Muscle Memory (14 page)

“Listen,” he said. “I’m doing you a courtesy here, okay?”

“You planning on arresting Mick?”

“I didn’t say that. So you gonna bring him in, or do I send a fleet of squad cars over to his place with their sirens wailing and their flashers going?”

“Oh, I’ll bring him over,” I said. “I guess I’m just a bit speechless here at your unprecedented and uncharacteristic concern for his feelings, that’s all. ‘Courtesy’ is a word I don’t normally associate with you.”

“Me, neither. Rather you didn’t say anything about it.” Horowitz chuckled. “Figure Fallon won’t talk to us without you holding his hand anyway, might as well get the two of you here at the same time, save my boys a trip in the bargain.”

“You going to tell me what this is about?”

“When you get here,” he said. “Shoot for nine o’clock. Much later, there’ll be sirens. I’ll be at the Leverett Circle barracks.”

I hesitated. “This for routine questioning?”

“Don’t push me, Coyne. No questioning is routine. You know that.”

“Does that mean you’ve got some new information?”

“Just bring your client here. And don’t try to give me any lectures about discovery. I know the law as well as you do.”

Horowitz hung up on me the way he usually did—without saying good-bye. I fetched a mug of coffee, brought it into the bathroom, and sipped it between showering and shaving and getting dressed.

Then I poured a refill and called Mick. When his machine answered, I told him to pick up, and when he didn’t, I told his tape that he should get his ass out of bed and put some clothes on, because I’d be there in an hour. I didn’t say why. No sense making him anxious.

I pulled up in front of Mick’s three-decker in Somerville a little bit after eight. The Apartment for Rent sign still hung on the chain-link fence, and the trash barrels and wooden rocking chairs and dead flowers still decorated the rickety front porch.

I went into the cramped entryway and rang Mick’s bell. A little square grate above the button indicated that Mick could speak to me through an intercom. I waited for a minute, then rang the bell again. He didn’t answer.

Well, my phone call hadn’t roused him from bed, and I guessed the doorbell wasn’t doing the job, either. When I’d been there on Tuesday, Lyn Conley had said the door didn’t lock. I tried the knob. He was right. So I climbed the two flights of dark, steep stairs up to Mick’s apartment and knocked on the door that opened into his kitchen.

I paused, listened, knocked again, then called, “Hey, Mick. Wake up.”

When he didn’t answer or come to the door, terrible thoughts began to ricochet through my head. I pictured Mick’s enormous, white, bloated body crammed into a bathtub full of red water. Mick hanging from a rafter, his face swollen and blue. Mick lying in his bed, an empty jar of sleeping pills and an empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the table beside him. Mick sprawled in his leather armchair, a big smear of blood and brains on the wall behind him and a nine-millimeter automatic on the floor beside him.

He’d been holed up in this dreary place since Tuesday morning with only his tortured thoughts and his blue goldfish for company, dreading the moment when he’d have to face his children, imagining the accusation he might see in their eyes.

I tried the doorknob. It turned in my hand. I pushed the door open and stepped into Mick’s kitchen.

Beer cans, booze bottles, plastic glasses, and coffee mugs filled the sink and littered the table, but I saw no dirty saucepans or plates or opened soup cans or half-eaten sandwiches in the two-day accumulation since we’d cleaned it up together. It looked like Mick had been drinking plenty, but had eaten nothing.

One of the wooden chairs had tipped over. I picked it up and pushed it back to the table. The door out onto his little porch was ajar. I pulled it shut. “Hey, Mick,” I called. “Rise and shine.”

I noticed the telephone and answering machine on the counter beside the stove. The red light on the machine was blinking slowly and steadily, indicating just one message. That was probably mine from an hour ago. Either Mick had been erasing his messages, or he’d been answering the phone before the machine picked up. Or maybe no one except me had called him.

I spoke his name again, and when he didn’t answer, I headed into the living room.

The first thing I noticed was the overturned wing chair and the sofa, shoved at an odd angle against the wall. Then I saw the big wet splotch on the threadbare fake-oriental carpet in front of the television. Big shards and slices of glass were scattered over the puddle, and in the middle of the shattered bowl lay the corpse of Mick’s blue goldfish. Neely, he’d called it, after the hockey player. His daughter had given it to him to keep him company. Neely’s mouth was open, and his scales and his boggled lidless eyes were dull.

I muttered, “Oh, shit,” and picked my way around the broken goldfish bowl to Mick’s bedroom. The door was wide open.

Mick’s bed was empty and the covers were thrown back, as if he had just gotten up. Something on the pillow caught my eye. A big brownish red splotch stained the pillow and the sheet. It had to be blood. It looked as if it had seeped deep into the mat­tress. I gingerly touched it with my fingertip. It was dry and stiff.

I yelled for Mick again, although I didn’t expect him to an­swer.

Neither he nor his dead body was in the bathroom, or in either of the two small closets, or out on the little back porch off the kitchen. I noticed that a narrow wooden stairway without rails led down to the porch off the second floor. A fire escape, I guessed. I wondered if it would hold Mick’s weight.

I hurried down to the second-floor landing, banged on the door, and yelled, “Open up! It’s an emergency!”

When no one answered, I remembered the Apartment for Rent sign. This had to be the empty one.

I took the stairs down to the first floor two at a time, then pounded the heel of my fist against the door to the first-floor apartment.

It opened almost instantly, and a short bald man wearing a sleeveless undershirt, baggy black pants, and bedroom slippers was glaring at me. “Hey, what’s a-matter with you? You want me to call the cops, mister?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” I said. “Something’s happened to Mick on the third floor.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“I need to use your phone.”

He cocked his head and peered at me through his round, rimless glasses. Then he shrugged. “Sure, right. Come on in.”

He led me through a short hallway into a living room that was considerably larger than Mick’s. Like Mick’s, it was domi­nated by a big console television, which was tuned to a news program. The room was crammed with dark old furniture, and it smelled of burned bacon and raw garlic.

He pointed at an old-fashioned rotary telephone on a table beside the sofa, then turned the sound off the television.

I sat down and dialed the state police barracks at Leverett Circle. When the receptionist answered, I said, “I need to talk to Lieutenant Horowitz. This is Attorney Brady Coyne. It’s about an appointment I have with him.”

A minute later, Horowitz said, “What’s up?”

“You better get over here,” I said. “Mick’s gone, and there’s blood.”

“Okay,” he said, instantly all business. “Where are you?”

“First-floor apartment.” I gave him Mick’s address, then arched my eyebrows at the bald man, who was standing in the middle of the room staring at me. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Mancini,” he said. “Anthony Mancini. This is my house.”

“I’m with Mr. Mancini,” I told Horowitz. “He’s the landlord.” I looked on the phone and gave him Mancini’s telephone number.

“Both of you, sit tight,” said Horowitz. “Don’t touch anything or let anybody in. The Somerville cops’ll be there in a couple minutes to secure it. I’ll be right along. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

When I hung up, Anthony Mancini said, “What’s going on?”

“My name is Coyne,” I said. “I’m Mick Fallon’s lawyer. He’s gone, and it looks like something might’ve happened to him.”

“Whaddya mean, happened to him?”

“He’s gone. There’s blood on his bed. The furniture is tipped over. His door was unlocked.”

Mancini crossed himself. “Holy mother of God,” he murmured. “You think…?”

“I don’t know what to think,” I said. “Have you heard or noticed anything?”

He shrugged. “Empty apartment between us. I hear nothing that goes on up on the third floor.”

“Nobody coming up or down the stairs during the night?”

He held out his hands, palms up. “I sleep sound. I snore. My wife, she used to say the whole house rattled when I slept. She’s been gone six years now.”

“I’m sorry,” I said automatically.

“Yeah, well she ain’t dead, if that’s what you mean. Gone, understand? Living with her sister in Revere.”

I nodded. “So how well do you know Mick?”

He shrugged. “Nice guy, Mick. Quiet. Good tenant. Minds his own business, pays his rent on time. Big strong fella. He always helps me lug the trash barrels out to the sidewalk on Tuesdays.”

“Have you talked with him at all this week?”

“Since…?”

“Yes,” I said. “Since his wife was murdered.”

“The other night,” said Mancini. “Not last night. Night before last Wednesday. I took a bowl of macaroni and some garlic bread up to him. He said thank you, he’d already eaten. I asked if there’s anything I could do. He just shook his head. Sad man. I feel bad for poor Mick. Terrible thing, what happened to his wife.”

“Has he had any visitors in the past couple of days?”

“That one fella, in the suit and mustache, he dropped in a few times.”

“Lyn Conley?” I said.

Mancini shrugged. “Don’t know his name. Drives a nice car. Sorta gray? A whatchacallit…”

“Lexus?”

He nodded. “That’s it. He was here yesterday, around suppertime. That was the last time I saw him. Stayed maybe an hour.” Anthony Mancini scraped the palm of his hand over his whiskery cheek. “There were all those TV people, you know. That was Tuesday, huh? You were here.”

“You don’t miss much, then, Mr. Mancini?”

“I’m here all day long. Window looks right out on the porch. I hear anything, I take a peek. I saw you come in a little while ago.”

“So what about last night?”

He shook his head. “I always go to bed at ten. Then I see nothing, hear nothing.” He shrugged. “You want some coffee?”

“If it’s already made, sure.”

“Milk?”

“Black, please.”

He left the room. I looked around. Over the television hung a large full-color painting of Jesus on the cross. His blood was bright crimson, much brighter than the dull brownish splotch on Mick’s sheets. A bunch of palms was stuck behind the painting.

The bookcase beside the TV was crammed with paperbacks. From where I sat, it looked like they were mostly westerns and mysteries, with a few romance novels scattered among them.

Mancini came back carrying two heavy ceramic mugs. He handed me one, then took the chair across from me. “So what’s gonna happen?” he said.

“The police will be here. They’ll secure the area. They’ll probably want to talk with you.”

“They gonna take me down to the station again?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

He smiled. “Wouldn’t mind. Little excitement, you know?”

“Did they take you to the station before?”

He nodded. “Day after Mick’s wife was killed. They were asking me about Sunday night. If I’d seen Mick.”

“What did you tell them?”

He cocked his head. “Am I supposed to tell you?”

“Yes. I’m Mick’s lawyer.”

“Well,” he said, “I told them the truth. I didn’t know whether Mick was home or not. He was here during the afternoon, but he coulda gone out when I was in the kitchen or the bathroom or something. Or after I went to bed.” Mancini shrugged. “I wish I could help Mick out.”

“Telling the truth is always best.” I stood up. “I think I’ll wait out on the porch. I need some fresh air.”

“I’ll join you.

I shook my head. “You should stick near the phone. The po­lice might need to contact us.”

He nodded solemnly. “Gotcha.”

I went out and sat on the front steps, sipping Anthony Mancini’s thick, bitter coffee. A minute later, a Somerville police cruiser squealed up and double-parked in front. Two uniformed cops got out and approached me. “Who are you, sir?” said one of them, a young red-haired guy with a David Letterman gap between his front teeth.

“I made the phone call,” I said. “Brady Coyne. I’m Mick Fallon’s lawyer.”

“Okay,” he said. “Anyone inside?”

“Just Mr. Mancini, the landlord. He lives on the first floor. I told him to stay right there.”

“Sure. We know Tony.” He turned to his partner. “Take the back. I got out here.”

The other cop disappeared around the side of the house. The redhead stood on the front path with his back to me, surveying the neighborhood. “They don’t tell us nothing,” he said without turning to me. “Just come, secure the place, wait for the staties.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Must be something big, state cops takin’ jurisdiction.”

I lit a cigarette.

The cop looked over his shoulder at me. “So what’s going on?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Tony in some kind of trouble?”

“I don’t think so.”

He turned back to watch the street. “Fuckin’ staties,” he mumbled.

I had just finished my cigarette when a blue Ford Taurus, unmarked except for the portable blue flasher on the roof, pulled up in front. Horowitz got out of the passenger side, walked past the Somerville patrolman without acknowledging him, and stood in front of me. “Where?” he said.

“Third floor.”

“You touch anything?”

I shut my eyes for a minute. “One of the kitchen chairs had tipped over. I picked it up and shoved it up to the table. The door out onto the porch was unlatched, and I shut it. I picked up the pillow and touched the bloodstain on the sheet. The molding around the door to the bedroom. Um, the doorknobs to the two closets and the bathroom and both sides of the doorknob into and out of the kitchen. That’s it, I think.”

Marcia Benetti, Horowitz’s partner, strolled up to us. “Should we wait for the others?” she said to Horowitz, ignoring me.