Close to the Bone (13 page)

“I know,” she said. “You’re right.”

“I didn’t hear anything like remorse out of him,” I said. “Just self-pity. Anyway, he’s drinking. He’s all set. And one of these days he’ll get into a car and smash into somebody else.”

Our waitress brought our salads and ground some black pepper onto them. “Anything else, folks?”

“Let’s have some wine,” said Alex.

“Not me,” I said.

“We
are not drunks,” she said.

I looked at her. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I glanced at the card on the table listing David’s recommended wines. “The sauvignon blanc?”

“Yes,” said Alex.

After our waitress left, I reached for Alex’s hand. “Did I misbehave?”

“No. You were rude to Glen, but he deserved it.”

“I didn’t embarrass you?”

“You never embarrass me.”

“I embarrass myself sometimes.”

“That’s another thing I love about you,” she said. “You’re such a sensitive guy.”

“Oh, shit,” I mumbled. “Anything but that.”

We ate our salads in silence, and then Alex patted her mouth with her napkin and said, “Brady?”

“Um?”

“We’ve got to talk about what we’re going to do.”

“What I’m going to do when you move, you mean.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Now?”

She cocked her head and smiled. “No. Not now. Let’s just have a nice meal. Now I want you to tell me all about what it was like when you were a little boy on opening day of the fishing season.”

“It always rained,” I said.

A string quartet was playing on the PBS radio station as we drove back to the city, and we listened to it without talking. After a while, Alex murmured, “Brady?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t mean to pressure you.”

“You aren’t, are you?”

“Not intentionally. Do you feel pressured?”

“Sometimes a man needs a nudge,” I said.

“There’s plenty of time,” she said. “Just try to figure out what you really want.”

“Easier said than done.” After a minute, I said, “You know what I really want?”

She reached over and squeezed my leg. I heard her chuckle. “Yes,” she said. “I think so.”

I
BEAT JULIE TO
the office on Monday and had the coffee all brewed for her. We sat in my office while I recounted the events of the weekend—my late-night phone call from Olivia Cizek, the people I had talked to in Newburyport, my Thomas Gall sighting, my encounter with the drunken Glen Falconer.

When I told her that Alex and I had met Joey’s plane, and that Gloria had been there, Julie’s eyebrows went up. “How did it go?”

“Go?”

“You know. How’d Gloria react?”

“It was Gloria’s idea,” I said. “She reacted fine. They both did. Everybody did.”

“Sometimes,” said Julie, “I don’t get it.”

“Gloria and I have been divorced for a long time,” I said gently.

She was shaking her head. “I know. Still…”

“Things change. You move on.”

“I always thought—”

“That Gloria and I would get back together. I know. I used to think that sometimes. But we’re not going to.”

“You love Alex.”

“Yes. I like Gloria. I care about her. I think she likes me, too. We’ve become friends. But I love Alex, and I think Gloria approves.”

Julie reached across my desk and put her hand on my cheek. “I do, too,” she said. “You’ve been happy with Alex.”

I thought of Alex moving to Vermont or Maine, and I wondered if I’d still be happy then. I decided not to discuss it with Julie. Not yet. I had to decide what I was going to do first.

I cleared my throat. “Not to change the subject,” I said, “but I think we better get to work. First off, let’s draw up a standard retainer contract for Olivia Cizek.”

“That poor woman,” said Julie.

I nodded.

“She must be feeling terribly guilty.”

“Guilty?”

“The marriage failed. He left her. And now…”

“If she’d been a better wife it never would’ve happened,” I said. “Is that what you mean?”

“It’s what she’d think.”

“It’s not as if she abandoned him,” I said. “It was the other way around. Why should she feel guilty?”

“It’s how women are, Brady.”

“Oh.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Cizek already have an agreement with us, you know,” she said. “Do you think a separate one with her is necessary?”

“Not really. But it’s what she wants.”

“Okay. Can do.” Julie stood up and smoothed her skirt against the sides of her legs. “Check your In box, Brady.” She started for the door, then turned. “I’m glad Gloria is okay,” she said.

“She is,” I said. “I promise.”

Julie went out to her desk and I sat behind mine. My In box, as usual, was piled with papers that needed pushing.

So I pushed them around for a while. My mind kept wandering to Olivia and Paul. I called Olivia at home. Her machine invited me to leave a message. “It’s Brady,” I told it. “Monday morning. I’ll try your office.”

Olivia was unable to come to the phone, her secretary told me. I left my name and number, emphasized that it was not urgent, and asked to have her return my call.

Then I called the Newburyport police. Lieutenant Kirschenbaum was on another line. I agreed to hold. I waited for the length of time it took me to smoke a cigarette before he growled, “Kirschenbaum.”

“It’s Brady Coyne, Lieutenant,” I said. “I’m—”

“I remember you,” he said. “The Cizek thing. What’s up?”

“I wondered if you had any news.”

“No.”

“They haven’t found Paul’s body, then.”

“I guess that would qualify as news, Mr. Coyne, don’t you think?”

“I guess it would.”

“That’s why you called?”

“No,” I said. “I wanted to share something with you.”

“Sharing is good. One of those virtues you learn in kindergarten. Some guy made millions on a book about all the good stuff you learn in kindergarten. Share away, Mr. Coyne.”

I told him about my conversation with Dolph at the boat ramp, my examination of Paul’s boat at the Coast Guard station, and my visit with Maddy Wilkins at Paul’s cottage on Plum Island. “And when I left,” I said, “Thomas Gall was standing there outside the house. When I called to him, he walked away, got in his truck, and drove off. You know who Thomas Gall is, don’t you?”

“Refresh my memory.”

“This past winter Paul Cizek defended the man who killed Gall’s wife in an auto accident. The jury came back with a ‘not guilty’ verdict. At the end of the trial, Gall threatened Paul. He yelled, ‘I’ll get you,’ or something to that effect.”

“So you think he got him, huh?”

“I don’t know what to think. The girl said he’d been there before. So he knew where Paul was staying. If anybody had a motive—”

“We don’t even know if Cizek’s dead, Mr. Coyne. All we know is that his boat was adrift in the storm.”

“He wasn’t fishing. There was no bait aboard. So why was he out there?” I paused, then said, “According to his wife, he was not heavily insured, by the way.”

Kirschenbaum chuckled. “Yeah, I thought of that.”

“I thought you might have. I suppose you could check on the insurance, but—”

“Look,” said Kirschenbaum, “I appreciate your help, I really do. I’ll keep this Gall in mind. But, you know, we law enforcement people pretty much limit our work to solving crimes and apprehending criminals, and so far we don’t seem to have a crime here. All we’ve got is a boat, you know?”

“Sure. I know that.”

“But you’re trying to make a murder case out of this.”

“No, I’m not. I’d rather Paul was alive. But it doesn’t look like he is.”

I heard Kirschenbaum sigh. “No, it doesn’t look that way, and I really don’t mean to be short with you. I’m glad you told me about this Gall character and the insurance thing. Anything else, don’t hesitate to call. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And if we learn anything, I’ll pass it along to Mrs. Cizek.”

“Since I’m her lawyer,” I said, “it might be better if you pass it along to me.”

“Because if it’s bad news, you should be the one to break it to her. You being more sensitive and caring than me.”

“Exactly,” I said.

Olivia returned my call around noontime. “Have you heard something?” she said.

“No. Nothing. You?”

I heard her sigh. “No.”

“I’m glad you’re working,” I said.

“It gives me something to do.” She hesitated. “Brady?”

“Yes?”

“I think it would be better if you didn’t call unless you had something to tell me. I mean, I appreciate your concern, but when I saw that message from you, my heart started pounding and I felt like I had to throw up. Right now I’m figuring that no news is—well, at least no news is not bad news. I was so grateful to be able to come to work today. The weekend was hard. This gives me other things to think about. Do you understand?”

“Sure,” I said. “No problem. I do understand.”

“You’re awfully sweet. And I do want to put this on a businesslike basis.”

“I’m having Julie draw up a contract. We’ll send it out to you this afternoon. And we’ll do business when and if there’s business to be done.”

“Good,” she said. “I’ll sign it and write you a check and get it back to you.”

“It’s not necessary, you know.”

“I’m more comfortable with it this way.”

I ushered the day’s last client out of my office on Wednesday afternoon. It was four o’clock, which, if I didn’t dillydally, would give me just enough time to zip home, change my clothes, gather up some gear, and drive out to the Squannacook River in Townsend, where the trout would be feeding on mayflies. An attractive plan, I thought. I would do it. I owed myself one.

About then Julie tapped on the door, pushed it open, and stuck her head into my office. Her eyebrows were arched in her “May I come in?” expression. I crooked my finger at her, and she came in.

She closed the door behind her and stood in front of my desk. “Brady,” she said, “there’s a man here who wants to see you.”

“He doesn’t have an appointment?”

“No.”

“You never let anyone see me without an appointment,” I said. “I was actually thinking of going fishing.”

“He’s been waiting all afternoon. I told him you’d see him when you were done.”

I slumped back in my chair. “He must be awfully persuasive. Or desperate. What’s he want?”

“I don’t know. He’s desperate, I think. He came in, said he needed to see you, and when I told him he could make an appointment, he just sat down and said he’d wait. I told him you were tied up all afternoon, and he said that was okay. He’s been sitting there jiggling his knee and flipping through your old
Field & Stream
s.”

“You’re telling me I should see him.”

She nodded.

“Even though he doesn’t have an appointment and he’s not one of our clients.”

She shrugged.

“The whole damn trout season is passing me by.”

“He seems like a nice, quiet man with big problems.”

“Fine. Okay. I’ll see him.” I shook my finger at her. “But don’t you ever again accuse me of being a softie when I make house calls or forget to record all my billable time,” I said, in what I thought was a convincing growl.

Julie grinned, came around the desk, and planted a wet kiss on my cheek. “You’re a nice man,” she said.

“I’m a sucker, is what I am,” I said.

She went out, and a minute later she came back, followed by a short, round man with a high forehead and gray hair and dark eyes. He wore khaki pants and a green linen sport jacket, blue-and-white striped shirt, no tie, and a shy smile.

“Mr. Coyne,” said Julie, “this is Mr. Vaccaro.”

I stared at the man for a moment, then nodded. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been wearing a camel-hair topcoat in Skeeter’s Infield, and he’d been talking to Paul Cizek. “We’ve met,” I said to Julie. “Thanks.”

She frowned for an instant, then shrugged and left the office, closing the door behind her.

I settled back in my chair. “What can I do for you, Mr. Vaccaro?”

“I need a lawyer.”

“Who referred you to me?”

“No one. At least, not exactly. See, Mr. Cizek is my regular lawyer. Paul Cizek?”

I nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Well, Mr. Cizek defended me. Almost two years ago, it was. And now—”

“I know all about you,” I said.

He looked at me without expression.

“You work for the Russo family,” I said. “Vinny Russo pays you to kill people. You shoot them in the eye. You’re famous for that. You murdered an old man in a North End restaurant.”

He shrugged. “They found me innocent.”

“They found you not guilty,” I said, “which is a lot different. Look, Mr. Vaccaro. I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m not a criminal lawyer. I can’t help you.”

“You mean you don’t want to help me,” he said.

I nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Mr. Cizek is missing,” he said. “I need him.”

I didn’t say anything.

Vaccaro leaned forward. “You’re looking for him. So am I. We can help each other.”

“What makes you think I’m looking for him?”

He sat back in his chair and shrugged.

I lit a cigarette and looked at him through the smoke. “Why did you come here, Mr. Vaccaro?”

“I want Mr. Cizek. Look, can I tell you about it?”

I shrugged. “You’ve already ruined my fishing plans. Go ahead.”

“Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said again. “Yeah, the cops had me by the nuts for poppin’ that old guy in Natalie’s. What they wanted was for me to give them Vinny Russo. You know, testify against him. They knew I coulda done it. I give them Uncle Vinny, they let me go. You know, move me someplace, give me a new name and some money. I told ’em no fuckin’ way. I know how those deals work. The Russos’d find me in a month. I’d be a dead man. I told ’em to go fuck themselves. I’m better off going on trial. I figured they’d put me away. But Uncle Vinny got Mr. Cizek to defend me and he got me off.”

“So what’s your problem?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Now I think that prick Russo’s gonna have me hit. I stood up for the son of a bitch, and now he decides he don’t trust me. I wanna go back to the feds and give ’em Vinny and every other fuckin’ Russo in Boston.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Do it. It’s your civic responsibility.”