A Fine Line Read online

  “Told by whom?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Can you at least tell me if his surgery was successful?”

  I’m sorry, sir, but—”

  “I just want to know if he’s okay.”

  “Sir, please.”

  “That’s okay. Forget it.”

  I was willing to bet it was the police who gave the Acute Care people those instructions. That did not comfort me.

  Ethan was a relative. I wondered if he’d talked to the folks at Acute Care, or if the police had talked to him.

  I left earlier than usual for work and headed for Walt’s townhouse. I was hoping that the crime-scene tape would be gone and Ethan would be there, and he’d offer me some coffee and we’d sit in the bird garden and he’d tell me that he’d spent the night at the hospital, that Walt was fine, and that he was sorry he hadn’t called me.

  But when I got there, the front door was still crisscrossed with yellow crime-scene tape and my business card was still stuck under the knocker where I’d left it.

  I went around to the alley. When I approached the door to the bird garden, I saw Henry.

  He was lying against the door, curled in a ball. His white-and-orange fur was smudged with mud. For a moment I thought he was dead.

  “Hey,” I said. “Henry.”

  He lifted his head, blinked at me, and yawned. Then he stood up, stretched, and came over.

  I squatted down and held out my hand, and he sniffed it. Then he gave it a cursory lick, just to be sure he hadn’t missed a morsel of something edible.

  “Where have you been?” I said. “Where the hell is Ethan?”

  Henry sat beside me and watched my face.

  I scratched his ears. “Did you spend the night outside? I bet you’re hungry.”

  “Hungry” seemed to be a key word in Henry’s vocabulary. He stood up and pressed his nose against the door. His stumpy little tail was wagging hard.

  “You can’t go in there,” I told him. I blew out a breath. “What the hell am I going to do with you?”

  He turned to look at me. His ears were cocked, and he seemed to arch his eyebrows.

  I sighed. “Okay, okay. You better come with me. I hope you know how to heel.”

  We headed down Mt. Vernon Street and turned left on Charles. Henry heeled nicely all the way. I picked up a large black coffee and a cinnamon bun at the Starbucks on the corner. They didn’t object to Henry, who sat quietly just inside the doorway while I waited at the counter. Out on the sidewalk, I gave Henry half of the bun. It went down in one massive gulp. I nibbled my half.

  Then we strolled to my office in Copley Square. It was slow going, as Henry insisted on snuffling every shrub and bench and trash barrel in the Public Garden. He lifted his leg on most of them. That dog must’ve had a bladder the size of a dirigible.

  I got to the office a little after eight. Julie wouldn’t be in for almost an hour. I made the coffee, went into my office, and found an old sweatshirt hanging in the closet. I dropped the sweatshirt on the floor beside my desk and pointed to it. “That’s for you,” I told Henry.

  He sniffed it, scratched at it with his front paws to get it properly arranged, then lay down on it.

  I sat at my desk, snapped the cap off the Starbucks coffee, lit a cigarette, and tried to think.

  If Henry had spent the night in the alley, it meant he hadn’t spent it with Ethan. Ethan—and Walt, too, for that matter—doted on Henry. That conjured up several scenarios.

  One: Ethan had left Henry in Walt’s care and spent the night with a friend, and he didn’t know what had happened to Walt. That was the least ominous scenario I could think of.

  Two: If Ethan was gone all day and night, then Henry had somehow slipped away when Walt wasn’t looking. Maybe Walt fell when he got up to go after Henry.

  Three: If somebody had pushed Walt down, then Henry ran out into the alley when whoever did it escaped through the garden door.

  Four: Ethan had been taking care of Henry, and Henry ran off because something had happened to Ethan.

  Or, five: Ethan had, for some reason, been compelled to abandon Henry.

  Scenarios three, four, and five frightened me.

  I figured there were other scenarios that I hadn’t thought of. They’d probably occur to me eventually.

  On the floor beside me, Henry twitched and growled in his sleep. He seemed quite content to be snoozing on my sweatshirt.

  Just what I needed. A dog.

  Back when I lived with Gloria in our house in the Boston suburbs, we rescued a little black six-month-old mutt from a shelter. Gloria thought the boys, who were then in elementary school, should have a pet to care for. She thought it would teach them responsibility. The shelter people had named the pup Muffin, and I was unable to convince Gloria that he deserved a more dignified dog name.

  Muffin?

  Billy and Joey loved Muffin, and if we reminded them, they took turns feeding him. Naturally, most of the responsibility for the dog fell to me. It was I who housebroke Muffin, who taught him to sit and lie down and stay and come, who built the doghouse and erected the fence around the backyard, and who took him for his walks before bed every night and at the crack of dawn every morning.

  Last I heard, Muffin was arthritic and deaf and still sleeping on the foot of the bed with Gloria.

  In the decade or so since she and I had split, I’d forgotten how much attention dogs demanded.

  At a little before nine, about the time Julie always gets to the office, I heard voices out in the reception area. I got up, opened the door, and peeked out.

  Julie was standing beside her desk talking with two people, a uniformed man and a woman wearing tan pants and a matching jacket and a burnt-orange blouse. The man was Sergeant Andrew Currier.

  I didn’t recognize the woman. She was short and stocky, with straight black hair cut shoulder length, olive skin, and dark eyes.

  I went out into the reception room. “Good morning,” I said.

  Currier looked at me. “Mr. Coyne,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Detective Mendoza.”

  Detective Mendoza took a step toward me and held out her hand. “Saundra Mendoza,” she said. “Boston PD. I’m with homicide.”

  FIVE

  Walt Duffy?” I said to Detective Mendoza.

  “That’s right.”

  “Shit,” I said. “When?”

  “A little after midnight. He died on the operating table.”

  “The fact that you’re here . . . You don’t think it was an accident.”

  She nodded. She wore a thin gold chain around her neck and a man-sized gold watch on her left wrist. Otherwise, no jewelry. No makeup, either, that I could detect.

  Under her jacket behind her right hip I detected the small bulge of a holster.

  “Who did it?” I said.

  She jerked her head toward my office door. “Can we talk?”

  “I’ll get some coffee,” I said. I turned to Julie. “Would you mind showing the officers into my office?”

  “Sure,” she said, and she ushered Mendoza and Currier into my office.

  I was pouring coffee into a carafe at the machine in the corner of our reception area when Julie came back. “What, pray tell, is this?” she said.

  I turned. She was standing in the middle of the room. Henry was standing beside her wagging his tail.

  “That’s our newest client,” I said.

  “It’s a dog.”

  “A Brittany, to be precise. They used to call them Brittany spaniels. Now they just call them Brittanies. They’re bird dogs, originally from the province of Brittany. That’s in France.”

  “What happened to his tail?”

  “All spaniels have little stubby tails like that. They’re born that way.”

  “He’s a bit chubby.”

  “He’s struggled with it all his life. He was never very good at sports. Always had a complex. His name is Henry.”

  “Henry?”

&nb
sp; “He was named after Henry David Thoreau.”

  Julie smiled, then scooched down beside Henry, who obliged by licking her cheek. “He’s quite friendly,” she said.

  “He’s all yours,” I said.

  She looked up at me. “What’s the story?”

  “He’s very good with children,” I said. “Megan will love him. Having a pet will teach her responsibility.”

  Julie stood up. “Megan is quite responsible already. She’s also allergic to animals.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  She shrugged. “We already have a goldfish. Seriously, where’d the dog come from?”

  “He belonged to Walt Duffy.”

  She nodded. “Let me take care of the coffee. You go ahead and talk to those officers.”

  “Thank you.” I started for my office, then stopped and turned back to Julie. “Henry needs a loving home for a few days. What do you say?”

  “Fuggedaboudit.”

  Mendoza and Currier were sitting side by side at my conference table. Henry followed me in and went over and lay down on my sweatshirt. I sat across from the two cops. “Tell me what happened to Walt.”

  “The back of his skull was crushed,” said Mendoza. “Splinters of bone in the brain. Massive hemorrhaging. He was in surgery for about four hours. The doctor said he never really had a chance.”

  “He fell on the brick patio,” I said. “You think he was pushed or something?”

  Mendoza shrugged. “Unattended death, Mr. Coyne. You know how it works. Why don’t you just tell us about what happened yesterday.”

  “I already told Sergeant Currier.”

  “Tell me,” she said.

  So I repeated my story about how Walt had called with something he wanted to discuss, how when I got there I found him lying supine on the brick patio, how I’d called 911, how the paramedics had come, and then the two police officers, and how I’d told them everything I knew.

  About halfway through my recitation, Julie tapped on the door. I called for her to enter, and she came in with a tray bearing a carafe of coffee, three mugs, a pitcher of milk, and a bowl of sugar. We fell silent until she went out of the room and closed the door behind her.

  I resumed my recitation, and when I finished, Saundra Mendoza said, “So the dog was in the alley this morning and the son—Ethan—you haven’t been in touch with him?”

  I shook my head.

  “We haven’t, either.” Mendoza glanced at Currier. Then she turned to me. “So what do you make out of that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She pointed her chin at Henry. “That’s Mr. Duffy’s dog?”

  I nodded. “His name’s Henry. I stopped by Walt’s place this morning and Henry was in the alley. Want him? He’s all yours.”

  “Ha.” She glanced at the notebook she was writing into. “Let’s go back to when Mr. Duffy called you in the afternoon. He didn’t say what he wanted?”

  “No. He just said he wanted to talk with me. Consult with me, I think he said. I had the impression it was . . . important. Not urgent, but important.”

  “So what do you think was so important?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it. I haven’t got a clue.”

  “Something about those letters?”

  “He didn’t say,” I said.

  Mendoza nodded. “Let’s go over it again, okay?”

  This time the two of them kept interrupting my story for clarification and elaboration, and they kept asking me to estimate the times when things happened. In a couple of places I confused the sequence, and they picked up on them instantly.

  When we finished, Mendoza said, “You’re Mr. Duffy’s lawyer. Does he have a will?”

  “Certainly. What kind of a lawyer would I be if I didn’t insist my clients had wills?”

  “I don’t know what kind of lawyer you are,” she said. “What’s the will say?”

  “I’d have to check the details,” I said, “but basically, everything except Walt’s bird stuff goes to his son, Ethan.”

  “Bird stuff?”

  “He collected artwork and books and old manuscripts about birds. Some of it’s quite valuable. His will stipulates that it’s all to be donated to various libraries and museums. Walt Duffy was an expert on birds, you know.”

  “I know who he was,” Mendoza said. “And the rest of his estate goes to his son?”

  “Basically, there’s just the townhouse. Walt didn’t have a lot of money stashed away. No stocks or bonds. He invested everything in those old books and manuscripts and artwork.”

  “What about insurance?”

  “Walt didn’t believe in life insurance.”

  She nodded as if she’d expected me to say that. “Tell me about those letters. The ones you delivered for him.”

  So I told her about Walt’s Meriwether Lewis letters and how I’d given them to Ben Frye to be appraised.

  “This was day before yesterday? The day before he died?”

  “Yes.”

  “The letters are valuable?”

  “Both Walt and Ben seemed to think so. Assuming they’re genuine.”

  She took a sip of her coffee, then set the mug down. She stared into it for a moment, and peered up at me. “Who might want to kill Walter Duffy, Mr. Coyne? Any idea?”

  I shook my head. “No. No idea.”

  “Somebody did, you know.”

  “I figured that’s why you’re here.”

  “Ethan Duffy? Benjamin Frye?”

  I flapped my hands. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. I don’t even have a theory.”

  She blew out a breath. “I need you to give us a hand.”

  “Sure,” I said. “What can I do?”

  “You’ve been in Mr. Duffy’s townhouse a few times, right?”

  “Many times.”

  “If something were missing or out of place, you’d notice it?”

  I shrugged. “I might. It’s harder to notice something that’s not where it should be than something that is there that doesn’t belong.”

  She shrugged. “Sergeant Currier and I are going over there now. We’d like you to come with us.”

  “I’m happy to help,” I said. “Just let me check with Julie, see what I’ve got this morning.”

  I went out to the reception area. Julie told me I had only three clients scheduled for the day, one at eleven and the other two in the middle of the afternoon. I told her to reschedule them all.

  “Evie called,” she said.

  “What’d she say?”

  “She wanted to talk to you.”

  “You always chat with Evie.”

  “She told me about a new sushi restaurant in Harvard Square. Mentioned a book she was reading.”

  “And?”

  “And I told her about Megan’s soccer team.”

  “That’s it?”

  Julie smiled.

  “Did she sound . . . upset?”

  “With you, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “We didn’t talk about you,” she said. “Sorry. She wants you to call her.”

  I went back into the office where Mendoza and Currier were waiting and told them I’d freed up my morning and just had to make one phone call. They nodded, got up, and went out to the reception area.

  I sat at my desk and dialed Evie’s office number at Emerson Hospital. When she answered, I said, “Hi, honey. It’s me.”

  “Oh, Brady. Hi. Is everything all right?”

  “Not entirely. Walt Duffy—one of my clients—died last night.”

  “I got your message,” she said. “You said he’d been hurt. I’m so sorry. I met him once, remember?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “You talked about decoys. I’m sorry I crapped out on our picnic.”

  “Under the circumstances . . .”

  “I was worried you might be upset.”

  “Well, of course, I was upset. It was lovely at the pond, and I brought some great food. Couldn’t eat it all myself.
I missed you.”

  “I meant . . . like, angry.”

  “Why should I be angry?”

  “Well . . .”

  “We’re supposed to be past that, you and I,” she said. “I knew when you didn’t show up that something must have happened. I was a little concerned that you might’ve had an accident. But angry? Nope. Not me.”

  “I’m relieved,” I said.

  “Dammit, Brady,” she said, “we’ve talked about this. You seem to have these expectations of women. Negative expectations, I mean. We’re not all selfish angry bitches whose main purpose in life is to lay guilt trips on men, you know.”

  I found myself smiling. “I know. I apologize for the fact that it even crossed my mind. What about tonight?”

  “A picnic?”

  “Let’s play it by ear. They’re forecasting thunderstorms. I’ll meet you at your place after work. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said softly. “I look forward to it.”

  We drove from my office in Copley Square to Walt’s townhouse on Beacon Hill in Sergeant Currier’s cruiser. Mendoza rode shotgun, and I rode in back.

  Currier pulled into the back alley. Saundra Mendoza pulled away the yellow tape and we went in through the door in the brick wall. They didn’t bother slipping on rubber gloves, nor did they warn me not to touch anything, which meant, I assumed, that their forensics people had already been there.

  The cops glanced around the patio, and then we went into the house. “Just tell us if you notice anything,” said Mendoza. “Anything out of place or missing.”

  I led them to Walt’s library where he kept his treasures. It was a large, dimly-lit inside room with no windows. It had air conditioning and a humidifier, which Walt kept fine-tuned to preserve his collections. Framed oil paintings, etchings, pen-and-ink drawings, pastels, and watercolors—all of birds—hung on the walls.

  Three walls contained shoulder-high bookcases. On top of the bookcases Walt had lined up his collection of antique decoys and bird carvings. None of them seemed to be missing. The glass doors of the bookcases were all locked. Inside were hundreds of volumes of first editions and rare old books. There seemed to be nothing missing there, either.

  The fourth wall—the one that included the doorway—was lined with steel file cabinets. These, I knew, held Walt’s collection of letters, manuscripts, and bird-related documents. They were locked, too. There was no evidence that any of the locks had been tampered with.