Shadow of Death (15 page)

Authors: William G. Tapply

Tags: #Suspense

BOOK: Shadow of Death

10.28Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

“Who'd he owe money to?”

“He borrowed from friends, took loans from several banks, borrowed against his 401K and life insurance policies. He was tapped out.”

“So what did he need that money for?”

“I don't know,” she said. “I don't know anybody who knows. Even off the record, I couldn't find anybody who had a clue.”

“What about the police? Were they involved?”

“Nope. The bank was handling the embezzling thing, if that's what it was, in-house. He died in Louisiana. No police case here.” She hesitated. “My other phone's ringing.”

“Can I call you again?”

“Sure. Sorry. Gotta go.”

And she disconnected.

During my conversation with Tamara Quinlan, Henry had plopped his chin on my knee and commenced staring into my eyes. This meant he wanted to go outside.

So I picked up a legal pad and a felt-tipped pen, and Henry and I went out to the patio.

Our arrival panicked half a dozen mourning doves who'd been pecking fallen seeds from under the hanging feeders. Henry, who'd been bred for bird hunting, stared intently after the fleeing doves. Then he went looking for bushes to pee on.

I sat at the table and drew a line down the middle of the yellow sheet of paper. I labeled one column “Lyman” and the other “Burlingame.” Then I wrote down what I knew about each man:

They were about the same age.

They'd both been born near Southwick, New Hampshire.

They'd both moved away sometime during their childhood.

Both of them had been depressed shortly before their death.

Both of them had money problems.

Both of them had taken desperate actions to address those problems.

They died within two weeks of each other.

Both of them had died unattended deaths.

So what did all that have to do with Albert Stoddard? Why did he have copies of their obituaries? Who'd sent them to him?

The parallels between Albert and the two dead men were striking:

All three were in their mid-forties.

All had been born near Southwick, New Hampshire.

All of them had moved away from the Southwick area when they were teenagers.

Lyman and Burlingame were reportedly depressed. “Depressed” wasn't the word that Ellen or Jimmy D'Ambrosio had used to describe Albert. But depression manifests itself in any number of behaviors, including, maybe, Ellen's word “weird.”

Okay. The questions I was left with were obvious:

Did Albert have money problems?

Had he taken desperate actions? Was one of his desperate actions murdering Gordon Cahill? Was another one kicking and slugging me and pressing a double-barreled shotgun against my forehead?

Or: Were we waiting to learn that Albert, like Lyman and Burlingameâand Gordon Cahillâhad died an “accidental” or “sudden” death?

I went back inside, poured myself another mug of coffee
on the way through the kitchen, and took it into my office.

I found the manila folder that held the printouts of all the stuff Gordon Cahill had e-mailed to me the day before he died and took out the sheets that showed the last four months of Albert's bank statements. I'd already studied them. But that time I'd been looking for some New Hampshire connection.

Now I was looking for a clue that Albert had money problems, that he'd borrowed excessively, that he'd been paying off some large debt.

He'd withdrawn no large hunks of money. He'd written no particularly large checks, nor had he deposited any unusually large ones.

I felt that I was missing something, but I couldn't see it.

I tried to clear my mind of expectations and hypotheses.

And then I saw it.

May 15. May 30. June 15. June 30. July 15. On each of those dates, like clockwork, Albert had deposited $2,177.54 into his checking account. Biweekly paychecks, almost certainly. I did the crude math. After taxes and health and retirement deductions, it would amount to a little more than $3000 twice a month. It just about added up to a tenured college professor's pay.

On July 30, August 15, August 30, and September 15 he'd deposited nothing.

And the question was: If he suddenly stopped depositing his paychecks, what did he do with them?

Burlingame and Lyman had money problems. Now it appeared that Albert made three.

The word “blackmail” came to mind.

I called Ellen's cell phone and got her voice mail. “It's Brady,” I said. “I've got a couple questions for you. Call
when you get a chance, please. I'm home now and I'll be at my office this afternoon.”

I had one more phone call to make before I changed into my lawyer pinstripe and went to the office.

“Evie Banyon,” she answered. She sounded harried.

“It's your wayward roommate,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “Brady. What's up?”

Oh, oh. When she called me “Brady” instead of “honey” or “sweetie” or “Big Guy,” it meant either that she had people in her office or that she was angry with me.

“Are you busy?” I said.

“Always.”

“Got people in your office?”

“No, Brady.” I heard the exasperation in her voice.

“I was hoping we could have dinner together tonight.”

“Wouldn't that be nice.”

“I was thinking of Italian,” I said, ignoring her sarcasm. “Let's go to the North End.”

“You know I love the North End,” she said. I thought I detected a softening in her tone. “You sure you can make it?”

“Me?” I laughed. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Ho, ho,” she said.

“I'll make reservations for seven-thirty,” I said. “Okay?”

“Sure. I'll be home by seven. Where?”

“You have a preference?”

“You know the North End better than I do,” she said. “I trust you.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“I mean,” she said, “I trust you when it comes to picking Italian restaurants in the North End.”

“Well,” I said, “that's something, anyway.”

She called me “honey” when she said good-bye. That was something, too.

SIXTEEN

N
ola's Trattoria was one of those little hole-in-the-wall Hanover Street Italian restaurants whose studied lack of pretention convinced tourists that they'd found the authentic Boston North End thing. The door off the sidewalk opened directly into the narrow rectangular dining room. There was a little podium inside the doorway where guests were greeted. Six tables were lined up along the left wall and eight along the right wall, with an aisle down the middle leading to the swinging kitchen doors. Fading murals on the rough plaster walls depicted Mediterranean vineyards and seaports and peasant villages.

When Evie and I walked in, Nick, the headwaiter at the podium, bowed and smiled at Evie, then turned to me and said, “Mr. Coyne. It's good to see you again. We have your table ready.”

Aromas of garlic and oregano mingled with fresh-baked pastry and Romano cheese. From hidden speakers came a Resphigi tune. “The Pines of Rome,” I think it was. Or maybe it was the fountains. Fat candles in glass containers
burned on every table, and crisp white linen tablecloths covered them. All but two or three were occupied by diners.

Evie squeezed my arm. “I love it,” she whispered. “Why didn't you ever bring me here before?”

Nick showed us to the front table by the big window that looked out on Hanover Street. He held Evie's chair for her, gave us menus, recited the evening's specials, turned and snapped his fingers. An instant later a pretty dark-eyed waitress came over with a bottle of red wine and gave it to Nick. He squinted at the label, then uncorked it and placed it on the table by my elbow. “Compliments of Mr. Russo,” he said.

“Please thank Mr. Russo for me,” I said. I fished one of my business cards from my pocket and slipped it to Nick. “And please tell Mr. Russo that I'd appreciate the opportunity to thank him personally.”

He palmed the card. “Shall I give you a few minutes to decide what you want?”

“Yes, thank you.”

When Nick left, Evie said, “You know these people?”

I nodded.

“Russo?” she said. “Is that Vincent Russo?
The
Vincent Russo?”

“Yep. Him.”

“That Mafia guy? The mobster?”

“Yes. Russo owns this place.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “So why are we here?”

“A night on the town with my sweetie,” I said. “This is a nice restaurant. Great food, fine wine, excellent service, understated ambiance. The ossobuco is special.”

“We're patronizing some hit man?”

“Vincent Russo isn't a hit man,” I said.

“So he hires them.”

I shrugged. “He used to. He's retired.”

“But we're here because of him, right?”

I reached across the table and put my hand on top of Evie's. “We're here,” I said, “because I wanted to take you out to dinner. Because I feel bad that I couldn't call you last night, and because you ended up eating alone, and because you worried about me.”

“I wasn't worried,” she said. “I was angry. You could've taken me to a million places. But you chose this one.”

“I do need to talk to Russo. He owes me.”

Evie rolled her eyes. “Oh, great. Vincent Russo owes you. What does he owe you? You got somebody you need whacked?”

I smiled.

“So,” she said, “does this mean you've done a favor for Vincent Russo? Are you in some kind of trouble, Brady?”

“No trouble, honey,” I said. “And not a favor, really. I worked something out with him for a client a few years ago. Do you remember Mick Fallon?”

Evie looked up at the ceiling for a minute, then smiled. “Sure I do. Mr. Fallon was a patient at Emerson when I worked there. A great big man. That's when I met you. You came to visit him.”

“Right. Mick had a gambling problem. Owed Russo a lot of money. I mediated their, um, dispute. Got it worked out so Mick would pay Russo what he owed him and Russo would refrain from whacking Mick. Good deal all around. They were both grateful for my efforts.”

“Jesus,” she said.

“Anyway,” I said, “now Russo thinks he owes me, and he's eager to even things up. I am, too. It's not comforting,
having someone like Vincent Russo believe he's in debt to you, even if he is retired. So now I've come up with a way for him to even things up with me.”

“I don't think I want to hear about it.”

“Good,” I said, “because I don't want to talk about it. Let's try the wine.” I filled our glasses, then held mine aloft. “May the stars hit your eye like a big pizza pie.”

Evie clicked her glass against mine. “That's definitely amore,” she said.

A few minutes later Nick came with the antipasto and bread. I ordered the
ossobuco
, a choice that he endorsed with a nod, and Evie ordered the
seppie coi piselli alla romana
, which she pronounced with enthusiasm, causing Nick to smile broadly and bow deeply.

After he left, I said, “Squid?”

“Squid and peas,” she said. “Roman style. Loose but accurate translation.”

“I think you ordered it just because you liked saying it.”

“So? I heard the way you said ossobuco.”

“That's half the fun of Italian restaurants,” I said. “It's way more fun than French restaurants. Waiters in French restaurants, they always roll their eyes and sneer at my accent. Italian waiters seem to enjoy my efforts.”

“Your efforts are amusing,” said Evie.

Nick brought a second bottle of strong red wine with our dinners, and after he took our plates away he delivered a platter of sliced melons and cheeses and two snifters of brandy. I was glad we'd decided to walk here to the North End from our place on Beacon Hill, even though my ankle was sore. By the time we finished this meal, I'd need the twenty minutes of autumnal night air to clear my head.

Evie and I were nibbling at the cheeses and melons and
sipping our brandy when Vincent Russo appeared beside our table. He looked older than I remembered him. He wore a white shirt and a red necktie and a dark suit. His shirt collar was loose around his throat, and his steel-gray hair had thinned considerably since I'd seen him last.

He held out his hand to me with solemn formality. When I stood up to shake it, he smiled and hugged me and kissed both of my cheeks and patted my shoulder.

I patted his shoulder, too.

“So good to see you again, Mr. Coyne,” he said. “Welcome, welcome.” He turned to Evie and bowed deeply. “Madame.”

Evie smiled and held out her hand. Russo took it in his, bent to it, and kissed the air just above it.

“Evelyn Banyon,” I said. “This is Vincent Russo.”

Evie gave him her best smile. Evie's best smile would melt the heart of an IRS agent. Or a second-rate godfather.

“So, Nickie,” said Russo, “he's treating you good, huh?”

“Excellent service,” I said. “He's very attentive.”

“He's a good boy,” said Russo. “My nephew.”

“You can be proud of him,” I said. I gestured to an empty chair at our table. “Please. Won't you join us.”

He smiled as if he hadn't expected an invitation and said, “For a minute only. Thank you.” He sat down. “The food, it's okay, huh?”

“The food is excellent, as always,” I said.

“It's wonderful,” said Evie.

“Good, good.” He waved his hand vaguely in the air, and Nick appeared instantly. “More brandy,” said Russo.

He asked polite questions of Evie, who answered them politely. He asked after my boys, and I asked after his grandchildren.

Nick came and refilled our brandy glasses. Russo held his up, and Evie and I clicked ours against his. “Sante,” he said, and Evie and I murmured, “Sante.”

Russo reached over and gripped my forearm. “You are well, Mr. Coyne, huh?”

I held up my hand, palm down, and gave it a mezza-mezza wiggle. “Actually, I am grieving the loss of a friend, Mr. Russo. Perhaps you knew him? Gordon Cahill?”

I watched Russo carefully when I spoke Cahill's name. He didn't blink. His creased face and expressive mouth conveyed nothing but sincere sympathy, and his dark eyes remained blank. He shook his head slowly. “I am sorry,” he said. “I did not know Mr. Cahill. It is never easy, losing a friend. The only thing worse is when it's family. This was, um, unexpected, then, huh?”

I nodded. “An automobile accident.”

“Ah,” was all he said, and then the subject switched to the Celtics. Russo loved professional basketball players.

A few minutes later he drained his brandy glass and pushed himself back from the table. “A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Coyne. We will do it again when I can sit with you longer. We will have some serious conversation.” He turned and bowed to Evie. “Your presence, Ms. Banyon, brings joy to my restaurant. You will return, huh?”

“I certainly hope so,” she said. She watched Vincent Russo hobble away, then turned to me. “So who's Gordon Cahill?”

I flapped my hand. “Friend of mine. He died.”

“That's why you were so upset the other day. You couldn't tell me about it.”

“That's right. It had to do with a client.”

“But you can tell Vincent Russo about it?”

“I'm not telling Russo anything. I'm asking him.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “That's why Roger Horowitz showed up at seven-thirty this morning, isn't it? Something to do with Gordon Cahill's death.”

I nodded.

“Horowitz is a homicide detective,” she said.

“You're a pretty good detective, too, honey.”

She gave me a quick, humorless smile. “Your friend Gordon Cahill was murdered, then.”

“Yes,” I said. “It looks that way.”

“So,” she said, waving her hand at the seat where Vincent Russo had been sitting, “are you gonna tell me what thatâthat verbal pantomime was all about?”

“Well,” I said, “I asked Russo to find out what he could about what happened to Gordon Cahill, and I told him I wanted to know if it's linked to organized crime. He said he'd look into it and share what he finds out with me, provided it doesn't incriminate him or any of his family.”

“
That's
what you guys were saying?”

“More or less. Yes.”

She smiled and shook her head.

“You don't speak directly with Vincent Russo,” I said. “Especially in front of a woman.”

She looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then said, “And what if what he finds out
does
â¦ ?”

“Incriminate him or someone in his family, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“He'll make it clear that it would be in my best interest to stop thinking about Gordon Cahill.”

“And will you?”

“Stop thinking about Cahill?”

She nodded.

“Sure,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “Bullshit.”

I reached for her hand. She let me hold it for a minute, then drew it back and reached for her wineglass.

“Don't worry about me, honey,” I said.

“You keep saying that.” She hunched her shoulders and shivered. “He's so gallant.” She pronounced it as if it were a French word, with the accent on the second syllable. “So warm. Charming, almost.”

I nodded.

“Except his eyes,” she said.

“You awake?” murmured Evie a few hours later.

“Mm,” I mumbled. “Barely. You tuckered me out, honey.”

She chuckled deep in her throat. She was lying on her side facing away from me. My arm was around her hips, and her butt was pressing back against me.

“Why were you limping?” she said.

“Was I limping?”

“Yes. And you've got a nasty bruise on your side. What happened?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I fell down.”

I slithered my hand up and cupped her breast. She took a quick breath, then reached up, covered my hand with hers, and held it tight against her.

“He's a scary man,” she said.

“Russo?”

“Mm.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “He likes me.”