A Fine Line (6 page)

“What about insurance?”

“Walt didn’t believe in life insurance.”

She nodded as if she’d expected me to say that. “Tell me about those letters. The ones you delivered for him.”

So I told her about Walt’s Meriwether Lewis letters and how I’d given them to Ben Frye to be appraised.

“This was day before yesterday? The day before he died?”

“Yes.”

“The letters are valuable?”

“Both Walt and Ben seemed to think so. Assuming they’re genuine.”

She took a sip of her coffee, then set the mug down. She stared into it for a moment, and peered up at me. “Who might want to kill Walter Duffy, Mr. Coyne? Any idea?”

I shook my head. “No. No idea.”

“Somebody did, you know.”

“I figured that’s why you’re here.”

“Ethan Duffy? Benjamin Frye?”

I flapped my hands. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. I don’t even have a theory.”

She blew out a breath. “I need you to give us a hand.”

“Sure,” I said. “What can I do?”

“You’ve been in Mr. Duffy’s townhouse a few times, right?”

“Many times.”

“If something were missing or out of place, you’d notice it?”

I shrugged. “I might. It’s harder to notice something that’s not where it should be than something that is there that doesn’t belong.”

She shrugged. “Sergeant Currier and I are going over there now. We’d like you to come with us.”

“I’m happy to help,” I said. “Just let me check with Julie, see what I’ve got this morning.”

I went out to the reception area. Julie told me I had only three clients scheduled for the day, one at eleven and the other two in the middle of the afternoon. I told her to reschedule them all.

“Evie called,” she said.

“What’d she say?”

“She wanted to talk to you.”

“You always chat with Evie.”

“She told me about a new sushi restaurant in Harvard Square. Mentioned a book she was reading.”

“And?”

“And I told her about Megan’s soccer team.”

“That’s it?”

Julie smiled.

“Did she sound . . . upset?”

“With you, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“We didn’t talk about you,” she said. “Sorry. She wants you to call her.”

I went back into the office where Mendoza and Currier were waiting and told them I’d freed up my morning and just had to make one phone call. They nodded, got up, and went out to the reception area.

I sat at my desk and dialed Evie’s office number at Emerson Hospital. When she answered, I said, “Hi, honey. It’s me.”

“Oh, Brady. Hi. Is everything all right?”

“Not entirely. Walt Duffy—one of my clients—died last night.”

“I got your message,” she said. “You said he’d been hurt. I’m so sorry. I met him once, remember?”

“That’s right,” I said. “You talked about decoys. I’m sorry I crapped out on our picnic.”

“Under the circumstances . . .”

“I was worried you might be upset.”

“Well, of course, I was upset. It was lovely at the pond, and I brought some great food. Couldn’t eat it all myself. I missed you.”

“I meant . . . like, angry.”

“Why should I be angry?”

“Well . . .”

“We’re supposed to be past that, you and I,” she said. “I knew when you didn’t show up that something must have happened. I was a little concerned that you might’ve had an accident. But angry? Nope. Not me.”

“I’m relieved,” I said.

“Dammit, Brady,” she said, “we’ve talked about this. You seem to have these expectations of women. Negative expectations, I mean. We’re not all selfish angry bitches whose main purpose in life is to lay guilt trips on men, you know.”

I found myself smiling. “I know. I apologize for the fact
that it even crossed my mind. What about tonight?”

“A picnic?”

“Let’s play it by ear. They’re forecasting thunderstorms. I’ll meet you at your place after work. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said softly. “I look forward to it.”

We drove from my office in Copley Square to Walt’s townhouse on Beacon Hill in Sergeant Currier’s cruiser. Mendoza rode shotgun, and I rode in back.

Currier pulled into the back alley. Saundra Mendoza pulled away the yellow tape and we went in through the door in the brick wall. They didn’t bother slipping on rubber gloves, nor did they warn me not to touch anything, which meant, I assumed, that their forensics people had already been there.

The cops glanced around the patio, and then we went into the house. “Just tell us if you notice anything,” said Mendoza. “Anything out of place or missing.”

I led them to Walt’s library where he kept his treasures. It was a large, dimly-lit inside room with no windows. It had air conditioning and a humidifier, which Walt kept fine-tuned to preserve his collections. Framed oil paintings, etchings, pen-and-ink drawings, pastels, and watercolors—all of birds—hung on the walls.

Three walls contained shoulder-high bookcases. On top of the bookcases Walt had lined up his collection of antique decoys and bird carvings. None of them seemed to be missing. The glass doors of the bookcases were all locked. Inside were hundreds of volumes of first editions and rare old books. There seemed to be nothing missing there, either.

The fourth wall—the one that included the doorway—was lined with steel file cabinets. These, I knew, held Walt’s collection of letters, manuscripts, and bird-related documents. They were locked, too. There was no evidence that any of the locks had been tampered with.

We went through the rest of the three-story townhouse, floor by floor, room by room, and we ended up back in the garden.

“Nothing, huh?” said Mendoza to me.

I shrugged. “Not that I could detect.”

“Think about the last time you were here. Before yesterday, I mean. Picture it. Tell me what you see in the picture.”

I shut my eyes. “It was two nights ago,” I said slowly. “Walt was sitting right there, on his chaise. He had those Meriwether Lewis letters in a manila envelope on the table. And . . .” I opened my eyes and looked at her.

“And?” she said.

“His computer,” I said. “Walt had one of those new Apple laptops. He always kept it handy. And a camera and a cell phone, too, come to think of it. He always had them within arm’s reach.”

“There’s no laptop computer here now,” she said. She turned to Currier. “No cell phone or camera, either. You didn’t notice them?”

He shook his head.

She turned to me. “Think, now. Were they here when you came yesterday and found Duffy’s body?”

I tried to visualize it. “I don’t think so,” I said. “My attention was on Walt, of course. I mean, he was lying on the ground right there. But . . . no. His computer and his cell phone and his camera were not here. I remember thinking
I’d call 911 with his cell phone, but it wasn’t there.”

“They’re not inside the house,” said Currier. “And they’re not out here.”

“Well, then,” said Mendoza.

“You think somebody killed Walt for his high-tech gadgets?” I said.

She smiled. It was the first time I’d seen her smile since I’d met her in my office. It transformed her face. “People have been killed for a loaf of bread,” she said. “Let’s talk about the son.”

“Right,” I said. “Ethan killed his father so he could steal his computer.”

She shrugged. “Tell me about Ethan.”

So I told her how Walt had separated from his wife about twelve years ago, when Ethan was six or seven. I’d handled Walt’s end of the divorce. His wife couldn’t tolerate the fact that he traveled the world photographing birds and was never home, and, from what I’d inferred, even when he was home he wasn’t a very attentive husband or father. Walt told me that his wife believed he had women friends scattered across the globe and never lacked for company when he was on the road. He hadn’t denied it.

In any case, after the divorce Ethan was raised by his mother. Walt went through the motions as a father—attended the school plays and concerts Ethan was in and met him for dinner now and then—but he didn’t have much of a relationship with his son.

Then came Walt’s fall at the Quabbin. It left him paralyzed, and Ethan, who was a senior in high school when it happened, enrolled at Emerson College in downtown Boston to study screenwriting and moved in to help take care of his father.

“You suggested that Duffy was cruel and ungrateful to his son,” said Mendoza.

“He was worse at the beginning,” I said. “He was all wrapped up in his condition. He was used to going everywhere. Climbing and hiking. Walt Duffy was a bundle of energy and enthusiasm. Suddenly, his legs didn’t work anymore. He was angry and depressed, and he took it out on anyone who happened to be there, including me when I was with him. Ethan especially, of course. Ethan was handy. But it seemed to me that lately he was mellowing a bit. Accepting his situation, maybe, appreciating what Ethan was doing.”

“But still . . .”

I nodded. “He could be nasty and sarcastic to Ethan, yes. But Ethan had a pretty good attitude about it. He shrugged it off, made jokes about it. He loved Walt. You think . . . ?”

“We’re trying to find the boy, Mr. Coyne.”

“The fact that he didn’t come home last night.”

“Yes. It raises questions.”

“He told me he has a summer job in some record store in Central Square.”

“Yes, you mentioned that to Sergeant Currier yesterday. We found the store. Place called Vintage Vinyl on Mass. Ave. Ethan Duffy didn’t work there last night. He was scheduled to, but he never showed up.”

I blew out a breath. “That doesn’t sound good.”

Mendoza shrugged.

“You never told me what happened to Walt,” I said.

“No,” she said. “I didn’t.”

“He was my friend and my client,” I said. “It was I who found his body, for Christ’s sake. I’ve got a right to know.”

“I told you he died.”

“From banging his head on the bricks, yes. But how did—?”

“Okay,” said Mendoza. She narrowed her dark eyes at me. “We’re keeping this under our hats for awhile, understood?”

I nodded. “Understood.”

“Mr. Duffy didn’t take a spill,” said Mendoza. “And he wasn’t pushed. According to the doctor who operated on him, the only way he could’ve sustained that injury was if somebody hit him with great force on the back of his head with something hard and heavy. Probably a brick.”

“Jesus,” I said.

She shrugged. “We’ll know more when the ME gets a look at him.”

“And you’re thinking Ethan did this?”

“There was a lot of passion in that blow,” she said. “Whoever hit Walter Duffy intended to hurt him. Probably meant to kill him. You figure it out.”

I shook my head. “I can’t.”

S
ergeant Currier and Detective Mendoza dropped me off at my office a little after noontime. When I walked in, Henry scurried out from under Julie’s desk and wagged his tail at me. I told him I was glad to see him, too.

Julie didn’t seem all that glad to see me. She said she wanted to check out a shop on Newbury Street and would pick up lunch for us on the way back. I told her to take her time. She said she intended to.

That’s how she always behaved when I canceled appointments.

Henry and I went into my office, and he waddled directly over to my sweatshirt, curled up, and went to sleep.

I poked through my Rolodex and found the number for Barbara Cooper, who had been Walt Duffy’s wife’s attorney for their divorce. Among those of us who generally represented the husbands in divorce proceedings, Barbara Cooper’s name was pronounced “Barracuda.” She defended her clients’ interests relentlessly—which, of course, was how it was supposed to work.

Her secretary put me through to her right away.

“Mr. Coyne,” she said when she picked up the phone. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Not much of a pleasure, I’m afraid,” I said. “The name Walter Duffy ring a bell?”

She hesitated, then said, “You and I did their divorce—what, ten, twelve years ago? They had a son?”

“That’s the one,” I said. “Walt died last night. I wanted to speak to his ex-wife. With your permission.”

“You don’t need my permission,” she said.

“Actually, I wondered if you had her phone number. She’s remarried, as I recall. I don’t know her new name.”

“I have the number right here. Hang on.” She paused for a minute, then recited a number to me. “Her name is now Bramhall. Ellen Bramhall. She’s living in Sudbury. What happened to Mr. Duffy?”

“He fell and fractured his skull. Didn’t make it through surgery.”

“I’m very sorry to hear it,” she said. “How’s the boy taking it? What was his name?”

“Ethan. He’s a college freshman now. He seems to be bearing up okay.”

“I don’t recall if Ellen was a beneficiary in Mr. Duffy’s will,” she said.

“He didn’t carry life insurance,” I said. “I haven’t even had a chance to check the will. It only happened yesterday.”

“And the alimony?”

“It terminated when Mrs. Bramhall remarried, of course.”

“Of course,” she said. “Well, I know you’ll be in touch with me.”

“Sure,” I said.

Barracuda.

I lit a cigarette and dialed the number Barbara Cooper had given me. It rang a couple of times, then a woman’s soft voice answered.

“Mrs. Bramhall?” I said.

“Yes?”

“This is Brady Coyne,” I said. “I’m Walter Duffy’s attorney.”

“Oh,” she said. “I remember you. What’s wrong?”

“I have some bad news, I’m afraid.” I hesitated. “Walt died last night.”

She didn’t speak for a minute. Then she said, “What happened?”

“Evidently he fell and hit his head on the bricks in his patio.” I felt uncomfortable lying about the manner of Walt’s death to her, but Detective Mendoza had been very clear on the subject. I had not felt at all uncomfortable lying to Barbara Cooper.

Ellen Bramhall laughed quickly. “That man climbed mountains and prowled around jungles, and he ends up falling down in his own home.” She hesitated. “I don’t mean to make light of it. I’m terribly sorry. I never wished any harm to him. He wasn’t a bad man. It’s just that . . .”

“I understand, Mrs. Bramhall. It is kind of ironic.”

“How’s Ethan taking it?”