Scar Tissue (20 page)

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Authors: William G. Tapply

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Scar Tissue
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And until Brian decided he was ready to confront her, I would just have to sit on my secret.
I had only two phone calls all day—both reporters. I told them I'd been advised not to talk to the media, and they didn't push it.
I figured by now the lawyer-shoots-intruder story was old news anyway.
The snow stopped in the middle of the afternoon. Then the clouds broke up and blew away, and the sun came out just in time to set. Tomorrow would be a pretty winter's day.
W
ednesday was the last day of February. As I'd predicted, it was a cold, cloudless, sky-blue day. The sun cut through the thin air so sharply that I had to squint when I looked out my office window.
I saw clients all morning and had Chinese food delivered for lunch. I ate it off the coffee table in my office with plastic utensils and Coke. Julie always mocked me for eating fried rice with a fork. She was a chopsticks-and-green-tea gal.
It felt strange to be at my desk without Julie right outside my door, poised to nag me.
Boston homicide detective Dominic Gillotte called from his car around three-thirty and showed up a few minutes later. We stood there in the reception area. He leaned against Julie's desk and declined coffee.
“So how you doin'?” he said.
“Okay,” I said with a shrug. “Busy, you know? So is this a social call?”
He smiled quickly. “Never is, is it?” He reached into the briefcase he was carrying and pulled out a plastic bag. It had my revolver in it. “Wanted to return this to you,” he said. “It's unloaded. Here.” He gave me the gun and dumped a handful of cartridges into my palm.
“Thanks,” I said. “So what'd you learn?”
“What you told us. This gun fired the bullet that killed Bobby Klemm. It had your fingerprints on it.”
“So where do I stand?” I said.
He shrugged. “I don't know. Turns out Klemm's gun killed two other people outside my jurisdiction, so the state cops are involved in the case. Needless to say, they're not sharing a helluva lot with me.”
“Lieutenant Stone?”
He nodded. “And the DA. Mr. Nash. I expect they'll be calling on you.”
After Gillotte left, I went back into my office. I took my gun out of the plastic bag, reloaded it, and started to open my safe. Then I paused, thought about it, and put the gun into the upper right-hand drawer of my desk.
D
istrict Attorney Gus Nash and state police detective Christopher Stone showed up just as I was rinsing out the coffeepot at the end of the day. I ushered them into my inner office.
They made a Mutt and Jeff team. Gus was wiry and gray-haired and studious-looking behind his rimless glasses. Chris Stone had played tight end for B.U. back in the days before the university abandoned its football program, and he looked like he could still play. He'd gotten his master's in criminology at Northeastern, and while he had the dark, scowling look of a dumb tough guy, I knew he was shrewd and clever and ambitious.
“You guys want coffee?” I said. “I can put on a fresh pot.”
Stone started to nod, but Nash said, “No, thanks. We're fine.”
Stone gave a little shrug and shook his head.
So that's how it was. Nash was in charge. Stone had always been an ass kisser.
“So how're you doing, Brady?” said Nash.
“I'm fine, Gus. You?”
He smiled. “Me? Oh, I'm okay. I understand you had quite an experience.”
“Yes. It was quite an experience.”
“You know Detective Stone, I believe.”
“Yes. We've met.” I looked at Stone. “How's it going, Chris?”
“Pisser,” he said.
“So what can I do for you guys?”
Nash jerked his head at the sofa in my conference area. “We need to talk.”
I arched my eyebrows. “About what?”
“Come off it,” growled Stone. “You know damn well—”
Nash touched Stone's shoulder. “Relax, Lieutenant. Brady's a good lawyer. He knows how it works.”
“He's an officer of the fucking court,” said Stone. “Good lawyers don't lie.”
I poked my finger at Stone's chest. “Are you accusing me of lying?” I said.
“You're goddamn right. I—”
“Cut it out,” said Nash. “Both of you.” He touched my elbow. “Come on, Brady. Let's go sit. We need to get this straightened out.”
I glared at Stone for a minute, feigning anger and outrage, which wasn't that hard, since I'd always disliked and distrusted him. Then I shrugged and allowed Gus to lead me over to the sitting area. I slumped onto the sofa. He took one of the armchairs across from me. Stone came over and stood beside Nash's chair.
I lit a cigarette, then looked at them. “So what am I supposed to be lying about?” I said.
“Why don't you just tell us what happened yesterday,” said Nash.
“I already told those Boston cops. Don't you guys share?”
Nash nodded. “Humor me.”
I shrugged. “Okay. Glad to help.” And I proceeded to tell them the same story I'd told Gillotte, the Boston cop—that
Klemm had held Julie and me at gunpoint demanding our money, and when I'd slipped my revolver out of my desk drawer, he'd taken a wild shot at me and I'd reflexively pulled the trigger, hitting him in the chest.
As I talked, Gus nodded and smiled and asked for an amplification here and there. Stone scowled at me and said nothing.
When I finished, Nash said, “Bobby Klemm—that man you shot—he wasn't a thief or a burglar. We don't think he came here to steal your money.”
“No?”
“We need to know what he was after.”
I shrugged. “Money and jewelry. That's what he said.”
“Listen, Brady,” he said. “Bobby Klemm was a gun-for-hire. That twenty-two automatic he brandished at you and Julie is the same gun that killed Ed Sprague and Professor Gold.”
I widened my eyes. “Jesus,” I whispered. “Are you saying that man came here to kill me?”
Stone smacked his fist into his palm. “God
damn
it, Mr. Nash. He's yanking your chain. I told you he wouldn't cooperate. We're wasting our time. I say we haul his ass down to the station, read him his fucking rights, and stop pussyfooting around.”
Nash looked up at him. “Oh, I don't think there's any need for that, Lieutenant. Brady wants to cooperate.” He turned to me. “Right?”
“Of course,” I said. “I'm an officer of the court, as the lieutenant has reminded me. I just don't know what you want me to say.”
“So why'd you call Horowitz?” said Stone.
I shrugged. “He's a policeman. Friend of mine, as you know. First thing that came to my mind. I had no way of knowing you guys would be interested.”
“Why not dial 911 like any other citizen would do?”
“I'd just shot a man,” I said. “Maybe I wasn't thinking straight, I don't know. I've seen a lot of Lieutenant Horowitz lately. We're old friends. I trust him.”
“Old friends,” growled Stone. He looked at Nash. “This stinks,” he said. “Fuckin' Horowitz—”
“You said you keep your gun in your desk drawer?” said Nash quickly.
I nodded. “So?”
“I understand it's been returned to you,” he said. “Can I see it?”
I waved in the direction of my desk. “It's in the top right-hand drawer,” I said, “where I always keep it. Help yourself.”
Stone went over to my desk, opened the drawer, looked in, then closed it. “It's there,” he said to Nash. He came back to where we were sitting and stood in front of me. “Horowitz's been coaching you, huh?”
I looked from Stone to Nash. “What's he talking about?”
Nash waved his hand. “Forget it, Brady. There's bad blood between the two of them. They used to be partners, you know.”
I nodded. “Yes, I know. Horowitz is a good cop. He and Stone were therefore incompatible.”
Stone's hands bunched into fists. “Goddamn it, Mr. Nash, so help me—”
Gus reached out and grabbed the sleeve of Stone's jacket. “Lieutenant, why don't you go back out there to the reception area, read a magazine or something.”
Stone glowered at me, then looked at Nash. “He's playing games with us,” he said.
“Go on,” said Nash.
Stone turned and headed for the door.
“Don't steal any of my magazines,” I said to him.
He narrowed his eyes at me for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed.
After Stone left, I said to Nash, “You guys've got the good-cop bad-cop thing down pat. Very impressive.”
“You got it wrong, Brady,” he said. “Chris isn't playing any role. He really and truly doesn't like you.”
“Because I'm friends with Horowitz?”
“Because he knows you don't respect him.”
I nodded. “I didn't realize he was smart enough to figure that out.”
Nash smiled. “You don't have to antagonize him.”
“It's not that difficult,” I said.
He leaned back, propped an ankle over a knee, and fingered the crease on his pants. “Here's how we figure it,” he said. “Klemm tortured Professor Gold before he killed him. We believe Gold told Klemm something that brought him here, to you. It has to be either something you know—maybe something about the professor—or something you have, like some kind of documents. Whatever it is, he wanted it. We figure, if you tell us what Klemm was after, we'll be able to understand what those two murders were all about.”
“What makes the difference?” I said. “If Klemm killed Jake and Ed Sprague, you've got your murderer. Case closed, right?”
Nash shook his head.
“I get it,” I said. “You think somebody hired Klemm. That's who you're after.”
“Right. We got bigger fish to fry. That's why I need to know what Klemm wanted.”
I spread my hands. “I wish I could help you, Gus. But if Klemm was after something other than my money and Julie's jewelry, he didn't tell us what it was.”
“You saying you shot him before he had a chance to tell you?”
I shrugged. “I'm saying, if he was after something else besides our money and jewelry, he didn't say what it was.”
Nash leaned forward. “The thing is, Brady,” he said, “I'm in agreement with Lieutenant Stone. I think you're holding out on me.
“Why would I do that?”
“I don't know,” he said. “But I intend to find out.”
“You gonna turn into a bad cop on me, Gus?”
He smiled. “Did Klemm ask you any questions?”
“No.”
“Any hint he thought you knew something about Gold or Sprague?”
I shook my head.
“That he thought you had information that would incriminate somebody?”
“Listen, Gus—”
He waved his hand. “Yeah, I know. That sort of information could be privileged. I'd like to look in your safe.”
“My safe?”
“We spent all yesterday morning here in your office, Brady. We know you've got a wall safe behind that picture of your two boys. I figure if Professor Gold gave you something so important that somebody would send Bobby Klemm here to get it, you'd keep it there, in that safe.”
“You're right,” I said. “That's where I keep my absolutely confidential stuff.”
“So open it for me,” he said.
I shrugged. “I'd like to do that for you, Gus. But I can't, of course.
“Of course you can.”
I shook my head. “I don't need to lecture you, Gus, of all people, on the sanctity of the attorney-client privilege.”
“In this case,” he said, “the client in question is Professor Gold, and he happens to be dead. That changes everything.”
“In this case,” I said, “the client's spouse remains alive, so even if I did have something of Jake Gold's in there, I couldn't show it to you.”
“Even if it meant solving a double homicide?”
I shrugged. “Protecting my clients is my job. Solving homicides is yours.”
“You're going to force me to get a court order?”
“Do what you have to do. I'm the only one who knows the combination to that safe, and I'm not going to open it, court order or not.”
“You'd be willing to go to jail for this—this abstract principle?”
“Sure. I'm a noble guy, Gus. You know that. Anyway, it's hardly abstract.”
He shook his head. “I don't know why you're refusing to cooperate with me, Brady. All I want to do is figure out why your client was tortured and murdered and a hired gun came here to kill you. I'm on your side on this thing.”
“Maybe you should get Stone back in here, have him knock some sense into me.”
Nash stared at me for a minute. Then he smiled quickly and stood up. “I was hoping you'd be sensible about this,” he said. “I didn't want to have to play hardball with you.”
“You don't,” I said. “All you've got to do is believe me.”
“Well,” he said, “that's the problem. I don't.” He started for the door, then stopped. “You'll be hearing from me, Brady.”
I nodded. “Any time. It's always a pleasure, Gus.”
He shook his head, then smiled, lifted his hand, turned and left.
After the door shut behind him, I went over to my desk, took my gun out of the drawer, and put it back into the safe where it belonged.

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