Snake Eater (13 page)

“Would you mind leaving a message for her? Ask her about Daniel McCloud. If it rings a bell have her call me. Will you?”

He sighed. “Give me your number.”

I left my office and home numbers with Robert Wanzer, less than hopeful that I’d ever hear from Bertram’s former wife. I scribbled a reminder for myself to try her in the evening.

There were several Johns but no Jean Beaulieu on River Drive or anywhere else in Manchester, New Hampshire. I took down all the numbers for John. I should, I knew, try them all.

But I had lost my enthusiasm for this research. I knew how private investigators did it. They just kept calling. They’d visit all the William Johnsons in Springfield, all the Michael DiSimiones in Providence. They’d drop in on Mrs. Whitlaw and the former Mrs. Bertram Wanzer, ingratiate themselves, get them talking. Doggedly, mindlessly, they’d keep at it until something turned up.

Private detecting was more painfully tedious, even, than practicing law.

I lit a cigarette and swiveled around to look out my office window.

Eight names from Daniel’s insurance file.

I’d taken my best cuts. I had struck out.

I tried Lieutenant Fusco’s number. A female cop told me that Fusco wasn’t available. I told her to tell him that I had some names that might interest him in regard to the McCloud investigation. She said she’d have him get back to me.

I hung up and buzzed Julie.

“Hi, there” came her voice over the console.

“This is your further notice,” I said.

“Goodie. Wanna do some law?”

“Not especially.”

“I’ll be right in.”

Charlie McDevitt and I had lunch at Marie’s two days later, which was the first Thursday in November. When the coffee came, Charlie leaned across the table and said, “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Well, what do you want?”

“Who said I wanted something? Any reason a man can’t buy his old roomie lunch?”

“You don’t just buy me lunch. We do each other favors and repay them with lunch. Or else we buy the lunch first, thereby creating an obligation. That’s how you and I do it.”

I lit a cigarette. “A sympathetic ear, maybe.”

He cocked his head and smiled. “The beauteous Terri Fiori, huh?”

“She decided to break it off. Before the thrill was gone.”

“You’re the one who usually does that,” said Charlie.

I nodded. “I guess that’s true.”

“So it must’ve been easier this time, her doing it.”

“Easier, I guess. But it hurt more.”

“You ought to settle down, Brady.”

“Think so?”

He looked at me. “No, I guess not.”

“She did it nicer than I ever could have.”

“Give yourself credit,” said Charlie. “I bet you made it easy for her.”

I shrugged. Charlie and I did not exchange locker-room talk.

“So you’re sad. That’s good. You’ll remember it fondly.”

“Boy,” I said, “I sure as hell will.”

Our waitress refilled our coffee cups.

“You want advice?” said Charlie.

“No, thanks.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“I’ve been trying to get ahold of Lieutenant Fusco,” I said after a minute. “The state cop in charge of Daniel’s murder.”

“And?”

“He won’t talk to me, won’t return my calls.”

“Why should he?”

I shrugged. “I’m trying to help. I want to know what’s happening.”

“Hey, Brady,” said Charlie.

“Yeah?”

“Forget it.”

“Who says?”

“Me. Your friend.”

“I said I didn’t want advice.”

“On matters of the heart, I don’t have any useful advice. On stuff like this I do. Whether you want to hear it or not. Forget it. Go practice your law. Last time I looked, you were getting rusty.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

He sighed, then smiled at me. “Okay. I tried. What can I do?”

“I’d sure like to know who rammed a broadhead into Daniel McCloud’s heart.”

“Me, too. The cops’ll do that for us.”

“I got the feeling they won’t. I got the feeling they aren’t even trying.”

“Just because they aren’t confiding in you?”

“Partly, I guess. But I’m getting these vibes.”

“Yeah. Vibes are good.”

“I mean it,” I said. “Something’s going on.”

“Fine. So I repeat. What can I do?”

“I’ve got some names.”

“Names?”

“Cammie gave me Daniel’s records. I’m handling the probate for her. Anyway, we found an envelope in with his insurance stuff. It contained six photographs and two index cards. Eight names and addresses.”

“Insurance?”

I nodded.

Charlie stared at me for a moment. “And you think one of ’em killed Daniel?”

I shrugged. “There’s more. Daniel had written this book, and I sent it to Al Coleman. Remember?”

He nodded.

“Listen, Charlie. At first Al loved Daniel’s book. Then a couple of weeks later he called to tell me that he’d changed his mind and was sending the book back. Said he didn’t want to deal with Daniel. Sounded almost like he was afraid of him or something. Anyway, the manuscript didn’t arrive, so I tried calling to find out where it was. Kept getting their answering machine. Finally last week I got ahold of Al’s wife. Bonnie, the girl he used to bring to our place in New Haven. She told me Al got mugged. They found him dead in a subway station.”

“Shit.” Charlie shook his head slowly.

“This had to’ve happened sometime shortly after he called me to reject Daniel’s book.”

“So?”

I shrugged. “Coincidence?”

“Most things are, Brady. What are you getting at?”

“I don’t know. I just want to know who killed Daniel, and why. That’s all.”

“And you think this book…?”

“I don’t know what to think. I keep remembering how Daniel’s trafficking charges got mysteriously dropped. That’s when he gave me the book. Next thing we know, he and Al Coleman are dead. Now I’ve got these names…”

Charlie stared at me for a minute, then sighed. “Okay. Give me those names. I’ll run ’em through the big mainframe, see what I can find out for you.”

I nodded. “Good. You’ve earned your lunch.”

I had copied the names onto a sheet of legal-size yellow paper, along with notes from my telephone efforts. I took it from my jacket pocket, unfolded it, and smoothed it out in front of Charlie.

“This Whitlaw died in an auto accident eight years ago,” I said. “I talked to his wife. That’s the phone number. It’s for sure that he didn’t kill Daniel. And this Wanzer in Holyoke, he skipped out on his family six years ago, never to be heard from. The rest must’ve moved or something, because I got no phone numbers for them.”

Charlie picked up the paper, folded it, and stuck it into his pocket. “Let’s see what we can find out,” he said.

“I’m looking for the connection to Daniel.”

“Well, hell, I know that.”

“This lunch here, it’s your payment.”

He nodded. “I’ll do it,” he said. “It doesn’t change anything, though.”

“What?”

“The advice is golden. You should forget it, Brady.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Bullshit you will,” said Charlie.

I
CALLED STATE POLICE
Lieutenant Horowitz at 1010 Commonwealth Avenue that afternoon. He answered his phone with a weary “Yeah. Horowitz.”

“It’s Brady Coyne. How you doing?”

“Fantastic. But listen. Hearing your voice is still special, you know?”

“I just thought I’d brighten up your day.”

I heard him blow a bubble and pop it into the receiver. “So whaddya want?”

“You think the only reason I’d call you is because I want something?”

“Yeah.”

“If you wanted something and thought I could help, would you call me?”

“Bet your ass. You owe me.”

“Feel free.”

“I already do. So what is it?”

“A colleague of yours name of Fusco. Lieutenant Dominick Fusco. Springfield.”

“Sure. I know him.”

“He’s investigating a homicide. The victim was a client of mine.”

Horowitz sighed. “So?”

“He won’t answer my calls. I want to know how the investigation is going.”

“He’s probably too busy. You know, investigating homicides.”

“I had something I wanted to tell him. Left a message for him to get back to me. He hasn’t. He’s avoiding me.”

“Hard to blame him. If I had as much sense as him, I’d avoid you, too.”

“So will you?”

“Will I what, Coyne?”

“Will you find out what the story is? The victim’s name was Daniel McCloud.”

“Like do they have suspects, have they made an arrest?”

“Yes. Like that.”

“Do I get lunch out of this?”

“Absolutely.”

“Even if Fusco’s got nothing?”

“I just want to know. And I do have some information for him.”

He exploded his bubble gum. “I’ll get back to you.”

He hung up as I was saying “Thanks.”

Gloria was perched atop a barstool when I walked into Skeeter’s Infield after closing the office for the weekend Friday afternoon. She was wearing a little black skirt that had ridden halfway up her thighs. She still had great legs.

The rest of her looked equally terrific. Maybe there were a few tiny crinkles at the corners of her eyes and a few strands of gray mixed in with her glossy brown hair that hadn’t been there when she took my photograph outside a courtroom in New Haven more than twenty years earlier.

But two kids—now young men—and one divorce later, Gloria Coyne still had it.

I slid onto the stool beside her.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi, yourself.” She tilted her cheek for me to kiss, which I did, chastely.

“Been good?”

“You mean my behavior or my health?”

“Either,” I said. “Both.”

“My health is excellent.”

“Otherwise no comment, huh?”

She grinned.

“What are you drinking?”

“White wine, please.”

“You used to like gin-and-tonics with a maraschino cherry in the bottom.”

She shrugged. “I mostly just have a glass of wine nowadays.”

“How about a gin-and-tonic? For old time’s sake.”

“White wine is fine, Brady. You go ahead and have your Jack Daniel’s.”

“You used to drink lots of gin. And you’d get all…”

“Amorous,” she said.

I smiled.

“That’s probably why I’ve just been sticking to white wine lately,” she replied.

Skeeter came over and held out his hand. “Hey, Mr. Coyne. How ya doin’?”

I took his hand. “Pretty good, Skeets. You?”

“No complaints. Except for the Sox.”

“They need someone who can get from first to third on a single,” I said.

“And someone else who can come in from the bullpen and throw strikes. What ever happened to Dick Radatz? What’re you folks drinking?”

“Blackjack on the rocks. Lady’ll have a glass of white wine.”

“No, I think I’ll have a gin-and-tonic,” said Gloria. “With a maraschino cherry in it.”

Skeeter nodded and went to make our drinks. I turned to Gloria. “Thanks for coming.”

She shrugged. “It sounded important.”

“How are the boys?”

She frowned. “Fine, I guess. They’re pretty much men, you know.”

“Heard from Billy?”

“Not lately.”

“Me neither.”

She put her hand on my arm. “You didn’t ask me to meet you so we could pool our ignorance about William and Joseph, Brady. What is it?”

“I don’t know.” I paused to light a cigarette. “I just don’t understand women, I guess.”

“This is not a revelation to me.”

“I know.”

“You’re looking for insight.”

“Yes. After all these years, I suppose I still am.”

“Girl trouble, huh?”

I shrugged.

“And you want my advice?”

I looked up at her. “I got dumped.”

She grinned. “Welcome to the real world.”

Skeeter brought our drinks. I lifted my glass, and Gloria touched it with her gin-and-tonic. “To the real world,” I toasted.

Gloria sipped her gin and tonic and smiled.

“Remember Terri?” I said.

“Pretty lady. The boys liked her a lot. Too young for you.”

I shrugged. “She didn’t think so. Neither did I, actually. Now, maybe, I’m not so sure. Anyway, I had this friend, nice quiet guy living a peaceful country life, with a lady friend who loved him, and he was, um, murdered, and—”

“Murdered,” said Gloria. “Aw, Brady.”

I nodded. “A tragic, inexplicable thing. Terri has talked a lot with Cammie—Daniel’s woman friend—since it happened.”

“And then she dumped you.”

“Yes. I guess that’s what you’d call it. That’s the chronology of it. And I just can’t help thinking there’s a cause-effect relationship between the two events. Daniel getting murdered and Terri ending it with me.”

She smiled and shook her head.

“What’s funny?” I said.

“You. Men. Your egos.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Think about it.”

I thought about it. “So you’re saying…”

“You’ve always been the one to do it,” she said. “Starting with me. Right?”

I shrugged.

“So it’s happened to you, that’s all. Long overdue. Admit it. It’s just… you. Don’t try to make anything more out of it. I know. You’d rather there was some explanation. Something that would allow you to escape with your dignity, or pride, or masculine ego, or whatever it is. The lady dumped you, Brady. She beat you to it. Simple as that.”

I sipped my drink. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I said.

Gloria shrugged. Then she smiled. “Yes.”

After a minute, I said, “It hurts, though, you know?”

She touched my hand. “Believe me, I know.”

We finished our drinks. I asked Gloria to have dinner with me, but she said she had a date. I walked her out to her car and held the door for her while she slid in. Her skirt slid way up and she didn’t bother tugging it down. I bent in and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for the wisdom,” I said.

“Hey,” she said, “that’s what ex-wives are for.”

S
ATURDAY NIGHT. LATE. I
wondered what Terri was doing. I thought of calling her. I was afraid there’d be no answer at her apartment, though. So I didn’t. In keeping with my mood, John Coltrane’s sax was blowing “Blue Train” on the stereo. I was at the table by the glass sliders sipping Sleepytime tea and trying to work my way through some back issues of the
Yale Law Review
when the phone rang.