Scar Tissue (16 page)
Had I said something to ruin my relationship with Evie? Probably. I'd been drunk. I couldn't remember what I'd said.
I decided I wouldn't call her. I'd wait for her to call me.
If she didn't, that would tell me everything I needed to know.
I
spent that Sunday afternoon moping around my apartment feeling sorry for myself, and when the phone rang a little after four o'clock, I figured it was Evie, full of explanations and apologies.
spent that Sunday afternoon moping around my apartment feeling sorry for myself, and when the phone rang a little after four o'clock, I figured it was Evie, full of explanations and apologies.
I thought about not answering. Show her a thing or two.
Childish, of course.
When I picked up the phone, there was a hesitation on the other end. Then a woman's voice I didn't recognize said, “Is this Mr. Coyne?”
“Yes,” I said. “Who's this?”
“It's Sandy. Sandy Driscoll.”
It took me an instant to connect the name with the chubby black-haired girl from the camera shop in Reddington. “What's up, Sandy?”
“I was wondering if I could talk to you?”
“Of course.”
“No. I mean, not on the phone. I'm at the shop. We close at five.”
“I'll be there,” I said.
I
pulled up in front of the camera store in Reddington at about quarter of five. I sat there and smoked a cigarette, and at exactly five the lights in the shop blinked out.
pulled up in front of the camera store in Reddington at about quarter of five. I sat there and smoked a cigarette, and at exactly five the lights in the shop blinked out.
One minute later, Sandy Driscoll opened my car door and slid in beside me.
“I don't know if I'm doing the right thing,” she said.
“Whatever it is,” I said, “you can trust me.”
“Can I?”
“Absolutely.”
She was looking out the side window. I couldn't see her face. “You've got to promise me,” she said. “No matter what, you won't tell anybody unless I say it's okay.”
“I promise.”
She turned to face me. Her eyes were watery. “I can't get Mrs. Gold's dream out of my mind,” she said. “Then today, when I heard that Brian's dad ⦔
I nodded.
“So,” she said after a minute, “so I decided ⦠God, I hope I'm doing the right thing.”
“Sandy,” I said, “what is it?”
She stared out the window for a moment, then reached up and snapped on her seat belt. “Drive,” she said.
I turned on the ignition. “Where to?”
“Head for Boston.”
S
andy told me to get on the Mass Pike and take the Kenmore Square exit. Then she found an FM station on my radio that played what they called “classic rock,” and she sat there beside me in the darkness of my car, gazing out the side window and saying nothing.
andy told me to get on the Mass Pike and take the Kenmore Square exit. Then she found an FM station on my radio that played what they called “classic rock,” and she sat there beside me in the darkness of my car, gazing out the side window and saying nothing.
I resisted the almost unbearable urge to ask her what the hell was going on.
At Kenmore, she directed me to the Fenway, and a little past
the Museum of Fine Arts she told me to look for a parking space.
the Museum of Fine Arts she told me to look for a parking space.
I found one off a narrow side street under a PERMIT PARKINGâRESIDENTS ONLY sign.
We got out of the car. Sandy looked around, as if she was orienting herself, then started up the sidewalk.
I caught up with her and touched her arm. “Don't you think it's time you told me what's up?”
“You'll see,” she said. “Just remember your promise.”
I followed her onto one of those myriad one-way side streets that connect Huntington and Columbus avenues on the fringes of Northeastern University. Cars were parked against dirty old snowbanks, leaving barely enough room for a vehicle to creep past. Here and there we stepped around a tipped-over trash can that had spilled newspapers and beer bottles and pizza crusts onto the sidewalk. Music blared from inside the buildings.
Sandy walked slowly, peering at the doors of the identical dirty-brick four-floor walkup apartments.
Finally she stopped. “Wait here for a minute.” She went into the building. I could see her inside the little entryway. She appeared to be talking on the intercom.
A minute later she opened the door and beckoned me up.
She was holding the inside door open. We went in, and I followed her up a curving flight of stairs to the second floor.
There were just two apartments there, twenty-one and twenty-two. Music came from behind both doors.
She banged on the door of number twenty-two, and a tall young man with a blond ponytail and a wispy goatee opened it. He and Sandy hugged each other, and then she turned and pointed to me. “This is him,” she said. “He's a lawyer. We've got his word.”
I held out my hand to the boy. “Brady Coyne,” I said.
He gripped my hand firmly. “I'm Jason,” he said, and left it at that. He turned to Sandy. “I'm not sure about this.”
“I'm not, either,” she said. “But I don't see as we've got a choice.”
Jason nodded, then looked at me. “C'mon in, then.”
I followed him and Sandy into a tiny room with a high ceiling and tall windows that looked out onto the building across the street. It was furnished with a ratty old sofa, a couple of mismatched wooden chairs, and a low coffee table. The table and floor were strewn with Coke cans and dirty dishes and pizza cartons and newspapers and textbooks. A television set sat on a plank that was supported by a couple of cement blocks. A stereo system was playing what I thought I recognized as hip-hop music. It was very loud.
“Where is he?” said Sandy.
Jason pointed down a narrow hallway. “Last door on the left.”
Sandy took my hand and led me down the hallway. At the last door on the left, she stopped, blew out a quick breath, and knocked.
A voice from inside said, “Yeah? Who is it?”
“It's Sandy,” she said. “Let me in.”
“It's not locked.”
Sandy pushed the door open.
It was a tiny room, not much bigger than my bathroom, and it was dark except for the streetlight outside the single window.
A figure was curled on the cot-size bed, facing the wall.
“What do you want?” The voice was muffled.
Sandy went over, sat on the edge of his bed, and touched his shoulder. “I brought someone to see you,” she said gently.
“Who? I told youâ”
“It's all right,” she said. “He won't tell anybody.”
The figure on the bed pushed himself up onto his elbows, turned, and looked at me over Sandy's shoulder.
I'd forgotten how much he looked like his mother. Same shiny black hair, same dark, frightened eyes.
“Hello, Brian,” I said.
Brian Gold blinked at me. “Uncle Brady?”
I nodded.
He flopped back onto his bed. “Please,” he said. “Just leave me alone.”
Sandy stood up, backed away from the bed, and arched her eyebrows at me.
I went over and squatted beside Brian. “It's awfully good to see you,” I said to him. “Your motherâ”
“No,” he said. He rolled onto his side, putting his back to me.
“She thinks you're dead,” I said.
“That's fine,” he said.
“She deserves to know you're okay,” I said. “She's grieving terribly.”
“She'll get over it.”
“Brian,” I said, “your father ⦔
“I heard.” His voice sounded strangled. “That's my fault, too. Just leave me alone. Mind your own business, Uncle Brady. Go away. Both of you. Just forget about me.”
“At least tell me what happened.”
“Ask her,” said Brian. “Ask the traitor. Ask my former friend who said I could trust her. She'll tell you all my secrets.”
I glanced at Sandy, who was leaning back against the door. She was hugging herself. She looked at me with wide eyes and nodded once.
I turned back to Brian. “At least call your mother.”
He curled himself into a ball, as if he were trying to disappear, and said nothing.
I bent over him and gripped his shoulder. “Brian, listenâ”
Sandy tugged at my jacket. “Leave him alone. Can't you see he wants to be left alone?”
I sighed and straightened up. “Okay.” I touched Brian's cheek. “I'm sorry about your dad.”
He jerked away from my hand and hugged his knees.
S
andy and I didn't speak until we were back on the Mass Pike, heading outbound to Reddington.
andy and I didn't speak until we were back on the Mass Pike, heading outbound to Reddington.
Then I said, “Talk to me, Sandy.”
“I've been ready to explode,” she said softly. “It's been so awful, having this secret, not being able to tell anybody. He made me promise. When you told me about his mother, it was bad enough. Then I heard about his father ⦠.” She was silent for a minute. Then she said, “You knew, didn't you?”
“No,” I said. “I hadn't figured it out but I should have. The day after the accident, when you and Mikki were tossing daisies into the river, you said they were for Jenny. Not Jenny and Brian. You didn't mention Brian until I reminded you. Right then, it passed through my mind that you thought Brian was still alive. But I figured it was wishful thinking on your part. They hadn't found his body, so there was still hope. So, no, I didn't know.”
“I guess I blew it, huh?”
“What, bringing me in to see Brian?”
“Yeah. I promised him I wouldn't tell anybody.”
“You did the right thing, Sandy,” I said. “There are times when breaking a promise is better than keeping it.”
“You
better not tell anybody,” she said. “You promised me.”
better not tell anybody,” she said. “You promised me.”
“How can I not tell Brian's mother that her boy is alive?”
“He will himself,” she said. “When he's ready. You heard him. He's got his reasons.”
“Do you know what his reasons are?”
“No,” she said. “Anyway, it's not up to me to talk about Brian's reasons.”
“What do they have to do with the murder of Chief Sprague and Brian's father?”
“I don't know,” she said. “Honestly.”
“Sandyâ”
“I can't talk about it,” she said.
We rode in silence for a while.
“Sandy,” I said, “at least tell me what happened that night. Brian said you'd tell me that.”
“He called me a traitor.”
“You did the right thing, bringing me to him,” I said. “You
had a hard choice, and you made the right one. Now you've got me to share your secret with.” “If I tell you what happened that nightâ?”
had a hard choice, and you made the right one. Now you've got me to share your secret with.” “If I tell you what happened that nightâ?”
“I'll keep that a secret, too, if you want me to.”
T
his is what happened on that fateful Thursday night, the night before Groundhog Day, as Sandy Driscoll told it to me:
his is what happened on that fateful Thursday night, the night before Groundhog Day, as Sandy Driscoll told it to me:
Sandy's phone rang a little after nine o'clock. Her mother answered it, listened for a moment, then frowned. It was a hang-up.
The next time it rang, Sandy got there first.
“It's Brian,” he said. His voice was soft. He sounded scared. “Please. Come and get me. Don't tell anybody. Not even your mother. Just come. Hurry.”
She told her mother she was going to a friend's house to do some homework and needed to borrow the car. Her mother was watching television. She waved a hand without turning around and told her to drive carefully.
She followed Brian's directions to the abandoned factory building by the dam on the river. Brian was hiding in a doorway. When she stopped her car, he sprinted out and slipped in beside her. “Go,” he said.
He ducked his head when a car came toward them from the opposite lane. “Turn up the heat,” he said. He was shivering.
She reached out to touch him. He was soaking wet.
He told her to drive to Jason's apartment. Jason was a freshman at Northeastern, a Reddington boy who'd played soccer with Brian. Sandy and Brian and some of the other Reddington kids had been to a couple of parties at Jason's.
When Sandy asked him what happened, Brian started crying. They were forced off the road, he said. Jenny lost control, and they went over the bank, rolled over, and landed upside down in the river.
Brian hadn't been wearing his seat belt. His door sprang open, and the next thing he knew he was in the river. He was groggy and disoriented. He'd hit his head and banged his knee. He started swimming. He ended up on the other side of the river about fifty yards downstream from where the car went in.
He crawled up onto the steep bank. The air was colder than the water. When he looked back across the river, he couldn't see Jenny's car. But there was another car stopped there on the street. Its headlights were on, and Brian could see the silhouette of a figure standing there at the top of the embankment, looking down into the river.
He was shivering uncontrollably. He was dizzy and dazed. He couldn't think straight.
Jenny was dead. He knew that.
He started running. He knew he had to keep moving. He didn't know where he was going or what he was going to do. All he knew was, he had to get away from Reddington.
He was scared. They'd killed Jenny. They'd tried to kill both of them.
When he found the pay phone, he called Sandy.
He could trust Sandy.
He didn't know anyone else he could trust.
W
hen Sandy finished, I said, “Why didn't Brian think he could trust his parents?”
hen Sandy finished, I said, “Why didn't Brian think he could trust his parents?”
“I don't know,” she said. “I asked him that. I told him I should just take him home. He yelled at me.”
“You said he was confused. He'd banged his head.”
“He wasn't confused about that,” she said. “He was very emphatic about that. I was to tell nobody that I even knew he was alive. Not even his parents. Nobody.”
“He said they tried to kill him? As if it was on purpose?”
She shrugged. “That's what he said. I don't know if that's what he meant.”
“What else can you tell me?” I said.
“Nothing. That's it. That's the whole story. I drove him to Jason's and left him there. Now you know everything I know. So what are you going to do?”
“I don't know,” I said.
I took Sandy back to the camera shop. She'd driven her mother's car to work. It was a little after eight o'clock. I asked her if her mother would be worried. She said she'd called her before I picked her up, told her she had some things to do, wouldn't be home for a while.
Sandy sat beside me in the car for a minute. Then she turned to face me. “Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For sharing my secret.” She opened the door. “I think Brian knows who murdered Ed and his father, don't you?”
“I think he's got an idea,” I said.
“So what are you gonna do?”
“I don't know.”
“If you try to see him again ⦔
“I understand,” I said.
I
got back to my apartment around nine. I poured a finger of Rebel Yell into a glass, took a sip, nearly gagged, and dumped it out.
got back to my apartment around nine. I poured a finger of Rebel Yell into a glass, took a sip, nearly gagged, and dumped it out.
I picked up the phone and put it down half a dozen times.
Finally I took a deep breath and dialed Sharon's number.
Her machine answered.
I disconnected without leaving a message.
It felt like a reprieve.
I
was sitting in my office staring blankly at some legal documents on Monday afternoon when Horowitz called.
was sitting in my office staring blankly at some legal documents on Monday afternoon when Horowitz called.
“Thought you'd like to know,” he said without preliminary. “The ME got a good fix on Professor Gold's time of death. Figured he'd been dead four days as of Saturday night, give or take about eight hours.”
“So that's ⦔
“Sometime Tuesday night, early Wednesday morning last week.”
I thought for a minute. “Jake called me on Tuesday. We set up an appointment for the next day. He didn't show up.”
“Of course he didn't,” said Horowitz. “He was already dead by then.”
“Jake died before Sprague,” I said. “So he couldn't have killed him.” I thought for a moment. “Okay, I get it,” I said. “Sprague killed Jake, then. But whoâ?”
“Just shut up and listen for a minute,” said Horowitz. “Professor Gold had been tortured with a cigar butt. Judging by the number of burns, he held out for quite a while. But it looks like he finally gave'em what they wanted, because they Moe Greened him. Quick and humane.”
“Huh? They did what?”
“Moe Greened him. Remember
The Godfather?
One shot in the eye. They dug the slug out of his brain, gave it to ballistics. It was aâ”
The Godfather?
One shot in the eye. They dug the slug out of his brain, gave it to ballistics. It was aâ”
“A twenty-two hollow-point,” I said. “Same gun that killed Sprague. Right?”
Horowitz chuckled. “You'd probably of made a better cop than a lawyer, Coyne. Right. Gold didn't kill Sprague, and Sprague didn't kill Gold, either. Someone else killed'em both.”
I lit a cigarette and swiveled around to look out my office window. It was a brisk late-winter day out thereâbright sun, high puffy clouds. A sharp wind was swirling around Copley Square, and the girls were hunching their shoulders and pressing their skirts against their legs as they walked across the diagonal pathways.
“Roger,” I said after a minute, “I appreciate your telling me all this. It's unlike you to share. Usually you make me tell you things, and then you refuse to reciprocate.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I must be gettin' soft.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” I said. “What's going on?”
He let out a long breath. It hissed into the phone. “Truth is,” he said, “I'm off the case.”
“Why? Did youâ?”
“Gus Nash pulled some strings.”
“Politics, huh?” I said.
“Ah, I don't blame him.” Horowitz paused for a moment. “This is a helluva hot case for a DA, especially one who might be looking ahead to a career in elective office. Chief of police runs a couple of teenagers off the road and into the river, then gets himself murdered in a cruddy motel room? College professor from the same dipshit little town, father of one of the dead kids, ends up tortured and murdered in the chief's barn? Delicious stuff. Helluva case.”
“Yeah,” I said, “Butâ”
“If I was in Nash's shoes,” said Horowitz, “I wouldn't want to work with me, either. Nash knows how I work. I don't take shit from any DA, is how I work. Fuckin' DA's got his job, but it ain't running a murder investigation.”
“That sucks,” I said.
“Yeah, well, I got plenty of cases. Don't feel sorry for me.”
“I don't,” I said. “I feel sorry for Sharon Gold and for the people of Reddington. They deserve to have this thing investigated, not milked for its PR value.”
“Oh, Nash ain't like that,” said Horowitz. “He'll do a good job.”
“So what's going to happen? I mean, it's still a state-police case, isn't it?”
“Nash has got Chris Stone working with him.”
“Stone?” I said. “Your old partner?”
“Ah, Stone's okay,” said Horowitz. “He's a good cop.”
“Stone's an ass kisser,” I said. “That's why you got rid of him.”
Horowitz snorted. “And he got promoted a year later. How it goes.”
“How's Marcia taking it?” I said.
“Blew her stack. I explained how it works. Good lesson for her. She'll be okay.”
“Well,” I said, “if you hear anything else ⦔
“I'm not gonna hear anything,” he said. “I'm off the fuckin' case, remember?”
“Well, if I hear anythingâ”
“You gotta talk to Stone or Nash,” he said quickly. “I expect one of them'll be coming around to talk to you. Don't lose track of what's important here.”
“Finding out who killed Jake.”
“Yes. And Sprague.”
“Roger,” I said, “are you okay?”
“Me? One less case to drive me crazy, keep me from spending time with my wife? Don't worry about me.”
“Okay,” I said. “I won't.”
After I hung up with Horowitz I tried calling Sharon again. Her machine picked up, and I didn't leave a message.
I thought of calling Evie, but I didn't. I didn't know what to say to her. Something was going on. But if I asked her what it was, she'd say nothing, she was fine, and if I pushed it, she'd get annoyed.
I pulled my stack of legal papers back in front of me. Julie had instructed me to get through them by the end of the day. I knew they were all perfect. I never found a mistake in anything Julie drew up.
I'd plowed through about half the pile when Julie buzzed
me. I glanced at my watch. It was a few minutes after five-thirty. Normally she'd have the office machines shut down and be on her way out the door by five-thirty on a Monday afternoon.
me. I glanced at my watch. It was a few minutes after five-thirty. Normally she'd have the office machines shut down and be on her way out the door by five-thirty on a Monday afternoon.
I picked up the phone. “How come you're still here?”
“Brady,” she said, “can you come out here for a minute?”
“Sure. What's the problem?”
“I need to show you something.”
I got up from my desk and went out into the reception area. Julie's desk backs up to the inside wall, facing the door. She was sitting stiffly behind it, and it took an instant for my mind to register what I saw.
A man was standing behind her. He was gripping Julie's hair in his left hand, and he was pressing the muzzle of a small-caliber automatic handgun against the side of her neck.
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