if you think I’m going to hound you until you divulge classified information.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“You lie to me.”
“I don’t lie to you,” I said.
“Oh?” She shook her head. “You come home with bruises on your body and you tell me you fell down. That’s not a lie?”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d let me decide whether I should worry or not.” She blew out a quick, exasperated breath. “It’s not exactly what I dreamed about when I imagined my ideal relationship, you know. I mean, deciding to live with you, to buy this house with you, to … to share my life with you, it wasn’t easy for me.”
“It was very easy for me,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Don’t do that, dammit.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re right. That was glib. It wasn’t easy for me, either.”
“I envisioned a partnership,” she said.
“We have a partnership. A good one.”
“Not when you don’t share your feelings. Not when something is obviously eating at you and you avoid me. Not when you lie to me whenever something happens to you. It makes me feel as if I’m the cause of it.”
“You’re not the cause of it,” I said.
“Jesus,” she muttered. “I know I’m not the cause of it. I’m telling you how I feel.”
“Oh,” was all I could think of to safely say.
“That was your cue to tell me how you feel,” she said.
“I’m not very good at talking about my feelings,” I said. “Never have been.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Afraid? It’s not about being afraid of anything. It’s just how I am.”
“That’s a damn cop-out, Brady Coyne. It’s like saying, oh, well, I’m a child molester, but you shouldn’t blame me. It’s how I am.”
I smiled. “That’s an interesting analogy.” I rolled onto my side and touched her face.
She turned away from me. “Don’t.”
“I’m sorry,” I said lamely.
“Sometimes,” she mumbled, “being sorry just doesn’t do the job.”
I lay back on the bed with my hands laced behind my head. I didn’t know what to say.
After a minute, Evie turned to face me. Tears had welled up in her eyes. “I hate it that you make me whine,” she said.
“I’m not a whiner. I’m a strong independent woman, dammit. Do you see what’s happening to us?”
“It’s not easy,” I said. “We knew it wouldn’t be easy.”
“Maybe this was a mistake.”
“This?” I waved my hand around the room. “Our place? Henry? Sharing our lives?”
She nodded.
“Is that what you think?” I said.
She looked at me with her wet eyes, then shook her head. “Sometimes I just don’t know.”
“It’s hard,” I said. “But it’s worth it.”
“Living alone is easier,” she said.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “It’s way easier. Emptier, too. Remember?”
“I remember.” She smiled softly. “Just tell me why you’re so sad, Brady. Can’t you do that?”
“Yes,” I said. “I can do that.” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Roger Horowitz showed me some pictures today,” I said. “They were … horrible. I can’t get them out of my head.”
“Pictures of what?”
“Gordon Cahill’s body. It was burned beyond recognition.”
“And you feel responsible, is that it?”
I nodded. “It’s not rational. But I do.”
“That’s why Roger showed them to you?” she said. “To make you feel responsible?”
“Yes.”
She reached over and squeezed my hand. “What else?”
“There’s a lot of pressure on me,” I said. “Horowitz is trying to get me to … to betray people who trust me. Part of me thinks I should do it. It’s hard to know what’s right.”
“And how does that feel?”
“Feel?” I said. “It makes me sick to my stomach sometimes, is how it feels. It keeps me awake at night. It’s what causes me to … to be inconsiderate of the people I love. It makes me not think very highly of myself.”
She nodded. “So what about that funeral?”
“I don’t like funerals.”
“Are you going?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Because funerals make you feel bad?”
I nodded. “I guess so.”
“You should go,” she said. “Funerals are good. They help people get a handle on their feelings.”
“Closure, you mean?” I said.
She shrugged. “Sure. Closure is a good thing.”
“He was a really nice old guy,” I said. “I mean, I hardly knew him. But I liked him.”
“Tell me about him.”
So I told Evie about Farley Nelson, how when his wife died he went to work in the general store so he could be around people, how everyone in the little town knew him and liked him, how he called me and asked me to go fishing in his bass pond, how he was murdered before I got there, and how I was the one who found his body.
Evie held my hand tightly in both of hers while I talked, and when I finished, she said, “You’ll feel better if you go to his funeral.”
“Think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“Maybe I will, then.”
Evie smiled. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“What?”
“Talking about your feelings.”
“Is that what I did?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t tell anybody, for God’s sake,” I said. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”