A Fine Line (12 page)

“Not me,” she said. “My sister’s cats don’t like dogs.”

“What about you?” I said to Keeler. “You want a dog?”

He smiled quickly and shook his head.

I shrugged. “Too bad. He’s a nice dog. Did Julie offer you folks coffee?”

“Yeah,” said Mendoza. “We declined. We’re pretty hassled, and you and us, we’ve got to talk.”

“Seeing the two of you together, it makes me suspect that what I’ve been thinking isn’t far off the mark.”

“What have you been thinking?” she said.

“That there’s some connection between Walt Duffy’s murder and that fire the other night. Am I right?”

She shook her head. “Not exactly. It’s about Benjamin Frye.”

“What did Ben do?”

“He died.”

“
What
?”

Mendoza nodded.

I blew out a long breath, then pointed to my sofa. “Let’s sit.”

The two cops sat on the sofa, and I took one of the chairs across from them.

“So what happened to Ben?” I said to Mendoza.

“That fire?” she said.

I nodded.

She turned to Keeler. “You tell him.”

Keeler cleared his throat. “We found Mr. Frye’s body in there,” he said. “Took the ME’s office all day yesterday to identify him.”

“Jesus,” I said softly. “I had dinner with Ben just the other night. He was in that building?”

Keeler nodded.

“What the hell was he doing there?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. We were hoping you might help us.”

“Me?”

“Well,” said Mendoza, “just for one thing, you might’ve been the last person to see him alive.”

“The last time I saw Ben was Friday night,” I said. “We
had dinner at Remington’s. That fire was Saturday night. I know he saw at least one person after me. He had to leave the restaurant before dessert to keep an appointment.”

“Who was it with, did he say?”

I shook my head. “He just said he had to get back to his office to meet somebody at eight o’clock. Business thing, he said. Ben was a rare-book dealer and appraiser, you know.”

Mendoza and Keeler exchanged glances. “Well, see, Mr. Coyne,” said Mendoza, “we went to Mr. Frye’s office and we found his appointment book. His last appointment was you. Remington’s at six-thirty Friday, right?”

“Right. But he told me—”

“There was no appointment after you.”

I shrugged. “So he didn’t write it down.”

“Did Mr. Frye say anything about East Boston or Pier Seven to you?” said Keeler.

“No.”

“He happen to mention Beau Marc Industries?”

“No.”

“What was Benjamin Frye’s connection with Walter Duffy?” said Mendoza.

“They were friends. They both collected old books and documents. Both into birds and nature stuff. Walt had some old letters that I gave Ben to authenticate for him. I think I mentioned that to you the other day. That’s why I met with Ben on Friday. He wanted to return Walt’s letters to me. He complained about you hassling him.”

Mendoza snorted. “Hassling? Jesus Christ.”

Keeler touched her shoulder, then turned to me. “That’s it?” he said.

“What, their connection?” I shrugged. “Far as I know, that’s all.”

“Not quite,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. “They’re both dead, you mean. I don’t know anything about that, I’m afraid.”

“Except you got that phone call.”

I nodded. “I don’t know what to make of that.”

Keeler frowned at me. Mendoza leaned toward him and whispered something. Keeler looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then shook his head.

Saundra Mendoza narrowed her eyes at me. “See, you’re the connection, Mr. Coyne,” she said. “Both of these men, they meet with you, and the next thing—I mean, the next goddamn
day
—they’re dead. You’re the one who finds one of the bodies. The other one’s body turns up in a fire that you’re telling us you knew was going to happen. An arson fire. We can assume that it was the arsonist who called you. The arsonist most likely is also the murderer. How can you say you don’t know anything about that?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t know the fire was going to happen. I didn’t understand what that guy said on the phone until I heard about the fire on the news.”

Mendoza rolled her dark eyes. “We’re not stupid, Mr. Coyne,” she said.

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“I can’t figure out what to accuse you of,” she said.

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Look—”

Keeler reached across the coffee table and touched my leg. “Take it easy, Mr. Coyne. We’re just trying to get a handle on this.”

I looked at Mendoza. “And I’m trying to help.”

Her dark eyes glared at me for a moment. Then she shrugged. “Sure. Sorry.” She didn’t sound particularly sorry.

“What about those letters?” said Keeler.

I glanced at Mendoza, who was studying her boots. Then I turned to Keeler. “They were apparently written by Meriwether Lewis to an eminent ornithologist named Alexander Wilson right after Lewis got back from his expedition,” I said. “They’re about the birds he saw on the voyage. They belonged to Walt Duffy. Ben Frye was going to authenticate them.”

“Where are they now?”

“I’ve got them.”

“With you?”

I jerked my head in the direction of my desk. “They’re in my briefcase, actually.”

“Let’s see them,” said Mendoza.

“They’re just old letters,” I said. “But if they turn out to be authentic, they’re very valuable. Priceless, in fact. They’re part of Walt Duffy’s estate.” I frowned at her. “You think those two men were killed for these letters?”

“Could be, huh?” she said.

I shook my head. “Doesn’t make sense. First off, the only people who knew Walt had them were Ben and me. Second, whoever killed Walt had the chance to steal a lot of other priceless stuff he kept in his house. Walt had a very valuable collection of old books and documents and artwork. But they didn’t touch any of it.”

“Just his computer and camera and cell phone,” she said. “So what about the son? Ethan? He must’ve known about those letters.”

I shrugged. “Maybe he did. I don’t know.”

“And you don’t know who Duffy and Frye and the son told about them, either.”

“No. I don’t know.”

“Could be dozens of people.”

I nodded.

“When did Duffy get those letters?” she said.

“He picked them up in some little antique shop in the Poconos about ten years ago.”

“But you didn’t know about them before the other day?”

“No.”

“Duffy never even mentioned them to you before that?”

I shook my head.

“And the truth is, we really have no idea how many people knew about them.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said.

Saundra Mendoza looked up at the ceiling as if she were praying for patience.

“I’d like to look at those letters,” said Keeler.

“Sure.” I went over to my desk, took the manila envelope out of my battered old briefcase, and handed it to him. “Don’t take them out of the plastic,” I said. “They’re two hundred years old, very delicate. The acid from your fingers would ruin them.”

Keeler slid the plastic envelope out, held it gingerly by the corners, looked at it, shrugged, and handed it to Mendoza.

She started to open the plastic envelope.

“Hey,” I said. “I told you, don’t touch the letters.”

She stared at me for a moment, then blew out an exasperated breath. “Dammit, Matt. This is evidence,” she said to Keeler.

Keeler nodded. “Could be. If it is, though, we better not tamper with it.”

Mendoza shrugged. “We’re going to take this envelope with us,” she said to me.

I remembered what Ben Frye had said about police evidence rooms. “Over my dead body,” I said.

“Very funny,” she said sourly. She turned to Keeler. “We got an arson fire and two dead people, and the lawyer here’s worried about some old letters.”

“Those old letters are priceless and irreplaceable,” I said. “I intend to keep them safe. You want ’em, get a warrant. Which I promise you I’ll contest.”

“Sure,” said Keeler. “That’s what I’d do if I were a lawyer.” He turned to Mendoza. “We’ve got to know a lot more than we know now before we could convince a judge. At least we know where they are if we need them.”

Saundra Mendoza looked at him for a minute, then turned and narrowed her eyes at me. “The two men who had these letters in their possession got killed. Now you’ve got ’em. That okay with you?”

“I guess it’ll have to be,” I said.

She stood up. “Come on, Matt,” she said to Keeler. “Let’s get the hell out of here. We’re not getting anywhere with this damn lawyer.” She pronounced the word “lawyer” as if it were a synonym for excrement.

Keeler looked at me, shrugged, and followed her out of my office.

A
fter Mendoza and Keeler left, I took the envelope with the letters in it over to my office safe, which was cleverly hidden behind a black-and-white photograph of my two sons, Billy and Joey, when they were seven and five. Gloria, my ex-wife, took the photo fifteen years ago. She had it blown up and framed, and she gave it to me for Christmas. The boys were sitting side-by-side on the bow seat of a leaky old rowboat on a lake in Maine where we’d rented a cottage for a week in August. They were both holding fishing rods. They looked sunburned and mosquito-bitten and scruffy. One of those happy times in what was, for a while, a happy family’s life.

Even then you could see the devil in Billy’s eyes and the intensity in Joey’s.

I wondered what a photo of Gloria and me, taken back then, would have revealed in our eyes.

The safe’s six-number combination was the boys’ two birthdays. I opened it and put the Meriwether Lewis letters inside next to the Smith & Wesson .38 revolver I kept there.
Ben Frye had been right. Whether or not the letters turned out to be evidence, they were considerably more secure in my safe than they’d be on a shelf in the Boston PD evidence lockup.

Henry, I noticed, was sitting meaningfully beside the door. I opened it, and we went out to the reception area. He waddled over to Julie, who was hunched over her computer, plopped his chin on her knee, and gazed up into her eyes.

“I think he wants to go out,” I said to her.

“His leash is hanging over there,” she said without looking up.

“He’s asking you.”

Julie patted Henry’s rump. “Go ask Brady,” she said to him.

Henry looked at me, then came over, sat beside me, and whined.

“Okay, okay,” I said.

Henry and I strolled down Huntington Avenue and meandered around the grounds of the Christian Science Mother Church, where Henry lifted his leg on all the likely targets. Then we turned back up Boylston and stopped in the deli. Henry sat obediently inside the door. Manny, the counterman, didn’t object, perhaps because Julie and I got takeout from him three or four times a week. Boston is a famously dog-friendly city. I got tuna sandwiches on whole wheat and Cokes for Julie and me and a roast beef on pumpernickel for Henry. I didn’t tell Henry. It was to be a surprise.

The three of us ate at the coffee table in my office. Henry gulped down his sandwich in about three bites, then sat there watching me and Julie, following our hands intently as they moved our food up to our mouths. Finally Julie gave him a piece of her sandwich. He gobbled it, then turned his gaze
upon me. I gave him a potato chip, which he seemed to enjoy, and offered him a bite of my dill pickle. He gave the pickle a sniff, glanced at Julie, then lay down at her feet. I’d insulted him, apparently.

“So what did those two officers want?” said Julie.

I told her about the fire Evie and I had watched burn, and how Ben Frye’s body was found there.

Julie shook her head. “First Mr. Duffy has that accident,” she said, “and now . . .”

I nodded.

“Detective Mendoza is with homicide,” she said after a minute.

“Yes. They were both unattended deaths. They have to be investigated.”

Julie smiled. “Meaning you can’t talk about it, right?”

I nodded.

“And you’re in the middle of it, of course.”

“I guess I am.”

“So what are you going to do?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I wish Ethan would show up. He might know something. I just hope . . .”

“You hope what?”

“I hope nothing’s happened to him.”

I had office appointments with clients in the afternoon. Henry behaved himself while we conferred.

When the last one left around four, I called Ellen Bramhall, Walt Duffy’s ex-wife and Ethan’s mother, at her home in Sudbury.

She answered on the first ring. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Bramhall,” I said, “it’s Brady Coyne again.”

“Oh, Mr. Coyne. Have you heard anything from Ethan?”

“I’m sorry, no,” I said. “I was wondering if you had.”

“No,” she said. “I’ve talked with our police. They’ve been very kind. But . . .” She sighed. “I’m out here in my garden. Weeding, pruning, watering, mulching, tending my dear little plants, trying not to think about Ethan and what happened to Walter. I’ve got my telephone right here with me so I won’t miss any calls. I was hoping . . .”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I was wondering if you and I might talk?”

“Talk?”

“About Ethan. About how we might find him. I guess we’re both worried about him. And I think he might be able to help us understand what happened to Walt.”

“Well,” she said, “I’ve wracked my brain to no avail ever since I talked with you on Thursday. I don’t know what good I can do. I feel so useless. Maybe talking with you will make me feel less useless. Do you want to come over to the house?”

“How about after supper tonight?”

“That would be lovely,” she said.

She gave me directions and insisted I call her Ellen. She sounded like a frantic mother trying desperately to hold herself together.

Julie and Henry and I left the office together. I had Henry’s leash in one hand and my briefcase in the other. I’d stuck Walt Duffy’s file, including copies of his will and his divorce decree, into it with the intention of glancing at it before I met with Ellen Bramhall. I wanted to double-check my memory that she was not mentioned in it. Anyway, it made Julie
happy to think I might spend some time at home catching up on my paperwork.