The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer (37 page)

Joe shrugged and sipped his coffee. O'Hearn was
grinning at him.

"And another thing, Joe, speaking of past
adventures. Why aren't you married? I'd a thought you'd be quite the
family man."

"Forget it, Paul," said O'Hearn quietly.
He'd felt my kick under the table.

"Huh? Aw, c'mon. I know he's not gay. Joe,
you're not gay, are you?"

"No," said Joe. "I'm not gay."

"Paul. I said forget it, okay?" said
O'Hearn. He'd lost his smile. Keegan looked dumbfounded at all of us.

"I say something wrong?"

"It's a long story, Paul," I said. "Maybe
we'll talk about it some time."

I looked at Joe. He hadn't moved. just sipped his
coffee. But I noticed that a shiny curtain of sweat had formed on his
lip and his hands shook a bit. Keegan mumbled some kind of apology
and nobody said anything. There wasn't much talking after that, and
we got up to leave the Greek's. I left the tip. Keegan was making a
beeline for his cruiser parked down the street. O'Hearn and Joe were
walking back to Ten Ten. Kev had his arm around Joe's shoulder and
was trying to tell him a joke. Good old Kev. Joe seemed to be walking
okay, and when he turned to give me a quick goodbye, I could've sworn
he was smiling.
 

TWENTY-NINE

WELL, IT SEESAWED back and forth with the gang from
OEI. For a corporation with such a lofty name, and with stated
objectives and ideals as fancy as those that appeared in the
company's charter, it sure sounded strange to hear the partners
arguing—secondhand, as Mary and I were obliged to hear it from
Joe—about who really killed Andy Cunningham. Whitesides seemed to
us to be mostly in the clear, since his chances of financial gain
seemed to remain constant whether Andy lived or died. Henderson
remained the best suspect, not only because of his forceful
personality and fierce temper, but because he was most financially
strapped. And if Andy had indeed convinced Hunter Whitesides to dump
the other two and strike a deal on his own with Andy's help, then
he'd be left utterly out in the cold.

Michael Chisholm was the mystery man, a
mild-mannered, bearded guy with a doctorate in geology who seemed at
first blush immune from greed and financial pressures. But life is
full of surprises; in addition to the Isaacsons fingering Chisholm's
son, Jim, as the young man who came into their shop to pawn my radio,
Chisholm's estranged wife, Barbara, established that he was a
cokehead and a wife beater. Barbara was more than eager to document
his drug dependency, fits of temper, sullen depressions, and random
violence, not to mention his woeful financial situation.

With each passing day, the state guys up in Boston
tried to tighten the noose by playing one suspect against another.
Every day, more accusations and "proofs" were hurled at
each defendant by the others. But whenever the prosecutors thought
they had a chance to close the net, the defense lawyers intervened
and left them with nothing.

So while things got stickier and stickier between the
three erstwhile partners, definite tie-ins to Andy's death were not
established. Nobody on our side dared admit it, but it was becoming
clear that while we had them dead to rights on the oil scam, the
murder charge wasn't going anywhere. And Jack's trial date was fast
approaching. Mary was very down. So was I, but doing my best to hide
it.

Mary and I were down at the cottage that third week
in September, trying to have fun. Jack, who was still at Woods Hole
with his brother and Tom McDonnough, was keeping busy and trying to
get through life one day at a time. Still, we knew he was watching
the days slip by, and watching the dreaded date approach. Joe was
coming down to stay with us about every other night. He was growing
more tired and fidgety with each visit. "I don't know, you guys
. . . ," he sighed as he sipped his afterdinner cappuccino, "I
just don't know anymore. I was so sure we had 'em. Now, I just . . .
shit, I don't know . . ."

This was Friday night, September 22, six weeks to the
night since Andy Cunningham died. We were sitting out on the porch,
treating ourselves to yet another glorious sunset. "I'm
beginning to doubt we'll ever put them in the bag for it," Joe
continued wearily. "We're so close. And God knows we've got the
lawyers jumping through hoops, each guy busy trying to incriminate
the others. Christ, you'd think something would shake loose pretty
soon."

"You don't think they planned it together?"
asked Mary.

"We all thought so at first. But then came
Whitesides's voluntary confessional Monday, and his story seems to be
holding together. We did find a witness at Forrest House who recalls
him there most of the night in question."

"Mmmmm. But remember, it's only a little more
than an hour from there to here," I said. "That doesn't
necessarily clear him."

"No. But let's face it, Doc: it helps him."

"
Sure does. I don't think he's the killer,
anyway. Never did."

Joe finished his coffee and looked skyward, stroking
his stubbled chin.

"But this leaves an interesting blank," he
mused. "If not Whitesides, then who? For all their motivation,
it wasn't Henderson or Chisholm. They have an airtight alibi for that
Friday night; they were seen together in a bar in Falmouth until
after midnight. They may have killed the kid by doctoring his pills,
but they weren't up here the night he died. So if it wasn't them,
then who was it Andy met outside in the rain?"

"Maybe it was nobody," offered Mary. "Maybe
Andy was just so pissed off and upset he went out for a solo walk in
the rain."

"Yeah . . . shit," said Joe, lighting a
Benson and Hedges.

"And then you thought the other two must've
cooked it up together," I added. "But now, even that seems
shaky. If they'd acted together, there'd be a trip-up by this time,
wouldn't there?"

"Sure would. There'd be a catch in their
stories. Or more agreement in their stories. You know, something to
indicate that they'd worked out an alibi in advance. So far, we're
getting neither coordination nor contradiction in each story. Just a
bunch of chickenshit name calling and bad mouthing, with each guy
saying the other must've done it because he's such a sneaky, mean,
low-down son of a bitch. Typical partners in crime, I guess."

"Maybe they didn't kill Andy," I said.
"I've had the feeling for some time that these things from the
USGS lab weren't worth murder. Maybe Paul was right the first time;
maybe old man Hartzell did do it."

"That's what poor Boyd Cunningham thinks,"
replied Joe.

"He keeps calling me, crying and blubbering
about his son, saying he's sure Hartzell's the guy. He wants to know
when we're gonna lock him up."

"Poor guy; I really feel for him. But the fact
that there's no hard evidence to support it makes it hard to
swallow."

"Don't I know it," said Joe, dragging on
his cigarette.

"You know, speaking of Lionel Hartzell, it's a
shame," said Mary. "It turns out he's another casualty of
this whole business. Jack says that he's clearing out his office this
weekend, getting ready to leave the MBL. I guess he was just caught
in the crossfire. Listen Joey: Bill Henderson's the guy. He did it,
either with Chisholm or alone. Keep the pressure on; he'll crack
eventually."

"I will, Mare. You know that. We'll get Jackie
cleared. The way things stand now, too much has happened, too much is
revealed for things to grind to a halt. We're at a slow spot, but
it's not over. You watch: something's gonna turn up."

One hour later, after we'd
done the dishes and were sitting in the living room, it did.

* * *

There was a muted crackle of crushed stone in the
drive outside; the dogs jumped up, barking and raising hell. Joe got
up from his chair, turned down the Bach on the radio, and lifted a
corner of the curtain to peer outside.

"Well whadduyuh know," he grunted, "it's
Moby Dick himself."

"Moby Dick? What're you talking about, Joey?"

"It's the great white whale. C'mere."

"You're right," Mary said, joining him at
the window. "it is the great white whale!"

"What the—I said, hopping up and peering out
between them. They were right.

There it was: the big white Caddy Eldo, replete with
smoked glass windows, wire wheel covers, continental kit, television,
and broken phone.

It was our old pal, Slinky.
 

THIRTY

"Now what the fuck's he want?" murmured
Joe. "Shit, this makes my fuckin' day."

"Tch! Tch! Joey! You really should watch your
rnouth!"

Mary saying this. Right.

Eddie Falcone got out of the passenger's side. When
the driver, Vinnie, came out from behind the wheel, the big Eldo
cased up on its shocks about four notches. I could almost hear it
sigh with relief.

"Hmmph! I see he's brought his gorilla with
him," said Joe with a closed mouth. He sidestepped quickly over
to the chair where his sport coat was draped and jerked it away.
Underneath was his shoulder rig holding the Beretta. He withdrew the
pistol from the holster and set it on the end table, put his sport
coat on, then stuck the automatic inside his belt on his left side,
butt forward. All this was done in a flash, with no sound and no
wasted motion. Watching him, you knew he'd done it a few times
before. Still, it always makes me nervous when anybody jams a loaded
gun into their pants like that.

"Should we go somewhere?" asked Mary
softly.

"Hell no. It's your house, isn't it?"

The front door chimed and the dogs put up a racket.
Joe opened the door. Slinky stood in the doorway. He was wearing a
modified zoot suit with wide, padded shoulders and pleated pants. An
outfit you'd see on Miami Vice. Figured. But at least he didn't have
a black shirt and yellow tie. Vinnie, clad in a bronze-tone silk suit
that seemed stretched over his wide body, stood two steps behind him,
off to his right. just like Gunga Din in the Kipling poem, I thought,
the regimental water boy who was always found waiting "right
flank, rear." Only Vinnie was a hell of a lot bigger than poor
old Gunga.

"Lieutenant Brindelli. I was told you might be
here. I want to talk to the doctor."

"About what?"

"About Andy Cunningham," said Falcone.

Joe turned and looked at us. "Well? Shall we let
him in?"

"Why sure, Joey," said Mary. "Hi
Eddie. How are you, dear?"

Joe frowned at his sister, then stepped back from the
doorway. "Okay, but tell Gloria Vanderbilt here to wait in the
car, huh?"

Vinnie's jaw dropped at the mention of Ms.
Vanderbilt.

"Get the name right, pal," he managed,
rocking up and down on his toes.

"It's okay, Vinnie," said Falcone, crossing
the threshold. "Wait out here." Vinnie turned sullenly and
went back to the Eldo.

"Ah, Dr. Adams, it is indeed a pleasure,"
Slinky cooed as he entered the cottage. "And Mrs. Adams . . . so
nice to see you again. I hope you are well. My, how lovely you look
this evening."

"
Cut the shit," snapped Joe in a quiet
voice. "What's up Falcone? You're facing five to ten. I'm gonna
see you get inside. Now you come in here and disturb my family; I'm
gonna make it ten to twenty.”

Slinky held up his hand in polite resignation. Held
it up as if to stop Joe's unseemly references to incarceration. He
was nice as pie, was Slinky, and polite as a debutante.

"
See, what it is, I want to talk to you, Dr.
Adams, on account of the kid. Everybody knows the kid owed me money.
And like I said before, for some silly reason I have no paperwork on
the loan."

"
Tch! Tch! How careless of you, Eddie," Joe
chided, wagging his thick, hairy finger at the young man. "I
understand completely. You want maybe we should take it up with the
Better Business Bureau?"

Falcone waved him off, and Mary offered him a seat at
the kitchen table. He sat down and accepted a cup of coffee, tasting
it and smacking his lips.

"Wow, Mrs. Adams. You're as good a cook as you
are beautiful."

"Aw shucks," she said, smoothing down her
skirt. She was smiling. Falcone kept sipping his java and oooing and
ahhing. Joe was drumming his fingers and glaring at the kid. He
wanted to throttle him; I could tell. I just sat there, eager to hear
about Slinky and the kid. Falcone's dark, thinning hair was blown
back over his head, as if he'd been riding a motorcycle without a
helmet. He wore a cream-colored shirt, no tie, and his upper chest
was covered with gold chains over a rug of dark hair. I looked again
at his head and saw the inevitable bald spot beginning to spread on
the back of his crown. Happens every time; you got a hairy chest, you
get a bald head.

"
Okay, so here it is," he said, dabbing the
corners of his mouth with a napkin. "Andy Cunningham wasn't
paying me back. He said he didn't have the money. I pushed him a
little on it. Once Vinnie and me made a big push. But he still
couldn't come across, so I knew he just didn't have it. Lieutenant,
I'm saying this voluntarily, and will say the same thing in court.
But. I hope you aren't taping this conversation. Are you?"