Tight Lines (19 page)

I got home around eleven. Dave Finn called a little before midnight. When I answered the phone, he said, “Man, I hope you can tell me that what I think I’m hearing ain’t true.”

“You heard about Mary Ellen, then?”

I heard him expel his breath. “Oh, shit. It’s true, then, huh?”

“She’s dead. Yes. How did you hear it?”

“I’m a cop, remember?”

“I understood you were suspended.”

“I didn’t tell you that, did I?”

“No.”

“Well, yeah. I got shafted is what happened. Suspended without pay. I mean, I didn’t do nothin’ everybody else doesn’t do. Anyways, that’s not important. I want to know about Mary Ellen.”

“You haven’t been interrogated about it?”

“Why should I be?”

“I gave your name to a state policeman.”

“Oh, boy. Thanks. Just what I need. Who, Horowitz?”

“Yes.”

“No, nobody questioned me. I just caught a rumor that Horowitz was investigating something. Not even her name. It just—sounded like her. I figured, I’m so worried about her I’m just imagining it. God. It is her, then.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“What happened?”

“She drowned in a pond in New Hampshire.”

“No way she drowned. She was a fuckin’ porpoise in the water.”

“I’m just telling you what I was told.”

“Only way that girl drowns is if someone holds her head under water. Even then, I doubt it. She’s a strong kid.” He paused. When he spoke next, his voice had a brittle edge to it. “They trying to make it out she killed herself?”

“I don’t think so. They haven’t figured out how it happened. I guess that’s still a possibility.”

“Like hell it is. She was in great shape. She was going to her shrink there like every day, talking about the future, happy and laughing all the time, just a happy kid. I’m telling you, Mr. Coyne, she didn’t drown by no accident, and she didn’t commit suicide, either.”

“There’s only one other possibility, Dave.”

“Don’t I know it.” He whooshed out a breath into the receiver. “I wasn’t a detective for twenty-two years for nothin’, you know. Somebody killed her is what happened.”

“Well, okay. The sixty-four-dollar question, then.”

“Who? Hell, I oughta be able to figure that out. Gotta think about it.”

“Well, when you do, let me know, okay?”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe what else?”

“Lissen. I was gonna marry that girl. What’d you do, somebody killed the girl you were gonna marry and you figured out who it was?”

“I’d turn him over to the authorities.”

His laugh was ironic and short. “Well, pal, I usta be one of them authorities of yours, and I know how all of ’em operate, and I’ll tell you this. If I was looking for justice here, the authorities ain’t where I’d be looking.”

“Well, I’m not one of those authorities, myself,” I said. “So maybe you could share your insights with me before you go searching for justice.”

“Maybe I will. I’ve got your number.”

“I don’t have yours, though,” I said.

“I ain’t got one is why. I’m living in a trailer, for God’s sake. You go six or eight weeks without a paycheck, you’ve gotta scramble a little. Friend’s letting me stay here for a while. I’m out here in the boonies. Little trailer in the woods. I’m at this friend’s house right now. Just down the road from my cozy happy home. And I gotta get off, because they’re getting ready for bed. So look. Anything comes up, maybe I’ll give you a jingle.”

“Okay. Do that.”

I hung up the phone slowly. Another vote against an accident and against suicide. By process of elimination, a vote for murder.

Dave Finn didn’t sound like a man who had murdered his girlfriend. But I still didn’t like the way he sounded. He certainly sounded capable of murdering somebody.

“T
HOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE
to hear about those toxicology screens,” said Horowitz when he called me the next morning.

“Absolutely,” I said. “What’d they find?”

“Small amount of alcohol. Equivalent of one shot of booze, can of beer, glass of wine. She wasn’t drunk. Traces of cocaine and marijuana, too, but the ME says that was old stuff, not relevant to her death. But something pretty interesting.”

Horowitz paused, so I said, “Well, I trust you’re going to tell me.”

“You mentioned that drug Pertofrane, right?”

“Yes. She had a prescription. It’s an antidepressant.”

“Well, the ME ran a screen for Pertofrane, and guess what?”

“Come on, Horowitz.”

“Well, he found it. Not just in her blood, but in her stomach, too. You understand what that means?”

“Obviously. She took her medication the morning she died.” I hesitated. “Well, sure. I know exactly what it means. It means, assuming the drug was doing its job, that she wasn’t depressed. And if she wasn’t depressed, she’d be unlikely to kill herself. Hell, if you’re intending to kill yourself, you probably aren’t real conscientious about taking your medicine anyway.”

“The ME agrees with you.”

“Also,” I said, “it means she was home the same day she died. The prescription bottle was still in her medicine cabinet on Beacon Street. So she must have gotten up, taken her pills, then driven up to Teal Pond. Where, eventually, she drowned.”

“Yup,” he said. “They found her little Porsche tucked under the pine trees beside her cottage.”

“And of course they’re doing all sorts of forensics on the car and the cottage, right?”

“Hell,” said Horowitz, “I don’t know about that.”

“But,” I said. “Somebody must have killed her. That’s the only explanation left.”

“The New Hampshire guy is going for an accident, Coyne. Everything points to it.”

“Except for the fact that she was a strong swimmer.”

“So she panicked. Got a cramp. Who knows?”

“Christ,” I muttered.

“Well,” said the cop after a moment, “I just thought you’d like to know.”

“Did those toxicology screens show anything else?”

“You know how they work,” said Horowitz. “They’ve gotta be looking for it if they’re gonna find it. They always check out alcohol, coke, grass, some of the other nasty stuff. That’s routine. I told them to look for Pertofrane. If they hadn’t of looked, they wouldn’t of found it.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Do? Me? In this case, I’m doing what the ME asks me to do. It’s his case. It’s all I can do. And he’s not asking me to do anything. He said thanks for all my help, he can handle it from here. That’s what I’m doing.”

“That’s it?” I said.

“Coyne, it’s not like I’ve got nothing else to worry about.”

“I wasn’t accusing you of anything.”

“Yeah, well I got a boss here, you know. And he’s already pissed about all the time I’ve taken away from a whole bunch of good high-profile Massachusetts cases to help out our friend up there in New Hampshire. So…”

“You agree with me, don’t you?” I said. “You think somebody murdered her, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. Yeah, maybe I do. But it’s their case.”

“This doesn’t seem right.”

“Tell it to the judge, Coyne.”

I had nobody to tell it to. But I thought about it for the rest of the morning, and I was still thinking about it after lunch when Julie buzzed me. “Call on line one,” she said. “An attorney named Elizabeth McCarron.”

I pressed the button and said into the phone, “Brady Coyne.”

“Mr. Coyne,” she said, “I have just spoken to Susan Ames’s associate, a Miz Fiori, and she asked me to confer with you.” She had a deep voice that managed to sound both sultry and masculine. “I wonder if I could buy you a drink at, say, around six this afternoon.”

“I’m available,” I said, “and I hardly ever turn down a free drink. What’s up?”

“It has to do with Mary Ellen Ames’s will, and I’d rather discuss it in person with you, if that’s all right.”

“Okay. That’s fine. Where do you want to meet?”

“Well, you’re in Copley Square, so how about J. C. Hillary’s? That should be convenient for you.”

“It is. There are booths in the bar. Where are you coming from?”

“My office is on State Street.”

“I’ll try to get there early and grab a booth,” I said. “How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll be the tired-looking redhead.” She laughed. “I’ve got on a lime green suit, which matches my eyes and sets off my hair, which is the color of a pumpkin. I’m about five-ten. Really, I’m hard to miss. What about you?”

“Oh, I’m a handsome devil. Fortyish. I’ll be wearing a lawyer suit.”

“Gray pinstripe, huh?”

“You got it. With a vest. And a blue tie with a school of little rainbow trout swimming on it. So Mary Ellen had a will, huh?”

“Yes. We’ll talk about it. See you at six.”

I got to J. C. Hillary’s at quarter of six and slipped into the only available booth by the bar. I sat facing the entry so I’d see Elizabeth McCarron when she came in. A waiter appeared with a menu. I told him I didn’t expect to be eating, but I could use a shot of Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.

I had just taken my first sip and lighted my first cigarette when she appeared. As promised, she was hard to miss. None of the businessmen at the bar missed her. They all swiveled around and stared. The little narrow lime green skirt stopped several inches above her knees, leaving what looked like several yards of slim, shapely leg showing below. Her magnificent mane of red hair flowed over her shoulders. It was burnished brown, not really orange—more the color of autumn oak leaves than pumpkins. She had a wide mouth, snub nose, and lots of freckles. In her high heels she looked as if she’d be able to stare Kevin McHale straight in the eye.

She paused in the doorway, frowning myopically. I waved. She smiled and came over. She held out her hand to me. “Liz McCarron,” she said.

I took her hand. “Brady Coyne. Come on. Sit down. You look beat.”

She slid in across from me. “Boy, you got that right. I was in court all afternoon. Old Judge Crocker had a hair up his ass.”

“Crocker usually does,” I said. I held up my glass of Blackjack. “I already started. What’ll you have?”

“Scotch.” She looked around.

The waiter was already staring at her, so when she caught his eye he came instantly to our booth. “Ma’am?”

“Cutty on the rocks.”

He left. She put her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. “So. You’re a smoker, huh?”

I glanced down at the cigarette that was smoldering in the ashtray. “Yes. Afraid so.”

“Ugh.”

“I’ll put it out if it bothers you.”

She waved her hand. “Naw. Give me one.”

I held my pack out to her. She plucked one out. I held my Zippo for her. She steadied my hands with hers and lit up. She blew out a long plume of smoke. “Ahh, this is evil,” she murmured. “Damn, I miss these things.”

The waiter slid her drink in front of her. She picked it up and sipped. Her tongue slithered out and touched her upper lip. “This, too,” she said. “Evil. Delicious.” She looked at me. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Brady Coyne.”

“Oh-oh.”

“Nothing bad.” She waved her hand. “Seems like every lawyer in town knows you except me. You’ve got an, ah, interesting reputation.”

“Interesting?”

“You’ve managed to corral the wealthiest folks in Greater Boston for clients. Most everyone I know envies you.”

“That just makes them work harder to beat me,” I said. “Being envied is not such a good thing.”

She smiled. “Well, you and I aren’t likely to be adversaries here, so we needn’t worry about envy.” She sipped her drink, puffed at her cigarette, and cleared her throat. “Mainly, I just was hoping we could smooth out some things.”

“Good. I like things smooth.”

“Here it is. I did a will for Mary Ellen Ames about three years ago. As you know, she has died. The main beneficiary is her mother, Susan Ames, who is your client. I spoke with her secretary this afternoon, a Miz Fiori?”

I nodded. “Yes. Her general factotum. Terri Fiori.”

“Okay. She referred me to you. She indicated that Mrs. Ames is unwell.”

“She’s dying.”

“Right. Which complicates things.”

“It sure as hell does, since Mary Ellen was the primary beneficiary of Susan’s estate, too.”

“Yes. But if you and I work together, we should be able to simplify it. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” I said. “But not over drinks.”

“No. Of course not. I just wanted to meet you and make sure we were on the same wavelength.”

The waiter came to the booth. “Another round, folks?” he said, looking only at Liz McCarron.

“Not me,” she said. “One more’ll put me on my ass.”

I waved my hand. “I’m fine.”

The waiter hesitated, then left with a show of reluctance.

“You said Susan was the main beneficiary,” I said. “There are others?”

She nodded.

“Can you tell me who they are?”

“I don’t know why not. You’ll see Mary Ellen’s will soon enough. There are two others. A Sidney Raiford and a Sherif Rahmanan. Mary Ellen had many assets. These two gentlemen stand to inherit one hundred thousand pre-tax dollars apiece from this.”

“No shit,” I muttered.

“No shit, Counselor.” She was grinning. “You know them?”

“Raiford and Rahmanan? A little. I wonder if they know about this will.”

“I have no idea. They’ll find out soon enough.”

“Did you know Mary Ellen well?” I said.

She shook her head. “I didn’t really know her at all. She came to us for a will, as I said, about three years ago. Somebody referred her, I guess. Can’t remember who, if she ever mentioned it. It was a just a will, no big deal. They gave it to me. She had a lot of money, but it was a very simple will. As I said, everything went to her mother except for the cash to the two other guys. I haven’t seen her since then.”

“Well, we ought to get together soon,” I said. “Best if we clear away the underbrush while Susan’s still alive.”

“Yes. Good. I’ll call you and we can set something up.”

“Want some supper while we’re here?” I said.

She shook her head. “It sounds delightful, but I’ve got a desk I haven’t seen the top of in a month waiting for me.”

“You’re going back to the office at this hour?”

“I go back to the office at this hour every day,” she said. “Except on those days when I haven’t had an excuse to leave it in the first place. Then I just stay there. Saturdays and Sundays, usually, too. Sometimes by the time Sunday evening arrives I actually get to see a little patch of desktop. Of course, by Monday morning it’s covered up again.”