Dead Winter (5 page)

He stared at me for a minute and then stood up. “You want another beer?”

“Sure.”

Marc went to the refrigerator and took out another Bud for me and Coors for himself. He returned to the table, cracked the can, and tipped it up. His throat worked. Then he put the can on the table and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his sport coat. “I have no witnesses, Brady. No alibi. When my father goes to bed, he goes to sleep. He snores. Nothing wakes him up. Maggie and I have a room at the opposite end of the hall from him. There’s a stairway at each end and in the middle. There are six bedrooms up there, okay? It’s like living in a separate building. He can verify I was home when he went to bed. That’s it. I could’ve sneaked out after I heard him sawing wood up there, went to the boat, found Maggie in it, and whacked her. But I didn’t.”

“So who did?”

He flapped his hands. “I have no idea.”

“Who didn’t like her?”

“I don’t know anybody who didn’t like her.”

“Somebody from the—what was it called?”

“The Night Owl?”

“Right. The Night Owl. Anybody from there?”

“I don’t know. She never mentioned enemies.”

“Old lovers?”

“She probably had lots. I don’t know who they were.”

“What about her family?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t seem to know much about your wife, Marc.”

He smiled at me. “No, I guess not. But what I did know, I liked a lot.”

“Be that as it may—”

“Look, okay? I saw her dance. She moved nice. Not like a lot of them, they just stand there and play with their tits and pretend they’re humping somebody. Maggie really danced. After she was done, got dressed, she came out, sat at the bar. Couple guys put a move on her. Two bikers, looked like. Long greasy hair, grubby beards, black T-shirts with the sleeves hacked off to show their biceps and tattoos. I was watching. Just casually. I mean, first I was watching this chick move around naked, all these guys yelling to her and her joking back at them, cool, in control, smiling, taking their dollar bills when they held them to her, giving them a quick peek at her snatch. Then she comes out in slacks and blouse, looks like an ordinary person. Clean and pretty. Anyway, I’m watching her at the bar because she’s more interesting than the next naked one on the stage, and the two bikers sit down on either side of her. I can’t hear what they’re talking about. But suddenly one of the guys jumps up like he’s been shot. Then the other one kind of straightens up and backs off his barstool. The two bikers leave. Walk right out the door, looking like they’d eaten a mouthful of live bugs. So I went over and sat beside her. She was sipping some kind of fancy drink. Pink, with froth on top of it. I said to her, ‘How’d you do that? What’d you say to those guys?’ She grins at me and shows me what she’s got in her hand. It’s one of those old-fashioned hatpins, about six inches long. ‘I didn’t say anything,’ she said to me. ‘I just shoved this thing into one of their stomachs. Only about an inch. It discouraged them.’”

Marc smiled at me. “Love at first sight,” he said.

“So you married her.”

He shrugged. “It was a lark, really. It wasn’t as if we had long intense conversations about responsibility and commitment and death doing us part. Child-rearing philosophies. Life insurance. Nothing like that. Maggie and I weren’t permanent. We both understood that. Nothing was permanent with Maggie. She lived for the day. Just liked to have fun and not worry about things. She told me she did a lot of drugs one time, but they didn’t make her happy. Funny kid. I mean, you think this girl, takes her clothes off and lets guys look at her, you’d think she didn’t care much about herself. But she did. Ate raw vegetables, bran cereal. Didn’t smoke. Drank very little. Did aerobics. She was happy to move in here. Seemed thrilled that she’d be taken care of for a while, didn’t have to strip. Quit at the Night Owl. She liked living here. She liked my father a lot. Seemed happy enough keeping house, being taken care of. She liked to grub around in the gardens, watch the soaps, vacuum, make lunch for the old man. He seemed to take a shine to her. She went her way, I went mine. Sometimes we went the same way.”

“Not anymore,” I said.

“Look,” he said. “I’m really sad she’s dead. And the sight of her, all distorted, her head caved in. It was awful, and I’ve seen bad things. When I was inside I saw a guy, his balls and his pecker had been cut off by a jealous lover or something, poor bastard was screaming, blood all over the place. I thought I’d never see anything worse. This tonight, this was worse. Because, I guess, because it was Maggie. She knew how to take care of herself, Brady. It’s upsetting. But we weren’t really what you’d call in love with each other. After Debbie, I don’t know if I’ll ever be in love.”

“And you didn’t kill her.”

“Honest to God, I didn’t.”

“Cops’ll think you did.”

He nodded. “I expect so. My father does. So does Kat.”

“You don’t mind me saying so,” I said, “I’ve got my doubts myself.”

I
TALKED WITH MARC
until about four thirty in the morning and then went to bed in one of the many bedrooms upstairs. It took me a long time to get to sleep. A soft rapping on the door awakened me. Sun was streaming in through the windows.

“Come in,” I said.

The door pushed open and Kat stuck her head in. “Are you decent?”

“People have said that of me, yes. A decent sort, that Coyne.”

“Is your body covered?”

I pulled the sheet up to my chin. “Yes, but I’ll give you a peek if you want.”

She came into the room. She was wearing a pale yellow linen suit with a printed blouse under it, matching yellow heels. No stockings on her tanned legs. I gave her a wolf whistle.

She put a mug of coffee on the table beside my bed and ignored the whistle. “I’ve got to get to the office,” she said. “Can I move your car?”

“Keys’re in the pocket.” I pointed at the tumble of clothing on the floor.

She bent to them and extricated the car keys. “I’ll leave them in the ignition.”

“Fine. And thanks for the java.”

She came over and sat on the edge of the bed. Her bottom pressed against my hip. “I didn’t use to like you, you know,” she said.

“We were all younger then.”

“No, I mean, I had this idea that you were out to get Daddy to do something he didn’t want to do. About my mother, I mean. I didn’t trust you. I guess I didn’t trust anybody.” She smiled. “You turned out to be a nice guy.”

“I was a nice guy all the time.” I reached for the mug of coffee and sipped it. It gave my life new meaning.

“Well, anyway,” she said, “I appreciate what you’re doing. For Daddy, I mean. We don’t expect miracles here.”

“You think Marc killed Maggie?”

“Look,” she said, frowning. “He’s my brother, okay? But he’s done nothing but cause Daddy heartache. Ever since…”

“Ever since your mother left.”

She made a throwaway gesture with her head. “You get to the point, don’t you? Yes. Since then.”

“While you—?”

“I,” she said, “have done my best to live up to my father’s expectations.”

I blew across the top of my coffee and peered at her. “I expect Marc has done his best, too.”

“God help us if this is his best,” she said softly. She stood up. “Anyway, I’m off. See you around, maybe?”

“Maybe. Have to see what happens today.”

“Lunch?”

“Probably not. If Marc doesn’t need me, I’ll have to get to the office.”

“Sometime, then.”

“Sometime.”

Kat left and I finished my coffee. Then I showered, found a razor in the cabinet and shaved, dressed, and went downstairs. Marc and Des were at the table sharing the
Globe
and eating Cheerios. Barney was curled under the table looking hungry and hopeful. I poured myself more coffee and sat with them. I lit a cigarette. “Who’s got the sports page?” I said.

“Sox lost,” said Marc. “I’ve gotta go back to the police station.”

I nodded. “No pitching.”

“Fourier called. Wanted me right away. I told him we were up most of the night, give me a break. He said he’d been up all night, too. I told him that was his job. He said he had questions. Sounded ominous. I hope you’ll come with me.”

“Bullpen, mainly,” I said. “They haven’t had a decent reliever since Dick Radatz. The Monster. He could mow ’em down. Struck out Mickey Mantle about every time he faced him.”

Des had looked up from his paper. His eyes moved from me to Marc and back to me. His face seemed to have acquired new wrinkles overnight. He looked tired and confused.

“Remember Radatz, Des?” I said.

He nodded. “Yes. A large person.”

“My father is not a big baseball fan,” said Marc. He pushed himself away from the table and then put his hands on it and leaned toward me. “You coming, Brady?”

“I don’t do business until I’ve had two cups of coffee, Marc. It’s one of my rules. I don’t have many rules. This rule I don’t violate.” I lifted my mug and peered into it. “Half gone. Or half full. Take your pick. Meantime we talk baseball.”

Marc rolled his eyes and sat down. “Speaking of baseball,” he said, “I didn’t kill Maggie and they think I did, and I want to get this straightened out as soon as I can.”

“Sparky Lyle,” I said. “They traded him to the Yankees. For the immortal Danny Cater.”

“I remember that one,” said Des, smiling.

“Jesus Christ,” breathed Marc.

Des frowned. “Watch your language, please.”

Marc muttered, “Sorry,” and lapsed into silence.

I downed the rest of my coffee, wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, and stood up. I took my cigarette to the sink and doused it under the faucet. “Now. Let’s do some business.”

We said good-bye to Des and went outside. A very large man—he looked as big as Dick Radatz himself—was leaning against my car. He was straddling an old-fashioned balloon tire bicycle. He wore plaid Bermuda shorts and a checked short-sleeved shirt. He sported a black crew cut and a couple days’ growth of heavy beard. There was something askew with his eyes.

“Hi, M-M-Marc,” he said. His voice was oddly high-pitched. Saliva bubbled in the corners of his mouth as he struggled to pronounce Marc’s name.

“Snooker,” said Marc. “What the hell do you want?”

“Can Barney come out to play?” said the man after several false starts. When he tried to speak he closed his eyes tight and chewed his lips. Even when he got the words out, it sounded as if he had a mouthful of school paste. I guessed his chronological age at thirty-five. His mental age was difficult to determine.

“Get away from the car,” said Marc. To me he said, “The local retard. Pain in the ass.”

“B-B-Barney?” repeated the man.

Marc sighed. “The doggie can’t come out to play now. He’s sleeping. Get your bike off the car. You’ll scratch it.”

“It’s okay,” I said. I approached the man and extended my hand. “Brady Coyne,” I said.

He nearly tumbled over as he reached to shake. “Snooker Lynch, sir,” he stammered.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lynch.”

“Can Barney come out?” he said to me.

“Come on, Brady,” said Marc.

“How ’bout M-M-Maggie?” Snooker Lynch’s eyes appealed to me.

“God damn it, she’s dead,” said Marc.

Snooker turned to look at Marc. He frowned menacingly at him. “Don’t be mean to Snooker,” he squeaked. Then his eyes filled with tears. He looked back at me, his eyebrows raised. I nodded.

Snooker spun his bike around. “You’re a son of a bitch, Marc Winter,” he sputtered. “You’re not, sir,” he added, to me, I assumed. Then he hopped on his bike and pedaled furiously away.

Marc and I got into my car. I backed out onto High Street and headed east. “You weren’t particularly kind to him,” I observed mildly.

Marc sighed. “Yeah. It’s hard to be patient with Snooker. I feel sorry for the poor shit. But he won’t leave you alone. Used to come by to visit Maggie. I used to tease her. Told her Snooker had a thing for her. She’d just laugh. She said she liked him. Understood him. That was Maggie. Loved animals and retards.”

Marc directed me to the Newburyport police station. It was a square old brick building near the corner of a one-way street by the waterfront. Several windows on the first floor were barred. A sign indicated that the district court was housed in the same building.

We parked in the lot across the street. I admired the general refurbishing several of the old warehouses had undergone in that part of the city. They had been converted into offices and condominiums and fashionable shops. Sidewalks and vacant lots had been bricked over. Shade trees and benches were scattered here and there for the comfort of the busy shopper and tourist. Good places to lap ice cream cones and recover the energies needed to buy more things and take more photographs. From where we sat we could gaze upon the boats moored in the shelter of the Merrimack near the Route 1 bridge.

We crossed the street and went into the stationhouse. The door opened into a dark, narrow corridor. On the left was a thick window. Behind it a policeman sat at a switchboard. Marc gave him his name and the door to the left past the window buzzed open. A moment later a heavy man with thinning dark hair appeared. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt with a plain blue necktie snug to his throat. Sweat stains the size of basketballs ringed his armpits. His neck bulged over the collar. He glanced at me, then turned to Marc and nodded. “Come on with me,” he said, and turned. Marc and I followed him.

He wedged himself into a chair behind a littered desk in the corner of a large room where several other desks sat in a random pattern. Most of them were piled high with folders and envelopes. Three or four of them were occupied by shirt-sleeved cops. They were talking in low voices into telephones wedged against their necks. They ignored us.

“You his lawyer?” said the big man.

I nodded. “Brady Coyne.”

“Fourier,” he said without offering his hand. He rummaged through the litter on top of his desk, held up a sugar-covered cruller, shrugged, and bit into it. Then he came up with a manila envelope and tapped the corner of it on his desk. “I just got preliminary results from the M.E.,” he mumbled around a mouthful. “He examined the body. Hasn’t cut it yet. Interested?” He addressed Marc.