Close to the Bone Page 2

  “Almost eight, yes,” she said softly. “I thought you liked your clients.”

  I nodded. “Oh, I do. I don’t accept clients I don’t like. But some of them can be pretty damn self-important. Sometimes it gets to me. Whatever happened to the guy who was going to argue civil liberties cases before the Supreme Court?”

  “Your career took a different turn, Brady. You do what you do, and you’re very good at it, and you’re your own boss, and it makes you a lot of money. There are worse things.”

  I sipped from my drink. “There are better things, too. I mean, Billy’s out there in Idaho, a ski instructor in the winter and a trout fishing guide in the summer and a bartender in his spare time. I’d like to do that.”

  “Your son is a twenty-one-year-old college dropout,” she said. “You’re not.”

  “No,” I said. “Not even close. There are times I wish I was, though. I’d like to drop out and head for the Rockies, even if I’m not twenty-one.”

  Her hand squeezed my leg. “Would you bring me with you?”

  “Out West?”

  “Yes. Would you come?”

  “You bet.”

  “Why not do it? Let’s do it, Brady.”

  I sighed. This was one of Alex’s favorite conversational topics. “Sure.”

  “What’s stopping you?” she persisted. “Billy’s off on his own, Joey’s got that scholarship to Stanford. You’ve fulfilled all your obligations. It’s time to live your own life.”

  “My clients—”

  “Can’t get along without you. I know.” She snuggled against me. “I’d do it. I really would.”

  “You would, huh?”

  “Sure. We could buy a little ranch. We’d have horses.”

  “And dogs.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Dogs. And cats, too, and maybe a goat. And a meadow for some cows, and beyond it a view of the mountains—”

  “Don’t forget the trout stream running through the meadow.”

  “Right. So I could watch you catch trout while I sat in the hot tub.”

  “And afterwards I’d join you in the hot tub, and we could watch the sun set and drink beer.”

  “Mmm,” she said. “Nice. Really nice.”

  “Could we really do that?”

  “Sure,” she mumbled. “Why not?”

  “What about your career?”

  “You mean,” she said, “what about your career?” She blew out a sigh. “Or maybe you mean, what about our relationship? If we did that, you’d never get rid of me.”

  “I don’t want to get rid of you.” I nuzzled the back of her neck.

  She looked up at me. “No?”

  “No. It was nice coming home, sniffing the aroma of lentil soup, and finding you here.”

  “It happens a lot that way.”

  “And it’s always nice.”

  “Well,” she said, “I’d go out West with you. I would. Then I guess I’d be there every day, and maybe you wouldn’t like that so much. You’d get sick of lentil soup.”

  “I would like it. Especially if you let me put hot sausages in it.”

  “But it won’t happen,” she said. “I understand.”

  I laid my head on the back of the sofa and gazed up at the ceiling. “Sometimes I think I’m turning into an old fart myself,” I said.

  “You’re more like a middle-aged fart,” she said.

  “I mean,” I persisted, “you’re right. What’s stopping me? The boys have grown wings and flown away. I’ve had a little career, made some money. My clients don’t need me. There are certainly plenty of lawyers who can do what I do. I hate living in the city. I hate feeling I’ve got to jump when I get a summons from people like Roger Falconer. I could be a bartender.”

  “You’d make a lovely bartender,” Alex said.

  “Or a trout guide. I could do that.”

  “I bet you’d like that,” she said.

  I sighed. “It’s fun to think about.”

  She sat up, turned, and frowned at me. “You’re stuck, sweetie. You should try to get unstuck. Life is too short.”

  “I know.” I pushed myself to my feet. “Let’s eat.”

  After supper Alex and I pulled on sweatshirts and sat out on the balcony overlooking the harbor. A misty rain swirled in the wind, and whitecaps glittered in the city lights, but we were protected from most of it by the building and the balcony above us. We sipped coffee and I smoked a cigarette.

  “I heard about Glen Falconer’s accident,” she said.

  Alex is a reporter for the Globe, and she knows that I must protect the confidentiality of my clients. Some aspects of my business I cannot discuss with anybody, but especially not with a reporter, even if she’s the woman who has a key to my apartment and makes lentil soup for me. So she never asks me questions. Some of the information she gets in her job as a reporter is confidential, too, so I don’t ask her questions, either. Sometimes our conversations are elliptical, and sometimes we have to search for topics we can both talk about freely.

  Sometimes we can talk elliptically and still help each other do our jobs.

  “What’d you hear?” I asked her.

  “He flunked the Breathalyzer. He was driving a big car and he collided with a little Honda. Two people were hurt.”

  “One of them died this morning,” I said.

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “Shit, I hate it when that happens.”

  “Me, too.” We were quiet for a couple of minutes, then I said, “What else did you hear?”

  “He either rolled through a stop sign or failed to look before he entered an intersection. The Honda had the right of way. He side-swiped her. She swerved into a parked car. Her chest hit the steering column.”

  “No seat belt?”

  “I guess not. The other passenger was a child in a car seat. Not injured. So they’re charging him, huh?”

  “You’ll probably read about it in tomorrow’s Globe,” I said.

  “Falconer’s a big name in Boston.”

  “Roger’s is.”

  “Glen’s got lots of his daddy’s money,” she said. “Ergo, his is a big name, too. This isn’t his first, you know.”

  I nodded. Glen’s license had been suspended once before for DUI when he was nailed for speeding on Route 95. He had taken the class required by the Commonwealth for convicted drunk drivers, got his license back, and then apparently resumed his old ways. “In Sweden, I think it is,” I said, “one conviction and you lose your license for life.”

  “Sensible people, the Swedes.” She reached for my hand and squeezed it. Out on the harbor a big oil tanker was inching through the chop. “I’m getting chilly,” she whispered. “Almost ready for bed?”

  “Definitely.”

  “You’re not defending him, are you?”

  I laughed. “Not me, babe. Glen needs a magician, not some paper pusher.”

  “You’re not a paper pusher, Brady. You’re a fine attorney.”

  “Hey,” I said. “I am one helluva paper pusher. You want some paper pushed, see Brady Coyne. Don’t knock paper pushing.”

  She squeezed my thigh. “I’m sorry. You are indeed a superior paper pusher, and a noble profession it is. So who’re you getting to defend Glen Falconer?”

  “Paul Cizek, if I can persuade him to take the case.”

  “Ah,” she said. “The Houdini of the criminal courts.”

  “Paul’s the closest thing to a magician I know,” I said. I stood up and held both of my hands down to Alex. “Come on. I’ve got a magic trick I’d like to show you.”

  3

  THE NEXT MORNING I left a message with Paul Cizek’s secretary at Tarlin and Overton. He called me back a little before noon. “How’s the mighty fisherman?” he said when Julie connected us.

  “Alas,” I said, “yet another season hath ended and I did not wet nearly enough lines to satisfy my lust. And you and I never did spend time together on the water.”

  “Too bad, too,” he said. “I found st
ripers and blues in every creek and estuary and tidal flat on the north shore. I found them in the rips and in the surf and against the rocks and—”

  “And you caught them on eels and sandworms and herring and bunker.”

  “Do I detect scorn in your tone, Coyne?”

  “Scorn? No. I know you fish with nothing but bait. It’s a pretty low-down way to do it, but you—”

  “I’m a pretty low-down guy,” said Paul, “not to handicap myself with flimsy fly rods and elegant little handcrafted confections of hair and feather that have no smell to them. Chacun à son gout, if you ask me. The fishing was pretty damn good, and you missed it. Now the boat’s in the garage and my gear is stowed away for another dreary New England winter.”

  “Next year,” I said.

  “Yeah. You keep saying that.”

  “Just call me. I’ll come.”

  “You willing to arise before the sun and witness the dawn of a new day from the deck of Olivia with me?”

  “Absolutely. And how is Olivia?”

  “You mean the boat or the wife?”

  “The wife. I know you take good care of the boat.”

  “Olivia’s good. Asks after you all the time. Keeps saying we should get together. Wants to meet your Alex. Olivia’s been kicking some serious water-polluting ass. Her little group’s got three civil suits and two criminal cases pending. She’s really into it, and I admire the hell out of her. Some weeks we hardly see each other. She’s off watchdogging local zoning- and planning-board hearings, testifying before legislative subcommittees, making speeches, harassing lawmakers, organizing fund-raisers, and I—”

  “You, I understand, are kicking some serious butt yourself, Paul.”

  I heard him sigh. “I’ve won a few cases.”

  “What I hear, you’ve won some impossible cases.”

  “The presumption of innocence is a powerful ally, Brady.”

  “And the assembled might of the state’s district attorneys makes a powerful adversary. No kidding, you’ve pulled some out of a hat.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “So what’s up?”

  “I’ve got a case for you.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You know who Roger Falconer is.”

  “Sure. Everybody knows Falconer. What’d he do?”

  “Nothing. Or at least nothing that anyone’s going to indict him for. It’s his son.”

  “Glen’s his name, right?”

  “Yes. He’s about to be charged with vehicular homicide.”

  “DUI?”

  “You got it.”

  “Did he do it?”

  “He was driving the car, all right. They got him on the Breathalyzer. The woman died yesterday.”

  “Aw, shit,” he said.

  “So what do you say?”

  “I gotta check a few things. I’ll get back to you this afternoon.”

  Paul called back around three and told me that Tarlin and Overton was inclined to accept the Falconer case, but before he made a firm commitment he wanted to meet with Glen. We agreed to assemble in my office at seven that evening.

  I asked Julie to call and set it up. “Roger’ll probably want to be in on it and try to talk you into holding the conference out in Lincoln. That’s unacceptable. If Roger insists on joining us, fine. But it’s got to be here. I want Glen in my office at seven, or else he’ll have to do his own shopping for a lawyer.”

  Julie grinned. “I can do that.”

  “I know,” I said. “You do it better than I do.”

  “You don’t do it at all.”

  “That’s because it’s your job,” I said.

  She buzzed me five minutes later. “All set,” she said. “The old man grumbled and wanted to talk to you. I told him you were tied up. They’ll be here at seven.”

  “Both of them?”

  “That is my inference, yes.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Roger’ll want a firsthand look at Paul. I don’t think he lets Glen blow his own nose without telling him which hand to use.”

  “He lets his son drive drunk, though, huh?” said Julie.

  “Driving drunk,” I said, “is evidently the way Glen asserts his independence.”

  Glen Falconer arrived about a quarter of seven and, as expected, Roger was with him. Julie escorted them both into my office and offered coffee, which we all accepted.

  Roger and Glen sat beside each other on the sofa. I took the armchair across from them. “Paul Cizek will be here shortly,” I said. “He’s the miracle worker I mentioned.”

  “Cizek?” said Roger.

  I nodded. “He’s with Tarlin and Overton in Cambridge. He sort of specializes in Mission Impossible criminal cases. Which is what this one looks like.”

  Roger leaned forward. “What kind of name is Cizek?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said—”

  “I heard what you said, Roger,” I said. “I just didn’t believe it.”

  “We don’t want some sleazy—”

  “Gotcha,” I said quickly. I stood up, went to my desk, and buzzed Julie.

  “I’m brewing some fresh coffee,” she said over the intercom. “It’ll be a few minutes.”

  “See if you can reach Paul Cizek,” I said to her. “Tell him to forget it.”

  “Wait,” said Glen.

  “Hang on,” I said to Julie. I looked at Glen. “Your father doesn’t want a lawyer with a Z and a K in his last name defending you.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Roger.

  “Of course I understand,” I said. “I understand perfectly. It’s really not that complicated.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “You said enough.”

  Glen glanced at his father, then said, “I don’t care what the man’s name is. I need somebody good. I don’t care if he’s sleazy, as long as he’s good.”

  “What’s it going to be, gentlemen?” I said.

  “Why don’t you tell us about him,” said Roger.

  “Here’s what you need to know,” I said. “You asked me to get Glen a lawyer. I have done that. Paul Cizek happens to be a good friend of mine. I’m his family lawyer, just like I’m yours, although that’s not relevant here. More to the point, Paul’s simply the best lawyer in Boston for Glen’s case, in my professional opinion. You have retained me because you are willing to pay me money to hear my professional opinion on the legal matters that present themselves to you. My opinion on legal matters is arguably more acute than yours, or else you would not have retained me. Ergo, your choices are to accept or to reject my opinion. Which is your choice, Senator?”

  Roger stared at me for a moment, then smiled. “You never call me ‘Senator,’ ” he said.

  “Only when you piss me off, and even then rarely to your face.”

  “I guess I do piss people off sometimes. Sometimes I do it on purpose. Sometimes it just happens. I like it best when people tell me up front that they’re pissed at me. That’s why I like you.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Brady. I value your opinion. It’s more reliable than mine. Your opinion is worth money to me.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe we need a lawyer with unusual consonants in his last name.”

  “Julie?” I said to the intercom.

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  “Cancel the call to Paul.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  I went back and sat across from Glen and Roger. “I would’ve kicked you both right the hell out of here if you’d started that discussion in front of Paul,” I said to Roger.

  “Times keep changing, Brady,” he said. “I’m an old man. I have trouble keeping up.”

  “You have trouble keeping your prejudices to yourself, and you’ve got to try harder.” I turned to Glen. “Paul Cizek is a helluva good lawyer, and he’s on a roll lately. About a year ago he defended a guy accused of molesting the children at a day-care place in Arlington—”

  “Jesus,�
�� said Glen. “I remember that one. It was all over the news. Guy name of Benson.”

  “Actually it was Benton,” I said. “Victor Benton.”

  “Right,” said Glen. “Benton.”

  “Never heard of him,” said Roger.

  “He made films,” Glen said. “Kiddie porn. Little kids, they were, grammar school. He made them undress at rest time, told them to—to do things to each other. Sometimes he did things with them. He got it on his camcorder, made tapes, sold them in Canada. That’s what he was accused of, anyway. They thought they had the guy absolutely nailed.” Glen turned to me. “This Cizek, he’s the one who got Benton off?”

  “Paul negotiated a plea bargain,” I said. “Now the guy’s doing community service and seeing a shrink. As long as he stays out of the day-care business and away from little kids, he’s a free man.”

  “He would’ve lasted about a week in prison,” said Glen.

  “Not many lawyers could’ve gotten Victor Benton off,” I said. I looked directly at Roger. “Paul has done some work for the Russo family, too.”

  Roger’s eyebrows went up. “Russo,” he said. “They’re—”

  “Mafia,” said Glen. “I remember a recent case. A hit man, wasn’t it? It was all over the television. Was that Cizek, too?”

  “That was Paul Cizek,” I said.

  “He got the man off,” said Glen. “The DA thought he had an airtight case. But they ended up with a hung jury.”

  “Paul Cizek is very good at what he does,” I said.

  “I want this guy,” said Glen.

  Roger had been sitting there frowning. “Child molesters and Mafia hit men?” he said softly. “This is the man to defend a Falconer?”

  “No, Roger,” I said. “This is the man to defend a drunk driver by any name. Listen. He’s not defending you, and he’s not defending your family name. He’s defending Glen, who got loaded, not for the first time, and climbed into his car and drove it into another car and killed a woman. Paul might not be able to win the case. But if anybody can, it’s Paul Cizek. That’s my opinion. Okay?”

  “Sure, Brady.” He shrugged. “Okay.”

  Julie brought in a tray with a carafe of coffee, three mugs, sugar, and milk. She placed it on the low table beside me and said, “Anything else?”

  “That’s great,” I said. “When Paul gets here, just bring him in.”