Client Privilege (6 page)

After supper that evening I walked to Skeeter’s. I had to get out of my apartment. I felt a compulsion to do something, and I didn’t know what. I was beginning to feel like a character in a Kafka novel. In retrospect, it seemed to me that Detectives Sylvestro and Finnigan had not questioned me as if I were simply a witness. The deeper we had gotten into the interrogation, the more I had begun to feel as if I were a suspect. I had to admit that I must have sounded suspicious. They probably thought I was hiding something, copping out behind the client privilege plea. Why did I meet Churchill at Skeeter’s? Sorry. Can’t say. Client privilege, don’t you know. So what’d you talk about with this guy who was about to get snuffed? Terribly sorry, gentlemen. Client privilege, of course. What about phone calls when you got home, help us know you were there when somebody was shooting Churchill? Sure. Talking with a client. Can’t tell you who, you understand.

Christ, it sounded bad.

It was ridiculous, of course. The product of my own overwrought imagination. It’s what I do when I spend too much time by myself. I invent troubles for myself that don’t exist. I visualize my boys speeding around the back roads at high speeds, colliding with telephone poles. That’s one of my standbys.

I tried to console myself with the thought that cops were trained to deal with everyone as if he were a suspect. Wayne Churchill probably had plenty of enemies. Everybody does. I had happened to cross his path at an unfortunate time.

But I didn’t kill him. Someone else did.

None of this succeeded in consoling me very much.

Skeeter’s was crowded, and it was several minutes before he noticed me. He came at me with a grin, brandishing his rag. “Hey, Mr. Coyne. Two nights in a row, huh?”

“How are you, Skeets?”

“Good. Busy. More of that Rebel Yell?”

I nodded.

“Can’t talk you into trying an Early Wynn?”

“I hesitate to ask,” I said.

“Old Early was one tough son of a bitch,” said Skeeter. “I faced him plenty of times. Felt lucky if I fouled off a couple. Actually, I had it easy, being as how I wasn’t much of a hitter. The good hitters he always knocked on their ass. He’d give ’em this high-riding fastball. It’d explode inside on you. Whoosh! Old Early’s fastball, you could hear the seams hissing when it went under your chin. Loosen you up quick. Set you back on your heels, believe me. Then he’d tuck that curve over the outside corner. Most hitters, though they wouldn’t admit it, were scared to face Early Wynn in a close game with somebody on base. Early used to say, ‘I got the right to knock down anybody holding a bat.’”

“So what’s in an Early Wynn?”

“Blackberry brandy, champagne, and vodka,” he said. “Knock down anybody holding a glass.”

I smiled. “I’ll stick with a shot of Rebel Yell, I think.”

He was back in a minute with my drink. He watched me while I sipped it. Then he said, “I hope I didn’t get you in trouble, Mr. Coyne.”

“How’s that?”

“There were a couple cops in here this morning. I wasn’t even opened up. They pounded on the door while I was out back working on my accounts. They showed me a picture of that guy you were with last night.”

“You recognized him?”

“Sure. That fake mustache fooled me last night when he was here. Like I told you then, I couldn’t place him. But when they showed me that picture, I remembered the guy that was with you. Knew it was him right off. I seen Wayne Churchill on the tube plenty of times. They had a picture of you, too.”

“They did?”

“Yup.” Skeeter shrugged apologetically. “I had to tell them the truth.”

“Of course you did.”

“I told them it looked like you and Churchill had planned to meet here. I mean, I didn’t know that, but that’s how it looked.”

“That’s all right.”

“I told them you had some kind of argument.”

I nodded. “I guess that’s accurate too.”

“They wanted to know when he left, and when you left. I was able to pin down the times pretty close, because of the hockey game. I told them that Churchill left at nine twenty-five. You had another drink and left about fifteen minutes later.” Skeeter arched his eyebrows at me. “You got a problem, Mr. Coyne?”

“Nothing I can’t work out.”

“That guy got murdered, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Channel Eight did a big thing on it on the six o’clock news. They’re saying the police have a suspect.”

“Suspect? Did they say suspect, singular? Or did they say suspects?”

“They said suspect, Mr. Coyne. Singular. Actually, I think they said possible suspect. Or maybe alleged possible suspect.” He smiled. “You know how they think they gotta talk.”

I nodded. “That’s how they have to do it.”

“From what I hear, the suspect is the girl who phoned it in.”

“I heard that too.”

“Hope I didn’t get you in trouble, Mr. Coyne.”

“Nah. You did what you’re supposed to do. No problem.”

“Well, hell,” said Skeeter. “Man like you. Lawyer and all. Christ, they can’t suspect you, can they?”

“No, I don’t think they suspect me. I’m not worried about that.”

“I mean,” persisted Skeeter, leaning toward me on his forearms, “they talked to me, too.”

I sipped my bourbon. “They were just backtracking his movements, that’s all. That’s why they talked to both of us.”

Skeeter leaned across the bar to me. “Looked like the guy was giving you a hard time.”

I shrugged. “We had a little disagreement.”

“I had to mention that to the cops. Felt bad, but I had to.”

I nodded.

“They already knew,” he said.

“Knew what?”

“They knew that you were here with him. I mean, even before I told them anything, they already had his picture and your picture. They didn’t even ask if you were here together. Just, did I know who the two of you were, whether you came in and left together; what you had to drink, did I know what you talked about. They knew you were here, and they knew you were here with each other.”

“Don’t feel bad,” I told him.

“I didn’t tell them that I heard anything you said to each other, though.”

“Did you?”

“What, hear anything?”

“Yes.”

He grinned. “Not me. Bartenders only hear what they’re supposed to hear.”

When I got back from Skeeter’s, the red light on my answering machine was winking. I played the tape. “This is Gloria,” she said. “Please call me.”

She answered on the second ring. “It’s me,” I said.

“Brady, what the hell is going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“Two cops showed up on my doorstep just about suppertime.”

“Sylvestro and Finnigan.”

“Yes. And aside from that Finnigan practically raping me with his eyes—”

“He did?”

“He sure as hell did,”

“He hardly glanced at Julie.”

“Oh, I’ll bet.”

“What’d they want, hon?” I said.

“They started asking me all about our phone conversation last night. I mean, wasn’t that about the most innocuous conversation you can imagine?”

“I don’t think they cared about the content of it.”

“No. You’re right. They wanted to know the times.”

“So what did you tell them?”

“Well, in spite of the way that Finnigan kept running his eyes over my body, Mr. Sylvestro was really quite nice and polite. Of course I told them the truth. I know enough to do that. Besides, I had no idea what they were getting at.” I heard her take a deep breath and let it out with a nervous whoosh. “Brady, are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Nah,” I said, with more conviction than I was beginning to feel. “Not to worry. I didn’t do anything. It probably just looks different to the police from the way it is right now. It’ll get straightened out. Tell me what they asked you.”

“They asked if I talked to you on the phone last night. I told them that I did. They asked if you called me or if I called you. I told them that I called first, but you weren’t in, so—”

“I was in,” I said. “I was in the shower.”

“Whatever,” said Gloria. “I didn’t know that. I just said that I called and left a message on your machine, and that you called me back about half an hour later.”

“What times did you tell them?”

“I called you at eleven. It was right before the news came on, and I was hassling Joey to go to bed but he said he had to watch the news for something he was doing in his history class. You called me back at eleven thirty-five. The news had ended and Joey thought he was going to watch Johnny Carson and I told him like hell he was. So he said okay and turned off the set. I went upstairs. He was having a piece of cake and a glass of milk. Promised he’d be right up. That’s when you called. He answered it in the kitchen, then I took it upstairs in the bedroom.”

“You’re sure of those times?”

“Sure I’m sure.”

“I had them wrong,” I said, more to myself than her. “It probably looks like I didn’t get home until eleven-thirty or so, and I was lying about it.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I think I said we talked at around eleven. I didn’t say you called and left a message and I called you back. Just that we talked at eleven.”

“Brady,” said Gloria, “what is this all about?”

“You heard about Wayne Churchill?”

“Well, sure. He was murdered.”

“I was with him last night. Right before he got killed.”

“You mean, if you weren’t home when you said you were…?”

“Right, hon.”

There was a long pause. “My God, Brady,” said Gloria finally.

“Nothing to worry about.”

“But when you told them you talked to me at eleven…?”

“Sure. Contradiction there. I’ll clear that up.”

“Well, there’s one thing,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“I did tell them I left a message on your machine. And I did tell them that when you called me you mentioned the message. So at least they know you were home when you called me.”

“There you go,” I said. “No problem.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Just tell the truth, Gloria. Don’t worry about this.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Well, it’s nice to know you’re worried, I guess.”

“Nothing ever really changes, does it?”

“Not really. Anyway, we’ve got a date Friday. If I’m not behind bars by then.”

“Don’t make jokes, Brady.”

“I should know better,” I said. “Our senses of humor never meshed very well.”

I was brushing my teeth when the phone rang. I caught it on the third ring. My answering machine kicks in after the fourth.

“Mr. Brady L. Coyne, please,” came a man’s voice.

“This is he,” I said, trying to match his formality.

“My name is Rodney Dennis, sir. I tried to reach you in your office today.”

“I don’t make speeches.”

“Excuse me?”

“I give lots of money to Trout Unlimited, the Nature Conservancy. That’s it for charity. I am taking on no new clients.”

I heard him chuckle. “I’m sorry. Let me explain. I’m the station manager at Channel Eight.” He paused. He wanted me to say something. I didn’t.

After an awkward moment he said, “You know about Wayne Churchill, of course.”

“I heard, yes.”

“Well, Mr. Coyne, you, I understand, were the last person to see Wayne alive.”

Damn
those cops! Less than twenty-four hours, and already the media had gotten hold of my name. “Look,” I said, “maybe you’d better tell me what you want, Mr. Dennis.”

“An exclusive interview, Mr. Coyne,” he said promptly. “Give you a chance to tell your story in your own way. What do you say?”

“I say: Fuck you. And you can quote me.”

He laughed. “I’m afraid the FCC might not approve.” He cleared his throat. “You should give this some serious thought, Mr. Coyne. It could do both of us a lot of good, you know.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Please think about it, Mr. Coyne. The Wayne Churchill murder is a very big story for us, naturally. Big story for you, too.”

“Let me correct you on one thing.”

“Please.”

“I wasn’t the last person to see Churchill alive. Somebody killed him, you know.”

He chuckled again. “The one doesn’t exclude the other, Mr. Coyne.”

“Good evening, Mr. Dennis,” I said. Then I hung up.

T
HE SKY OVER THE
harbor was changing from soot to pewter. I dropped an English muffin into the toaster and retrieved my
Globe
from outside the door. Then I retrieved my muffin, spread it with peanut butter, and took it and the paper to the table. The story was on the front page, beside the same picture of Wayne Churchill that Sylvestro had showed me.
NEWSMAN FOUND MURDERED
, read the headline.

I skimmed the story. My name was not mentioned, nor, for that matter, was the fact that Churchill had visited Skeeter’s Infield shortly before his death. Rodney Dennis, the Channel 8 station manager, evidently had better sources than the
Globe.
Still, it seemed to me a matter of time before the rest of the media would catch on. And then, inevitably, someone would connect me to Pops. And then… I went back and read the article more closely.

Drugs had not been discounted as a possible motive. There was no evidence of theft, although that wasn’t discounted either, nor did the police find evidence of a forced entry into Churchill’s condominium. He had been shot twice with a .32-caliber handgun, according to preliminary reports from the state police ballistics laboratory. The first shot, according to a spokesman from the Medical Examiner’s office, was to the chest, and had probably killed him instantly. The second shot had come from the muzzle of the same gun placed directly against the dead man’s forehead.

Gretchen Warde, the young lady who found Churchill’s body, was quoted as saying, “Everybody liked Wayne. He was a down-to-earth guy. He didn’t fool around with drugs. And he was a very good newsman.”

She didn’t mention that this down-to-earth guy dabbled in blackmail.

My friend Rodney Dennis said in a prepared statement, “Wayne Churchill was one of the best investigative reporters in the country. He was working on a big story when he was killed. We are all shocked and saddened by his sudden and violent death.”