Vulgar Boatman (10 page)

I stopped in the lobby downstairs and spoke with the security guard at the desk. He was a former Boston patrolman named Reilly who had retired early on a disability. Heart condition. He had himself a cushy job in my building now, but judging by the way his shirt stretched across his belly and the capillaries were exploding across his cheeks, I didn’t figure his condition was very much improved. He was no help anyway. He had just come on duty. He hadn’t seen Buddy. I made a mental note to check with the night man later.

I got to the office before Julie. I signed some letters she had left on my desk, glanced through some documents she had word-processed, and when eight o’clock came around I called the Windsor Harbor police station. The desk officer put me through to Chief Cusick.

“I don’t exactly know how to tell you this, Chief,” I began.

“Obviously it isn’t good news. Why don’t you just spit it out, Mr. Coyne?”

“I have been in contact with Buddy Baron.”

“Well, that’s not bad.”

“Right. He called me, and I persuaded him to come to my apartment.”

I hesitated, and he said, “Oh, oh. Don’t tell me—”

“He spent the night. At least part of it. At least I think he did. But—”

“Godammit it. You lost him.”

“He slipped away. He was going to spend the night, and then I was going to bring him to you this morning. It was agreed. When I woke up, he was gone.”

Cusick didn’t speak. It made me uncomfortable.

“Look,” I said.

He sighed. It hissed into my ear from the telephone. “Never mind. Just do me a favor, will you?”

“I know what you’re going to say. I’m embarrassed.”

“I hope the hell you are.” He paused. “Okay. I suppose no harm has been done. We’re no worse off than we were if he hadn’t contacted you in the first place. No better, but no worse. We’re not exactly helpless without you, you know.”

“You’ve learned something?”

“Of course. It’s what we do. It’s not, by the way, what attorneys do.”

“Dare I ask?”

“On one condition.”

“I know.”

“Bow out. Back off.”

“You already told me that.”

“I’m reminding you.”

“Tell Tom Baron you’re done with it. It’s not your job. You’ll only screw it up.”

“I already thought of that,” I said lamely.

“Good.” He paused, and I thought I could hear him riffling papers. “Okay. In the interest of good community relations and all, here’s what you can tell Tom after you tell him you’re through playing private detective. First, we found Buddy’s car. The Cambridge cops found it, actually, parked behind an apartment building in Central Square. They’ve got it staked out. I assume eventually Buddy will return to it. Second, he’s used a bank card to get cash three times in the past two days. A hundred bucks each time, which I guess is the maximum they allow per shot. Twice in the same bank in Cambridge, and once in the city. We’ve got the people in all the Shawmut banks alerted to keep an eye out for him. So one way or another, we’ll get him.” He paused. I imagined him tucking the papers neatly back into their proper manila folder and placing the folder on his blotter, lining the edges up. “Now it’s your turn, Mr. Coyne.”

“For whatever it may be worth,” I said, “I don’t think he killed the girl. He told me what happened. I think it was the truth.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Coyne, and I know you’re a very successful attorney and all, your judgment lacks credence just now. Why don’t you just tell me what he told you, and let me draw my own conclusions.”

I smiled to myself. Cusick was getting his money’s worth out of my blunder. I related to him what Buddy had told me, and he said, “Why do you assume that’s not a lie?”

“Intuition, I guess.”

“Your intuition told you it would be okay for him to spend the night.”

“You’ve made your point, Chief.”

“Good. Well, when we catch Buddy we can get the details. I assume it can be checked out. But a few things trouble me about this tale.”

“Why is he running, for example.”

“Exactly.”

“He’s frightened,” I said.

“Obviously possible. More likely he’s lying.”

“I don’t think he’s lying,” I said.

“Not to belabor a point, but I do not value your opinion very highly just now. Thanks for the information.”

On that note I hung up with Chief Cusick and called the Baron house. This time Tom answered.

“Brady,” he said when he heard my voice. “I was about to call you.”

There was something about Tom’s tone that I couldn’t identify. Anger. Anxiety. Resignation. “What’s the matter?” I said.

“Did you see the
Globe
this morning?”

“No. I’ve had a busy morning.”

“Front page, Brady. Big black letters. It says, ‘Baron’s Son Wanted for Murder.’ Jesus Christ!”

“It’s the truth,” was all I could think of to say.

“You think if I were a Democrat they’d print that?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Ah, you’re like all the rest of them,” he said sadly. “You just don’t understand how it is.”

“Well, right now my concern is Buddy, not your campaign. Maybe that should be yours, too, Tom.”

“I am concerned about Buddy. You don’t need to tell me how to feel.”

“He was with me last night, you know.”

“Joanie told me. A big relief. I got in late. She was still up. Half in the bag. Make that entirely in the bag. But that’s great that Buddy showed up. He’s okay, huh? You’re bringing him in this morning, I understand. I want to see him. Where—?”

“Tom,” I interrupted.

“What? What’s the matter?”

“Buddy scooted out sometime in the night. He’s gone.”

“What the hell do you mean, gone?”

“I mean gone. He ran away.”

“Well, Jesus. What do we do now?”

“Nothing to do. The police are looking for him. It was me who screwed up, Tom. Not Buddy. I should’ve taken him in when he first showed up. He just seemed so scared.”

“Poor little bastard,” muttered Tom. “Must be scared shitless.” I heard him expel a loud breath. “I don’t know, Brady.”

“You don’t know what?”

“Whether this is good news or bad news. It’s great that Buddy’s okay. And I can’t say I like the idea of him in jail, or out on bail, even, or…”

Tom’s voice trailed off. I finished his sentence for him. “Or you getting all those negative headlines.”

“That’s not—ah, hell. It
is
what I was thinking. This is damn confusing, Counselor.”

“Well, this is bad news, Tom, to answer your question. I don’t think Buddy did anything wrong. He’s scared. That’s natural. But the sooner we get him to the police, the sooner it’ll all get straightened out. And your front page stories in the
Globe
will start sounding better to you.”

“You make me sound like a monster.”

“Sorry, Tom.”

“Yeah. I had it coming. Tell me. How did he seem? He’s not…”

“He’s not doing any drugs. No. He seemed—well, scared, of course. And upset about Alice. Aside from overreacting to the idea of a night in jail, he seemed good. I enjoyed his company. He whipped my tail at the chessboard. He got mad when I refused to let him have a beer. He’s a good kid, Tom. And I think he’s pretty well put together, considering.”

“Considering,” muttered Tom. “Considering the horseshit job of fathering he’s gotten. Well, then, what’s next? Will you keep looking for Buddy?”

“Nope. No way. I gave you a day, like I said I would. I’m afraid I did more harm than good. Let the police take care of it. When they get him, let me know. I’ll get my old assistant, Zerk Garrett, on the case.”

Tom was silent for a moment. Finally he said, “Brady, about the
Globe.
”

“There’s not a damn thing I or anyone else can do about newspapers printing the news. You’re a public figure. This is news. You’ve just got to ride with it as best you can. Have a little faith in the fairness of the voting public.”

He chuckled. “I don’t know any politicians who have that kind of faith.”

“And that,” I said, “speaks volumes. How’s Joanie taking it all?”

“She’s dead to the world right now. She hasn’t seen the paper. Far as she knows, you’re bringing Buddy in and she’s going to jail with me to bail him out.”

“Give her my best. And keep the faith, Tom.”

“You gotta get it before you can keep it,” he said.

A few minutes later Julie came in. She presented herself in the doorway to my inner office and stood there, her hands on her shapely hips, glaring at me. “Now what did I do?” I said.

“It’s what you didn’t do. The coffee. You waiting for your secretary to make the coffee this morning?”

“Mea culpa,”
I intoned, pressing my palms together under my chin and bowing deeply to her. “I have sinned. But I have seen the error of my ways.”

“Ah, forget it. I’ll take care of the coffee. You might want to look at the paper. Article on the front page of interest.”

While Julie put the coffee on I sat at her desk and read the
Globe
article. It contained the facts as I knew them except that it failed to mention the presence of cocaine in Alice Sylvester’s blood, and it failed to suggest that she had engaged in intercourse with two men, and, if one was disposed to read between the lines, it implied that her sexual encounter had not been mutually consented to.

In other words, Buddy Baron had raped and murdered her.

I read the article twice. Both times I got the same implication. Oh, it was couched in euphemistic language, and it was peppered with words like “alleged,” and it was buttressed with quotations from Harry Cusick, the Windsor Harbor police chief. Bottom line, though: The son of the Republican candidate for governor raped and murdered his girl friend.

I read it once more, this time as a lawyer, with an eye to the Bill of Rights. The article was entirely factual, and certainly not actionable. Newspapers’ First Amendment rights are well protected, and the
Globe
lawyers knew the law better than I did anyway.

It was, nevertheless, a very damaging article for a candidate for public office. I didn’t need legal training to tell me that.

Julie brought me a mug of coffee. I kissed her hand. She gave me a gentle slap on the cheek. “Masher,” she said. “Don’t forget the Fallons. Ten-thirty.” And she eased me out of her chair so she could get to work.

I went back into my office and called Tom Baron.

“Me again,” I said. “Just read the article in the
Globe.
Wanted you to know that there’s nothing in it I can help you with. You’ve got yourself a political problem, not a legal one. Eddy Curry can help you, maybe. But not me.”

“Appreciate the thought,” he said dolefully. “Matter of fact, Eddy’s on his way over. We’re going to put our heads together. I got a summons from a bunch of party bigwigs. Eddy thinks they want to dump me. Trouble is, I got the feeling that Eddy may agree with them. That isn’t bad enough, Joanie’s semi-berserk. Thinks something’s happened to Buddy.”

“Maybe you should,” I said.

“Should what?”

“Bow out. Gracefully, now, before any harm is done.”

“Can’t,” he said quickly. “Won’t. I’ll never get another shot like this one. Nope. Going to scrap it out. Wish the hell you’d come on the team.”

“Well, I’m not.”

I spent the next hour or so on the phone, doing the things that make the legal profession exciting. I set up two luncheon meetings with attorneys for the next week, I declined an invitation to serve on an ad hoc committee for the Bar Association. I checked back with the Coast Guard, which had not found Frank Paradise’s boat. I reconfirmed my golf date with Charlie McDevitt. I called a travel agent about a junket to the Madison River in Montana. I touched base with a few clients.

A thrill a minute. Real Perry Mason stuff.

At ten-thirty Julie ushered three people into my office. Two of them turned out to be Steve and Cathy Fallon, an attractive young couple in their late twenties. The third was a younger woman with a weight problem named Eleanor Phelps.

The three of them sat on the sofa and I took the chair across from them. The Fallon couple sat close together. They seemed stiff, ill at ease, and they kept their hands folded in their laps. Eleanor Phelps slouched in the corner. I offered them coffee, which they declined.

“How can I help you?” I said.

Cathy and Steve Fallon looked at each other, and evidently succeeded in communicating something, because she said, “Dr. Segrue—he’s our doctor, you know—suggested that we tell you our problem.”

Doc Segrue had told me a lot of his problems. I had even solved some of them for him. I smiled and nodded encouragingly.

“Steve and I—we’ve been married for five years now. We want to have a child. We’ve tried everything.” She looked down at her clasped hands, which were wrestling with each other in her lap. “We’ve had no luck at all. Anyway, we finally went to the doctor. He tested Steve. You know…”

I nodded. “Sperm count.”

She smiled gratefully. “Yes. And he was fine. So then he tested me. It’s my fault.”

“It’s not a matter of fault,” said her husband quickly.

“Whatever,” she said, “I’ve got this problem. It doesn’t really matter what it is. It can’t be fixed. I’m—I’m sterile.” She blinked. “I hate the sound of that word. Anyhow, Steve and I can’t have children. Together, that is. Doctor Segrue suggested adoption. We’ve looked into it. It’s—we’d like to try something else. Use some of our genes. Surrogate motherhood. Eleanor—she’s my sister, you see—she’s willing.”

“You want your sister to have a baby for you?” I said.

“Yes. Steve would be the father.”

“By artificial insemination,” interjected Steve quickly.

Eleanor Phelps, from her corner of the sofa, giggled. “Immaculate conception,” she said. “Don’t you love it?”

Steve and Cathy did not seem amused.

“I’ll be happy to draw up a contract,” I told them. “But you’ve got to understand that I can’t make it legally binding.”

“Why not?” said Steve. “I thought that case—”

“Baby M,” I said. “New Jersey case. One case. A precedent, sure. But every case is different. No one knows how Massachusetts courts will go. Depends on the situation, the judge, the lawyers.” I spread my hands. “I’ll make the best contract for you that I can. But different case, different state, it could go to the biological mother.”