Client Privilege (12 page)

Then I started calling. I asked if I could speak to Karen. The first two told me there was no Karen living there and, no, they knew no Karen Lavoie. Then I got a no-answer. Then an answering machine, on which I left no message. I made a note to try that one again.

The fifth number was listed for John W. Lavoie on Centralia Street. A woman answered. “Hello?” she said. Her voice was soft and cheerful. I could hear the muffled sounds of television voices in the background.

“May I speak to Karen, please,” I said.

There was a long pause. “She’s not here,” said the woman, finally. I thought a note of caution had crept into her voice.

“When do you expect her?”

“Who is this, anyway?”

“My name is Brady Coyne. I’m a lawyer.”

“What do you want?”

“It’s a business matter. It concerns a mutual friend. A client of mine.”

I had contemplated an evasion. The Massachusetts Lottery Commission, congratulating Karen on a Megabucks windfall. An insurance salesman. A doctor with a laboratory report to deliver. But I don’t do that sort of thing very well. The vague “business matter” was as close as I could come.

“Karen doesn’t live here,” said the woman.

“Mrs. Lavoie,” I said. “Are you her mother?”

“Yes, that’s right. Is this some kind of bad news?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. Would you mind telling me how I can reach Karen? It is rather important.”

There was another pause. Judging by the television voices and the music that accompanied them, Karen’s mother was watching an afternoon soap. I pictured her in a humble but neatly kept flat with her ironing board set up in the living room in front of a giant color tube.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I don’t believe you.”

I began to protest. But she hung up.

I thought of redialing her number, pleading with her, explaining that it was, quite literally, a matter of life and death that I contact Karen. My life. Wayne Churchill’s death.

But I didn’t. I copied the phone number and Centralia Street address into my little breast-pocket notebook, then swiveled around to gaze out my office window.

If Karen had left the Clerk Magistrate’s office sixteen or eighteen years earlier to get married, as the secretary, Helen, had said, then I’d never find her by looking through the phone book. Because she’d have a different name. Mr. and Mrs. John W. Lavoie of Centralia Street in Medford would know where she was. Somehow, I’d have to persuade them to tell me.

My phone console buzzed. I rotated back to my desk and picked up the telephone. “Yes, Julie?”

“You got a call.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s a young woman, of course.”

Julie disapproved of just about all the women in my life, or at least all the young ones, and most of the middle-aged ones, too, excepting a few carefully screened clients. It was Julie’s belief that the only significant woman in my life was Gloria, and the fact that Gloria and I had been divorced for about a decade did not diminish her conviction that any woman I knew was a predator, and that my various liaisons with them constituted adultery. For Julie, it was an article of faith that one day Gloria and I would, as she put it, “get back together.”

So any woman under the age of seventy who called me on the phone was regarded by my secretary as a potential threat to my ultimate destiny of a joyous reconciliation with Gloria. Julie tended to be frigidly polite with such women. I kept reminding her that Gloria and I were permanently and completely divorced. I even told her that Gloria, from time to time, saw men other than myself socially. I suggested to Julie that it was conceivable that Gloria actually slept with some of them.

It made no difference. To Julie, all my interactions with women constituted marital infidelity.

The funny thing was that I kind of saw it that way too.

Not that it stopped me.

“What’s this young woman’s name?” I said.

“Suzie,” she said, scornful disapproval dripping from her voice, as if no woman who called herself “Suzie” deserved respect. “No last name. Shall I tell her you’re busy?”

“No. Put her on.”

I heard her sigh. “Well, you’re the boss,” she said, somehow implying that I wasn’t.

I pressed the blinking button on the console and said, “This is Brady Coyne.”

“Are you the gentleman who was at the Clerk’s office a while ago?” Her voice was soft and guarded, as if she was trying not to be overheard.

“Yes.”

“Listen. I think I better talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Wayne Churchill.”

“What about him?”

“Look. I can’t talk now. Can you meet me?”

“Yes, of course. Where and when?”

She mentioned a little restaurant near the courthouse that I had never heard of. She gave me directions. I agreed to be there at five-thirty.

“Does this have something to do with Karen Lavoie?” I said.

“I can’t talk,” she said.

“How will I recognize you?”

“I’m very beautiful,” she said. “Look for a beautiful blonde.”

I did Julie’s bidding for the rest of the afternoon, carefully ignoring the hints she left here and there that she wanted to know about Suzie, and at five o’clock I set forth on my second trip of the day across the river to East Cambridge.

The restaurant was several blocks from the courthouse. It was dimly lit and virtually deserted at five-thirty. I stood inside the door and blinked at the darkness. A hostess appeared and asked if she could seat me. I gazed past her and saw a hand wave from a booth along the wall.

“I’m with someone,” I told the hostess.

I walked past her and slid into the booth. Suzie had not lied. She was beautiful. She wore her blond hair long and straight, with bangs cut straight across at eyebrow level. Her eyes were widely spaced and icy blue. Her nose was straight and narrow and just a bit long for her face. Her mouth was wide, her lips full. She wore no makeup except for a touch of liner on her eyes. She didn’t need any.

I held my hand across the booth to her. She grasped it quickly and dropped it. “Brady Coyne,” I said.

“I’m Suzie.”

She was sipping on a draft beer. I lit a cigarette and waited. Her eyes kept darting from me to the foyer of the restaurant. She sipped, then her tongue flicked out to lick her upper lip. I reached across the table to touch her hand. “You’re nervous,” I said.

She smiled quickly. Perfect teeth. “Yes, I guess I am. I’m not sure I should be doing this.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“I could be.”

A waitress appeared with menus. I ordered a bourbon old-fashioned. Suzie said she was fine. When the waitress left, Suzie opened her menu and began to study it. Evidently, I was expected to buy her dinner. I looked at my menu. I would wait for her.

My drink appeared. Suzie ordered scallops. I chose the haddock. Seafood was usually safe in a Boston restaurant.

When the waitress wandered away, Suzie said, “Before I talk to you, I’ve got to know that you won’t tell anybody what I’m going to tell you.”

I nodded. “Okay. You got it.”

“I know lawyers are supposed to be able to keep secrets,” she said. “But they don’t always do it.”

“I always do it.”

“I can retain you, right?”

“Yes. Do you want to?”

She nodded. I tore a page from my notebook and began to write. I stopped. “I need to know your last name.”

“Billings,” she said after hesitating.

I finished writing. I slid the paper across the table to her. She read it and glanced up at me. “It’s Suzanne. Not Susan.”

I shrugged and wrote it again. I gave it to her. She nodded and I passed her my pen. “I, Suzanne Billings, do retain Brady L. Coyne as my attorney” was what it said. She signed her name.

“Put the date beside your name,” I said. She did, and gave the paper back to me. I signed underneath her name and handed it back to her. “You keep it.”

She tucked it into her purse, which was on the seat beside her. Then she sighed deeply.

“Okay, Mr. Coyne. Here it is. Ever since—since it happened—I’ve been worried sick. Scared. Feeling guilty. See, Wayne and I—”

“Churchill,” I said.

She waved her hand. “Yes. I was sort of his girlfriend.”

“Sort of?”

She smiled quickly. “He had lots of girlfriends. I always knew that. I never thought I was his one-and-only, or anything like that. Oh, Wayne would tell me that. But that was him. He was a very exciting man. Very charming, very handsome. Sexy. And he liked to take me to nice places. He was proud to show me off, I think. Banquets, openings of shows, political happenings.”

“You weren’t the one—”

“Who found his body? No. That was another one. Oh, I had a key to his place. A lot of us did, I guess. But no, that wasn’t me.” She hesitated, then frowned at me. “You don’t think…?”

I spread my hands. “A man is murdered. A girlfriend calls a lawyer, wants his confidentiality. She has a key to the condominium where his body was found. If you killed him, you can tell me. I may not agree to defend you, but I will be happy to advise you. And I will not violate your confidence.”

She was shaking her head. “It’s nothing like that, Mr. Coyne. I mean, if it was, I know a lot of lawyers I could call. That’s not why I called you.”

I shrugged. “Okay. I had to ask.”

She stared at me for a minute, then smiled. “Good. You’re not a bullshitter, are you? I like that. I’m not either. I’m just scared.”

“That someone will accuse you of his murder?”

“Well, maybe that, too. But that’s not why I’m scared. I mean, it’s scary to think the police might come and start questioning me and all. But I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Wayne. Sometimes I felt like it, believe me. But I didn’t.” She leaned toward me. Her hand touched my wrist. “If it ever came out what I did do, though, I’d lose my job. That’s what I’m scared of. Maybe I even did something illegal, I’m not really sure. It wasn’t murder, but it was wrong, and I feel terrible.” She paused. “Maybe what I did got Wayne killed, even. I don’t know.”

I patted her hand. She withdrew it. “Tell me,” I said.

“This afternoon Helen was talking to me. She’s the world’s biggest gossip. I mean, I wouldn’t tell her a thing. Anyway, she started telling me about this guy who came in trying to track down Karen Lavoie, and how she used to know somebody by that name, and how she was wondering if old Karen had done something wrong, because Karen used to be this wimpy little girl, or maybe it was somebody else named Karen Lavoie, which it probably was, because the Karen she used to know wouldn’t do anything wrong, she was a nice little Catholic girl who quit her job to marry her high school beau…. Anyhow, that’s how Helen talks, on and on, around and around, just these words coming out, as if anyone really cared. I mean, ninety-nine percent of the time, nobody does. Helen’s just a busybody. But when she mentioned Karen Lavoie, my ears perked up.”

“You know Karen?”

“Oh, no. I’ve only been in the Clerk’s office for four and a half years. Anyhow, after Helen wandered away—”

Our waitress suddenly materialized at our table with our salads. Suzie kept her head bowed until she left, as if she didn’t want the waitress to get a good look at her face.

When we were alone, she looked up at me. “Where was I?”

“After you finished talking with Helen.”

She took a bite of her salad. “Right. Helen said this guy—you—were talking with Sarah. So I found a chance to talk to Sarah. I just asked her who was the good-looking guy that came in while we were at lunch. She didn’t want to tell me at first, but then she gave me your name, said you were an attorney trying to get some information about a former client. Anyway, I looked you up and called you.”

“Suzie, you still haven’t told me about Wayne Churchill and Karen Lavoie.”

“I know. It’s hard.” She cut a piece of cucumber and put it into her mouth. Then she put down her fork and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Okay. About a week ago Wayne asked me what happened to criminal complaints when they’re dropped before they go anywhere, when there’s no process to issue. That’s the official term. No process to issue. I told him they’re filed away, alphabetically.”

“Alphabetically by what?” I said.

“By the name of the respondent. So Wayne asked me if these files were open to the public. Well, of course they’re not, Mr. Coyne. These particular files are not part of the public record. They’re just complaints. Not like cases. Anyway, what happens is that the application-for-complaint forms are filed, and a hearing is scheduled in the book, and after a couple years the files are emptied and the books are removed. Presumably they’re destroyed. But actually, the file cabinets are emptied into cardboard boxes and stored away.”

“Churchill wanted to look at these old files?”

She nodded. “That’s right.”

“And you let him?”

She bowed her head. “Yeah, I did.” She looked up at me. “It was wrong. It’s not that I’m this wide-eyed innocent kid. But it was important to Wayne. He said he was working on a big story, it was real important. Not just to him, but it was something the public had a right to know about. Wayne is—was—a very persuasive guy. And I guess I had fallen for him. I wanted to help him. It didn’t occur to me that he was using me, which I guess he was. I mean, pretty convenient, me working in the Clerk’s office, having access to those old files, huh?”

I shrugged. “So what happened?”

The waitress came back, took away our salad bowls, and delivered our plates. Suzie waited for her to leave. She ignored her scallops. “Wayne came in late one Friday afternoon. Everyone else had left for the weekend. I took him to the storeroom where all the cartons are stored, then I kind of stood guard outside. Maybe ten minutes later he came out with an old complaint application in his hand. Asked me to photocopy it. Which I did.”

“How old was the application?”

“Seventeen years ago.”

“Did you look at the application?”

She nodded.

I took a deep breath. “Who filed it?”

“The complainant’s name was Karen Lavoie.”

“And the respondent?”

Suzie frowned at me. “It was Chester Y. Popowski.”

“Oh, boy,” I breathed. “What was the complaint?”