Shadow of Death (22 page)

Authors: William G. Tapply

Tags: #Suspense

BOOK: Shadow of Death

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I'd kept my client, Jimmy D'Ambrosio, out of it, and Ellen Stoddard, too. I'd done my job, and I fully intended to keep right on doing it.

No doubt I'd be hearing from Lieutenant Bagley again.

After I turned onto Route 101 heading east, I pulled to the side of the road and picked up my new cell phone, which had been riding on the seat beside me. I pecked out the number for Evie's cell phone and hit SEND.

When she answered, I said, “Hey. It works.”

She laughed. “Welcome to the twenty-first century.”

“Where are you?” I said.

“Believe it or not,” she said, “I'm at the office. Quiet Saturday afternoon. I'm getting a lot of paperwork done.”

“I thought you were going to get together with Mary, go to a museum or something.”

“She couldn't make it. Now I'm wishing I'd gone along with you. Is it beautiful up there in New Hampshire?”

“It's pretty,” I said. “But it's just as well you didn't come with me.”

“Oh, oh,” said Evie.

“I'll tell you what I can when I get home.”

“On your way?”

“I am,” I said. “I'll be there in an hour or so. How about you?”

“I want to finish up here,” she said. “I'll be home for supper. Want me to pick up something?”

“No,” I said. “I feel like cooking.”

She hesitated. “What's this I'm hearing in your voice? You okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “I'm fine.”

“You sound like you could use a hug.”

“Only one?” I said.

TWENTY-THREE

T
he nice thing about having a dog is, he's always thrilled to see you when you come home. No questions, no accusations, no worries, no anger, no sulking, no guilt trips. Just happiness.

Henry had spent the day snoozing in the sunshine in our walled-in garden, and when I went in through the back gate, he bounded over with his little stub tail whirring. I squatted down so he could lap my face, and I rubbed his ears and scratched his muzzle and patted his rump until he settled down.

After Henry and I had our reunion, we went inside. I microwaved a mug of the morning's coffee, took it into my cave, and tried Jimmy D'Ambrosio's cell phone.

When he answered, I said, “It's Coyne. We've got to talk.”

“So talk.”

“No,” I said. “Face-to-face. TÃªte-Ã -tÃªte. Mano a mano.”

He hesitated. “What's this I'm hearing? You mad at me?”

“Exactly,” I said. “Meet me at Washington's statue in an hour.”

“Christ,” he said, “I can't justâ”

“It's three-thirty now,” I said. “If you're not there in an hour, I'm calling Channel Seven.”

“You can't do that.”

“No? Tune in tonight at eleven.”

He was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “Okay. Fourthirty. I'll be there.”

From my bench beside George Washington on horseback I could watch the one-way traffic on Arlington Street, and I spotted Jimmy D'Ambrosio when he slid out of the taxi that pulled up by the entrance.

He looked around, saw me, waved, came through the open gate into the Public Garden, and sat beside me.

“So,” he said, “what've you got? You track down Albert? He been a bad boy?”

“No. I've been looking for Albert. All there's been is dead bodies.”

“Huh?”

“First Gordon Cahill,” I said. “Our private investigator. Then, just this morning, I found a dead man up in Southwick, New Hampshire.”

“Who's that?”

“Nobody special,” I said. “Just a nice old guy who lost his wife a few years ago and worked in the general store because he liked being around people. Not an enemy in the world. That's what everybody says. I found him sitting in an Adirondack chair in his back yard. Real pretty vista. Meadows and mountains and patches of pretty autumn foliage, all gold and scarlet, you know? He'd been garroted.”

Jimmy blinked. “Well, shit.”

I nodded.

“So why're you telling this to me?” he said.

“Because two days ago I was asking this same old gentleman questions, trying to figure out what's going on with Albert Stoddard, and then yesterday he called me, invited me up, and when I got there this morning he was dead, and now the Major Crimes Unit out of the New Hampshire attorney general's office has a murder on their hands, and they're asking me how come I was the one who found the old guy's body, and goddamnit, I want to tell them.”

“Well,” said Jimmy, “you can't say anything about Albert.”

“I can if you say I can,” I said. “You're my client.”

He shook his head. “I say you can't.”

“They'll figure it out eventually,” I said. “It'd be better if we went to them.”

“Forget it, Brady.”

I turned and pushed my face close to his. “I don't think you understand,” I said softly. “Two men have been murdered.”

He pulled back from me. “You can't prove there's any connection with Albert.”

“Can't prove it,” I said. “Not yet. But it certainly looks like there is. Meanwhile, there's a murdererâmaybe two murderersâout there, and I feel like I've got important information. Look. I don't want to go to the media. I just want to tell the police what I know. They understand the importance of confidentiality. They can handle it.”

Jimmy pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Can't let you do that,” he said. “Can't take that chance.”

I leaned back on the bench, lit a cigarette, and said nothing.

“You breach our confidentiality,” said Jimmy, “I'll haul
your ass before the Massachusetts Bar Association so fast your balls will shrivel. There'll be a hearing, and I will give evidence, and they'll take away your license, and that'll be the end of your career.”

“I don't take kindly to being threatened,” I said.

“Me, neither,” he said. “You threatened to air confidential information on television.”

“I'm asking your permission,” I said. “I just want to tell the police what I know. I want to help them catch a killer. If I tell them what Gordon Cahill was up to, that he was tailing Albert Stoddard, that Albert has a camp in Southwick, New Hampshire, where this old man was killed, it might help them.”

“Permission denied,” Jimmy said. “Look, Brady. Why don't you write up a final report for me, include a bill, send it to my office, okay?”

“You firing me?”

He shrugged. “Time to bring the investigation to a close, that's all. You're not getting anywhere that I can see. Albert's off somewhere being weird, but he's not causing the campaign any problems, and the media hasn't glommed onto him. Let's leave it lay right where it is.”

“I'm worried something happened to Albert,” I said. “Aren't you?”

“He called in at school the other day, told them he was taking the week off. Albert's okay. Ellen's not worried about him.”

“I am,” I said. “She should be.”

Jimmy waved his hand. “Forget it. Case closed. Good job. Thanks a lot. Send me a bill.”

I nodded. “Okay.” I stood up. “See you later.” I started to walk away.

“Hey,” said Jimmy. “Wait a minute.”

I stopped and turned to face him.

“Just because I'm not your client anymore,” he said, “it doesn't mean â¦ ?”

“Your secrets are safe with me forever,” I said. “You're the one who's got to live with it. If you change your mind, let me know.”

I pivoted around and walked away.

“After the election,” Jimmy called to me. “We'll talk about it then.”

I kept walking.

When I got home, I called Ellen Stoddard's cell phone. Her voice mail answered, inviting me to leave a message. I hung up and tried her home number. Voice mail there, too. So I said, “It's Brady. Please call me. It's important.”

Then I redialed her cell phone and left the same message.

She called back a half hour later. “I'm kind of in the middle of things,” she said when I answered. “What's up?”

“Jimmy just fired me. Wanted to be sure you knew.”

“I didn't,” she said.

“Is it okay with you?”

She hesitated. “Having him retain you to hire a private investigator was his idea in the first place,” she said. “I pretty much go along with what Jimmy says.”

I said nothing.

“The detective you hired is dead,” she said. “So nobody's investigating Albert anyway.”

“I am,” I said.

Ellen said nothing.

“Have you heard from Albert?” I said.

“No, Brady. Not a word.”

“And you're okay with that?”

She sighed. “Of course I'm not.”

“But it's all about the election, huh?”

“That's unfair,” she said. “Albert talked to the secretary at Tufts the other day, so I know he's okay. I don't know what he's up to, and I don't know why he hasn't tried to call me, at least, but Albert's done strange things before. It's not
all
about the election. But we do have an election, and I've got two debates to worry about among a million other things, and if I allowed myself to start worrying about Albert, I wouldn't get anything done.”

“He's gone missing, Ellen.”

“No,” she said. “We just don't know where he is. There's a difference.”

“You're not worried, then.”

“I'm not allowing myself to worry.”

“Well, okay, then. The only thing is, another man has been murdered.”

She was silent.

“It might be connected to Albert,” I added.

“Oh, dear,” whispered Ellen.

“I intend to pursue it,” I said. “It would be a lot easier if I could tell the police about Albert.”

“What do you want to tell them about Albert?”

“Just that I've been trying to track him down. That I asked this nice old man some questions about Albert, and a couple days later he got murdered. That's all.”

“What're you saying?” she said. “You think Albert killed somebody?”

“I don't know. I went up to his camp the other day. When I came out, somebody tripped me and kicked me and poked
a shotgun at me and slugged me with it and left me unconscious. It was dark. I didn't see who it was.”

Ellen was silent for a minute. “You don't think Albert would do something like that.”

“Yes,” I said. “I think he might.”

“That's crazy,” she said.

I said nothing.

“Albert couldn't hurt anybody,” she said softly. “That's ridiculous.”

“If you say so.”

She hesitated. “Jimmy fired you?”

“Yep.”

“Well,” she said. “Whatever he says.”

I laughed. “Just like that, huh?”

“Bradyâ”

“I've got a question for you, Ellen.”

“What is it?”

“Does the name Dalton Burke mean anything to you?”

She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I've heard that name. It makes me think of a baseball player, but â¦”

“That was Dalton Jones,” I said. “He used to play for the Red Sox. Is that who you're thinking of?”

“No. I'm thinking of Dalton Burke.” She paused. “I just can't â¦”

“A friend of Albert's maybe?”

“Yes. Right. Now I remember. A man named Dalton Burke called here looking for Albert. This was, oh, several months ago. I answered the phone. It was in the evening. Albert was at school. I wrote down the message.”

“Do you remember what the message was?”

“Just for Albert to call him. He left a phone number.”

“Do you have it?” I said. “The phone number?”

“No. I gave it to Albert.”

“Burke didn't tell you what he wanted?”

“No. It wasn't much of a conversation. He asked for Albert, I said he wasn't home, could I take a message, and he gave me his name and number. That's it.”

“Can you remember when this was?”

“It was probably the second or third week in May,” she said. “I remember that Albert had stayed at school to grade final exams. He hates to bring work home with him.”

“Did Albert ever mention talking with Dalton Burke?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Did he say anything to you when you gave him the message?”

“Brady, this was four months ago.”

“Do you remember anything else, Ellen?”

“No,” she said. “This has something to do with what's happened to Albert, doesn't it?”

“I don't know.”

“You'll keep me informed?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not. Jimmy fired me, remember?”

After I hung up from Ellen, I opened my desk drawer and took out the notes I'd made about the two obituaries I'd found in Albert's camp. The envelope I'd found them in had been postmarked June 22, about a month after Dalton Burke called Albert.

Oliver Burlingame died “accidentally” on March 19.

Mark Lyman died “suddenly” on April 2.

Both of those events occurred before Burke called Albert.

I fired up my Mac, hopped onto the Information Highway, and typed in “Dalton Burke.”

An hour later I knew several things about him.

He was born in Peterborough, New Hampshire, two years before Albert Stoddard was born.