Spotted Cats (13 page)

‘Why me?’

‘Doesn’t sound like they can talk to Newton, and you’re his lawyer. Anyhow, you’re a witness. You can tell him that there really was a theft, that’s it’s not a fraud. That’s what he needs to know. That plus the fact that the security was intact when it happened.’

‘There was a theft, all right,’ I said, fingering the scab on my throat. ‘I can personally vouch for that.’

‘So if he’s satisfied that the pieces were actually stolen, he’ll pay off and go through his own motions. If Lloyd’s can recover the pieces, they get to keep them. Unless Newton has a buy-back clause. If he does, they get their money back. So they do some standard things. They’ll report the theft to the Art Dealers Association of America and the International Foundation for Art Research. These are clearinghouses for information on stolen art. They publish art-theft bulletins. They’ll carry photographs and descriptions of the jaguars. Also, the FBI has an Art Squad and a Transportation of Stolen Property desk. And there’s Interpol and the Property Recovery Squad of the New York City police. The Lloyd’s guy will make his reports to all of them. It’s routine. It’s about all he can do.’

‘But this won’t do any good, you don’t think.’

‘Like I said, the only ones who’ve seen those jaguars are the guys who broke into the house and the guy who bought them from the crooks, if somebody did. At least, that’s my bet.’

‘Unless someone catches up with those jaguars, I don’t see how they’ll figure out who hit Jeff,’ I said. Or, I thought, who came into my bedroom at night. I lit a cigarette. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘let’s talk bluefish.’

‘About time,’ said Dan. There was new animation in his voice. ‘On the turning tide at the mouth of the Merrimack. Anytime out on Stellwagen. We ran into a huge school of them trolling off Plum Island the other day. Smashing menhaden on the surface. You could smell ’em. You know that smell. Ripe melons. Gulls swooping around everywhere, all we could do to keep the damn birds away from the plugs when we stopped and cast to ’em. The fish were absolutely frenzied. Every damn cast. You would’ve been proud of us.’

‘Caught a lot, huh?’

‘Yeah. And only kept two. Returned all the rest.’

‘I am proud.’

‘Man with a fly rod would’ve had a blast.’

‘OK. I’m hooked. When?’

‘Let me check a tide chart. Hang on a minute.’ I finished my cigarette and stubbed it out. When Dan came back on the line, he said, ‘What do you say five-thirty Wednesday? We should hit ’em off Halibut Point.’

‘Sure. I can leave the office at four. Be in Gloucester before five-thirty, even with the traffic’

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘Brady?’

‘What?’

‘You work at night?’

‘Of course not.’

‘I’m talking a.m.’

‘Like five-thirty in the morning?’

‘That’s what a.m. means. In the morning.’

‘So I’ve gotta get up at four.’

‘About that, I’d say. Four-thirty at the latest.’

‘Fine. No problem. Actually, I love that time of day.’

‘You just love fishing.’

‘Naw. I like everything about it. When everyone else is asleep, and the sky is just starting to turn silver, and the ocean from my window looks like burnished pewter, and—’

‘Hey, shit,’ said Dan. ‘Can the poetry, huh?’

‘Yeah, well I do love fishing. I’ll see you at the marina at five-thirty Wednesday.’

‘I’ll bring a thermos of coffee,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you see if Charlie can join us?’

‘Sure. I was going to call him anyway.’

‘Charlie’s really big on crack of dawn stuff.’ Dan paused. ‘Hey, Brady?’

‘What?’

‘They have any suspects on that theft?’

‘They think they do.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Me, for one.’

I replaced the phone on its cradle and wrote a note on a piece of yellow legal paper. ‘Bluefish, Wed. 5:30 a.m.,’ it said. I folded the paper three times and stuffed it into the pants pocket where I kept my car keys. Not that I was likely to forget.

I buzzed Julie. ‘What?’ she grumbled.

‘Hey. Have another cup of coffee.’

‘I’m working on it. What do you want?’

‘Seacoast Agency. Hyannis. Victoria Kline.’

‘Ten-four.’

I hung up. A minute later my console buzzed. I pushed the blinking button and picked up the phone. Victoria Kline had a Lauren Bacall voice. I told her what had happened to the jaguars. She neither interrupted nor asked me to repeat myself. When I finished, she told me that an adjuster from Lloyd’s would be in touch with me. I congratulated her on her efficiency.

I lit a cigarette and had tapped out half of Charlie McDevitt’s phone number when Julie scratched at my door. I replaced the receiver on its cradle. ‘Do enter,’ I called.

Julie came in. She strode purposefully to me and placed the palms of both of her hands on my. desk. She bent towards me and said, ‘I want to know the truth about your weekend, Brady Coyne.’

‘Truth?’

‘Not your childish fairy tales.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Sit down.’

She remained standing, her eyebrows arched.

I waved my hand at her. ‘Please sit?’ I said.

She sat. ‘So tell me. And no bullshit this time.’

‘What I told you is true.’

‘About Mr Newton being in the hospital?’

‘Yes.’

‘His sickness?’

‘He was hit on the head.’

‘Are you serious?’

I nodded.

‘Then the burglary, it really happened?’

I nodded again.

‘And those marks on your face?’

‘Knife wounds.’

‘Mr Newton—will he die?’

I shrugged. ‘The surgeon wasn’t optimistic.’

‘Oh, wow.’ She sighed deeply and shook her head. ‘I don’t care about the housekeeper or the fishing.’

‘You don’t care about the fishing?’

‘You said two people were killed. You were kidding about that, right?’

‘I believe I said security personnel.’

‘You did. What—?’

‘Dogs, Julie. Two guard dogs.’

‘Are you really some kind of suspect in this?’

I spread my hands. ‘Probably not a serious one. The local cops are fishing around, trying to make it understandable. I could have had something to do with it. I mean, I was there. I could’ve arranged it, let the bad guys in.’

‘And hurt yourself like that?’

I shrugged. ‘I could’ve had them do it. To take the heat off myself.’

‘Cops think that way, huh?’

‘Sure. Anybody would.’

She shook her head. ‘Not me. I know you. You’re a baby. You’d never agree to get hurt like that.’

I patted her arm. ‘Thank you for your continued support.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Me? I’m just a lawyer, Julie. This is a police matter.’

She grimaced. ‘Right. And I’m Joan of Arc.’

‘I hope I haven’t got anything important for Wednesday morning.’

‘Would it make a difference?’

‘It’d just have to be changed.’

‘Fishing, huh?’

‘Matter of fact, yes,’ I said. I don’t know why I felt defensive saying it.

She shrugged. ‘I will, of course, work it out for you. That’s what you pay me these big bucks for.’ She got up and went to the door. She paused there with her hand on the knob, staring thoughtfully at me. Then she came back and sat beside me. She frowned. ‘It must have been an awful experience for you.’

I nodded. ‘It was. It was scary. The whole thing. Finding Jeff like that. And what happened to me. Frightening. Except for the trout. And the housekeeper.’

‘It’s all so sad.’

I nodded.

She stood up and leaned towards me. She kissed my forehead. ‘I hope you’re not planning on doing anything stupid.’

‘Not me, babe. I’m going fishing Wednesday, that’s all. And that is not stupid.’

‘That’s certainly a matter of opinion.’ She headed for the door again. After she opened it she looked back at me. ‘How many trout did you say?’

‘I said seventeen. But it was at least twelve. I didn’t count. It was good fishing.’

She nodded. ‘I won’t even ask about the housekeeper.’

‘You can’t believe everything I say.’

‘Boy, don’t I know it.’

She shut the door. I smiled at it. Then I called Charlie. He’s a prosecutor for the United States Justice Department. His office is located across town in Government Centre on Cambridge Street. Charlie and I went to Yale Law together. He’s a good friend and my number one fishing partner. When Shirley, his secretary, answered, I said, ‘Hello, sexy.’

She giggled. ‘Oh, you silly, Mr Coyne.’

‘How are the grandchildren, Shirl?’

‘Lorraine had a baby two weeks ago. A beautiful little boy.’

‘What’s that make?’

‘Sixteen. And Jimmy’s wife is expecting again.’

‘Marvellous. Congratulations. Hard to believe, a young chick like you with grandchildren.’

‘Oh, stop,’ she said. I knew she was smiling. ‘I hope you’re planning on taking himself fishing, Mr Coyne. He’s working so hard. He’s just been a bundle of nerves lately.’

‘Matter of fact, I am. Is he there?’

‘I’ll get him for you.’

A moment later Charlie came on the line. ‘Hey, Brady,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

‘Dan LaBreque’s boat in Gloucester. Five-thirty Wednesday. That’s five-thirty in the morning. Bring your fly rod.’

‘Music to my ears. Say no more.’

‘Charlie, I’ve got to say one more thing.’

‘Uh-huh,’ he grumbled. ‘I figured as much.’

‘I need you to check your computers for me.’

‘Aw, Brady. I thought you’d learned your lesson by now. You’re not off detecting again, are you?’

‘Naw. Just need some background. It’s for a client.’

‘Oh, sure. I know you, pal.’

‘Honest.’

I heard him expel a loud breath. ‘You gonna tell me about it?’

‘After we catch our fill of blues.’

He sighed again. ‘OK. What do you want?’

‘Three names, for now. Lillian Robbins. Alan Sauerman. Martin Lodi.’

‘Hang on. One at a time. Spell them.’

I spelled Lily’s name for him.

‘Where’s she live?’

‘The Cape. Orleans.’

‘You want criminal records? Tax history?’

‘Anything you can get.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. ‘Next.’

‘Alan Sauerman,’ I said. ‘A doctor. Orleans, also, or someplace nearby.’ I spelled that for him, too.

‘This is gonna cost you, Coyne.’

‘I’ll buy lunch at Gert’s after we load the boat with bluefish.’

‘Damn tootin’ you will,’ said Charlie. ‘Sauerman. Robbins. All right. What was the other one?’

‘Someone named Martin Lodi,’ I said. ‘I’ve got no idea where he lives.’

‘And you want this by Wednesday?’

‘If possible. Please.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Charlie.

I waited until noon to call Maria Conway in Phoenix. They were two or three hours behind us, I could never remember which.

A secretary put me through to her. When I told her my name, and reminded her of the time she and Dan LaBreque had driven down to Orleans to appraise Jeff Newton’s jaguars, she claimed to remember me. ‘I still see Dan about once a year,’ she said. ‘There’s an annual convention in Chicago we both attend. We talk on the phone now and then, too. Dan’s been a good friend. He helped me find this job. What can I do for you?’

‘Dan suggested I call you. Those jaguars were stolen. Dan said you had a handle on the market for Mayan art.’

‘Not the market for stolen art, Mr Coyne. Anyway, as I remember it, Mr Newton brought in those jaguars from Mexico illegally.’

‘Maybe he did. It’s not so much the cats I’m after. It’s kind of personal with me. I was there when they were taken. Jeff was seriously injured. I’d really like to track down who did it.’

‘I can keep my ears open.’

‘Will you do that?’

‘If Dan told you to call, that’s good enough for me. I guess I know most of the collectors and museum people in our field. If there’s any activity in new Mayan stuff, one of us will hear about it. I’ll ask around.’

‘Well, thanks.’

‘You know, Mr Coyne, it’s not likely your cats will show up in any legitimate places. I mean, you shouldn’t be holding your breath.’

‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘I’ve got some other things to do.’

W
EDNESDAY THE SUN ROSE
at four thirty-two. I was waiting for it on my balcony with my second cup of coffee. For half an hour I had watched the painting of the sky over the harbour—grey evolving into the palest yellow and shifting by imperceptible stages through gold into orange. Then, in an instant, the rim of the sun popped out of the ocean.

I had been sitting out there with my early morning thoughts, the kind of clear but untrustworthy insights that seem to come to me first thing in the day before my censoring process kicks in, allowing me to analyse them and reduce them to reason. Usually they take the form of regrets—opportunities unrecognized, mistakes unforgiven, betrayals unavenged, the litany of all our lives. Sometimes they linger with me all day as a vague discomfort in my gut. More often they dissolve like the ocean mists when the sun rises.

My regret on this new day focused on a marriage that had gone sour, on two little boys who had somehow become men, or close to it, while I wasn’t looking, on my own independent ways, which struck me, just then, as unbearably selfish and empty, on my isolation from the people who meant the most to me, and on my recognition of the harsh truth that all of that seemed to suit me fine.

I had finally reached Joey on Monday evening. He answered the phone himself, for which I was grateful. I hadn’t the courage to talk to Gloria again.

‘Yo,’ he said when he picked it up.

‘It’s your old man.’

‘Oh. Hi, Dad.’ So it was still ‘Dad’.

‘Have a good weekend?’

‘It was OK.’

‘That volleyball jock?’

‘Debbie? Sure. Mostly me and Cliff hung out. I stayed over at his house. What about you?’

‘I was down the Cape. Did some fishing.’

‘Get some?’

‘Yes. It was pretty good. Look, you tried to call me…’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘So what’s up?’

‘It’s kinda hard right now…’

‘Something to do with your mother?’

‘You got it.’

‘She’s there?’

‘Yep.’