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Authors: William G. Tapply

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BOOK: Shadow of Death
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He graduated from Brewster Academy in Wolfeboro, New Hampshire.
He earned a degree in business management at the University of Pennsylvania.
He owned Burke and Newfield Insurance Agency in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
And unlike Oliver Burlingame and Mark Lyman, Dalton Burke had not died.
M
onday morning I left my townhouse on Mt. Vernon Street, walked up Beacon Street to the Park Street T station, took the Red Line to Davis Square, and climbed the hill to the Tufts University campus.
At nine-thirty on a sunny Monday morning in late September, you'll find every college campus in the country virtually deserted. Students with nine o'clock classes have straggled into them by then, and those who don't have early classes are still in bed.
I spotted a Building and Grounds man wielding a leaf blower, and he pointed out the building that housed the history department. It was made of brick and covered with woodbine, a kind of ivy that turns crimson in the fall.
I went into the history building. Two women were looking at computer monitors in a small office on the left. I knocked on the open door, stepped into the room, and said, “Excuse me?”
They both turned around and smiled at me. One of them
appeared to be in her thirties. The other one was closer to fifty. They were both quite attractive.
The younger one said, “Can I help you?”
“Are you the history department secretary?”
She nodded. “We both are.”
“Maybe you can help me, then,” I said. “I'm looking for Professor Stoddard.”
She shook her head. “He doesn't usually come in on Mondays. You can probably catch him tomorrow.”
“Damn,” I said. “I was really hoping to catch up with him today.”
“Did you try him at home?”
I nodded. “No answer. That's why I'm here. It's rather important that I talk with him. I'm a lawyer …” I let that thought trail away, hoping to suggest that anything a lawyer might want with a professor was somewhere between very urgent and vitally critical.
“He was out sick all last week,” she said. “As far as I know, he'll be in tomorrow. He's got a nine o'clock class.”
“Sick,” I repeated. “No wonder he wasn't answering his phone at home. How sick is he, anyway? He's not in the hospital, is he? Did he say what the matter was?”
“I don't know what he said,” she said. “I didn't talk with him.” She turned to the other woman. “Who talked to Dr. Stoddard when he called last week?”
The other secretary shook her head. “It wasn't me. When was it? Thursday, right? It must've been Emily.” She looked at me. “We don't have any formal procedures when a professor calls in sick. We just tape a notice on the classroom door so the students don't have to sit around waiting.”
“Who's Emily?” I said.
“One of our work-study students,” she said. “She answers
the phone, does photocopying, filing, stuff like that.” She glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was a little after nine-forty-five. “She should be here in about fifteen minutes. Would you like to talk to her?”
“Sure,” I said. “That would be great.”
She pointed. “The lounge is in there, if you want to wait. Help yourself to the coffee. I'll send Emily in as soon as she gets here.”
The lounge furniture was a bit shabby, and the most interesting thing I could find to read was a newsletter from the American Historical Society. But there was an industrial-sized steel urn on a table in the corner, and the coffee was hot and strong, the way I like it.
A couple of minutes after ten, a blond girl stepped into the lounge. She was wearing a red-and-white striped jersey and tight-fitting, low-slung blue jeans that exposed her belly button. She wore a stud with a shiny gemstone in her navel.
“Sir?” she said. “Terri said you were looking for me?”
“Are you Emily?”
She nodded.
“Did you take Professor Stoddard's phone call last week?”
She frowned. “I gave Edie and Terri the message. He said he was sick and wouldn't be in for the rest of the week.”
“Did he say anything else?” I said. “Did he mention what was wrong with him?”
She shook her head. “He didn't say.”
“Did he say he'd be back this week?”
She bit her lower lip. “Um … no, I don't think so. He didn't say anything about this week.”
I gave her my most earnest lawyer look. “Emily,” I said, “it's quite important that I know exactly what Professor Stoddard said to you.”
“Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“I really can't share that sort of information with you,” I intoned solemnly. “I'm sure you understand.”
“Oh, sure.” She looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then said, “He didn't say much. It was kind of weird, actually. I mean, Dr. Stoddard is usually real friendly. When he's around, he always says hi, gives you a smile, makes a joke, you know? But all he said on the phone was that he was sick and wouldn't be in for the rest of the week. Formal-like, you know? As if he didn't even know me.”
“That's all he said?”
Emily nodded. “Yeah. I remember thinking it wasn't like him, not to be friendlier.” She shrugged. “It didn't even sound like him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don't know. His tone of voice, I guess.”
“It didn't sound like his voice?”
“Well, I don't know. I guess it did.” She frowned. “I don't think I ever even talked to him on the telephone before, so I don't know what he sounds like on the phone. I mean, it didn't really
not
sound like him. It was more like he was so all-business, in some kind of big hurry. Stressed about something, maybe. Dr. Stoddard isn't usually like that.” She looked at me. “It was no big deal. I didn't think too much about it at the time. I just gave Terri and Edie the message.”
“Emily,” I said, “do you think you could remember exactly what Dr. Stoddard said when he called?”
She closed her eyes for a minute, then nodded. “When I answered the phone, he just said, ‘This is Dr. Stoddard.' And I said something like, ‘Oh, hi. It's Emily.' And instead of saying, ‘Oh, hi, Emily. How're you doing?' like you'd expect, all he said was, ‘I am ill. I won't be in for the rest of
the week. Please deliver my message.' And I think I said something like, ‘I hope you feel better,' and he said, like, ‘Thank you,' and then he hung up.” She looked at me. “He must've been feeling really crappy. Usually he's a lot nicer than that.”
“I'm sure that was it,” I said. I stood up. “Thanks, Emily. I appreciate your help.”
She hesitated. “I didn't do anything wrong, did I?”
I smiled. “Not at all.”
I followed Emily back to the secretaries' office and asked them to have Albert call me if they heard from him. They promised they would, and I gave each of them one of my business cards.
 
 
I got back to my office in Copley Square via the MBTA a few minutes before my eleven o'clock appointment with Harriet Brubaker. Julie had prepared some documents for her to sign, and I had to go over them all with her, and by the time I finished explaining the language and significance of the documents to her, and after Harriet had her little cry on my shoulder, it was a few minutes past noon.
As soon as Harriet Brubaker left my office I called Jimmy D'Ambrosio's cell phone.
When he answered, I said, “Albert did
not
call in sick to the history department last week.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Ellen talked to the secretary herself.”
“Somebody called,” I said, “but it wasn't Albert.”
Jimmy was silent for a long minute. Finally he said, “You know this?”
“Whoever called,” I said, “it wasn't Albert. It was somebody
saying he was Albert. The girl who took the call told me it wasn't Albert's voice.”
“Well,” said Jimmy, “so what?”
“Do I have to spell it out for you?”
“No,” he said. “I get it. You think this should convince me to give you permission to violate our confidentiality and talk to the police.”
“If that wasn't Albert on the phone—”
“I'm not stupid,” said Jimmy. “I understand the implications.”
“So what do you say?”
“I say what I said the other day, what I've been saying all along, what I'm gonna keep saying at least 'til after the first Tuesday in November. I say no.”
“I've got to tell Ellen,” I said.
“What good would that do? You want to upset her?”
“She has a right to know.”
“Listen,” said Jimmy. “It doesn't matter what Ellen says. I'm the one who hired you, which makes me your client. Not her. I'm the only one who can give you the go-ahead to talk to the police. Which I'm not going to do. Okay? I'm not. Period. You can talk to Ellen if it'll make you feel better. I can't stop you. Just be sure you understand that it'll upset her to the point where she'll probably screw up the debates and lose the election. That what you want?”
“I don't give a shit about the election,” I said. “Albert Stoddard is what I care about. Him and Gordon Cahill and Farley Nelson.”
Jimmy hesitated, then said, “You think something's happened to Albert, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“That wasn't him who called, huh?”
“No, I'm quite certain it wasn't.”
“Any idea who it was?”
“Sure,” I said. “It was whoever killed Cahill and Farley Nelson, that's who.”
“I wish to hell you hadn't told me this, Coyne.”
“I know,” I said. “Now you've got to tell Ellen.”
“If I don't,” he said, “and she finds out I kept it from her, she'll never forgive me. Thanks a lot.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Like hell you're sorry,” he said. “You are a devious son of a bitch, you know that?”
“Compared to you, I'm a novice.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks. That's a compliment.” He was silent for a moment. “Okay,” he said finally. “I'll talk to Ellen.”
“Tell her I want to talk to the police about it,” I said. “Tell her it'd be even better if she did it herself.”
“Ellen already knows that.”
“But she thinks Albert's okay.”
“I'll see what she says,” said Jimmy.
“You better tell her the truth.”
“What, you think I'd lie to her about something like that? You think I'm some kind of heartless monster?”
“That's a rhetorical question, Jimmy D.”
After I hung up with Jimmy D'Ambrosio, I tried the number for the Burke and Newfield Insurance Agency in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, that I'd copied from the Internet.
When the woman answered, I asked to speak to Mr. Burke.
She asked me who was calling.
I told her my name was Brady Coyne, that I was a lawyer calling from Boston, and that it was important. “Tell him it concerns Albert Stoddard,” I added.
“Stoddard?” She spelled it.
“That's right.”
“Is this in regard to a claim?” she said.
“Right. A claim.”
“I'll connect you with our claims department. Just—”
“No,” I said. “I must speak with Dalton Burke.”
She hesitated, then said, “Of course. One moment, sir. I'll see if Mr. Burke can come to the phone.”
A moment later a deep voice said, “This is Dalton Burke. Mr. Coyne, is it?”
“That's right.”
“How can I help you?”
“Tell me why you called Albert Stoddard.”
“Who?”
“It was last May. You talked to his wife, left a message. Did Albert ever return your call?”
“What do you want, anyway?”
“Your two buddies, Burlingame and Lyman, are dead already. How come you're still alive?”
“I have no idea what you're talking about,” he said.
“You do remember Bobby Gilman?” I said.
“Who are you?”
“You got a pencil?”
“Of course.”
“Write this down.” I gave him my office phone number. “Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Write my name beside it. Brady Coyne. I spell it with a ‘y.' Write the word ‘lawyer' beside that. Keep in mind that
lawyers are people you can confide in. We are also officers of the court. You need to talk to a lawyer.”

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