A Fine Line Read online

  We went through the rest of the three-story townhouse, floor by floor, room by room, and we ended up back in the garden.

  “Nothing, huh?” said Mendoza to me.

  I shrugged. “Not that I could detect.”

  “Think about the last time you were here. Before yesterday, I mean. Picture it. Tell me what you see in the picture.”

  I shut my eyes. “It was two nights ago,” I said slowly. “Walt was sitting right there, on his chaise. He had those Meriwether Lewis letters in a manila envelope on the table. And . . .” I opened my eyes and looked at her.

  “And?” she said.

  “His computer,” I said. “Walt had one of those new Apple laptops. He always kept it handy. And a camera and a cell phone, too, come to think of it. He always had them within arm’s reach.”

  “There’s no laptop computer here now,” she said. She turned to Currier. “No cell phone or camera, either. You didn’t notice them?”

  He shook his head.

  She turned to me. “Think, now. Were they here when you came yesterday and found Duffy’s body?”

  I tried to visualize it. “I don’t think so,” I said. “My attention was on Walt, of course. I mean, he was lying on the ground right there. But . . . no. His computer and his cell phone and his camera were not here. I remember thinking I’d call 911 with his cell phone, but it wasn’t there.”

  “They’re not inside the house,” said Currier. “And they’re not out here.”

  “Well, then,” said Mendoza.

  “You think somebody killed Walt for his high-tech gadgets?” I said.

  She smiled. It was the first time I’d seen her smile since I’d met her in my office. It transformed her face. “People have been killed for a loaf of bread,” she said. “Let’s talk about the son.”

  “Right,” I said. “Ethan killed his father so he could steal his computer.”

  She shrugged. “Tell me about Ethan.”

  So I told her how Walt had separated from his wife about twelve years ago, when Ethan was six or seven. I’d handled Walt’s end of the divorce. His wife couldn’t tolerate the fact that he traveled the world photographing birds and was never home, and, from what I’d inferred, even when he was home he wasn’t a very attentive husband or father. Walt told me that his wife believed he had women friends scattered across the globe and never lacked for company when he was on the road. He hadn’t denied it.

  In any case, after the divorce Ethan was raised by his mother. Walt went through the motions as a father—attended the school plays and concerts Ethan was in and met him for dinner now and then—but he didn’t have much of a relationship with his son.

  Then came Walt’s fall at the Quabbin. It left him paralyzed, and Ethan, who was a senior in high school when it happened, enrolled at Emerson College in downtown Boston to study screenwriting and moved in to help take care of his father.

  “You suggested that Duffy was cruel and ungrateful to his son,” said Mendoza.

  “He was worse at the beginning,” I said. “He was all wrapped up in his condition. He was used to going everywhere. Climbing and hiking. Walt Duffy was a bundle of energy and enthusiasm. Suddenly, his legs didn’t work anymore. He was angry and depressed, and he took it out on anyone who happened to be there, including me when I was with him. Ethan especially, of course. Ethan was handy. But it seemed to me that lately he was mellowing a bit. Accepting his situation, maybe, appreciating what Ethan was doing.”

  “But still . . .”

  I nodded. “He could be nasty and sarcastic to Ethan, yes. But Ethan had a pretty good attitude about it. He shrugged it off, made jokes about it. He loved Walt. You think . . . ?”

  “We’re trying to find the boy, Mr. Coyne.”

  “The fact that he didn’t come home last night.”

  “Yes. It raises questions.”

  “He told me he has a summer job in some record store in Central Square.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that to Sergeant Currier yesterday. We found the store. Place called Vintage Vinyl on Mass. Ave. Ethan Duffy didn’t work there last night. He was scheduled to, but he never showed up.”

  I blew out a breath. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  Mendoza shrugged.

  “You never told me what happened to Walt,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “I didn’t.”

  “He was my friend and my client,” I said. “It was I who found his body, for Christ’s sake. I’ve got a right to know.”

  “I told you he died.”

  “From banging his head on the bricks, yes. But how did—?”

  “Okay,” said Mendoza. She narrowed her dark eyes at me. “We’re keeping this under our hats for awhile, understood?”

  I nodded. “Understood.”

  “Mr. Duffy didn’t take a spill,” said Mendoza. “And he wasn’t pushed. According to the doctor who operated on him, the only way he could’ve sustained that injury was if somebody hit him with great force on the back of his head with something hard and heavy. Probably a brick.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  She shrugged. “We’ll know more when the ME gets a look at him.”

  “And you’re thinking Ethan did this?”

  “There was a lot of passion in that blow,” she said. “Whoever hit Walter Duffy intended to hurt him. Probably meant to kill him. You figure it out.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t.”

  SIX

  Sergeant Currier and Detective Mendoza dropped me off at my office a little after noontime. When I walked in, Henry scurried out from under Julie’s desk and wagged his tail at me. I told him I was glad to see him, too.

  Julie didn’t seem all that glad to see me. She said she wanted to check out a shop on Newbury Street and would pick up lunch for us on the way back. I told her to take her time. She said she intended to.

  That’s how she always behaved when I canceled appointments.

  Henry and I went into my office, and he waddled directly over to my sweatshirt, curled up, and went to sleep.

  I poked through my Rolodex and found the number for Barbara Cooper, who had been Walt Duffy’s wife’s attorney for their divorce. Among those of us who generally represented the husbands in divorce proceedings, Barbara Cooper’s name was pronounced “Barracuda.” She defended her clients’ interests relentlessly—which, of course, was how it was supposed to work.

  Her secretary put me through to her right away.

  “Mr. Coyne,” she said when she picked up the phone. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Not much of a pleasure, I’m afraid,” I said. “The name Walter Duffy ring a bell?”

  She hesitated, then said, “You and I did their divorce—what, ten, twelve years ago? They had a son?”

  “That’s the one,” I said. “Walt died last night. I wanted to speak to his ex-wife. With your permission.”

  “You don’t need my permission,” she said.

  “Actually, I wondered if you had her phone number. She’s remarried, as I recall. I don’t know her new name.”

  “I have the number right here. Hang on.” She paused for a minute, then recited a number to me. “Her name is now Bramhall. Ellen Bramhall. She’s living in Sudbury. What happened to Mr. Duffy?”

  “He fell and fractured his skull. Didn’t make it through surgery.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear it,” she said. “How’s the boy taking it? What was his name?”

  “Ethan. He’s a college freshman now. He seems to be bearing up okay.”

  “I don’t recall if Ellen was a beneficiary in Mr. Duffy’s will,” she said.

  “He didn’t carry life insurance,” I said. “I haven’t even had a chance to check the will. It only happened yesterday.”

  “And the alimony?”

  “It terminated when Mrs. Bramhall remarried, of course.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Well, I know you’ll be in touch with me.”

  “Sure,” I said.

 
Barracuda.

  I lit a cigarette and dialed the number Barbara Cooper had given me. It rang a couple of times, then a woman’s soft voice answered.

  “Mrs. Bramhall?” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Brady Coyne,” I said. “I’m Walter Duffy’s attorney.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I remember you. What’s wrong?”

  “I have some bad news, I’m afraid.” I hesitated. “Walt died last night.”

  She didn’t speak for a minute. Then she said, “What happened?”

  “Evidently he fell and hit his head on the bricks in his patio.” I felt uncomfortable lying about the manner of Walt’s death to her, but Detective Mendoza had been very clear on the subject. I had not felt at all uncomfortable lying to Barbara Cooper.

  Ellen Bramhall laughed quickly. “That man climbed mountains and prowled around jungles, and he ends up falling down in his own home.” She hesitated. “I don’t mean to make light of it. I’m terribly sorry. I never wished any harm to him. He wasn’t a bad man. It’s just that . . .”

  “I understand, Mrs. Bramhall. It is kind of ironic.”

  “How’s Ethan taking it?”

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m calling,” I said. “I was wondering if you’ve talked to Ethan in the past twenty-four hours or so.”

  “Me?” She blew out a breath. “I don’t hear much from my son anymore. Since he went off to college and began living with Walter.” She paused. “Wait a minute. Why are you asking me about Ethan? Where is he? Is he all right?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s fine,” I said. “It’s just that he wasn’t there when Walt had his accident, and I’m trying to get ahold of him to tell him what happened.”

  “But he lives there,” she said.

  “He apparently stayed somewhere else last night. I thought maybe he was with you.”

  “Now you’re upsetting me, Mr. Coyne. Where is my boy?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “If you should talk with him before I do, please ask him to call me.”

  “I will,” she said. “You do the same.”

  “Of course.”

  “The police might come around looking for Ethan,” I said.

  “The police,” she said. “Why?”

  “Nobody saw it happen, that’s all,” I said. “It was what they call an unattended death. They’re obliged to investigate.”

  “And they think Ethan . . . ?”

  “It’s just their routine,” I said.

  “Routine,” she said. “Of course.” She paused for a moment, then said, “Mr. Coyne?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think something has happened to Ethan?”

  “No,” I said. “I think he’s a college kid who was at a party or something and ended up spending the night with friends, the way college kids do. I just wanted to tell him what happened to his father before he read about it in the papers.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’m sure you’re right.” She cleared her throat. “I am sad about Walter. He wasn’t much of a husband. Or a father, for that matter. But he was a good man.”

  “I agree with you on all counts,” I said.

  After I hung up with Ellen Bramhall, I reached down and gave Henry a pat. He opened his eyes and looked at me for a moment, and when he decided I didn’t have something for him to eat, he sighed and went back to sleep.

  Julie returned around one-thirty. She brought a large plastic bag into my office and put it on my desk.

  “What’s this?” I said.

  “It’s not for you.”

  I peeked inside. The bag held a small green sack of lams dry dog food, four cans of Alpo, two aluminum bowls, and a leash.

  I took out the leash. It was one of those retractable gizmos with a square handle. “Thank you,” I said to Julie. “We’ll have a lot of fun with this.”

  “Maybe he’s hungry,” she said.

  Henry was sitting there watching us. His ears perked up at the word “hungry.”

  “I bet he is,” I said.

  So I spread an old newspaper on the floor in my office and put half a can of Alpo and a handful of Iams and a splash of water into a bowl. I filled the other bowl with water.

  Henry sat there looking at the bowls. “For you,” I told him.

  He cocked his head.

  “Okay,” I said.

  He leaped up and went at it.

  Julie had also stopped at the deli for tuna sandwiches with lettuce, tomatoes, and onions on wheat bread, bags of chips, dill pickles, and cans of Coke. Regular for me, Diet for her.

  We ate at my conference table while Henry, having burped a couple of times, lay down beside me. His chin rested on his paws and his eyes followed my hands as I moved food into my mouth.

  I tried to convince Julie that the house in the suburbs she shared with Megan and Edward, her husband, would be a perfect place for an orphaned Brittany spaniel.

  She still wasn’t buying it.

  “So what am I supposed to do with him?” I said.

  “You rescued him,” she said. “That makes his life your responsibility. Old Chinese saying. Confucius, I think.”

  “Confucius say,” I said, “woman who fly upside-down in airplane—”

  “Don’t start,” she said quickly. “I hate those stupid adolescent Confucius-say jokes of yours.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “About the dog . . .”

  Julie stood, gathered up the bags and cans and waxed paper from our lunches, and tossed it all into the waste basket. “Caring for stray dogs is not in my job description,” she said. “And it’s not negotiable.”

  “If I didn’t know you better,” I said, “I’d think you didn’t want Henry to have a loving home.”

  She snorted a laugh out her nose, turned, and headed for the door.

  “I’m leaving the office early,” I said. “We’ve got no appointments. Why don’t you take off for the afternoon?”

  She turned and frowned at me. “I don’t care if you double my salary,” she said. “I’m still not taking the dog.”

  “He’s really a sweet dog,” I said.

  “Yes, he seems to be. You two are destined for each other.”

  “No, huh?”

  “No.”

  I flapped my hand. “Take the afternoon anyway.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I believe I will.”

  After Julie left, I made sure Henry’s water dish was full and locked him in the office. If he made a mess, the cleaners who came in at night would just have to take care of it.

  It was a fifteen-minute walk to the Emerson College registrar’s office on Tremont Street. I took the elevator to the fourth floor and got the attention of a pretty young woman behind the long counter.

  “Help you?” she said.

  “Are you the registrar?” I said.

  “Me?” She smiled. “Not hardly.”

  I took out a business card and put it on the counter. “I need to talk to the registrar.”

  She peered at the card, then looked up at me. “A lawyer, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “Did somebody do something wrong?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She cocked her head at me, then smiled. “Well, it wasn’t me. Hang on.”

  A minute later a fortyish man in horn-rimmed glasses came to the counter. He had my card in his hand. “Mr. Coyne?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m James Connors. I’m the registrar here. Were you threatening Jamie?”

  “Nope. I wasn’t threatening anybody. I need your help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “The father of one of your students died last night. I need to get ahold of the boy.”

  “That’s a shame.” James Connors shook his head. “Classes ended nearly a month ago. The students have all gone home.”

  “I know where he lives,” I said. “He’s not there. I thought maybe I could look up his friends, see if they might be able to help.”

  “Who’s
the student?”

  “Ethan Duffy. He’s studying screenwriting.”

  “WLP,” he said. “Writing, literature, and publishing. That would be his department. Hang on.”

  He disappeared around the corner. I waited about five minutes, and then he came back with a computer printout. “This is the class roster for his freshman screenwriting seminar. My best guess would be that he’d have friends in this class. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know how to help you.”

  I looked at the printout. There were sixteen names on it, including Ethan’s. “You wouldn’t have phone numbers for these kids, would you?”

  He reached under the counter, pulled out a thin paperback book, and slid it toward me. On the cover it said, “Emerson College Directory.”

  “No hometown numbers in there,” he said. “Many of the students have apartments here in Boston. Some stay in the city for the summer. Others hang around for a while after classes end. I imagine a lot of them have gone home, but I’m not comfortable giving you their family information.”

  “This is a big help,” I said. “I assume Ethan’s somewhere in the city, probably staying with one of his friends. Thank you.

  Henry was glad to see me. I scooched down on the floor, and he leapt upon me, braced his front paws on my shoulders, and licked my face.

  I let him do that for a while. Then I stood up and went to my desk. Henry looked at me for a minute, then came over and curled up under my feet.

  I tried the number of every student in Ethan’s freshman screenwriting seminar, starting at the top of the list James Connors had given me. I left messages on the five voicemails that answered, saying the same thing: I was Ethan Duffy’s family friend, I had important news for him, if you see him please have him call me, or if you know where he is, call me yourself. I left my name and phone number.

  Seven of the phones had been disconnected.

  Three students answered, two boys and a girl. All of them knew Ethan, but none of them admitted to being his friend. They all volunteered that he seemed to be a good guy but kind of a loner, and they had no idea where he might be.

  I asked them to have Ethan call me if they happened to run into him. They said they would, but they didn’t expect to run into him.