Tight Lines Page 6

  The hand that suddenly gripped my arm felt like a bear-trap. The voice that hissed in my ear was rough and threatening.

  “Hold it right there, buddy,” that voice growled.

  I stopped and held it right there.

  Damn! I was about to become a statistic. I was about to get mugged on the Boston Common. If I was lucky I might not be murdered.

  9

  WITHOUT TURNING AROUND, AND with his fingers digging painfully into the flesh above my elbow, I said, “What do you want?”

  “C’mon. Over here, where I can see you.”

  He steered me toward a bench. I had never been mugged before. This was not how I would have imagined it.

  “Siddown.”

  I sat. He sat beside me, still holding my arm.

  “You can let go,” I said. “I promise not to flee.”

  To my surprise, he let go.

  I turned to look at him. He had closely cropped iron-colored hair, bushy gray eyebrows, a few days’ worth of heavy black-and-white bristle on his cheeks. His eyes were small and dark and surrounded by puffy flesh. There was a large bump on his nose where it took a right-angle turn toward the left.

  He looked more or less like Buddy Hackett in a bad mood.

  “So who the fuck are you, anyways,” he said.

  “My name is Brady Coyne,” I said. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Dave Finn,” he said. “I’m a friend of Mary Ellen.”

  “You’re not gonna mug me?”

  Then he grinned. And he looked even more like Buddy Hackett. “Nah,” he said. “Sorry about that. Christ, you walk fast. I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “About Mary Ellen?”

  “Yeah.” He shrugged. “I knew she had another guy. Drove me nuts. She wouldn’t admit it. She ever tell you about me?”

  “I’m her—” I stopped. “No. She never did.”

  “You musta suspected, though, huh?”

  I shrugged.

  “I admit I was jealous as hell,” he said, tugging at his nose. “But now I’m just worried. So if she’s with you or something, okay, best man wins, all that shit. I just wanna know she’s okay.”

  “Look,” I said. “I’m her mother’s lawyer, that’s all. I don’t know Mary Ellen. I’ve never even met her. I need to do some business with her.”

  “You’re not that guy?”

  “I told you, I’ve never met her.”

  He shook his head slowly back and forth. “Well, shit. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t know where she is either?”

  “Nope. Been calling. Ever since she stood me up. Figured, fuck it, so she found some younger guy. What beautiful young gal like her’d wanna marry an ugly old bastard like me anyway? But, damn. She suckered me good, tell you that. Assumed it was you, comin’ around to pick up some of her things. The guy at the desk said you was there earlier, might be comin’ around again. I wanted to get a look at you.” He cocked his head, looking at me. “Shoulda known when I seen you. Figured it hadda be somebody younger than you.”

  “Marry you? She’s going to marry you?” I said.

  “You think that’s funny?”

  I shrugged.

  “Yeah, I know what you’re thinkin’. Ugly old pug like me, rich lady like Mary Ellen, so beautiful and refined and all. Hey, I didn’t believe it myself. But, yeah, we’re plannin’ on it.” He took a deep breath. “I dunno. Guess maybe we’re not. Guess she run off with the other guy. Not you, huh?”

  “No. Not me. What do you know about this other man?”

  “Nothing. Diddlysquat. I know there’s some other guy. That’s all.”

  “Guy with a ponytail and earring? Old hippie type?”

  Dave Finn frowned. “Nah. I don’t think so. I know who that is. That’s some old buddy of hers. Fella name of Raiford. Sid Raiford. She usta work with him in some bookstore. No, this is some other guy. I don’t think her and Raiford are like that.”

  “An Arab, maybe?” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “The other man. Is he an Arab?”

  “Listen,” he said. “I don’t know who the fuck he is. I don’t think it’s Raiford, that’s all. I thought it was you. He could be an Arab or a Greek or a fuckin’ Russian for all I know. I mean, I oughta be able to figure it out, but I can’t. Fuckin’ detective, and I can’t even get a line on some guy my gal’s run off with.”

  “You’re a detective?”

  He snorted a quick ironic laugh through his L-shaped nose. “Not a very good one, I guess. Yeah, I’m a cop.”

  “Well,” I said, “it would seem that between a cop and a lawyer, we ought to be able to find her.”

  “You really don’t know where she is either, then?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Gonna keep lookin’?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “If you find her, will you tell me?”

  “If I find her,” I said, “I will first ask her if she wants me to tell you. If she says no, then I will not tell you. What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “If you find her, will you tell me?”

  “Same deal, I guess. What’d you say you wanted with her?”

  “I’m her mother’s lawyer. She’s dying. It’s about her estate.”

  “So Mary Ellen’s gonna get even richer, huh?”

  “Looks that way.” I fished another business card from my jeans pocket, scratched my home phone number on the back, and gave it to Finn. “Here’s my number. Home and office. I’d appreciate a call. From you or her.”

  He took the card, ran the ball of his thumb over the raised lettering, and shoved it into his pocket.

  “You don’t have any idea where she might’ve gone?” I said.

  “I been lookin’ for a week. Haven’t got a clue.”

  “Do you know if she has a vacation place?”

  “Yeah, matter of fact. She’s mentioned it. She’s got a cabin or something on some pond somewhere, I think. I never been there.”

  “No idea where it is?”

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe she’s there,” I said.

  “Hope so.”

  “Why?”

  “Means she’ll be back. But I doubt that’s where she is.”

  “Why?”

  “She woulda told me she was goin’.”

  Maybe not, I thought. But I remembered the inside of her closets. There didn’t seem to be any empty hangers or missing pieces from the matching luggage. Her bed was unmade and there were dirty dishes in the sink. She left her prescription of Pertofrane in her medicine cabinet. Her place had not looked the way a woman would leave it if she was going away on an extended vacation.

  I stood up. “Can I go now?” I said.

  Finn grinned crookedly. “Hope you ain’t mad.”

  I held my hand down to him. “It was good to meet you. A big relief that you didn’t mug me.”

  We shook hands and I resumed my stroll down the path that crossed the Common. I glanced back over my shoulder. Dave Finn was still sitting there on the park bench, watching me.

  10

  JULIE HAD SET UP a morning full of conferences for me on Tuesday, so I didn’t get a chance to make any calls until after lunch. That’s when I took out my notebook and punched up the first number on my list, Dr. Arline McAllister, the gynecologist with the Cambridge office. The woman who answered the phone sounded harried and informed me that the doctor was at the hospital and wasn’t expected back until late afternoon. I left my number and requested she call me.

  Next on my list was Dr. Peter McAllister, the plastic surgeon whose office was in Chelsea. I tried the number I had written down.

  A woman answered. “Dr. McAllister.”

  “I’d like to speak to the doctor, please.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. The doctor—”

  “I’m a lawyer,” I said.

  She hesitated. “Your name?”

  “Coyne. Brady Coyne.”

  “Your client?”

>   “Let me speak to Dr. McAllister, please, miss.”

  “Just a moment.”

  She put me on hold. I lit a cigarette. It was less than half smoked when she returned. “The doctor can speak with you now, Mr. Coyne.”

  I heard a click, then, “Dr. McAllister. How can I help you?”

  “I want to discuss Mary Ellen Ames,” I said.

  I heard a hesitation. Then, “Beg your pardon?”

  “Mary Ellen Ames. Your patient.”

  “I have no patient by that name, sir.”

  “Has she been your patient? Have you done surgery on her?”

  “Look,” he said. “What is this?”

  “You never heard of Mary Ellen Ames?”

  “Never.”

  “Don’t you want to look it up in your records?”

  “I don’t need to. I’d recognize the name of any patient I ever had.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Well, your credulity is of no interest to me, sir, and I don’t appreciate being bullied by some ambulance chaser. So if you—”

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I’m not after a lawsuit, Doctor. Please. One question.”

  “I never heard of her. What else can I tell you?”

  “Pertofrane. Do you prescribe Pertofrane?”

  He laughed. “Hardly.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m a plastic surgeon, Mr. Coyne.”

  “So?”

  “Pertofrane is an antidepressant.”

  “Oh.”

  “Listen. The reason I don’t need to look up your client in my records? What was her name?”

  “Mary Ellen Ames.”

  “Yes. The reason I don’t need to look her up is that I just opened my office eight months ago. I haven’t had that many patients. I’d remember her. Anyway, I don’t prescribe Pertofrane.”

  “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  “Me, too,” he said. “I was hoping you needed some cosmetic work.”

  “I probably could use some,” I said. “Guess I’ll try to get by without it.”

  I hung up and glanced at my notebook. Warren, the third McAllister doctor, was a psychiatrist. Somebody had prescribed the antidepressant drug Pertofrane for Mary Ellen. Sounded like the shrink to me. If he prescribed drugs for her, it meant he treated her. Psychiatric patients met with their shrinks several times a week, I knew. If anyone was going to know where Mary Ellen had gone, it would be her shrink.

  I tried the number for Warren McAllister and got his answering machine. My message simply stated my name and phone number and asked the doctor to return my call at his earliest convenience. I didn’t know if gynecologists prescribed drugs like Pertofrane. If I struck out with Dr. Warren, and if Dr. Arline didn’t return my call, I’d give her another try.

  I thought of calling Sherif Rahmanan. He had lied to me, and it pissed me off. He knew Mary Ellen’s phone number. Probably knew a lot more about her, too.

  But if he knew where she was, he wouldn’t have tried to reach her at home. I decided I had enough to do without making Professor Rahmanan sweat over his wife finding out that he had maintained a relationship with Mary Ellen all these years. I just wanted to know where she was. I just wanted to tell her that Susan was going to die.

  I fooled around with paperwork for the rest of the afternoon, trying to get caught up. I’d spent a lot of time on Susan recently—billable time, theoretically, although Julie always accused me of being slipshod about keeping track of billable time.

  Around four Julie buzzed me. “Line two,” she said. “It’s your wife.”

  “Gloria?”

  “Of course.”

  “She’s not my wife,” I said gently. Gloria hasn’t been my wife for a decade. Julie refuses to acknowledge that fact. She assumes that our divorce is merely a temporary hiatus in a lifelong partnership. I poked the flashing button on my phone and said, “Hi, hon.”

  “Brady,” said Gloria without preamble, “do you know what William has done?”

  “Drilled a hole in his ear?” I said. “Wild guess.”

  She hesitated for just an instant. “He told you?”

  “I saw him last week.”

  “You visited him?”

  “No, he was in town for an interview. He sponged lunch off me.”

  “Hm,” she said. “He didn’t tell me he was going to be in town.”

  “It was just a quick trip. He’s trying for an internship at the Aquarium.”

  “Well, what did you do?”

  “Do?”

  “About his ear.”

  “Well, I asked him where it came from. He said he was drunk when it happened. I guess he figures that absolves him of responsibility.”

  “Yes,” she muttered, “he would think that way. So would you.” She paused. “Reason I called…”

  “Hmm?”

  “Wanna do lunch?”

  “Do?”

  “Meet for. Eat.”

  “Sure. When? Where?”

  “How’s Friday?”

  “Fine. You coming in town?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember Marie’s?”

  “That little Italian place in Kenmore Square?”

  “That’s the one. Say twelve-thirty?”

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll be there.”

  “Um, hey, Gloria?”

  “Yes, Brady?”

  “What’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing much. It’s been a while, that’s all. I thought it would be nice to get together.”

  “It would be nice,” I said.

  After we exchanged good-byes, I swiveled around and stared out the window. Nothing much, she had said. My ex-wife was going to announce to me that she was getting remarried. To a lawyer. Ten years younger than her. A wuss. A dweeb. I wondered why she felt she had to tell me.

  I returned to the papers on my desk, and at five Julie poked her head into my office. “I’m off,” she said.

  I waved to her without looking up. The very model of the hard-working attorney.

  “Brady?” she said.

  I sighed and lifted my head. “Yes?”

  “What are you doing?”

  I moved the back of my hand across the papers scattered over my desk. “My job. I’m a lawyer, see.”

  “No, I mean on the Susan Ames thing?”

  “Still trying to catch up with Mary Ellen.”

  “And already you’re way behind in your real work.”

  “Susan is my client. It’s real work.”

  “Playing detective?”

  “I’m not playing detective. I’m trying to do my job.”

  She shrugged. “It’s your law practice.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Well,” she said, “just have all that stuff on my desk in the morning.”

  I snapped her a salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  After she left I slid the new Orvis catalog out from under a stack of manila folders. They had just brought out a great new line of fly rods. I really needed a couple of new rods. I swiveled around to face the window while I studied the catalog.

  My phone rang around five-thirty. I picked it up. “Brady Coyne,” I said.

  “This is Doctor McAllister,” said a deep male voice. “Returning your call.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I was hoping you might have some time…”

  “Did you have a referral?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Did someone refer you to me?”

  “Oh.” I laughed quickly. “No, it’s not that. I don’t need—well, maybe I could use it. Probably could. But I’m not looking for treatment, Doctor. I’m a lawyer.”

  I paused, and I could hear the hesitation in his voice before he said, “Yes?” Why is it that everybody assumes a lawyer is out to screw them?

  “Doctor McAllister,” I said, “is Mary Ellen Ames your patient?”

  There was a long pause. “Sir, I’m sorry, but…” His voice trailed off.

 
“I don’t want you to violate confidentiality,” I said. “I know all about the privileged status of our patients and clients. But I’m Mary Ellen’s mother’s lawyer. I’ve been trying to find her. Susan Ames is dying, and—”

  “She’s my patient, yes.”

  “You prescribed Pertofrane for her?”

  “What exactly do you want?” he said.

  “I just need to talk with her.”

  Another pause. “I see.”

  “So do you know how I can get ahold of her?”

  “You’d appear to be doing very well, Mr. Coyne. You know I treat Miz Ames, you know her medication.”

  “Well, I can’t find her.”

  “Mr. Coyne,” he said after a moment, “you asked me for some time. I can do that. But not now. If you’d like to get together…?”

  “Sure,” I said. “That would be good.”

  “Let’s see,” he said. “Today’s Tuesday. I’ve got my seminar tonight. How would nine be? Too late for you?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nine is fine. Where?”

  He gave me directions to his place in Brookline. His office was in his house. It sounded like a large house in a nice neighborhood.

  11

  DR. WARREN MCALLISTER’S BIG Victorian was exactly where he said it would be in Brookline, and I got there ten minutes early. A giant elm tree, apparently immune to the Dutch elm disease that has virtually extinguished that elegant old tree from New England, grew on the lawn. Its swooping limbs still clung stubbornly to a few clumps of leaves. Foundation plantings of rhododendrons had been allowed to sprawl unchecked across the front of the house, almost obscuring the porch that appeared to completely encircle it.

  I parked on the street and sat in my car, smoking a cigarette and waiting for nine o’clock to arrive. I hate to be early. I also hate to be late. I like to get to my appointments just a few minutes ahead of time and then wait. I don’t always make it, but it’s how I like to do it.

  Floodlights under the high eaves illuminated the driveway along the side of the house. The doctor had instructed me to go around to the back. At precisely nine I got out of my car, stomped on my cigarette butt, and followed the driveway around the house.