A Fine Line (15 page)

Well, it could’ve been worse. Henry and I were alive.

I stood up, closed my eyes against the quick, stabbing pain in my head, and leaned against the side of the car—and that’s when I realized that my assailant had made off with my briefcase, too.

I felt bad about losing that briefcase. It wasn’t that there was anything valuable, top-secret, or in any way irreplaceable in it. The papers Julie stuffed into my briefcase were photocopies of documents that were safely filed in our office. I did a quick inventory from memory. Walt Duffy’s will. That was public record. A couple of legal journals. Boring junk. Copies of the drafts of some letters I was supposed to look over before we mailed them—technical stuff, legal posturing that only another attorney could appreciate. That was all. Nothing that contained any information worth stealing. Nothing I needed. Nothing of any value whatsoever to anybody else.

I remembered the Meriwether Lewis letters, and how nervous I’d felt carrying them around the evening Walt Duffy asked me to deliver them to Ben Frye. Thankfully, they were tucked securely away in my office safe.

But the briefcase itself—that was a different story. My father had given it to me when I graduated from Yale Law
School, and I’d carried it with me ever since. It was one of those big clunky dark-leather briefcases, scraped and stained from use and abuse. It had a wide flat bottom and opened like an accordion. The flap closed with a big brass locking clasp, the key to which had been lost long before the briefcase came to me. It was about eighty years old. The initials “HFS” were engraved in gold on its side. It once belonged to Harlan Fiske Stone, who was the twelfth Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court. My father had clerked for him. When Stone died in 1946, he bequeathed the briefcase to Dad.

Without documents testifying to its provenance, that briefcase would be worth nothing to an antique dealer or a pawn broker, never mind to some low-life mugger. But it was priceless to me. Dad had always hoped I’d carry it with me the first time I argued a ground-breaking civil liberties case before the Supreme Court.

Well, I’d never gone before the Court, and as my career had evolved, there was good reason to believe I never would. But if somehow that occasion should come to pass, it looked like I’d have to do it without my Harlan Fiske Stone briefcase.

Dad would be rolling his eyes and groaning in his grave. “Heedless, Brady,” he’d be saying with a wag of his finger. “You can be so heedless, my boy.”

I’d disappointed the old man again.

I pushed myself to my feet. I staggered for a moment. I felt a little dizzy, and my head hurt. I took a deep breath, told Henry everything was all right, and we followed my mugger’s escape route out of the parking garage. I vaguely hoped I’d spot my wallet and my briefcase where he’d decided to drop them along the way. But no such luck.

When he felt safe, of course, he’d take the cash and the credit cards from the wallet, and he’d empty out the briefcase and discover that it held no packets of cocaine, no rolls of thousand-dollar bills, no diamond necklaces. Then he’d heave it into a Dumpster somewhere, and that would be the end of my Harlan Fiske Stone briefcase.

Damn. I loved that briefcase.

When we got up to my apartment, I headed straight for the bathroom and looked in the mirror. There was a gash at my hairline and quite a bit of blood on my face and the front of my shirt. I took off my shirt, washed my face, and sprayed some Bactine on the gash. It wasn’t much of a wound, considering how much it had bled.

I covered it with a Band-Aid, then went into the kitchen, poured some Rebel Yell into a glass, and added a few ice cubes. I took my drink into the bedroom and flopped down on the bed. I still felt a little woozy.

After a few minutes, I sat up, sipped my drink, lit a cigarette, and called Evie.

When I told her what had happened, she said, “What did the police say?”

“I didn’t call the police.”

“Why not?”

“What can they do?”

“Brady,” she said, “you were mugged. That’s a crime. You’re supposed to report crimes. Otherwise, how do you expect the police to capture the criminals?”

“I don’t expect them to,” I said. “A hundred people get mugged every night in Boston. All he got was my wallet and an eighty-year-old briefcase full of worthless papers.”

“That’s hardly the point.”

I sighed. “I know. I’m more pissed at the security around
here. This isn’t the first time someone’s been mugged in my garage. It’s why I always walk down with you when you’re leaving.”

“Call the police, okay?”

“Sure,” I said.

“I mean it,” she said. “At least if somebody finds your briefcase, they’ll know who it belongs to. Can you identify the guy, do you think?”

“Not in a million years. Dark clothing. That’s it. Never saw his face.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He just said ‘shit’ when Henry went after him. I think he hit Henry.”

“Oh, I hate that man. Is Henry all right?”

“He’s not complaining.”

“How big was the guy?”

“I couldn’t tell. Average sized, I guess.”

“Could it have been a woman?”

“Me? Mugged by a woman?”

She laughed. “Silly me. Did you take something for your headache?”

“Rebel Yell and a cigarette.”

“Take some aspirin.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Put an ice pack on your head.”

“Right.”

“Call the cops.”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Don’t forget to cancel your credit cards.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And get some sleep.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“I wish I were there to take care of you.”

“Me, too.”

After I hung up with Evie, I called the local precinct and reported what had happened. The woman who took the call asked perfunctory questions, and I gave her perfunctory answers. She didn’t promise to send somebody over right away, and I didn’t ask her to. I made sure she wrote down a description of my briefcase. She asked me what it was worth. I told her it had loads of sentimental value.

She reminded me to cancel my credit cards, too.

Somewhere along the way, Henry snuck up onto the bed. He lay on his side with his back pressed against my leg. He was sound asleep.

“Dogs,” I told him, “are supposed to sleep on the floor.”

He twitched and sighed.

I didn’t have the energy to press the issue.

When the phone rang, I was instantly awake. The green glow-in-the-dark numbers on my digital alarm clock read 4:09
A.M.

“Yes?” I said when I got the phone to my ear. “Who is this?”

“Fawrivah.” It was that same muffled voice.

“I didn’t catch what you said,” I said. “Say it again. Who are you, anyway?”

He hung up.

I pushed myself into a sitting position and turned on the light. Henry, who was still sprawled on my bed, lifted his head, blinked at me, and went back to sleep.

I hit star-69 on the telephone and was told that the number I was trying to call couldn’t be “reached by this method.” As expected.

I lit a cigarette. “Fawrivah,” the voice had said. I repeated it aloud a couple times until I thought I had it. Then I called Lieutenant Keeler’s cell phone.

He picked up on the fourth ring and grumbled, “Yeah. Keeler.”

“It’s Brady Coyne,” I said. “I just had another phone call.”

“Christalmighty,” he said. “A phone call? Oh. A
phone
call. Another fire, you think?”

“I don’t know. It was the same voice.”

“You recognize it?”

“No.”

“Well, what’d he say?”

“Fall River, I think.” Fall River was an old down-on-itsluck fishing city near the Rhode Island border on the Massachusetts south shore.

“What do you mean, you think?”

“His voice was muffled, like last time. Like he had the receiver covered. It sounded like he said Fall River.”

“You try to retrieve his number?”

“Yes. No luck.”

“Okay,” said Keeler. “Thanks. Got it. Go back to sleep.”

“Wait,” I said.

“What?”

“I thought you might be interested to know I got mugged tonight.”

“Any buildings burn down?”

“No. He pushed me from behind and I banged my head. Took my wallet and my briefcase.”

“So why’re you telling me? I’m arson. Call the cops.”

“I did. They didn’t seem very interested.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“That wasn’t my point,” I said. “I just thought, first Walt Duffy gets murdered, then Ben Frye dies in a fire, and these phone calls, and I’ve been lugging those Meriwether Lewis letters around, and—”

“He got those letters?”

“No. They’re in a safe place.”

“So what did he get?”

“Nothing that matters, really. Some cash. Credit cards. Except my briefcase. My father gave it to me.”

“No documents in it?”

“Just photocopies of stuff. Nothing of any interest to anybody.”

“This mugger . . .”

“I didn’t get a look at his face,” I said.

“Well,” said Keeler, “this is something for the local cops, you know.”

“I just thought it all might be connected,” I said lamely.

“You have any idea how many people get mugged in Boston?”

“Sure, but . . .”

He was silent for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Maybe it is connected. Maybe you’re lucky you didn’t get the back of your head smashed in, too. Right now, though, I’m more interested in that phone call. Fall River? That was all he had to say?”

“That was all. He said it once and hung up.”

“Well,” he said, “let’s see if we can nail somebody setting fires in Fall River, shall we?”

“I hope you do,” I said. “These phone calls are ruining my sleep.”

“Mine, too,” he said. “Don’t forget to cancel your credit cards.”

I
lay there in the dark, waiting for sleep to return. I kept hearing that voice on the telephone, muffled and obviously disguised. “Fawrivah,” he’d said. Fall River. I was sure it was the same voice that had whispered “Boomer pierce even” to me the night before the Beau Marc warehouse on Pier Seven in East Boston went up in flames with Ben Frye inside.

So why tell me about it?

My head throbbed. Where I touched it, there was a big, tender bump. I staggered out of bed, went into the bathroom, and swallowed three ibuprofen tablets. I peeled off the Band-Aid, and when I looked in the mirror, I saw that the bump on my forehead wasn’t all that big. A little scab had formed over it. I didn’t figure I was a candidate for cosmetic surgery.

When I turned back to the bedroom, Henry was standing there in the doorway with his head cocked to the side and his little tail wagging.

“What do you want?” I said to him.

He went over and sat beside the front door.

“Do you know what time it is?” I said to him.

He perked up his ears.

“It’s quarter of five in the morning,” I told him.

That information seemed to please him.

So I got dressed, hooked up Henry’s leash, and started to open the door. Then I went back into the kitchen, found an old spatula and a plastic zip-up bag. I shoved them into my pocket, and Henry and I went down the elevator, out onto the sidewalk, and headed for the park down the street.

By the time Henry finished his business—and I’d finished scooping it into the plastic bag—the sky had begun to turn silvery in the east, and overhead, the stars were winking out one by one.

Back home, I got undressed and went back to bed. Smoked a cigarette. Slogged through half a chapter of
Moby Dick
. Turned off the light. Stared up into the semi-darkness.

After what seemed like a very long time, I finally started to drift off . . . and that’s when my alarm clanged. I reached over and shut it off without even opening my eyes.

When the phone woke me up, the sun was streaming through my bedroom window. Judging by its angle, it was the middle of the morning.

I picked up the phone. “Yeah?”

“Where are you?” It was Julie.

“I’m here. Obviously.”

“You don’t need to be crabby,” she said. “I mean, why aren’t you here? Mr. Alberts’s appointment is in an hour.”

“Oh, shit. What time is it?”

“It’s after ten, Brady. Are you all right?”

“Actually, no,” I said. “I’ve got a terrible headache. I slept
lousy. Must’ve turned off the alarm. See if you can reschedule Herm Alberts, will you?”

“You never have headaches,” she said skeptically.

“I fell and banged my head last night. It bled all over me. Now I’ve got a goose egg. I’ll be fine.”

“Take some aspirin.”

I sighed. “I did.”

“Put ice on it.”

“Yes,” I said. “Good idea.”

“I’ll call Mr. Alberts,” she said. “What time will you be here?”

“What’ve we got this afternoon?”

“No appointments. We need to go over that paperwork I gave you.”

“Oh,” I said. “That.”

She hesitated, then said, “What do you mean, ‘Oh, that’?”

I told her about getting mugged and banging my head and having my wallet and my briefcase stolen.

“Your Harlan Fiske Stone briefcase?”

“Yes.”

“You love that briefcase,” she said.

“Yes, I do.”

“What about all that paperwork I gave you?”

I sighed. “What do you think?”

“Gone, huh?”

“Gone.”

“Hm,” she said. “So what did the police say?”

“They thanked me for reporting it.” I cleared my throat. “I think I’m going to take the day off. See if I can go back to sleep, get rid of this damn headache.”

“Well, sure,” she said. “Certainly if you’re not feeling well . . .”

“I feel lousy,” I said.

It reminded me of lying to my mother when I was a kid, pretending to be sick because I didn’t want to go to school. I felt a little guilty about it.

I figured I’d get over it.

After I hung up with Julie, I called to report the theft of my credit cards. As expected, it took longer than it should have, and the headache I ended up with had nothing to do with whacking it against the door frame of my car.

So I went back to bed.