Shadow of Death (5 page)

Authors: William G. Tapply

Tags: #Suspense

BOOK: Shadow of Death

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But then I remembered the last words Cahill had spoken to me on the telephone before we lost our connection. “Those boys,” he had said.

Boys? Albert?

If Albert Stoddard was fooling around with boys, if that's why he was acting weird and furtive, and if Gordon Cahill found out about it, and if Albert knew that Cahill knew â¦

Sometimes it was hard to think the best of people.

Julie didn't look up from her computer when I walked into the office. The arch of her neck was decidely hostile.

I glanced at my watch. “Hey, I'm only twenty minutes late.”

“Mrs. Brubaker arrived thirty minutes ago,” she said without lifting her head.

“Well,” I said, “you're the one who always likes to keep the clients waiting.”

“We would like to promote the patently absurd illusion that you are busy and that your services are in high demand,” said Julie, “as ridiculous as we both know that is. I can carry it off when you're holed up in your office reading fishing catalogs and the client arrives in the waiting room. It's more difficult when I'm forced to usher the client into your office and serve her coffee and make small talk because you have yet to arrive and we don't want her to see you straggle in.”

“I don't really care whether Mrs. Brubaker thinks I'm busy or not,” I said. “I don't think she cares, either. Hell, I'm not that late.” I plunked the bag of muffins on her desk. “For you. Bran. Good for your bowels.”

“Since when are you worried about my bowels?”

“I worry about everybody's bowels.”

She glanced at the bag. “It's torn. Where'd you get it?”

“I confess there were originally six muffins in there,” I said. “I ate one and Roger Horowitz ate two.”

She cocked her head and looked at me. “Detective Horowitz? Now what?”

“Gordon Cahill,” I said. “He died in a car crash last night.”

Julie shook her head. “Oh, dear.” She hesitated, then said, “Detective Horowitz is with homicide.” She arched her eyebrows, making it a question.

“Don't ask,” I said, “because I can't talk about it.”

Julie nodded. “So you
have
been busy.”

“A veritable whirlwind of thoroughly depressing activity,” I said.

“I'm sorry about Mr. Cahill,” she said. “He was a nice man.”

“Yes,” I said. “He was. I liked him a lot and I'm very upset by this.”

She hesitated. “You think he was murdered?”

“I don't know.”

“But you and Detective Horowitz are going to find out, huh?”

“Not me,” I said. “I've got a law practice to run.”

Julie laughed quickly. “Sure you do. So why don't you go accrue some billable hours for a change? Mrs. Brubaker seems quite distraught this morning.”

I snapped her a salute, then went over to the coffee machine, poured myself a mugful, and headed for my inner office, where Harriet Brubaker was waiting for me, twisting her handkerchief around in her hands.

FIVE

H
arriet Brubaker's husband, Charlie, had recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. The doctors told Harriet that within a yearâtwo at the mostâCharlie would be past the point where she could take care of him, and she should begin making arrangements immediately. “Making arrangements” meant moving Charlie into an assisted-living facility. It also meant working out the financing so that Harriet wouldn't be left destitute.

So she came to me. Helping elderly people make arrangements for their last years of life is one of my specialties. I also do wills and divorces and adoptions, with a smattering of tax, small business, and real estate law. When my clients have other kinds of legal problems, I refer them to friends of mine who specialize in those fields.

I know what I can do, and more important, I know what I can't do, and most important of all, I never hesitate to admit it. My clients seem to appreciate that.

When I was in law school, I aspired to argue First Amendment cases before the Supreme Court. But I was also determined
to be my own boss. I vowed to join no firm and take on no partner. So I set up my own lone-wolf practice in downtown Boston and accepted the cases that came to me. I built my practice around a relatively small number of clients who liked and trusted me, and I acquired new clients now and then through the referrals of old clients.

It was unexciting work that rarely required me to argue anything before a judge or jury, never mind a groundbreaking issue involving free speech. Most of my work got done on the telephone or with a fax machine or at a conference table.

As routineâboring, evenâas it usually was, I liked the nonadversarial kind of legal work I did. I helped people with their problems, and I slept well at night.

I also happened to make quite a bit of money at it.

When I hired Julie, of course, I ended up with a boss anyway. I wasn't much of a businessman. I needed a boss.

When I walked into my office, Harriet Brubaker looked up and dabbed at her eyes with her ever-present lace handkerchief.

When she and I walked out of my office an hour later, she was smiling.

You can't beat that.

I refilled my coffee mug and told Julie to hold my calls for a few minutes. Then I went back into my office and rang Jimmy D'Ambrosio's cell phone.

“Yeah, Jimmy D.,” he answered.

“It's Brady Coyne.” I heard the muffled sound of voices in the background. I figured Jimmy was in a crowd.

“Hang on,” he said.

I waited.

A minute later he said, “Okay. I'm in the men's room. What's up?”

“When can you break away?”

“You got something for me, huh?”

“Not on the phone, Jimmy,” I said.

“Why the hell not?”

“Well, if I told you that, it would be on the phone, wouldn't it?”

“Guess it would,” he said. “How about a hint?”

“You're the one who's insisting on discretion.”

“Yeah, fine,” he grumbled. “Lemme check my schedule.” He paused. “Between three and four this afternoon looks okay. Same place?”

“Under the watchful eye of General Washington, three o'clock.”

“This better be good,” he said.

“It's not,” I said. “It's bad.”

I made it a point to be ten minutes late this time. I had a responsibility to my profession. I didn't want Jimmy D. to get the wrong idea about lawyers.

He was talking on his cell phone and sipping from a tall foam cup with a Dunkin' Donuts logo on it. When he saw me approaching, he quickly snapped his phone shut and slid it into his jacket pocket.

I sat beside him, and he handed another cup to me. “Iced coffee,” he said. “Black. You're the only man I know who drinks black iced coffee.”

“I suppose you know which leg goes in first when I pull my boxer shorts on, too,” I said.

He smiled. “Trust me,” he said. “You don't want to know what I know.” He sipped from his cup. “So what's up? Your man get something on Albert?”

I shook my head. “I can't tell the state police that you're my client without your permission,” I said. “I want it.”

“You ain't serious, Coyne.”

“They want to talk to Albert,” I said, “although they don't know it's Albert yet. It's pretty important.”

“Now I know you're kidding.”

“I'm dead serious, Jimmy. The PI I hired for you was killed last night, and it weighs heavily on my heart.”

“Get another PI on the job, then,” he said.

I lit a cigarette and glared at him.

He tried to glare back at me. Then he shrugged. “How'd he get killed?”

“His automobile crashed into a tree and caught fire.”

“Well, that's a shame. But I don't seeâ”

“The cops don't think it was an accident.”

“All the more reason why you can't involve me,” said Jimmy.

“Listen,” I said. “The man who died was on the job for me. For us. You and me. We're responsible.”

“We are? How do you know he was working on our case?”

“Okay,” I said. “I don't know. I want to know. I want the police to figure it out. So I want to give them your name, and when they talk to you, I want you to give them Albert Stoddard's name.”

“Abso-fuckin'-lutely not,” said Jimmy. “You keep me and Albert out of this, or I promise you, I'll see that you're disbarred.”

“You leave me no choice,” I said. “I guess I'll have to talk to Ellen.”

He shrugged. “You can talk to Ellen if you want. But it doesn't matter what she says. I'm the one who hired you, remember? I'm your client.”

“Seems to me she's the one who hired you,” I said.

“Well, Ellen can fire my ass and it won't change anything. I'll still be your client, and I'll still say no.”

I stood up. “I'm disappointed in you, Jimmy.”

He shrugged. “You're certainly not the first one.”

“A man was killed last night.”

“Damn shame,” he said. “But we got an election coming up.”

“Think about it,” I said. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

“Don't hold your breath.” He stood up and started to walk away.

“Hey, Jimmy,” I said. “I got a question for you.”

He stopped and looked at me. “What?”

“Does Albert fool around with boys?”

He came over and sat down again. “Boys?” he said. “Albert?”

I shrugged.

“Jesus,” he said. “What makes you think that?”

“Something our PI told me before he died.”

Jimmy was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “Boys, girls, barnyard animals, it doesn't change a damn thing. You can't give the cops my name.”

I got back to the office a little before four, and on the assumption that if Jimmy was free between three and four,
Ellen would be, too, I called her secret cell phone number.

When she answered, I said, “It's Brady.”

“Oh, hi,” she said. “I've got about three minutes. What's up?”

“I just talked with Jimmy,” I said. “I asked him to release me from my confidentiality commitment.”

“He refused, I assume.”

“Yes.”

“And you want me to say it's okay?”

“Yes, I do. It's important.”

“I'm listening.”

“The PI I hired to tail Albert was killed last night,” I said. “It's not clear whether it was an accident or a homicide or even whether he was on our case at the time. The state police are investigating.”

“And you think Albert might've had something to do with it?”

“I have no idea. I just want to assist the police. I thought youâ”

“Yes, I get the picture.” She paused, then said, “I've got to go along with Jimmy on this one, Brady. I'm sure you understand.”

“I'm not sure
you
understand,” I said. “A man died last night, Ellen. A man I hired to do some work for you. A man I liked very much. It makes me sad and angry when people I like die.”

“And you don't like feeling that you might somehow be responsible,” she said.

“I don't like feeling that I might be standing in the way of justice being done,” I said.

“Or that I might be standing in your way,” she said.

“Well, yes.”

“Even if I agreed with you,” said Ellen, “you can't do anything about it without Jimmy's permission.”

“I'm sorely tempted,” I said.

“It's a slippery slope, Brady Coyne,” she said. “Be careful. Jimmy's your client on this one, and even if I'm his boss, I'm not going to second-guess him. If he says no, no it is.”

“Is getting elected that important to you, Ellen?”

She said nothing.

“I apologize,” I said after a minute. “That was completely uncalled for.”

“Apology required,” she said. “And accepted.”

I heard somebody speak to her. She said, “Yes, okay.” Then to me she said, “I've got to go now, Brady.”

“Think about it please?”

“If you come up with something you think will change my mind,” she said, “do let me know.”

“You can count on it.”