Void in Hearts Read online

  “Just hold me for a minute.”

  So I did. She turned to me and burrowed her face into my chest. She rested her hands lightly on my hips. She kept her body bent away from contact with me. I stroked her back and said nothing. After a few minutes she shuddered and lifted her face to look at me.

  “My God, Becca! What happened?”

  Her left cheekbone was puffed out so that her eye was nearly closed. It was angry red. By tomorrow it would be the color of a ripe eggplant. I touched it with my forefinger and she jerked back. “It hurts,” she said.

  “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  She shook her head. “No. He only had to hit me once and I told him everything. I’m so sorry, Brady.”

  “Sit here. I’ll be right back.”

  I went into her kitchen and dumped out a tray of ice cubes into a towel. I found a half-full bottle of chablis in the refrigerator and poured two glasses. I took the ice and the wine into the living room. I put the glasses on the coffee table and made a cumbersome compress of the ice cubes wrapped in the towel. This I placed gently against her bruised cheek. “Hold this here. It’ll deaden the pain and keep the swelling down.”

  She obeyed. Then I handed her the wine.

  She smiled lopsidedly from behind the bulky ice pack and sipped from the glass.

  “Now,” I said, “do you think you can talk about it?”

  She nodded. “I’ll try. It’s not so much the pain. But I was so frightened. I thought he was going to kill me. He threatened to kill me. I—I wet my pants. I was humiliated and frightened at the same time. I would have done anything he said. I—I did what he said.”

  “Start from the beginning, Becca.”

  “Okay. I had been out shopping. I came home—it was, I don’t know, maybe eight-thirty or nine o’clock. I had two big bags of groceries. I was sort of balancing them on my hip, you know, trying to find my key in my purse. Finally I put the bags down—oh, this isn’t part of it. Anyway, I got the door open and I was bending down for the bags and—and that’s when he grabbed me. I don’t know where he came from, but he was there, right behind me, and his hand was on my mouth. It was so strong and tight I couldn’t yell or anything. He shoved me inside and half carried me up the stairs. When we got inside he whispered into my ear, he said, ‘If you scream I’ll kill you.’ He was very strong. I nodded my head. He moved his hand away from my mouth and grabbed my throat. He was waiting to see if I’d scream. I was so frightened—it was like I was paralyzed—I don’t think I could have screamed.”

  She paused, sipped her wine, and removed the ice pack from her cheek. “It’s numb now. It feels better,” she said. I leaned toward her and kissed the ugly bruise and she tried to smile. Only one side of her face seemed to be operational.

  “Anyhow,” she continued, staring down at her wineglass, which she held in both hands between her knees, “he sort of half carried me into the living room—here—and shoved me at the sofa. I landed on the floor. It was the first chance I had to see him. But he was wearing this ski mask. It looked like one of those hideous African tribal masks. All weird colors and a big mouth that looked like death.”

  “What else do you remember about him?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. “I was so scared…”

  “Try.”

  “He seemed so big. But he was probably average height. I don’t know. He had on a heavy coat. Dark color. Wool or something like that. He seemed—bulky. Heavy. Muscular. But maybe not. It’s so hard. His voice was muffled behind the mask. It was deep.” She shrugged. “He was a man. I guess that’s about all I’m sure of.”

  “What color was his skin?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know. I think he had gloves on. Yes. I remember his hand on my mouth. Leather gloves. His face and hands—all of his skin was covered. And his hair.” She looked beseechingly at me. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Look. You’ve been assaulted, that much is obvious. I’m going to call the police. Wait right here.”

  “Don’t. Please.”

  “Of course I will.”

  “He said not to.”

  I hugged her. “Shh,” I whispered. “He won’t be back. We’ve got to catch him.”

  I went into the kitchen and phoned the Somerville police. I gave my name and Becca’s address, told the businesslike male voice I was reporting an assault, and was informed that a cruiser was in the area and would be over directly. Then I went back to Becca.

  Her wineglass was empty. I refilled it and topped off my own.

  “The police are on their way. Now. Tell me what happened after he brought you in here.”

  “He shoved me. I told you that. I was on the floor. I started to stand up and he hit me. With his fist. Just—without warning or anything. I didn’t expect it. You don’t expect to get hit. He didn’t ask me a question or threaten me or anything. He just slugged me. Everything went black for a minute. And then he was beside me here, on the sofa, and that nightmare face was close to mine. He said, ‘Where’s the camera?’ I panicked. I didn’t know what he was talking about, and all I could think was that he was going to hit me again. I said, ‘What camera?’ I tried to pull away from him, and he grabbed my hair. He said, ‘Your husband’s camera.’ So I told him, and he went and got it. Then he came back and he grabbed my arm, here”—she touched her bicep—“and he squeezed me hard. He said, ‘Where’s the film that was in it?’ ‘Brady,’ I told him. I just—I gave him your name. I was so scared. I know I shouldn’t have. I had no courage.”

  I stroked her hair. “Shh. It’s all right. So you told him that I had the film.”

  She nodded and turned away from me. “I’m so sorry. Yes, I gave him your name. I was crying. My legs were all wet from—from being so scared. I guess he believed me. He stood up. He didn’t ask me anything else.”

  “He didn’t ask you who I was, where I lived, anything like that?”

  “No.” She frowned. “I don’t see—”

  “Then what?”

  “Then he told me not to call the police. He said not to move or he’d come back and kill me. I told him I promised. I guess he believed me. And I didn’t. I waited for a long time before I called you. I kept thinking he was trying to fool me, that he was hiding somewhere to see if I’d do anything. I started to call you several times. But I was so scared. Finally I did.”

  “Becca,” I said, “the police are going to ask you all these questions. Tell them everything you can think of. I’ll be here, but I won’t be able to help you. There are some things about the photographs and so forth that you don’t know, or that you know only because I told you. I’ll tell them about that. I’m your lawyer, remember. Tell them the truth. There’s nothing to hide.”

  She peered up at me. “My lawyer?”

  I shrugged. “And your friend.”

  She smiled and nodded.

  “Can you think of anything to identify the guy?” I said after an awkward moment. “Could you see his eyes through the mask? His teeth? Did his breath smell? Any kind of accent? What he was wearing?”

  She shook her head vigorously back and forth. “It’s hard. When he put his face close to mine…” She smiled quickly. “No. That was my own urine I smelled. Before I called you, I showered. I felt so dirty. Not just from wetting myself. Dirty all over.”

  The doorbell rang. I went downstairs to answer it. Two policemen were standing on the porch. One of them was the young red-haired cop named Kerrigan, who had been at the hospital the day Les died. I shook hands with him.

  “This is Cruikshank,” he said, nodding his head toward his partner.

  “Brady Coyne,” I said. “The lady’s lawyer.”

  We went upstairs. “Did you touch anything?” said Kerrigan.

  “Of course. My fingerprints are all over the place. The guy was wearing gloves anyway. The room is pretty much as it was when he was here.”

  “What happened?”

  “Mrs. Katz got beat up.”

  Kerrigan nodded
. I led them into the living room. Kerrigan kneeled in front of Becca as she sat huddled on the sofa. “Mrs. Katz,” he said gently. “Remember me?”

  “Officer Kerrigan,” she said softly. “Of course. I’m glad it’s you.

  Cruikshank stood off to the side while Kerrigan interrogated Becca. He did it in a very structured manner, and Becca’s responses were concise and to the point. I was gratified that he didn’t ask her anything that I neglected to think of.

  As I expected, he queried both of us closely about Les’s photographs, as well as the film I had taken from the camera. I did most of the talking, filling him in on my amateur detective work. As I talked, Kerrigan shook his head slowly in disbelief.

  “Has Hayden’s wife reported him missing?” he asked when I finished talking.

  “I don’t know. She hadn’t when I saw her.”

  “And as far as you know, the car, his Audi, is still at the Alewife station?”

  “It was there last Saturday.”

  Kerrigan was taking notes. He asked a few more questions and then snapped his notebook shut. “You’ll both have to come down to the station to make a complete statement. We can wait till morning for that.” He turned to his partner. “Al, you want to go down and radio this description in? Slim chance, but maybe somebody will spot the guy.”

  Cruikshank shrugged. “Doubtful he’ll still be wearing his ski mask.”

  After Cruikshank left, Kerrigan gestured for me to follow him into the kitchen. When we were beyond Becca’s hearing, he said, “The guy’s probably long gone, but we’ll stick close by.”

  “You think she might still be in danger?” I said.

  He shook his head. “Doubt it. He got what he wanted out of her.” He touched my shoulder. “You probably ought to be careful, though.”

  He went back into the living room and bent to pat Becca’s shoulder. Then I walked down the stairs to the front door with him. “You told me the first time we met that you were a rookie,” I said to him.

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “For what it may be worth, I think you handled this perfectly. I appreciate it.”

  “I told Al I should handle it, knowing Mrs. Katz and all. Normally he’d have been in charge. He’s senior to me. Thing is, I’m finding out you grow up fast on this job. I’m learning a lot. Remind Mrs. Katz to lock those doors.”

  Kerrigan joined his partner in the cruiser that was double-parked in front of Becca’s house. They sat in the front seat together for several minutes talking under the dome light. Then they pulled slowly away.

  I went back up to join Becca. Her wineglass was full. It was her third, at least. “They’ll be in the neighborhood all night,” I told her.

  She nodded, watching me.

  “So I guess I’ll get back home, let you sleep.”

  She raised her glass to her lips. “Won’t you stay?”

  I shrugged. “I could. I thought—”

  “Please?”

  I nodded. “If you’d rather. Probably best if I sleep on the sofa.”

  “No. I need to be held.”

  I smiled. “Well, okay.”

  She went into the bedroom, taking her wine with her. I straightened out the furniture in the living room. When I tiptoed into the darkened bedroom, Becca said, “You forgot Les’s stuff the other night. When you snuck out of here.”

  “I didn’t sneak. Where is it?”

  “In his den. By the chair.”

  I went into the den and found the attaché case. I took it into the kitchen and put it on top of the table, where I’d be sure to see it when I left. Then I returned to the bedroom.

  I undressed in the dark. Becca’s breathing was slow and rhythmic. I slipped between the sheets beside her. She stirred and groaned. I eased my body against hers. She wiggled against me, sighed, and mumbled, “I love you.”

  I kissed her shoulder. “My God, Coyne,” I said to myself. “Now what?”

  I woke up early, as I always do. From Becca’s bedroom window I could see the winter sky, still dark and starry. I rolled onto my stomach, but it was too late. I was awake for the day.

  I eased myself out of bed and dressed quietly. Then I bent beside her. “Hey,” I whispered. “Wake up for a second.”

  She rolled over and opened her eyes. “What?”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been run over by a truck.” Her eyes suddenly widened. I knew what she was remembering. “Oh, Jesus,” she said.

  I kissed her. “Listen. I’m leaving for a few hours. I want to go home, change, get cleaned up, call my secretary. I’ll be back at nine. We’ll go to the police station together. I want you to get up and do all the locks behind me. Okay?”

  “Do you always have to go like this?”

  “Hey, I’ll be right back. Come on, now.”

  She nodded. She got out of bed and shook herself so that her nightgown, which had been riding up over her hips while she slept, fell down around her. “You,” I said to her, “are truly a sight.”

  Her hand went to her cheek. “I must look awful.”

  “On the contrary. You are very sexy.”

  “You could stay, you know.”

  “I’ll be back. Promise.”

  I remembered to take Les’s attaché case. Becca followed me down the stairs. I kissed her at the doorway. “Remember the locks,” I said. “You’ll be all right. Be ready by nine, okay?”

  She yawned extravagantly. “Sure. Gonna get a little more sleep first. What time is it?”

  “Little after five.”

  “Brady,” she said, touching my arm. “Thank you.”

  “Sure, kid.”

  I love to drive in the darkness of early morning, when the roads are empty except for a few trucks, and no lights show in the windows of the houses, and you can get stations from Chicago and St. Louis on the car radio. Getting up at what most people consider ungodly hours makes me feel I’m getting my money’s worth out of the allotted hours of my life.

  I parked in my reserved slot in the parking garage in the basement of my apartment building, lifted Les’s attaché case off the seat beside me, and slid out of my car.

  I was halfway to the elevator when I heard the shriek of tires and the whine of an engine at high speed. I tried to throw myself sideways, but in the instant before the red explosion in my brain I heard the awful sound of glass shattering and metal crumpling, and when I failed to feel the pain I knew that it had to be bad.

  13

  I GREETED THE PAIN, when it arrived, with profound relief. But it hurt too much for me to remain grateful. It felt as if someone had driven a six-inch spike straight into my head, right through my left ear, and then commenced to wiggle it around inside.

  I lay on the concrete floor of the parking garage and conducted a cautious reconnaissance of my extremities. I tried to wiggle the fingers on my left hand. I felt nothing. I tried to lift my arm so I could examine my hand. It wouldn’t move. I pinched my left forearm. It felt as if it were not attached to my body. When I tried to move my head to see if my arm was in fact still affixed, pain fired in my elbow and armpit. I let my head fall back onto the cold concrete.

  I gazed around the parking garage. A thick gray cloud appeared to have settled in. I discerned blurry shapes. They were revolving slowly in a counterclockwise direction. My body seemed to be revolving with them.

  I heard a car door clank open, then the scrape of shoes on the floor. Then, from somewhere else in the bowels of the parking garage, came the sound of an automobile starting up. The shoes scraped quickly away and the car door chunked shut. I heard the car’s engine rev and speed away. The echo reverberated long after the car was gone.

  I settled into the concrete floor, which seemed as cushiony as a water bed under me. My mind drifted on the gray cloud.

  Later there were voices, engines, flashing red lights, out-of-focus faces, gentle hands, softer voices, a distant siren, a brief, sharp glimpse of the inside of the ambulance, a frowning black face peering
into my eyes.

  Vaguely, I was aware of my body having been immobilized, my head wedged firmly in place so I couldn’t move it from side to side. “What’s the matter with me?” I said. “I can’t move.”

  “Precautions, man. Just relax.”

  “How the hell do you expect me to relax? I can’t move, goddammit.”

  But the face moved out of my field of vision. I lay there, staring at the inside of the ambulance.

  They slid me out of the ambulance and wheeled me into the hospital. After what seemed like a very long time, the face of a very beautiful woman appeared over me. She had sleek black hair pulled back into a bun. It was streaked lightly with gray. “How do you feel?” she said.

  “My head hurts. I can’t feel anything in my arm.”

  “You’ve got a nasty bump.” She touched my eyelid with her forefinger and shone a sharp dart of light into my pupil. She repeated the process in my other eye. “Can you tell me your name?”

  “Yes, of course. Brady L. Coyne.”

  “What’s nine times eight?”

  “I always had trouble with the nines table.”

  She frowned impatiently. “Do you know who Larry Bird is?”

  “Best damn basketball player on earth, that’s who.”

  “Right. We’ll forgive you the nines table. Do you feel nauseated, Mr. Coyne?”

  “No. I told you. My head hurts.” I tried to look directly at her. I was still immobilized. “Why have they got me tied up like this?”

  “You were complaining of numbness in your arm. We—”

  “You think I broke my neck, right?”

  She frowned. Her eyes were very dark, almost black. “That’s a possibility. I’m going to do a few things. I want you to tell me what you feel.”

  She jabbed my toes, one at a time, with something sharp. I yelped ten times. She did the same with the fingers on my right hand. After a moment I asked her why she didn’t test my left hand. She nodded. “I did.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “It doesn’t necessarily mean—”

  “It means my neck’s broken, doesn’t it?”

  “The only thing it means is that you’ve had a cervical injury. It’s important that you remain immobilized until we know the extent of it. We’re going to give you a shot. You’ll sleep comfortably. Then we’ll get X rays.”