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Authors: William G. Tapply

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BOOK: Shadow of Death
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Little shrugged. “He might've, but if he did, he didn't introduce himself. Sorry.”
A phone started ringing in the other room.
“Gotta get it,” he said. “How's that ale?”
“Good,” I said. “Strong.”
He smiled and waved and left the room.
Farley Nelson came in a few minutes later. He went behind the bar and came back with a bottle of Budweiser.
He sat across from me and peered at me through his thick glasses with the built-in hearing-aids. “So you met Jeff, eh?”
I nodded. “Seems like a nice guy.”
“Local folks've been slow warming up to him. Usta be, this pub'd be jumping on a Thursday night.” He waved his hand around, indicating its emptiness.
“Has Jeff done something wrong?” I asked him.
“Nope. He's a nice, friendly fella. Food's better than ever. Folks just liked Lou and Ginger, that's all, and they got it in their heads that if Jeff Little hadn't come along, Lou and Ginger would still be here running the place.” He took a swig of his beer. “As if it wasn't them who put it up for sale.” Farley smiled. “Been catching some nice bass from my pond lately. You like bass fishing?”
“Sure. They're a lot of fun on a fly rod.”
“You oughta try my pond sometime.”
“I'd like that.”
“That probably isn't what you wanted to talk about, though, huh?”
“I always enjoy talking about fishing.” I smiled. “But you're right. I was wondering if the names Mark Lyman or Oliver Burlingame might ring any bells with you.”
He stared up at the ceiling for a minute, then looked at me and nodded. “I remember them.”
“They were from around here, then?”
“Yes, sir. Both Southwick boys.”
“What do you remember about them?”
He flapped his hands. “Nothin' special. Normal boys, they were. Oliver—they called him The Big O, sarcastic, don't you know—he was a scrawny little feller, one of those quiet kids you hardly notice. Lived with his mother out near the river. They moved away … hell, I can't recall when that was. Seems to me the boy was in high school. I'm thinking the mother got married or something, but I might be thinking about somebody else. The other one, the Lyman boy, I remember him a little better. Markie Lyman. He was always into something or other. Got ahold of some booze and ran his old man's pickup into a stone wall when he was in eighth grade, I remember that. Totaled the truck and not a scratch on the boy.” Farley Nelson squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When he opened them, he said, “All that was a long time ago. Hard to imagine them as grown-up men.”
“You remember Albert Stoddard, don't you?”
“Sure. Those boys ran together. There were a couple others, too. All of 'em, about the same age. Hell, in Southwick if you're a boy, you gotta look pretty hard to find some fun.”
“Aside from Mark Lyman taking his father's truck for a joy ride, what did they do for fun?”
“They fished, they hunted, they chased girls, they played touch football out behind the grammar school. Pretty much what boys do.” He squinted at me. “I'm not helping you
much, I guess. You oughta talk to the Goff brothers. They know everything, and they've got better memories than me.”
“I stopped by their garage,” I said. “It was closed.”
Farley Nelson chuckled. “Those two fellas got more money than King Farouk. They don't feel like working, they don't work. That's okay, provided your vehicle ain't parked there waiting for new brake pads or something. Hell, in the winter, early spring, they generally just close down the shop, take a couple months off, go somewhere where it's warm. I guess that's what you can do when you haven't got a wife or kids.”
“I'll see if I can catch up with the Goffs,” I said. “But I appreciate what you've told me. It does help.” I paused. “Was one of those boys a ringleader, do you recall?”
He frowned. “Actually, I seem to recall there was another boy. I can almost picture him … .” He shook his head. “Can't remember his name. He was maybe a little older. Big, good-looking kid. Always struck me, he was the one who had all the ideas, got them in trouble, and the others, they just went along with him.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “Damn. His name, it's right there. If you said it, I could tell you if that was him, but damned if I can think of it.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Farley Nelson blinked at me. “Huh?”
“You said this other boy got them in trouble.”
“Oh, hell,” he said, “just what boys get into, I guess. I'm not remembering anything particular.”
“It might help me if you could recall his name,” I said.
He scratched his head. “You know,” he said, “it's one of those things, if you try looking straight at it, it's always out there to the side, and no matter how quick you move your
eyes, it always jumps away. I'll think about it, but I bet it'll occur to me sometime when my mind's on baseball or fishing or something.”
“If it should happen to pop into your head,” I said, “I'd like to know it.” I reached into my wallet, took out one of my business cards, and slid it across the table to him. “Call me anytime. My home number's there.”
He put on his glasses and squinted at the card. “You're a lawyer, huh?”
I nodded.
“So these questions, you planning to use them in court or something?”
“No, no,” I said. “This is personal, not business.”
“You never said why you wanted to know these things,” he said.
“Like I said,” I said, “it's kind of personal. Anyway—”
At that moment a uniformed policeman strode into the pub. It was Officer Paul Munson. He seemed to fill up the room with his bulk and his importance.
He came over and stood beside our table. “Farley.” He touched the bill of his cap. “How you doing?”
Farley gave him a quick two-fingered salute. “Officer Munson. This ain't Limerick, you know. You've strayed a ways out of your jurisdiction.”
Munson turned to me. “What brings you back to our neck of the woods?”
I smiled at him. “Just having a beer with my friend here. That's okay, isn't it?”
“Just so you're not breaking into people's houses.”
“Oh, I've put all that behind me,” I said. “I've reformed.”
Munson smiled uncertainly, then looked at Farley Nelson. “He's pulling my leg, right?”
“I'd say he was,” said Farley.
Munson turned back to me. “Well, sir, I recognized your vehicle. I saw it out front, and that's why I came in here, and I guess if I hadn't of, the Southwick officers would've done it pretty soon. We're keeping an eye on you.”
“It's probably a good idea,” I said.
“Son,” said Farley to Munson, “me and Mr. Coyne here, we're trying to have a quiet beer, and you're coming mighty close to harassing us, you know that?”
“Harassing?” said Munson.
“Police harassment,” said Farley. “Ain't that right, Brady? Mr. Coyne, here, he's a lawyer.”
“I know that,” said Munson.
“
Are
you harassing us?” I said.
He shook his head. “I don't mean to be.”
I looked at Farley. “He's not technically harassing us.”
“Coulda fooled me,” said Farley Nelson.
“Unintentional,” I said. “Public nuisance. Annoyance. Pain in the ass. Not harassment.”
Munson frowned, looked from me to Farley and back at me, shuffled his feet, touched his holster, glanced at his watch, then said, “Well, all right. Gotta go.” And he turned and left.
“You do something to antagonize that boy?” said Farley.
“No,” I said. “I think he got antagonized all by himself.”
W
hen I woke up on Friday, I remembered that I'd left a message on Ellen Stoddard's cell phone a couple days earlier asking her to call me, and she hadn't done it.
So while Evie was taking her morning shower, I poured the day's first mug of coffee, brought it into my room, and tried Ellen's cell phone again.
When she answered, I said, “It's Brady. Did you get my message the other day?”
“Yes. Sorry. I meant to get back to you, but I got sidetracked. There's a lot going on.”
“I thought you were worried about Albert.”
“Don't you dare judge me, Brady Coyne.”
“I'm sorry, Ellen. I didn't mean it the way it sounded.”
I heard her sigh. “What was it you wanted?”
“I wanted to ask you about Albert's finances.”
“What about them?”
“Well,” I said, “it appears that he never deposited his last four or five paychecks in his checking account.”
“And?”
It was my turn to sigh. “Look,” I said. “If you want me to stop doing this, just say the word. I'm concerned about Albert, and I thought you were, too. You and Jimmy asked me to try to find out what's going on with him. That's what I've been trying to do.”
“Well, you can stop worrying,” she said. “Albert's okay.”
“Oh,” I said. “Hm. Well, I'm glad to know that. You might have told me. Did he come home?”
“No. But I talked to the secretary at the history department. Albert called yesterday, said he'd be in next Tuesday.”
“He's sick?”
Ellen laughed. “Not likely. He's just taking the week off. He's done that before. Tenured professors, they pretty much do what they want. They want some time off, they call in sick, wink, wink.”
“And it doesn't concern you that he's playing hookey for a week? That doesn't raise questions?”
“Of course it does,” she said. “The fact is, I had myself worked into a state where all I wanted to know was that he was alive. I convinced myself that even if he'd run off with one of his students or something, it would be okay. And you know what? It
is
okay. Now that I know he's all right, I don't care what he's doing. Now I can go back to thinking about my campaign.”
“Well, that's good, I guess,” I said. “What's Jimmy say about it?”
“Jimmy works for me.”
“I was only thinking,” I said, “that a week ago you were both concerned enough to retain me to hire a private detective to find out what Albert was up to.”
“I've changed my mind about that,” she said.
“Ellen,” I said, “will you humor me for a minute?”
“For just about one minute,” she said. “You caught me trying to eat breakfast and put on my makeup at the same time. You think that's easy, try it sometime. What's your question about Albert's paychecks?”
“He seems to have been depositing them in his checking account every fifteenth and thirtieth of the month. Then in July he stopped doing that. I'm wondering why. Does he get paid through the summer when school's not in session?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I'm wondering what he did with those summer paychecks. He didn't put them in the bank.”
“What difference does it make?”
“Does Albert have any money problems?”
“What do you mean?”
“Gambling debts? Bad investments? Has he bought any Italian shotguns lately?”
Ellen paused for a minute. “I couldn't really tell you. As far as I know, Albert doesn't gamble, and he has no interest whatsoever in the stock market. He really has no interest in money, period. He's always had enough, and he's never worried about it or wanted more. That's just the way he is. Albert and I keep our finances separate. We chip in for mutual expenses. The house, mainly. Otherwise, he lives his life and I live mine, and here and there our two lives intersect. We've always done it that way. I don't see why it matters.”
I decided not to tell her that Oliver Burlingame and Mark Lyman, whose obituaries I'd found in Albert's hunting camp, both had money problems, and then they'd died—“suddenly” and “accidentally.”
Maybe it was coincidence.
But I doubted it.
“It probably doesn't matter,” I said. “I'm glad he's okay, and I'm sorry to bother you.”
“No, Brady,” she said. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to be unappreciative. It's just that I'm under mountains of pressure with these debates coming up, and all this Albert business doesn't help. Now that I know he's all right, I'm just going to try to not think about him. Whatever he's up to, it'll all make itself clear sooner or later. Meanwhile, I've got an election I'm trying to win, and that's what I need to focus on. Is this terribly insensitive of me?”
“I guess not,” I said. “I'm envious. It's nice that you can compartmentalize like that. I wish I could.”
She laughed quietly. “It
is
insensitive. Selfish, you might say. I know that. It's a gift and a curse. It enables me to concentrate on the job at hand no matter what's going on around me. But it's not a particularly admirable trait. Anyway, thank you for everything. Really. When this damn election is over, win or lose, I intend to treat you and Evie to prime rib at Locke Ober's. If we're lucky, we can persuade Albert to join us.”
“That will be nice,” I said. “I'll hold you to it.”
 
 
Six months after John and Carla Barrera bought their Victorian dream house in Chelmsford, the north corner under the living room collapsed. A couple of upstairs windows shattered, the living-room floor split open, and a house-wide crack you could stick your fist through opened along the roofline.
When they called in a builder, he told them that the sills
were rotten and the foundation was crumbling. He gave them an estimate of $175,000 to jack up the house, rebuild the foundation, replace the sills, and repair all the rest of the damage.
John Barrera was a high school math teacher. Carla was an RN working a night shift at an assisted-living facility. They'd both worked hard and saved for ten years to accumulate the down payment for their first house. Now they were expecting their first child.
Their homeowner's insurance didn't cover the collapse of their house. They'd tapped out their borrowing power on their mortgage.
It was the kind of case I loved. There were plenty of villains to go after and a really nice couple to defend. The previous owners might have known about the rotten sills and disintegrating old foundation. If they did, they'd lied when they put the house on the market. I intended to find out.
The seller's realtor, at minimum, had been slipshod and at maximum, had also lied. The Barreras' own realtor had been irresponsible, the home inspector they'd hired had surely done an unprofessional job, and the bank's appraiser had likewise failed to see what, according to the various experts I'd sent out to look at the house, should not have been that hard to see.
I wasn't overlooking the possibility that money had changed hands. Bribery would make it a criminal case. But my aim was to negotiate a substantial enough settlement for the Barreras to repair their wounded house and have a big chunk left over.
John and Carla were prepared to sue. So was I. It would be fun to figure out who the main villain was and haul him
to court and argue it before a jury. I doubted we'd end up having to take it that far, but the mere threat of it was powerful.
I spent Friday morning on the telephone with the lawyers of the various potential defendants in the case, and I'd just hung up with one of them when Julie tapped on my door.
“Enter,” I called.
She entered and stood there in the open doorway. “Um, Mr. Coyne?”
I couldn't read the look on Julie's face. It seemed to be halfway between bewilderment and amusement. She only called me “Mr. Coyne” in the presence of adversaries or brand-new clients that we didn't know very well.
“What's up?” I said.
“There's a, um, gentleman here to see you.”
I gestured for her to close the door, then crooked my finger at her. She came over and stood beside my desk.
“What is the name of this gentleman,” I said, “and does he have an appointment, and what does he want?”
She glanced back in the direction of our reception area. “He says his name is, ah, Paulie?” She made it a question.
“Big guy,” I said. “Silk suit. Diamond on his pinkie finger.”
“Yes, that's right,” said Julie. “Very big. He didn't mention a last name, and I didn't insist. He does not have an appointment. He said he came to, quote unquote, get you. He seemed to be under the impression that you were expecting to be gotten. I told him you were busy. He said he'd wait, but he didn't have much time, he's double-parked out front, his boss is a busy man. What the hell does that mean, get you?”
I smiled. “It's okay. Send him in.”
She shrugged, turned for the door, then stopped. “
Get
you?”
I shooed her away with the back of my hand.
A minute later she ushered Paulie into my office. I stood up, went around my desk, and held out my hand. “Good to see you again,” I said.
For a two-hundred-fifty-pound bodyguard with a ninemillimeter weapon under his armpit, Paulie had a limp handshake, and he avoided eye contact. A shy, respectful man. “Mr. Russo,” he said, “he's waiting, Mr. Coyne. He don't like to wait. He's gonna blame me, he thinks he waited too long.”
Paulie was wearing a shiny gunmetal-gray suit, a charcoal shirt, a white necktie, and lilac-scented cologne. I'd run into him a few times at Skeeter's back when he was breaking kneecaps for Vincent Russo. If I'd ever heard his last name, I'd forgotten it. Since Russo's “retirement,” I'd heard that Paulie had been promoted to head bodyguard and chauffeur.
I took my suit jacket from the back of my chair and slipped it on. “Let's go, then,” I said.
I told Julie I expected to be back in an hour or so, then followed Paulie out of my office building to a black Lincoln Town Car that was double-parked at the curb.
“I thought Mr. Russo liked the Mercedes,” I said.
Paulie opened the back door for me. “Since nine-eleven,” he said, “Mr. Russo buys nothing but American.”
“A true patriot,” I said.
Paulie pulled out onto Boylston Street, cut over to Storrow Drive, slid onto Cambridge Street at the rotary, and fifteen minutes later he stopped in front of Nola's Trattoria on Hanover Street. He got out and opened the back door for me.
A CLOSED sign hung in the door to the restaurant, and the
blinds had been lowered over the front window. Paulie used a key to let us in.
Vincent Russo was sitting at the corner table in back near the kitchen. He was sipping a glass of dark red wine and eating fried calamari with his fingers. He stood up when I approached, wiped his fingers on a linen napkin, and held out his hand.
I shook it. “I appreciate your seeing me,” I said.
He flicked my gratitude away with the back of his hand. “It's what friends are for, Mr. Coyne. Please. Sit down, huh? You had lunch?”
“Yes, thank you.” It was a lie. I wanted to spend as little time with Vincent Russo as possible.
He filled a glass to the brim with wine and pushed it across the table to me. He held up his glass.
I clicked mine against his, took a sip, and set it down.
“I have made inquiries,” he said.
I nodded.
“Gordon Cahill.”
“Yes,” I said. “Gordon Cahill.”
“Before he was a private investigator,” he said, “he was a policeman.”
I took another sip of wine.
“This Cahill was no enemy of ours,” said Russo. “But there were those who considered him a traitor, huh?” He arched his bushy gray eyebrows at me.
“May I speak candidly, Mr. Russo?”
“By all means.” He waved his hand around, taking in his restaurant. Paulie was sitting at a table in the front of the room reading a newspaper. “There are just the two of us here.” He meant that the place wasn't bugged. Paulie, apparently, didn't count.
“It wouldn't even occur to me that what happened to my friend was in any way connected to a man of your reputation,” I said carefully. “But what Gordon Cahill did several years ago, the testimony he gave, it unquestionably angered certain other people.”

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