Muscle Memory (13 page)

“Did she say that?”

“Oh, hell, no. She was sweet as pie. But I could tell. God knows what Kaye’s been telling her about me.”

“I’ll be talking with Lieutenant Horowitz,” I said. “I’ll ask him about making funeral arrangements.” I paused. “Mick, I wondered if you knew anything about some boy, a student who Kaye had removed from her class.”

“Sure. What about him?”

“Can you remember exactly what Kaye told you about him?”

“He had a crush on her. Followed her around. Walked her to her car one afternoon, opened the door for her, and when she started to get in, he grabbed her and tried to kiss her. She pushed him away. When she came home, she was very shook up. I told her to get the kid the hell out of her class or I’d go to that school and deal with him myself.”

“She said he’d tried to kiss her?”

“Yeah. That’s what I just told you. Why?”

“He denies it, and the principal of the school hadn’t heard anything about it.”

“Well, of course he denies it. Maybe Kaye never mentioned it to the principal, I don’t know.” He paused. “You talked to them, huh?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Old Perry Mason.”

“That’s me.”

“Gonna track down the killer, huh?”

“Sure. You bet.”

“You don’t think this kid…?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“All I can tell you for sure,” he said, “is that it wasn’t me.” He was quiet for a minute. “Brady?” he finally said.

“Yeah?”

“What’m I gonna do?”

“About what?”

“My kids. What the hell am I supposed to say to them?”

“Tell them you love them. Hug them tight.”

“But everybody thinks I killed her.”

“Not everybody,” I said. “I don’t. And Erin and Danny don’t, either.”

“If they did,” said Mick, “I’d shoot myself.”

“Please,” I said. “Don’t do that.”

After I hung up with Mick, I went into the kitchen and made myself a ham-and-cheese on rye, slathered with Grey Poupon. I took my sandwich back out onto my balcony and devoured it while the sky grew dark over the water and the stars started popping out.

I finished my sandwich, then tried Horowitz at State Police headquarters on Route 9 in Framingham. The receptionist told me he was off duty, and I declined to leave a message.

A couple of years ago, when I was involved in a case he was working on, Horowitz gave me a secret phone number. It rang the cell phone he carried in his pocket so I could reach him no matter where he was—at his desk, in his car, out on his boat, or in the bathroom. He’d warned me never to use it except in an emergency.

So I dialed it.

He answered on the second ring. “Who’s this?” Not a warm and friendly greeting.

“Coyne.”

“You know where I am?”

“Gee, no. Where?”

“Fenway fucking Park.”

“What’s the score?”

“It’s on TV, Coyne, and you didn’t need to call me to get the score.” He paused. “So what’s up? This better be good.”

“Just a quick question,” I said. “Has the ME pinned down the time of Kaye Fallon’s death?”

“Eight to midnight Sunday. Why?”

“You might want to check on the whereabouts of a guy named Will Powers. He works at a Jiffy Lube out in Loomis. He’s got no alibi for the latter part of the evening, and he might have a motive.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I told Horowitz about my visit to Dolley Madison Regional and my interviews with Ron Moyle and Will Powers.

“Okay,” said Horowitz when I’d finished. He paused, and I heard the sounds of thirty-thousand people yelling.

“What happened?” I said

“Nomar just hit one into the triangle. Stand-up triple. You about done with me here? My beer’s getting flat.”

“When’re they going to release Kaye’s body?”

“No idea.”

“You gonna arrest Mick?”

“You’ll be the first to know,” he said. “How’s that?” He sighed. “Look. I appreciate your sleuthing, Coyne, and we can talk about the damn case, all right? But I’m sitting here in Section Twelve with a hot dog in one hand and a paper cup full of warm beer in the other and this goddamn phone squeezed against my ear, and Nomar’s standing on third base with one out, and I been spending sixteen hours a day at the job, and right now all I wanna do is see if one of these bums can hit the ball far enough into the outfield so Nomar can make it home. Call me tomorrow.”

“Well, okay. I’ll—”

But he’d disconnected.

I put my phone on my lap and lit a cigarette. A bank of clouds obscured the line between sky and water toward the east, and a damp breeze had begun to blow up off the water, carrying with it the rich mingled low-tide aroma of seaweed, diesel fuel, mud, and salt. The dolorous dong of the bell-buoy out at the mouth of the harbor echoed in the damp night air.

I got up, went inside, pulled on a sweatshirt, then returned to my balcony. Information gave me the phone number for Ronald Moyle out in Harlow. I thought it was either brave or foolhardy for the high school principal to have a listed phone number, but I was grateful for it.

A woman answered—the severe-looking dark-haired wife in the portrait on Moyle’s desk, I assumed—and told me cheerfully that Ron was out back and she’d be very happy to fetch him for me if I’d give her my name, which I did.

A minute later, he said, “Mr. Coyne?”

“Hi, Ron. Sorry to bother you at home.”

“That’s okay. What’s up? Did you track down Will Powers?”

“Yes. Had a good talk with him. You were right.”

“How so?”

“He seems like a pretty good kid. Too bad you couldn’t hang onto him.”

“I agree. I hate it when kids drop out.”

“He says he didn’t stalk Kaye Fallon, never tried to kiss her.”

“Did I say he did?”

“You removed him from her class.”

“I did. Based on what Kaye told me.”

“Was Kaye an hysteric?”

“I certainly never thought so.”

“Did she flirt with her students?”

“Is that what Will said?”

“I’m just trying to read between the lines, Ron.”

“Well, I never observed anything like that.”

“Did she flirt with you?”

“Huh? That’s ridiculous.” He paused. “She was very friendly and approachable, of course,” he said slowly. “Good teachers generally are. And she was certainly attractive. Always dressed well, paid attention to her makeup. But she was quite proper with everybody. Certainly with me.”

“This afternoon you mentioned putting her name in for ten­ure.”

“Right. I did.”

“Did she get it?”

“Actually, no.”

“Why not?”

“The usual reason, Mr. Coyne. Budget. The school committee didn’t think it would be fiscally sound to grant tenure to a permanent substitute. In fact, they eliminated the position.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kaye was without a job. Well, I could still use her as a regular sub, of course. On the usual per diem. Which I hoped to do.”

“When did all this happen?”

“Just a couple weeks ago. I’d talked them into reconsidering, but they wouldn’t change their minds.”

“What did Kaye say when you told her?”

Moyle hesitated. “Actually, I never did tell her.”

“She didn’t know?”

“I suspect she heard it through the grapevine. I put it off, to tell you the truth. I hate to give people bad news. I think she was counting on that security. With her divorce and all. Anyway, I finally sent her a message in class, asked her to see me after school. She didn’t show up.”

“When was that?”

“Last week. Tuesday or Wednesday.”

“Just a few days before she died,” I said.

He sighed. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this when we talked this afternoon?”

“I don’t know. You didn’t ask. It didn’t seem relevant. Is it?”

“What?”

“Is it relevant?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But if you can think of any reason why it might be, you should tell me.”

“Well, I can’t.” He cleared his throat. “What are you thinking?

“I’m just trying to understand Kaye, her life, people who knew her, that’s all.”

“But you drove all the way from Boston to see me in my office, then you turn around and call me at home…”

“Will Powers implied that you might’ve been, um, close to Kaye.”

“Close?” He was silent for a moment. “That’s quite an ac­cusation to make of a principal.”

“I didn’t mean it as an accusation, Ron.”

“Well,” he said, and he made his voice low as if he didn’t want to be overheard, “I had no personal relationship with Mrs. Fallon whatsoever. I would be delighted if you’d check up with anyone you can think of to verify that. And I’ve got to tell you, I resent it. You’ve got no right—”

“I said it wasn’t an accusation,” I said quickly.

“Look, Mr. Coyne. My daughters are here with their pajamas on. I always read to them at bedtime.”

“That’s nice. I envy you.”

“If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Yes,” I said. “You should.”

By the time I hung up with Ron Moyle, a fine mist had begun to fall. I took the phone inside, sat at the table, lit a cigarette, and watched the fog and mist move over the water.

Then I dialed the Ritz and asked to be connected to Sylvie’s room.

After a dozen rings, the switchboard operator, a woman with a faint Smokey Mountain twang, said, “Ms. Szabo does not appear to be answering, sir. Shall I keep ringing?”

“No,” I said. “I guess she’s not there.”

“May I take a message?”

“No, that’s all right. You don’t know when she’s expected in, do you?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

I disconnected, put the phone on the table, and let out a long breath. I couldn’t figure out whether I was disappointed or re­lieved.

S
OMETIME A LITTLE BEFORE
noon the next morning, Julie buzzed me. “Attorney Cooper’s on line one,” she said.

“Got it,” I said. I punched the button on my console and said, “Brady Coyne.”

“Hi, Brady,” she said. “It’s Barbara. Barbara Cooper.”

“How can I help you, Ms. Cooper?” Damned if I was going to fall into the first-name, buddy-buddy trap she was laying for me. The last time I’d talked with Barbara Cooper, she’d informed me that she intended to castrate Mick—figuratively, of course—in divorce court.

“You can’t help me,” she said. “I thought I might help you.” She paused, and when I didn’t say anything, she continued, “The state’s attorney has subpoenaed the Fallon deposition. I thought you should know.”

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

“They also interrogated me at length. I cooperated fully.”

“Sure,” I said. “No reason not to.”

“They wanted to know everything Mrs. Fallon had told me about her marriage, her husband, his finances, plus my observations of your client. Client privilege, it seems to me, does not apply here.”

“Your client being dead.”

“Right.”

“Well,” I said, “I have no problem with that. We’re all after the same thing. My client is innocent.”

“Of course he is,” she said, and if she intended to be sarcastic, I didn’t detect it in her tone. “Anyway,” she said, “I just wanted—”

“To get it off your conscience,” I said.

She chuckled. “You’re a hard case, Brady. No, my conscience is not involved in this. Call it professional courtesy. I didn’t have to call you.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

“If you were sincerely appreciative,” she said, “you’d offer to buy me a drink sometime.”

“Why?” I said. “What do you want?”

“Want?” I heard her sigh. “Believe it or not, I don’t want a damn thing, except maybe a relaxing drink.”

“I’ll call you sometime,” I said.

“You ought to,” she said. “You probably think I’m some kind of ball-buster, but I can be pretty good company when I’m away from the office.”

I didn’t tell her that “ball-buster” was precisely what I thought she was. If Barbara Cooper wanted to have a drink with me, I assumed it was because she had an agenda.

Sometime in the afternoon I called Mick. Nothing had changed. He hadn’t heard from Danny or Erin again, and he was still going batshit. I decided not to tell him that the state’s attorney seemed to be putting together a case against him. No sense in upsetting him any more.

I left the office on foot around six-thirty, feeling quite virtuous at the dent I’d made in my paperwork. I stopped off for a burger and beer at Skeeter’s, where I watched the first three innings of the Red Sox game, and got home around nine.

After I changed out of my lawyer clothes, I took the phone out to the balcony, lit a cigarette, watched a ferry chug across the harbor, and called the Ritz.

“I decided you weren’t going to call me,” Sylvie said when they connected me to her room.

“Of course I was going to call you. I tried last night, but you weren’t there.”

“Well,” she said softly, “I’m here now. Where are you?”

“I just got home. Long day.”

“Do you still walk to the office?”

“Usually, yes.”

“You walk right past the Ritz, and you don’t even stop to see if Sylvie’s here waiting for you?”

“It would’ve been an inspired idea,” I said. “Guess I’ve been pretty preoccupied lately.”

“Ah, yes. That terrible murder that Brady must solve.”

“I’m not trying to solve it, honey. I’m just trying to help my client.”

“Brady is always such a helpful person.”

“That sounded almost sarcastic, Sylvie. Has New York City turned you into a cynic?”

“Maybe it has,” she said. “Or maybe I just thought you’d be happier to see me.”

“You caught me at a bad time, but I
was
happy to see you. I do want to see you again, when I’m more relaxed. What about dinner tomorrow night. Say six-thirty?”

“I’ll be waiting in the bar.”

The phone woke me up a little before seven the next morning.

“Horowitz,” he growled when I picked it up.

“Christ,” I yawned. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Hardly ever,” he said. “Waste of time.”

“So what’s up?”

“Thought you might want to bring your client around this morning.”

“I’ve got a lot of clients.”

“You know the one I’m interested in.”

“Why would I want to do that?”