Seventh Enemy Page 13

  “Are those what they sound like they are?”

  He nodded. “Semiautomatic paramilitary weapons. Assault guns. But before you get all excited, keep in mind that the .223 is a common varmint load. Winchester and Remington, among others, make rifles chambered for the .223. They probably hunt varmints up in those hills, but they don’t use varmint rifles for turkey hunting.”

  “Whatever kind of gun it was,” I said, “it was no accident. Find any fingerprints on those cartridges?”

  He shook his head. “A few smudges. Nothing useful.”

  I shrugged. “Too bad.”

  “These shots,” said Horowitz. “They came close together? Like about as fast as a person could pull the trigger?”

  I nodded. “There was one shot, then a pause, then several. Yes, about as fast as you could pull the trigger. Like a semiautomatic.”

  “All the lab could tell us,” he said, “was that the same gun fired those three cartridges. They can’t tell us anything about the gun. Of course, if they had the gun, they could match it with the marks of the firing pin and the ejectors on those cartridges.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Well, anyhow, it’s all academic,” he said. “Unless the local cops want to invite the state cops in, it’s their case. Of course, if Kinnick should die…”

  “Then it would be your case.”

  “Right. Then it would be a homicide. We’ve got plenty of cases already. Probably not worth it, having him die.”

  “Probably not.” I said.

  I was watching the ball game that evening when my intercom buzzed. “What’s up, Tony?” I said into it.

  “There’s a couple of people here who want to see you, Mr. Coyne.”

  “Who are they?”

  I heard a murmur of voices. Then Tony said, “They told me to tell you it’s government business.”

  “Shit,” I said. “The IRS this time of night?”

  “I don’t think they’re IRS, Mr. Coyne.”

  “Well, in that case I guess you can send them up.”

  “They’re on their way.”

  A couple of minutes later there was a discreet knock on my door. I padded stocking-footed to it and opened up. A man and a woman stood there. He wore a conservative gray business suit with a blue tie. She wore a green pants suit. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties. He was a few years younger. They had grim faces, trim bodies, and short haircuts. They could have been big sister and little brother, and I thought for just a moment that they were handing out copies of The Watchtower.

  “Special Agent Krensky,” said the woman. “This is Agent Tilson.”

  She held up a leather folder and let it fall open. I squinted at it. The words “Secret Service” jumped out at me.

  “You sure you’ve got the right apartment?” I said.

  “You’re Brady Coyne?”

  I nodded.

  “May we come in?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  I stepped aside. They hesitated, so I turned and walked back into my living room. They closed the door and followed behind me.

  “Want some coffee or something?”

  “No, thank you,” said Agent Krensky.

  “Have a seat.” I gestured at the sofa.

  “That’s all right, thanks.”

  So the three of us stood there in the middle of my living room. I reached over and turned off the volume on the television. The Sox had a one-run lead in the eighth, and I figured I could at least keep an eye on the action.

  “So what can I do for you?” I said.

  “We take all assassination threats very seriously,” she said.

  “Oh well—”

  “You are the Brady Coyne who called Senator Kennedy’s office on Monday?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you did leave a message threatening him with an assassination attempt.”

  “Yes. Well, no, not exactly. You see—”

  They were both staring at me.

  “Oh, Jesus,” I said. I began to laugh. Neither Agent Krensky nor Agent Tilson so much as smiled. I took a deep breath. “Look. I didn’t threaten the senator. I warned him. I called Senator Kerry’s office, too. They’re on an enemies’ list, and the person at the top of that list has already been shot. So I was trying to be a good citizen.”

  “You didn’t threaten the senator?” This was Agent Tilson, speaking for the first time.

  “Shit, no. What did that girl tell you, anyway?”

  The two of them exchanged glances that defied interpretation. Then Krensky said, “What’s this enemies list?”

  “Hang on. I’ll show you.” I went over to my rolltop desk. Tilson followed right behind me. I rummaged among the papers until I found the SAFE newsletter. I handed it to Tilson.

  He turned it over to Krensky who frowned at it and then arched her eyebrows at me. “You better explain,” she said.

  So I explained about SAFE and Wally’s testimony, the confrontation in Dunkin’ Donuts and the phone calls Wally had received. I told them about how Wally got shot in the stomach and how he was doing okay at Mass General. I told them that, personally, I found it a bit unnerving to be on that enemies’ list, and I figured that the senator might want to know that he was on it, too.

  Agents Krensky and Tilson shrugged at each other. “How about that coffee, Mr. Coyne?” said Krensky. “Is it already brewed?”

  I poured three mugs of coffee, and we sat in the living room sipping it. “Didn’t figure you for an assassin,” said Tilson. “Nothing in your files.”

  “You’ve got files on me?”

  He smiled. “Why, sure.”

  “But you know the senator’s history,” added Krensky. “And that of his family. The word ‘assassination. sends up a red flag, as you can imagine.”

  “That girl I talked to must’ve garbled my message.”

  She shrugged. “If it’s any comfort to you, Mr. Coyne, you should know that the senator’s name is on many enemies’ lists. SAFE is only one of them. We’ve investigated the organization very thoroughly, of course. They are under constant surveillance. There is absolutely no hint of subversion or conspiracy or any illegal activity whatsoever.”

  “Plenty of paranoia, though,” I said. “Hell, they publish a list of enemies and distribute it to guys with guns. What do they expect? It doesn’t need to be the organization. It could be an individual. A vigilante. Some nutcake acting on his own.”

  She nodded. “We take these things very seriously. I assure you. This—um, this incident with Mr. Kinnick—we’ll certainly see that it’s followed up.” She paused to sip her coffee. “I expect that Mr. Kinnick does have his enemies. Perhaps one of them learned that he is on the SAFE list and figured that suspicion would fall on them.”

  “I thought of that,” I said.

  “I assume the local police are investigating.”

  “Yeah, the sheriff out there in Fenwick is all over the case.”

  She smiled.

  “You should talk with Lieutenant Horowitz. He’s with the state police. Friend of mine.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Look, if you think I’m overreacting—”

  “No,” she said. “You’re not. And neither are we. You should always react. Ninety-nine percent of the time there’s nothing to it. But if you react quickly and alertly at that one-hundredth time you can prevent a tragedy.”

  While Krensky talked, Tilson casually picked up his mug and began wandering around my apartment. Somehow I didn’t think he was studying my decor or admiring my profoundly untidy housekeeping habits. No, he was taking inventory, applying his training, drawing inferences about my character and stability from what he saw. comparing all the pieces of evidence with the classic assassin profiles he’d studied.

  And it suddenly occurred to me that these Secret Service agents were trained to mistrust people, and they knew exactly how to handle people whom they mistrusted. Chat with them. Be friendly. Sip coffee with them. Make them drop their guard. Get them talking. See what
they reveal.

  It gave me a small insight into paranoia.

  “You believe me, don’t you?” I said.

  “About what, Mr. Coyne?” said Krensky.

  “That I wasn’t threatening the senator.”

  “You weren’t, were you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Why shouldn’t we believe you?”

  “You should believe me. My friend was nearly killed.”

  She smiled. “Of course.” she said. Then she plunked her mug down onto the coffee table. As if that was a cue, Tilson came back and put his mug down, too. Krensky stood up. So did I. We walked to the door.

  Krensky turned and held out her hand. “We’re sorry to disturb your evening, Mr. Coyne.”

  “That’s okay. It’s good to know you folks are on the ball.”

  I shook Tilson’s hand, too.

  “We’ll keep in touch,” he said.

  For some reason, that struck me as ominous.

  22

  I SPREAD OPEN THE Wednesday Globe on my desk and found Alex Shaw’s story on page twelve.

  The headline read, KINNICK SHOOTING CALLED HUNTING ACCIDENT.

  Local police in the western Massachusetts community of Fenwick have no suspects in the shooting that left Walt Kinnick, the famous sportsman and television personality, hospitalized with a gunshot wound.

  Kinnick was shot in the abdomen early Friday morning at his Berkshire retreat. Visiting with him at the time were his attorney, Brady L. Coyne of Boston, and his friend Diana West, of Cambridge. Neither witness could be reached for comment.

  “It’s spring turkey season.” said Sheriff Vinton Mason in a prepared statement. “Kinnick’s cabin is right in the middle of some good turkey country. Our office is attempting to determine who was hunting in that area on Friday.”

  Ironically four days prior to the incident Kinnick testified on Beacon Hill in favor of legislation that would restrict the ownership and use of certain paramilitary firearms known as “assault weapons.” Kinnick’s testimony opposed that of the Second Amendment For Ever (SAFE) pro-gun lobby, with whom Kinnick was thought to be allied. Subsequently the bimonthly SAFE newsletter ranked Kinnick number one on its list of “enemies.”

  Kinnick is the host of the cable television program “Walt Kinnick’s Outdoors” and a prominent environmental activist.

  I smiled after I read it. Alex’s use of the word “ironically” was inspired. Otherwise, her piece was a model of journalistic objectivity. Just the facts.

  And yet she had managed to plant the implication that Sheriff Mason was either a dumb hick law officer or a clever obfuscator, that Diana and I had seen something, and that SAFE had powerful motives to kill Wally.

  Or maybe I was giving Alex too much credit. It was just a small news item on page twelve. It gave the who, what, where, and when of it without editorializing about the why.

  No. That “ironically” made all the difference.

  Besides. I knew that Alex lusted to learn the “why” of the story.

  She lusted, I recalled, quite literally. It had been a sensational kiss.

  She called me in the middle of the morning. “Did you see it?” she said.

  “Yes. Loved that ‘ironically.’”

  She laughed. “I rather liked it myself. My boss is bullshit that he didn’t catch it. Listen. I’m on the fly, but I’ve got a proposition.”

  “Okay. Shoot.”

  “Jesus, Brady, don’t say that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ve set up an interview with Gene McNiff—you know, SAFE’s executive director?—for tomorrow afternoon. I’d love some company.”

  “Moral support, you mean.”

  “No,” she said. “Your company. I don’t need moral support, or any other kind. I’m supposed to meet him at the SAFE headquarters in Clinton at four.”

  “I don’t know, Alex. I’m a big enemy of theirs. I would think my presence could make for a rather hostile interview.”

  She chuckled. “I thought of that. It wouldn’t hurt.”

  “I thought you just wanted company.”

  “I do. It’s a pretty drive out there in the spring. Lots of apple orchards. Maybe they’ll be in blossom now. Tell you what. I’ll buy you dinner afterward.”

  “Four o’clock, huh?”

  “I’ll pick you up around three.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. See you tomorrow, then.”

  “Hey, Alex?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For how you handled the story.”

  “I couldn’t very well not mention you or Ms. West at all. I corroborated everything, of course.”

  “I understand.”

  “I left out those cartridges you found. But that’s because nobody at State Police headquarters would talk to me and corroborate it.”

  “Which,” I said, “comes as no surprise to this reporter.”

  “And,” she added, “I did omit the fact that you’re on their enemies’ list. That’s what you mean.”

  “Yes. I don’t need that.”

  “The last thing I want, Mr. Coyne, sir, is people shooting at you. I’ve got other things in mind for you.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “So do I.”

  “Tomorrow at three, then.”

  In the middle of the afternoon, Julie buzzed me. “Brady,” she said, “Senator Swift’s office is on line three.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Hey!” she said quickly.

  “Yes?”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Well, shit, I don’t know. Let me talk to him, okay?”

  “You don’t have to bite my head off.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “You’ll keep me informed?”

  “Of course. You’re the boss, remember?”

  I punched the blinking button on the console and said, “Brady Coyne.”

  “Mr. Coyne,” came a male voice, “this is Senator Swift’s office.”

  “Yes?”

  “The senator wonders if you’d be able to meet with him.”

  “Why?”

  “He’d rather discuss that with you himself Mr. Coyne. If at all possible, he’d like to get together with you at the Commonwealth Club at six this evening. Docs that work for you?”

  “The Commonwealth Club…”

  “It’s on Berkeley Street, sir. Just around the corner from—”

  “I know where it is,” I said.

  “Six o’clock, then?”

  “Sure.”

  The Commonwealth Club is one of those exclusive anachronisms that continue to thrive in Boston: a private men’s club, membership rigidly restricted. WASPs only. Republican WASPs. Wealthy Republican WASPs, preferably those whose fathers and grandfathers were also wealthy Republican WASPs.

  Because my clientele is skewed to the wealthy, it also tends to be skewed to Republican WASPs with inherited money. I’ve been inside several anachronisms like the Commonwealth Club. I’d rather have a beer at Skeeter’s, but business is sometimes business.

  Senator Marlon Swift and I did share membership in a different, even more exclusive, club: the SAFE Top Ten Enemies’ club. It gave me a fraternal feeling for the senator. So I would endure the oppressive leather furniture polished by generations of wealthy Republican WASP backsides, the mahogany woodwork stained dark from a century of Cuban cigar smoke, the dusty martinis and the baked finnan haddie served by murmuring old butlers in full livery, and all the dour old bankers and brokers reading their Wall Street Journals at the Commonwealth Club to meet with Brother Swift.

  When I told Julie I had an audience with Senator Swift at the Commonwealth Club, she arched her eyebrows and said, “Well, la-dee-da.”

  That’s about how I felt about it.

  23

  I’D AGREED TO MEET the senator at six, but I waited until six-fifteen to lock up the office for the ten-minute stroll over to
the Commonwealth Club. It’s not my habit to be late for appointments. Julie thinks it’s important to keep people waiting, on the theory, probably sound, that it puts them at a psychological disadvantage. I sometimes defer to her judgment, but I don’t agree with it. It’s a game. I don’t like to think of my law practice as a game.

  But in the case of my engagement with Senator Marlon Swift, I wanted him to be there when I arrived, because I didn’t feel like having to wait for him. I didn’t know if he subscribed to the same theory Julie did. In my experience, the more important a man thinks he is, the more likely he is to play the keep-’em-waiting game.

  Politicians generally think they’re pretty important.

  A small brass plate over the doorbell read “The Commonwealth Club.” Elegantly understated. I pressed the buzzer. A shriveled-up little man with sharp blue eyes pulled open the door a moment later. He was wearing a tuxedo that hung a little loosely on him. He appeared to be at least eighty years old. “Sir?” he said, looking me up and down.

  “Brady Coyne,” I said. “Senator Swift is expecting me.”

  “Of course.”

  He stood aside for me. I walked into the foyer, which was as big as my entire apartment. White Italian marble, dark wood wainscoting, textured wallpaper, massive oil portraits, brass sconces, and a crystal chandelier.

  I looked around appreciatively. “Pretty nice,” I said to the old guy.

  His eyes twinkled, but all he said was, “Yes, sir. Right this way, please.”

  I figured the butler lived in a triple-decker in Southie and had been taking the T over here to his job every day for the past fifty years. If he answered the door, he sure as hell wasn’t a member. Probably an Irish Democrat. I wanted to ask him about himself, but he had already begun to lead me through the foyer and into the spacious sitting area.

  Leather furniture, dark woodwork, subdued lighting, exactly as I had imagined. Some of the chairs were occupied with men smoking and drinking and studying newspapers. Television sets glowed silently here and there, tuned to a cable channel that flashed Dow Jones numbers. What conversation I heard was soft and conspiratorial.