Dead Winter (24 page)

“Who, Kat? Say the names for me.”

I could hear her breathing, quick and shallow, as if she had been running. “You should have made love to me,” she said, her voice sudden and loud. “Everything would have been different. You should’ve fucked me, Brady. When that fish ate the bug you should’ve fucked me instead of knitting. Then it would’ve been all right.” She sighed. “I was waiting for that. A long time waiting.” Her voice softened and blurred again. “But Brady’s gotta knit. Always thinking, no place for God, no randomness, no redemption, no salvation. No good stuff. Don’t you think God, Brady?”

“No, Kat. There’s just us.”

“I tried. But even he doesn’t think God’s there anymore. How could I if he doesn’t?”

“He loves you, Kat.”

“God? God’s not there. You told me.”

“Not God. Des. Your father. He loves you.”

“That’s because he doesn’t know.”

“He’ll forgive you.”

“God won’t, he won’t.”

“I’m going to hang up now, Kat. You wait for me. I’ll be right there. Have some of that coffee and wait for me. Okay?”

“Wait,” she said. “Mmm.” She yawned. “Wait for Brady. Knitting.”

“Kat, listen.”

I could only hear her breathing.

“Kat. I love you. Wait for me.”

“Love me, do. Oh.”

“I’m coming.”

I got up from the table and depressed the telephone hook. I held it down until we were disconnected. Then I dialed 411.

“What city please?” came a female voice.

“Newburyport. Hurry up.”

“Yes?”

“The police emergency number there. Get it for me.

“I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to dial it yourself.”

“Dammit! Okay. What is it?”

“One moment please.” There was a click. Then a computerized voice told me the number. I disconnected, then dialed it.

“Newburyport police. Sergeant Casey.”

“Send an ambulance to—shit! I don’t know the name of it. The new condos on the river by the bridge.”

“Who is this?”

“Brady Coyne. Listen. Katherine Winter, okay? I’m her attorney. Second floor, in the rear. Okay?”

“What’s the problem?”

“Christ, I don’t know. Pills or drugs or something. I was just talking to her on the phone. She’s fading. Hurry up.”

“Where are you now, Mr. Coyne?”

“I’m home. What’s the difference?”

“Give me your address and phone number, please.”

I gave them to him.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Please hurry.”

T
WIRLING ORANGE AND BLUE
and red lights ricocheted off the brick and glass of Kat’s building and illuminated the solemn faces of the gathered crowd. I counted three cruisers angled near the doorway with their motors running and their doors hanging open. A monotonous female voice rasped and crackled over a police radio. The ambulance was backed up to the door.

I got out of my car and jogged toward the building. I pushed my way through the people gathered there. “Excuse me,” I said. “Let me through, please.”

A cop held his forearm across my chest. “You can’t go in there, buddy,” he said.

“I’ve got to see her. I just talked to her, and—”

“Sorry, pal.”

“You don’t understand. I’m her lawyer. I’m the one who called. Please.”

“Relax,” said the cop.

I gripped his arm. His glance fell to where my hand held him, a warning. I let go. “Look,” I said, taking a deep breath. “My name is Brady Coyne. I’m Katherine Winter’s lawyer. I called the police about an hour ago because I was worried about her. I just broke several of your laws getting here from Boston. Now let me see her.”

The cop shook his head. “You shouldn’t’ve bothered.”

“Huh?”

“Speeding.”

“Can I please at least talk to somebody?”

He stared at me for a moment. “You’re her lawyer, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Say your name again.”

“Coyne. Brady Coyne.”

The cop turned to another uniformed policeman. “Get Fourier. Tell him the guy who called it in is here.”

I waited there with the cop, the people behind me pressing close. I saw Fourier emerge from the doorway. He paused on the steps to blink into the lights, spotted me, and came over. “Hello, Mr. Coyne,” he said.

“The ambulance is still here,” I said. “I figure that means she’s okay.”

He touched my elbow and steered me toward a cruiser. I slid in. He went around to the driver’s side and got in beside me. He reached down and flicked off the radio. “The ambulance is still here,” he said, “because it got here too late.”

I took a deep breath. “Oh, Jesus.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What happened?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I do.”

He peered at me for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. She shot herself. She held the muzzle under her chin. She probably died instantly. The M.E. just got here.”

I fumbled for a cigarette. I couldn’t make the matches work. Fourier took them from me and got one lit. I steered the tip of the cigarette into the flame. I couldn’t seem to hold my hands still.

“Take it easy, Mr. Coyne. You did all you could. You did the right thing.”

“You don’t understand,” I said.

“No. No, I suppose I don’t. But I trust you’ll help me understand.”

“It’s my fault, see? If I hadn’t…”

“Relax. We’ll talk about it in a little while.”

“She shot herself?”

He nodded.

“What—what kind of gun did she use?”

“A twenty-two automatic. It was beside her.”

“Sure. I knew that.”

“Of course you did.”

“Did she—was there a note or anything?”

“Yes. It belongs to the medical examiner.”

“Can you—?”

“I read it, yes.”

“Who was it for?”

“No one. There was no name on it.”

“What—?”

“It said, ‘Now I’m going to be with her.’ It wasn’t signed, so they’re going to have to compare the handwriting.”

“Connie.”

“Who?”

“Her mother. Connie.”

Fourier put his hand on my shoulder and frowned at me. “You just take it easy, now, Mr. Coyne.”

He stayed there with me and we didn’t talk any more. I watched the lights flash and revolve on the faces of the people. The noises all seemed to mix together so that it seemed as if I was seated in the middle of an orchestra and all of the instruments were playing different tunes in different keys. It was very loud and it hurt my head.

After a while two men wearing white brought out a stretcher. A blanket was strapped onto it. I knew Kat was underneath. She was a small, shrunken lump. They shoved her into the back of the ambulance and it drove away. It moved sedately. It didn’t bother flashing its lights.

Then a uniformed policeman came to the cruiser where Fourier and I were sitting. He and I moved to the back seat. The cop drove us to the police station. I followed Fourier inside. He took me into a closed room. There were bars on the windows. We sat at an oblong conference table in straight wooden chairs. Fourier told a policeman to bring coffee.

A minute later the cop brought us Styrofoam cups filled with yesterday’s mud. He left and a woman came in. Fourier made a gesture at standing up. “Come on in,” he said to her.

She had honey-blond hair cut short. She wore big hoops in her ears and a white sweater and dark blue slacks. She was slim and young and pretty. She sat beside Fourier, across from me, and held her hand to me. “Greta Moran, Mr. Coyne. We’ve talked.”

I reached over and gripped her hand.

“You’re the state cop.”

She smiled. “Yes.”

I nodded. “I’m very upset.”

“Of course.”

“I will tell you all about it,” I said. “But if you don’t mind, I don’t want to keep repeating it. It’s complicated. But I’ve figured it out.”

“Can we get a tape recorder?” Greta Moran said to Fourier.

He nodded. “Sure. Hang on.”

He got up and went to the door. Then he came back and sat down. A minute later a female uniformed cop brought in a cassette tape recorder. Fourier fiddled with it, then put it in the middle of the table.

Fourier leaned toward me on his forearms. “Okay, Mr. Coyne. We’re all set. Take your time. Try not to leave anything out.”

I took a deep breath. “Kat Winter was fourteen when it started. That was 1971. In May of that year she and her mother disappeared together. Connie—that was her mother, Desmond Winter’s wife—left Des a note. It said that they would be back, he wasn’t to worry. Connie and Kat went to Winston-Salem, North Carolina, so that Kat could have her baby. Kat used a false name. You see, both Connie and Kat were trying to protect Des. He was a Unitarian minister. A highly moral man, given to quick and inflexible judgments, and a man with an impeccable reputation. If the truth were known, Des could’ve handled it. But Connie was trying to spare him.” I looked up at Fourier. “You know Des?”

He nodded. “Go on, Mr. Coyne.”

“Kat had her baby, a healthy girl. After her recuperation she and Connie headed home. This was in November, six months after they had left. They took the train. At some point during those six months, Connie had made a decision. She decided that Des had to know. On the train ride she told Kat. They would have to tell her father that she had gone off to have a baby.”

I paused to light a cigarette. Fourier and Moran were watching me.

“They got off somewhere to change trains. They went somewhere where they happened to be alone. They argued. Kat said she didn’t want her father to know. Connie insisted. She probably didn’t know why Kat was so vehement. Anyway, Kat shoved her mother. Connie slipped and fell. She hit her head, or perhaps broke her neck. She died instantly.”

“Jesus,” said Fourier. “Fourteen-year-old girls get knocked up all the time.”

“It was an accident,” I said. “But Kat—I don’t know. She panicked, I suppose. She took her mother’s purse and got on her train. I guess they were unable to identify Connie’s body when they found it. Another Jane Doe. Anyhow, Kat went back to Des, and by the time she got there she had decided how she would play it. Connie had sent her home, that’s all. Her mother would be in touch, she told Des. That was the message. And she stuck to it. It must’ve driven her crazy, that awful secret. She dealt with it by doing all she could for her father. She tried to live up to his standards. She achieved. She took care of him. And she—for her, sex wouldn’t work. It got all mixed up with her guilt and what had brought it all on.”

I sipped my coffee. It was cold. I made a face.

“More coffee?” said Fourier.

I shook my head. “So for all these years Kat has lived with it and Des has waited for Connie to come home, and it probably would’ve continued that way until he died. Except meanwhile down in North Carolina Kat’s daughter had been adopted and was growing up and falling in love and getting married. She got pregnant. Her child was stillborn. Her doctor suspected genetic problems and tried to get a medical history of her and her husband. Lanie Horton—that’s Kat’s daughter’s name—knowing she was adopted, hired a local lawyer to track down her parents. That was—”

“Greenberg,” said Moran. “Nathan Greenberg, the guy who—”

“Right,” I said. “He thought he had it figured out. So he came to Newburyport looking for Kat. I thought it was Maggie who was Lanie’s mother. They looked alike. Tall, dark. But it was Kat. Anyway, Greenberg flew into Boston. It was on a weekend. He tried to call me, but I wasn’t in. He took a motel room in Danvers and then drove to Newburyport. He went to Des’s house and saw Maggie outside. I suppose he assumed Maggie was Kat. As I said, there was a resemblance between Maggie and Lanie Horton. Anyhow, he introduced himself and asked if she was Katherine Winter. Maggie said no, of course, but she told him how to reach Kat. I figure he called Kat and gave her an idea of what was on his mind. From what people have told me about Greenberg, he must’ve invited her to his motel. Maybe he had decided to blackmail her. Maybe he just hoped for a seduction. Maybe it was Kat’s idea that they meet there. Maybe she intended to kill him all along. Anyway, she went there with a serrated kitchen knife in her purse. They talked. Greenberg told her that he had spoken with Maggie. So after Kat killed him, she had to find Maggie, because Maggie was the only one who could link Kat with Nate Greenberg.”

“My God!” breathed Moran.

I stood up and began to move around the room. “So Kat went to the boat—”

“Please, Mr. Coyne,” said Fourier, gesturing to the chair. “The recorder.”

I nodded. “Sorry.” I sat down again. “So Kat went to the boat. I suppose she knew that’s where Maggie met her lover.” I looked up at Fourier. “Ernie Cooper?”

He nodded. “Who you brought in earlier this evening.”

“Yeah. Anyway, Kat waited until Cooper left and Maggie was alone on the boat. She picked up the priest—the club they kill fish with—and went below. Maggie was in the berth. Kat clubbed her to death. A little while later Marc came along with his lover, Andrea Pavelich. They went down and saw Maggie’s body. Marc took Andy home, then drove back and called the police.”

I stopped and slumped down in my chair.

“Coffee?” said Fourier.

I lifted my hand. “No. Give me a minute. This is hard.”

He nodded.

“You understand,” I said, “this is mostly surmise on my part. All the thinking I’ve done on it plus what Kat said to me on the phone before—before she shot herself. She had taken pills, I think. She wasn’t entirely coherent. I think you’ll find that the .22 automatic she shot herself with was the same weapon that killed Andy Pavelich.”

“Why kill her?” said Moran.

“Kat blamed Marc. She loved him and she hated him. Some twisted part of her was able to persuade her that he was the one that had caused it all and he was the one who deserved to suffer for it. She saw him as they grew up. That he didn’t seem to suffer the way she did. It was not her original intention, probably, that Marc be suspected of Maggie’s death. But when Kat realized he was, she felt it was just. So when she learned—when I told her—that Andy Pavelich was Marc’s alibi, Kat killed her, too.”

Moran nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I can see that. So why did she kill herself tonight?”

“Me,” I said, spreading my hands. “She thought I was figuring it out. And I think she was in love with me.”