Outwitting Trolls (13 page)

He could have been Wayne Nichols.

He could have been a million people.

“Yes,” I said. “That looks like him. The guy I chased down the corridor. Same size, same clothes. Not sure what good that's going to do you. Did you get a shot of his face?”

“Hang on,” said Horowitz. He fast-forwarded the disc, and when he stopped it, the picture came from a different camera. It was fixed on the entrance area in front of the hotel where taxis and limos and shuttle buses and private vehicles were picking up and dropping off guests. The time at the bottom of the screen was 10:36:44
P.M
.—immediately after the previous sequence.

“There,” Horowitz said after a minute or two. “There he is.”

The hooded figure stepped into the picture from the bottom left corner. He stood there on the sidewalk with his back to the camera, pulled a cell phone from his pants pocket, pecked out a number on it, and put it to his ear. His conversation lasted less
than a minute. Then he snapped the phone shut and stuck it back into his pocket.

A few minutes later—the digital time on the screen read 10:42:14
P.M
.—a black SUV pulled up to the curb, and the guy in the hoodie went over, opened the door, and started to slide in.

Horowitz paused it there, with the SUV's passenger door open and our subject just bending to get in. His hood had slipped to the side, and half of his face was visible.

“See that?” asked Horowitz.

“I see part of his face,” I said. “It's pretty fuzzy. Can't you enhance it or blow it up or something?”

“Who, Roger?” asked Benetti. “You kidding? He can barely work the remote.”

“Ha,” said Horowitz. “I can fast-forward this sucker like a pro.”

“Somebody should be able to sharpen that image,” I said. “On TV they do it all the time.”

“This ain't
CSI,
” Horowitz growled. “Just take a look at the guy's face for me and tell me if you recognize him, if he's somebody you can identify.”

It wasn't Wayne, I could see that. This face was rounder than Wayne's, and unlike Wayne's, this one had no black scruffy beard growing on it.

I tried to conjure up the image of the face I'd seen in the black SUV in front of Wayne's house, but that had been just a quick glimpse, and it hadn't stuck in my memory.

I shook my head. “I don't think I ever saw this guy before. I don't recognize him.”

“Well, shit,” said Horowitz.

“What about the driver?” I asked. “Did the camera get a glimpse of him?”

“Don't think so,” he said. “Keep looking.”

He hit the play button, and on the screen the guy in the hoodie slipped into the car, which then began to pull away from the curb. At no time did the face of the driver show itself.

“Wait,” I said. “Pause it.”

He hit the pause button.

“Isn't that a Lincoln Navigator?”

“Yep,” said Horowitz. “Black or dark blue, I'd say. This year's or last year's model.”

“Can you read the plates on it?”

“We tried,” he said. “Just too blurry. They got mud on them, and the light's bad. We've got our techs working on it. We should maybe be able to get a partial read on it, at least.”

I took out my wallet and found the business card where I'd jotted down the plate numbers from the Lincoln Navigator that stopped in front of Wayne's house when I was there. I handed it to Horowitz. “See if these match those.”

He took the card and frowned at it. “What's this?”

“The plate numbers from a Navigator I saw today, looks like that one on your tape.”

“Where was this?” he asked. “Who does the vehicle belong to?”

“Where I saw it,” I said, “I'm not prepared to say. “Who it's registered to, you can look that up, I know that.”

“Well, at least you could—?”

“Look,” I said. “I don't want to get ahead of myself here. If this plate doesn't match that one there at the hotel, then it's irrelevant.”

“You withholding evidence, Coyne?” asked Horowitz.

“I think this would actually be called sharing evidence,” I said. “Consistent with protecting my client's privileged status, of course.”

“Sure,” he grumbled. “Privileged. Of course.”

“The Beverly Suites don't have security cameras in the corridors?” I asked.

He shook his head. “They got 'em in the elevators, but not the corridors.”

“This guy,” I said, “when I chased him, he went down the stairs.”

“He probably came up the stairs, too,” he said, “because we looked at the elevator tapes and couldn't find him. The way he kept that hood over his face, I'd guess he was aware of the cameras, avoiding them when he could, covering his face the rest of the time. Those shots you just saw are all we got.”

“Trying to avoid cameras,” I said, “would suggest that he was up to no good.”

“Ha,” said Horowitz. “No good, as in stabbing a veterinarian in the heart in his hotel room, you mean.”

“That would qualify as no good,” I said.

When I got back from Horowitz's office, I made myself two fried-egg sandwiches, with mayo on Cuban bread, and ate them at the kitchen table with a glass of orange juice. Under the table, Henry's tags clanged against his metal dish as he gobbled his Alpo. The Red Sox were playing the Blue Jays on my little kitchen TV. There was no score in the fourth inning, and nothing was happening. Mostly easy grounders and routine fly balls.

After I rinsed my plate and glass and stowed them in the dishwasher, Henry and I went into my downstairs office. He curled up on his dog bed for his after-supper nap, and I called Sharon Nichols at her condo in Acton.

When she answered, I said, “How are you?”

She hesitated, then said, “Oh, I'm all right, I guess.”

“Tell me the truth,” I said.

“The truth, huh.”

“I'm your lawyer,” I said. “You must always tell me the truth.”

“Well, okay. The truth? Lousy, is how I am.” She blew out a quick, cynical laugh. “I'm not sleeping. I lie awake. I toss and
turn. My mind whirls around. Weird images, dark thoughts. Terrifying, sometimes. When I finally do drift off, I dream about violence and death. I wake up in the darkness and can't go back to sleep. I can't control my bad thoughts. It's like suddenly I can't take anything for granted. I doubt everything. The world is undependable. Out of control. Bad things can happen to anyone anytime, and I lie there thinking of all the possible bad things, and how I can't prevent them. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I understand,” I said.

“When I'm up and around,” she said, “during the day, it's like this cloud of gloom surrounds me. I'm jumpy and irritable. Today a customer dropped her car keys on the floor, and I screamed and just about hit the ceiling.” She hesitated. “This is to be expected, right? I mean, aren't these feelings pretty much normal for somebody who a few days ago discovered the bloody corpse of the man she was married to for many years, the man she was maybe falling in love with all over again? Not even to mention, someone who the police think did it?”

“What you're feeling might be expected,” I said, “but it's not healthy, and it's not normal. You need to deal with it. Do you remember I mentioned my friend the homicide counselor to you?”

“A shrink, right?” asked Sharon.

“She's a psychologist,” I said. “She specializes in helping the friends and relatives of homicide victims deal with their feelings. She says people like you are also the victims of homicide, just as much as the person who got murdered. Her name is Tally Whyte, and I'd like to arrange an appointment for you with her. Okay?”

“I don't feel like having to explain myself to anybody,” Sharon said.

“You wouldn't have to explain anything to Tally,” I said. “She
understands all about it. Her own father was murdered. She has people who keep going back to her, years after the murder occurred.”

Sharon was silent for a minute. Then she said, “I don't know. It seems too hard. What I really want is not to have to think about it.”

“It's not going to go away,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “Yeah. Okay. I'll give it a try. I've got to do something.”

“I'll call Tally now,” I said. “I'll get right back to you. Okay?”

“Sure,” she said. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Before you hang up,” I said. “I left you a voice mail message yesterday asking about a man named Clem. Somebody Ken knew.”

“You asked me that before,” she said. “It still doesn't ring any bells. I'd've called you if I thought of anything.”

“Could be a nickname or something.”

“I'm sorry, Brady.”

“He might be the one who killed Ken.”

“I understand,” she said. “I'm drawing a blank. I'll keep thinking about it, okay?”

“Sure,” I said, “that's fine.”

The instant Sharon and I disconnected, I realized I'd neglected to tell her about seeing Wayne. One of my shrink friends would find some kind of vast significance in that, no doubt.

Well, I'd tell her about it when I called her back.

Over the past few years I had introduced several of my clients, people who'd brushed up against murder, to Tally Whyte, and they all told me that she'd helped them deal with, and in some cases get rid of, their fears and guilt, their dark, oppressive thoughts and feelings.

Tally had given me her home and cell numbers. I'd written them down in my old-fashioned little black address book. I tried her at home.

She picked up the phone on the fourth ring. “Friend or foe?” she asked.

“Friend, definitely,” I said. “It's Brady Coyne.”

“Yep,” she said. “Friend. My favorite lawyer. If I ever get divorced, you're my man. Of course, I'll have to get married first. How have you been?”

“Oh, I've been fine,” I said, “but—”

“You've got a client, huh? Friend, relative of a homicide victim?”

“Right,” I said. “She needs you.”

Tally was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “The veterinarian in the hotel?”

“That's the one,” I said. “His ex-wife.”

“I've heard about this case,” Tally said. “She's a suspect, isn't she?”

“Sharon is her name,” I said. “Sharon Nichols. She found the body. Two stab wounds, abdomen and heart. They haven't eliminated her from their list of suspects.”

“Did she agree to see me?”

“Yes,” I said. “She's not doing very well. She knows she needs help. I was thinking, if she's willing to talk to you…”

She hesitated, then said, “What do you think? If she's willing to see me, it means she's innocent?”

“That occurred to me, yes.”

“It doesn't work that way, Brady,” she said. “You're really not that confident about her innocence, are you?”

“I don't know, Tal. I don't think she did it, but I guess I've still got some doubts. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm her lawyer.”

“I can't help you there,” she said. “My clients have the same
confidentiality protection as yours, you know. Anyhow, sure, I'd be happy to see her. We should do it soon. With these things, time is of the essence. How's tomorrow morning? Say around eleven?”

“Let's make it a date,” I said. “I'll call Sharon right now, and if tomorrow at eleven won't work for her, I'll get back to you. Otherwise, I'll bring her to your office.”

“I'll be waiting in the lobby for you,” she said. “It'll be nice to see you again.”

When I called Sharon back and told her that I'd set up an appointment for her at eleven the next morning, she said, “Boy, you did that fast. Before I could change my mind and chicken out, right?”

“I think it's important,” I said. “Can you come to my office? I'll take you over there, introduce you.”

“I'm a big girl,” Sharon said. “You don't need to hold my hand.”

“I'd like to,” I said.

She laughed. “A woman would be a fool to refuse an offer like that. I'll take the morning off and be at your office—when? Ten?”

“Ten or ten thirty,” I said. “Tally's office is on Albany Street, a five-minute cab ride from Copley Square.”

“This is all way above the call of duty, Brady,” she said. “I do appreciate it.”

I cleared my throat. “I saw Wayne today.”

Sharon blew out a quick breath. It hissed in the phone. “Really,” she finally said. “Why didn't you tell me this when we talked before?”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I was focused on getting you together with Tally.”

“Is he all right?”

“Yes, he's okay. I told him what happened to Ken.”

She said nothing.

“He's dropped out of school,” I said. “He's living in a little house on the outskirts of Websterville. He seems to be…he's okay.” I wasn't going to tell her that Wayne fled in his car when I knocked on his door, or that when he came back, he pointed a pistol at me.

“So what's he doing?”

“For work, you mean? I don't know.”

“Back to the drugs, huh?”

“What about drugs?”

I heard Sharon blow out a breath. “He got busted for selling drugs when he was in high school. He was on probation for eighteen months. This was a few years after Ken and I split. We blamed ourselves.”

I remembered the shiny Navigator that pulled up in front of Wayne's house, and the parties at Wayne's house, and the ketamine in Ken's hotel room. Obvious connections. “I don't know if he's into drugs or not” was what I said to Sharon.

“Did you tell him I've been trying to reach him?”

“Yes. He got your messages. He doesn't want to talk to you. I'm sorry.”

“No,” she said. “I knew that. I just don't understand why.”

“I think Wayne has a lot of complicated feelings about both of you,” I said. “You and Ken, I mean, and your divorce, and the reasons for it, or what he imagines the reasons were.”

“What reasons?” she asked.

“He thinks Ken was abusive to you.”

“Abusive?”

“Mentally,” I said. “Emotionally.”

Sharon chuckled. “Aren't we all? I mean, isn't that one of the usual dynamics in a marriage? A certain degree of—I don't know
what to call it—psychological abuse, I suppose, going in both directions? Both partners sometimes wanting to hurt each other?”

I thought of my marriage with Gloria. It was the only marriage I'd experienced. All the others I had just observed.

I didn't think abusiveness was a factor in our marriage, or in our divorce. Maybe I was remembering it selectively.

“I guess it's not uncommon,” I said. “In failed marriages, anyway.”

“Kids misinterpret what they see and hear,” said Sharon. “Ken and I had our problems, obviously. There was a lot of conflict and tension, no doubt about it. I mean, we did get divorced. I can see how Wayne would think that Ken was abusive to me.” She paused. “I suppose, in a way, he was. And I was probably abusive to him, too. I mean, one of the reasons I wanted to get divorced was to separate that stuff from the kids' lives before it scarred them.” She blew out a breath. “Sounds like we were too late. Something else to feel guilty about, huh?”

“It's something else you can talk about with Tally,” I said.

“That's not really connected to Ken's murder.”

“In your head,” I said, “everything's connected.”

“You're right about that,” she said. “I can't tell you how it feels, having a child who refuses to speak to me.”

“I can imagine,” I said. I was thinking of Billy. “Anyway, you've got Ellen.”

“Yes,” she said. “Thank God for Ellen. She keeps me almost sane. Well, Brady Coyne. Thank you for all of this. I'll see you in the morning.”

“Get some sleep.”

“Ha,” she said.

I was in bed with my shoulders propped up against my pillows and my tattered copy of my bedtime book,
Moby-Dick,
resting on my lap. Melville, digressing again, had devoted an entire chapter to the subject of the tail of the sperm whale. He had a great deal to say about the power and size and functions of this part of the whale's anatomy, some of it marginally interesting, and after several thousands of words, he wrote, “The more I consider this mighty tail, the more do I deplore my inability to express it.”

That's how I feel about it, too,
I thought.

Then the phone on my bedside table rang.

I shut the book, picked up the phone, and said, “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” said Alex. “Reading
Moby-Dick
?”

“It's scary,” I said, “how you know things like that.”

“I do know a lot,” she said.

“You know way too much.”

“Do I threaten you?”

“Only in the most interesting ways.”

“Ho, ho,” she said.

“Did you have a good day?”

“I spent all day trying to write,” said Alex.

“That's what writers do, isn't it?”

“Some writers actually do write.”

“You saying you had a bad day at the keyboard?”

“I'm saying I had a typical day,” she said. “Maybe something salvageable came out of it. I'll have a better idea when I look at it tomorrow. Right now, it feels like I wrote nothing but crap. How about you? What'd you do today?”

“I had some minor adventures,” I said.

“Your cases.”

“Yes.”

“Which you can't talk about.”

“Right,” I said. “Sorry.”

“That's all right,” she said. “I'm used to it. Probably boring anyway.”

“Oh, definitely boring. Billy and Gwen are coming for supper on Saturday, by the way. I hope that's okay.”

“It's great,” she said. “It'll be nice to see your Billy again. He was just a kid last time I saw him. So what do you think?
Is
Gwen his girlfriend?”