Muscle Memory (18 page)

Darren was shaking his head as if the concept was too com­plicated to grasp.

“Want me to show you?” I said.

He grinned. “Sure.”

He watched as I showed him how to press the little button on the bobber to loosen its grip on the line. I lengthened it to about three feet and gave it back to him.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. He cast it out there in front of him and squatted down again. Without looking at me, he said, “Kaye died.”

“Yes.”

“She was my friend.”

“Darren,” I said, “do you know anything about it?”

“Not me,” he said quickly. “Nope. Not me.” He hunched his shoulders and pulled the beak of his cap lower over until it touched the tops of his glasses.

“If you know something,” I said, “you should tell me.”

“Not me. No, sir.” He shook his head violently.

“When I saw you at her house, you yelled something. It sounded like ‘backbug.’ What did that mean?”

Suddenly he stood up, and I saw his eyes blazing behind his thick glasses. “Leave me alone!” he yelled. “Get outta here!” And then he swung his spinning rod at me.

I ducked away and held up my hands. “I’m sorry I bothered you,” I said. “I’ll leave you to your fishing. Good luck.” I turned and started back up the slope. About halfway up, I stopped to look back. Darren was once more squatting beside the pond, quietly watching his bobber as if nothing had happened. I wished that some kind of fish would come along and jiggle it for him and prove to him that I was his friend.

I watched for several minutes, but his bobber refused to jiggle.

After a while, I turned and walked out of the woods and back to my car where I’d left it in front of Kaye and Mick Fallon’s house.

Twenty minutes later I pulled up in front of the Conleys’ house in Concord. The Lexus and the Cherokee were parked on the street, and I left mine there, too.

When I approached the house, I saw two shirtless young men in shorts and sneakers playing one-on-one at the hoop on the garage. Ned Conley and Danny Fallon. I remembered Danny from a photo Mick had shown me.

I stopped to watch them. They played intensely, grunting and cursing but not really talking to each other. Danny was a couple of inches taller and considerably beefier than Ned, but Ned was quicker and more deft at handling the ball. Danny’s forte was rebounding and bulling his way to the hoop. He was effective, but a bit ungainly. Ned’s main strategy was to shoot jump shots, which he hit with good regularity. They both played aggressive defense. In fact, it looked like they fouled each other frequently, but I never saw them stop playing or heard either of them complain.

They ignored me as I walked past them and up to the front door. I rang the bell, and a minute later the Conleys’ daughter, Linda, appeared on the other side of the screen. She squinted at me, then smiled. “Well, hi, Mr. Coyne.”

“Hello, Linda,” I said.

“You came to talk to Danny and Erin, right?”

I nodded.

She pushed open the screen door and held it for me. “Come on in. Boy, this is nice of you.”

I stepped into the foyer. Linda clutched my arm and leaned close to me. “Erin just keeps crying, and none of us can think of anything to say to her to make her feel any better. Neddie and Danny, they’ve been out there all morning going at each other. Bet they haven’t said ten words between them.”

“I’m not really here to console them,” I said. “But I’m happy to talk with them, tell them what I know, answer any questions can.

“My parents are upstairs. Mom’s not feeling well. She was up half the night with Erin. I’ll tell them you’re here. You want to go sit on the deck?”

“That’s fine,” I said.

Linda headed up the stairs and I went out onto the deck in back. I lit a cigarette, leaned my elbows on the railing, and gazed out at the marsh. In the distance, the sun glittered off the Sudbury River.

“Thanks a lot for coming, Brady.”

I turned. Lyn Conley had come out onto the deck. “Want some coffee or something?” he said.

I shook my head. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Linda’s getting the kids.” He let out a long sigh. “Any news?

“On Mick, you mean?”

He shrugged.

“No news on Mick,” I said. “I just came from talking with a couple of his neighbors.”

“The man across the street who thought he saw him?”

“Yes. And a guy named Darren who mowed their lawn.”

“Learn anything?”

I shrugged. “I want to talk to Darren again. I think he might’ve seen something, and—”

At that moment, Linda stepped out onto the deck. She was holding the hand of a very pretty young woman. Erin Fallon was tall—about five-ten, I guessed—and slender, with long blond hair and her mother’s big blue eyes, which were red-rimmed and puffy. She looked younger and more vulnerable than I remembered from Mick’s photo. She was wearing cut-off denim shorts and an extra-large gray T-shirt that fell below her hips.

“This is Erin Fallon, Mr. Coyne,” said Linda.

I smiled at Erin. “Hi.”

She nodded, said, “Hello,” and looked down at her feet.

“Danny’s on his way,” said Linda.

We all sat down.

“Can I get you guys anything?” said Linda.

I shook my head and Erin mumbled something I didn’t un­derstand.

A couple of minutes later Danny and Ned came trooping out onto the deck. Ned was toweling his face and chest with his T-shirt. Danny had already put his on. They both were carrying cans of Coke.

“Mr. Coyne, this is Danny,” said Linda.

I held out my hand to him. He gripped it firmly, looked me in the eye, and nodded. “How you doin’?” He reminded me of Mick when he played for the Pistons, rangy and rawboned, but he had his mother’s delicate face. He wore a goatee and sported a gold stud in his left ear. Mick had told me his son was twenty-one. Danny looked several years older than that.

Lyn stood up. “Well, we’ll leave you alone, then.” He walked back into the house and Linda followed behind him.

Danny leaned back against the railing. Ned sat beside Erin.

“It might be better if I could talk with Erin and Danny alone,” I said to Ned.

He looked up at me, then smiled quickly and slapped the side of his head. “Oh, sure. Dumb me. Sorry.” He got up, gave Danny a little punch on the shoulder, and went inside.

I looked from Danny to Erin. “I don’t know what Lyn and Gretchen might’ve told you,” I said, “but—”

“They’ve been great,” said Danny. “I guess there isn’t much to say.” He pulled a chair around and sat down beside Erin. “We know our mother’s been killed and we know they think Dad did it. I went to his apartment, and there was police tape there, and then Uncle Lyn tells me Dad’s… disappeared. He said you might be able to tell us more.”

I summarized as objectively as I could how I’d found blood and evidence of a struggle at Mick’s apartment. I did not mention the dead blue fish.

Erin stared at me, her eyes brimming.

“You think somebody killed Dad, too?” said Danny.

I shook my head. “There are other ways to interpret it. If I told you I was certain that he was okay, I’d be lying. But I’m trying to be hopeful, keep an open mind, and you should, too.”

“You’re his lawyer, right?” said Danny.

“Yes.”

He glanced at his sister. “We really need to know. They’re saying that he…?”

I shook my head. “He has told me repeatedly that he did not harm your mother, and I believe him. They were having their problems, as you know. But your dad loved your mom.”

“You have to say that,” said Erin.

“If I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t say it,” I said to her. “I’m not here as your dad’s lawyer. I’m here to try to answer your questions.”

“He’s got a wicked temper,” said Danny.

I nodded. “I know. Did he ever… hurt your mom?”

He shook his head. “No. Never. He yelled at her sometimes, and I remember a couple times he kicked a door or punched the wall or something. She really knew how to get to him, you know?” He smiled and glanced at Erin, who continued to gaze down into her lap. “Dad never touched her, though,” said Danny. “Mostly when he got upset, he’d just walk out and drive around for a while. He always came back pretty soon, and they’d be fine, like they realized they were both wrong and didn’t need to talk about it.”

“I don’t think I can stand this,” said Erin softly.

“I understand,” I said. “It’s not fair. I can’t think of anything to tell you that would make it better.”

“I want to see my mother,” she said. “I mean, her—her body.”

“The police have her. You won’t be able to see her until they release her.”

“When’ll that be?”

“I don’t know. I’ll try to find out for you.” I looked from Erin to Danny. “Can either of you think of anyone who’d want to—to harm your mother? Or your dad?”

They looked at each other, then at me. They both were shaking their heads.

“I know this is hard,” I said. “But did your mother ever mention another man? Someone she might’ve been interested in?”

“Mom?” said Erin. “Do you think—?”

“I don’t really think anything,” I said. “It’s just a logical ques­tion.”

“She never said anything,” said Danny slowly, “but…”

Erin turned to him. “What? What are you saying?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just a feeling. The past year or so she seemed—I don’t know—happier. Know what I mean?”

“No,” said Erin. “That’s nuts. She wasn’t, like, dating or any­thing.”

“Yeah,” he said, “you’re probably right.”

“Did she ever mention someone named Will Powers to either of you?”

They both shook their heads.

“Did you know a guy named Darren?”

Erin smiled. “Sure. He lives in our neighborhood. He’s kinda sweet.” She suddenly frowned. “You’re not thinking that Darren…”

“I met him today,” I said. “He seems to have a quick temper, that’s all.”

“Darren’s harmless,” said Danny. “If something happens he doesn’t like, he just runs away and goes fishing. He doesn’t even kill any of the fish he catches. He talks to them and puts them all back. He’s just a gentle guy.”

“So what’re we supposed to do?” said Erin.

I shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. I’m sorry. Just try to be patient, take care of each other.”

“I’m fine,” said Danny.

I looked at him. “Are you?”

He nodded. “Sure. I can handle it. I’m…” He shook his head. “Shit,” he mumbled, and I saw tears well up in his eyes. He wiped at them with the back of his wrist, then turned to Erin. She leaned toward him and put her arms around his neck. He held onto her, and she patted his shoulder and whispered to him, and the two of them cried together.

I sat back in my chair and looked out toward the river. I had to swallow back a lump that was rising in my throat.

After a few minutes, Danny and Erin released each other. “You’ve been keeping it all bottled up,” she said to him.

He gave her a little smile. “And you’ve been bawling your eyes out.”

“We gotta stick together now,” she said. She turned to me. “Thanks, Mr. Coyne.”

I shrugged. “It was great to meet both of you. Your dad’s always bragging on you two, you know.”

They smiled.

“I just want you to know that you can call me any time,” I said. “I don’t expect you’ve given much thought to questions like who might’ve done this to your mother or what could’ve happened to your dad. But maybe you’ll talk with each other about it, and if you come up with any ideas, I hope you’ll share them with me.” I gave one of my cards to each of them. “And if I learn anything, I’ll tell you, okay?”

They both nodded.

I stood up and held my hand to Danny. “It takes a real man to cry,” I told him.

He shook my hand. “I feel like I’ve gotten rid of a big hole in my stomach.”

I turned to Erin. She stood up and hugged me. “Thank you,” she whispered.

I smiled and nodded, lifted my hand, turned, and walked off the deck quickly, before they could see the tears in my eyes.

I
DROVE THE BACK
roads. I had all the windows rolled down and the Saturday afternoon Red Sox game on the radio and no further obligations for the day. I was in no hurry to get back to the city.

There’s still a lot of farmland in Concord—cornfields, pick-your-own strawberry patches, acres of asparagus, celery, squash, pumpkins, tomatoes, and peppers. Old-fashioned farmstands huddle close to the road, with hand-lettered signs on the outside walls advertising the crops that are in season. I stopped at one such farmstand near Nine Acre Corner and bought two pints of organically grown strawberries, prepicked, precleaned, prepack­aged, and prewrapped for nonself-pickers such as I.

I zigzagged over more back roads through Concord and Lincoln and out past Walden Pond to Route 2, and I didn’t get back to my apartment until around six. I half filled a big bowl with Cheerios, sliced a generous handful of fresh strawberries on top, added a sliced banana, sprinkled it with brown sugar, and took it onto my balcony. No milk. I prefer to crunch my Cheerios, and the sliced fruit gives each mouthful a delicious mixture of contrasting textures.

When I finished eating, I sat there for a long time smoking and watching the sky grow dark.

After a while, I wandered back inside and called the Ritz. The operator let the phone in Sylvie’s room ring about a dozen times, but she didn’t answer. I declined to leave a message.

Then I tried Horowitz’s office. It was a Saturday night, and he wasn’t there, of course, so rather than annoy him by calling his cell phone number again, I told his voice mail about meeting Darren and Mitchell Selvy in Lexington and suggested that a cop with any imagination might want to consider them suspects in Kaye Fallon’s murder. I did not tell him I’d met Erin and Danny. Knowing Horowitz, he’d probably want to interrogate them. The least I could do was to shield them for as long as possible from Horowitz’s evil Jack Nicholson grin.

I thought of calling Alex up in Maine. But I hadn’t talked to her in several months, and I realized that hearing her voice would not be likely to cheer me up.

I thought of calling Billy and Joey, my two boys, too. But Billy would be out fishing on some river in Idaho, miles from his telephone, and Joey was in California, three times zones away, and unlikely to be near his phone, either.