Vulgar Boatman (3 page)

Tom straightened and moved several steps away. I held my ground and waited. After a moment he came back to stand in front of me. “Brady,” he said. “We’ve known each other for a long time. You don’t have to treat me this way. I don’t have to tell you everything that’s whirling around in my head. You know me. I shouldn’t have to apologize for myself.”

“You want a lawyer or a friend, Tom?”

He stared at me. “You are one tough son of a bitch when you want to be. Okay. Fair enough. If I gotta choose, right now I think I want a lawyer.”

I touched his shoulder. “You don’t have to choose, old pal. But be straight with me, okay?”

He nodded. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I am upset about the girl. I didn’t know her well. But I liked her. I liked what she seemed to be doing for Buddy. And, hell, I’d be upset anyway, a thing like this. And I’m worried about my son. Very worried. Whether he did this or not, I realize that he could be a suspect. And I’m not stupid. I know something could’ve happened to Buddy. It’s—I’ve tried not to think about that. Joanie’s been ever so cheerful. I know she’s had the same thoughts I have.”

“Look,” I said.

Tom held up his hand. “Right. I know. We should’ve talked to the cops right away. I knew that. You’re right. As usual, Coyne, God damn you.” Tom jabbed me lightly on the bicep. “But listen. You have to understand about the campaign, too. It’s important to a lot of people, Brady. It’s bigger than just me. It’s—”

“Ah, bullshit!” I thrust my face close to his. “Don’t you give me that kind of shit. That’s Eddy Curry talking. That’s not Tom Baron.”

Tom pulled back from me, but he returned my stare. “It’s the truth,” he said simply. “Whether you think it’s dumb or not, there are a lot of people who care a lot about this campaign, who have invested time and money and commitment, too. It’s not just my power trip, Brady. That’s why this thing has to be handled… discreetly, know what I mean? Yes, you do. Look. If Buddy’s not involved, not guilty of something—and you know as well as I do that he’s not—then there’s no reason why his name—my name—should be dragged through the shit. You do see that, don’t you?”

I nodded. “In theory, yes,” I conceded. “Except this isn’t theory, and it doesn’t work that way.”

“Helluva good way to ruin a candidate, Brady, you gotta admit that.”

“Shame on you,” I said. “Only Eddy Curry would think of that.”

He shrugged. “Just a thought. A touch of scandal and this campaign is gonzo.”

“I’ve heard of dirty tricks, but this is a crazy thought.”

“Those Democrats, they’re known for dirty tricks.”

“Politicians are known for dirty tricks. But we’re not talking about a dirty trick, here. This is murder. So get off that kick.”

“Yeah, stupid,” he mumbled.

“Besides,” I added. “It really is possible something happened to Buddy. And here you are, performing for the home folks as if nothing has happened. You’ve got your priorities fucked up, my friend.”

He looked at me for a moment, then shrugged. We wandered back to the lodge and Tom slumped on the steps beside Sylvie, who seemed to be savoring the night air. Tom turned to her and said, “What do you think, Miss?”

“You should do what Brady tell you to do,” she said promptly.

He grinned up at me. “Hell, I know that. That’s why I called him.”

“Then let’s get going,” I said.

“Where?”

“The cops. Where else?”

He shrugged and stood up. I extended my hand to Sylvie, who got up and put her arm around my waist.

Tom said, “Hang on just a minute, okay? I gotta go back inside, tell Joanie and Eddy that I’ve gotta take off.”

He went back in. Sylvie hugged me and put her cheek on my shoulder. “Does this mean no monkfish?” she whispered.

“Afraid so, hon. This might take a while.”

W
E PARKED IN THE
lot beside the Windsor Harbor police station. The building was a flat-roofed cement-block structure. All function, no form. Floodlights were mounted up on the corners to illuminate the area. Good way to discourage prowlers, burglars, rapists, and other criminal types who might want to hang around there.

Sylvie decided to stay in the car and listen to my collection of Miles Davis tapes while Tom Baron and I went inside. A young, red-headed cop who sported a bushy mustache and a big expanse of sunburned forehead was perched behind a glass partition in the cramped entry area. When he saw us come in, he leaned down to speak through the slit at the bottom of the glass.

“Hey, Mr. Baron. How you doin’?”

“Great, Pete. Never better.”

I imagined Tom’s hand twitching out of frustration because he couldn’t reach over the partition to shake the cop’s hand.

“How’s the campaign?”

“Good, Pete. Looking real good. Listen. Is the chief in?”

The cop frowned. “Matter of fact, he’s over at the hospital. We had a bad thing last night—don’t know if you heard. Anyhow, he’s getting the word from the medical examiner. He oughta be back soon. You want to wait?”

Tom glanced at me. I nodded.

“Well, sure,” he said.

We sat in molded plastic chairs and shared what was left of my pack of Winstons. I scrutinized the wanted posters on the bulletin board. All the criminals with their portraits up on the wall looked sinister as hell. I found that vaguely comforting.

The phone rang a few times. Although I couldn’t hear what the desk cop was saying, I had the impression he was talking to a girl friend. I was sure it wasn’t a wife. A pair of uniformed policemen wandered in. Tom greeted them warmly. They both claimed they intended to vote for him.

We had been there for more than an hour when the police chief came in. He glanced our way, hesitated just an instant, then said, “Hi, Tommy.”

“Harry,” said Tom. He darted a quick look at me, then he said to the other man, “Got a minute?”

The chief touched his steel-rimmed glasses. “Matter of fact, I do,” he said. He glanced inquiringly at me.

“Oh, ah, Harry Cusick, this is Brady Coyne. Brady’s my attorney.”

Cusick extended his hand to me. “Good to meet you,” he said. To Tom he said. “Good move.”

“Huh?” said Tom.

“Bringing your lawyer. Come on in.”

Tom and I followed the chief through a door that buzzed when he approached it. We went down a short corridor to Cusick’s cramped office. He settled behind his desk, and Tom and I arranged ourselves in straight-backed chairs in front of him.

Cusick was wearing a rumpled summer-weight suit. The collar of his shirt was open and his tie was pulled loose. He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. Then he peered at Tom.

“I just finished telling two very nice people that their beautiful daughter had been murdered. Her windpipe and larynx were crushed. She died in great agony. They are not taking it well.”

Tom and I looked at him. He smiled bleakly at us.

“This is not my favorite part of the job. We don’t have much of this in Windsor Harbor. I came to this town to get away from this sort of thing. I have some preliminary results from the medical examiner.” He shot a look at Tom. “Maybe you’re interested?”

Tom nodded.

“I had to tell these parents that their daughter had engaged in sexual intercourse within an hour of her death, one way or another.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” blurted Tom.

“Obvious.” Cusick shrugged. “Somebody screwed her either before she died or—”

“Jesus!” breathed Tom.

“The M.E. thinks it happened before she died, actually. There was evidence that she was, ah, sexually aroused herself.”

“Not rape, then,” I said.

“Probably not. She was fully clad when she was found. The other thing I had to tell these nice people was that their little girl had significant traces of cocaine in her bloodstream. These folks did not like to hear any of this. But I had to tell them. And I had to ask them questions, of course. I couldn’t allow them to grieve, to feel their anger and their loss. My job is to ask the questions. So I did.” He looked down at his desk and touched the edges of some papers that were lying there. He looked up at Tom. “Why are you here?” Cusick asked him.

“I guess you probably know, Harry.”

Cusick nodded. “Alice Sylvester’s parents said they thought she was with Buddy last night.”

“I don’t know whether they were together or not. They might have been.”

“I have to talk to Buddy.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“What do you mean?”

Tom took a deep breath, either to gain some patience or to steady his nerves. He let it hiss out slowly. “He never came home. I don’t know what to make of it. Normally, of course, I wouldn’t give it a thought. He’s eighteen, he’s got a job, he’s pretty much on his own. But this…”

“You should have told me this before now.”

“What? That my son didn’t come home last night? That he was friends with a girl who got killed?”

Cusick nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

Tom spread his hands. “Yeah. That’s what Brady told me.”

“Where do you think Buddy went?”

“I haven’t got the foggiest, believe me. He didn’t show up for work. He’s got a car, money, credit cards. He could be anyplace. He didn’t tell us.” He hesitated, looked at me, and continued, “But the other thing is, Harry, if he
was
with the girl—”

“Alice Sylvester,” said Cusick. “Her name was Alice. A pretty, bright girl.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. If he was with Alice, and if Alice was killed, well…”

“Something could have happened to Buddy, too. Yes. I thought of that.” The chief unhooked his glasses carefully from his ears and placed them on his desk. Without them he looked much younger. His pale eyes showed intelligence and sympathy. “We’ve known each other a long time,” he said softly, studying Tom’s face.

Tom nodded. He did not return Cusick’s gaze.

“But we haven’t been friends,” continued the policeman.

“No. No, we haven’t.”

“But that is not important here,” said Cusick. “Look. I won’t try to bullshit you, even if, under the same circumstances, you’d probably try to bullshit me. Mr. and Mrs. Sylvester think Alice was with Buddy last night. I don’t have to tell you the implications of that.”

“They think Buddy killed her,” said Tom tonelessly.

“We’ll check it out,” said Cusick. “See if anybody saw either of the kids. If they
were
with each other, we will bring Buddy in and read him his Miranda. Okay? If it looks like they weren’t together, we’ll still want to talk with your son, just like we’ll be talking with lots of other people. I don’t think I need to tell you that if you hear from him, or if he shows up, it’s in his best interest to get himself here pronto.” Cusick peered at me. “With a lawyer would be a good idea.”

Tom looked up at him. “Sure. That all makes sense. But the other thing—”

“The other thing,” said Cusick quickly, “is that we will put out an APB on Buddy. Is his car registered in his name?”

Tom nodded.

“Okay. And I want you to bring me a recent photograph of him.”

“Okay.”

Cusick picked up his glasses and began to polish the lenses on his handkerchief. He cocked his head. “How’s Buddy been doing with his problem?” he said in a new, gentler voice.

“He’s clean,” answered Tom after a moment. “I’m sure of it. He’s a new kid, really. Since the problem. Since he got back. He’s held the job at the computer store since he got out of school. Up and out of the house on time. They seem real pleased with him. He’s been pretty agreeable around the house. Getting along with me and Joanie again. He’s talking about college next year. And the girl—Alice—she’s been real good for him. A serious, adult relationship. We didn’t see that much of her. I don’t know, I think he’s still a little distrustful of us, but it’s been getting better. He wants to separate things in his life. He’s talked about that. It makes it easier for him to cope. Work, family, friends, each in their own little slot. But, anyway, since you arrested him, Harry, and since his probation and everything, I really think he’s seen the light.”

Harry Cusick was studying Tom as he talked, a small frown wrinkling his forehead. When Tom finished, Cusick nodded slowly. “That’s been my impression, too. But like I told you, Alice Sylvester used cocaine last night. You can see what my question is.”

“If they were together…”

“Right.”

“Buddy’s clean. I’m positive.”

The chief shrugged.

“Look,” said Tom, hitching himself up on his chair so that he was leaning over the desk. “When you busted Buddy two years ago and prosecuted him, I can’t tell you how wrong I thought you were. He was sixteen years old. A kid. He got in with the wrong crowd. He needed help and support, not courts and probation.”

“He was old enough to know better, and he was connected,” said Cusick. “He was selling cocaine to high school kids. He refused to give us names. I wanted to prosecute him as an adult. I thought he should have spent time in prison, to tell you the truth.”

Tom glanced my way. “Brady got us a good lawyer. It would have ruined my son to go to prison. He’s not a tough kid. Anyway, like I said, he’s done the rehab. He’s finished his probation. He’s reformed himself. What I started to say was that when you arrested him instead of bringing him home to his parents, I swore to myself that I’d get you. I could do that.”

Cusick nodded. “Hell, yes. I know that.”

“But you didn’t care.”

The chief shrugged. “It’s not that I didn’t care. I like my job. But I gotta do it, or I wouldn’t like myself.”

“What I’m trying to say, Harry, is that you were right in what you did. And even if you weren’t, I admire you for doing it.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Tom, but what you’re trying to say is, find your son for you.”

Tom nodded. “That, too. But I meant what I said. I do admire you.”

“If Buddy was with Alice Sylvester last night, we will have probable cause to get a warrant. We’ll search his car. We’ll take blood samples. We’ll do forensics on his clothing. We may arrest him. He will need an attorney. Nothing that has happened before this, no threat or promise you can make, will change that. Do you understand?”