Hell Bent (19 page)

“Jemma Jones,” said Herb. “Black lady. She owns the camera store.”

“What do you mean, now and then?” I looked at Beth.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned her.” She shook her head. “It’s really none of anybody’s business. Especially now that …”

“It might be important,” I said. “Remember, I’m a lawyer. I’m required by my professional code of ethics to be absolutely respectful of private matters.” I sounded pompous and evasive, even to my own ears.

Beth Croyden’s little smile told me I sounded the same to her. But she nodded and said, “Ms. Jones spent the night with Gus on more than one occasion. She’d always leave very early in the morning. I guess she didn’t realize that Herb and I get up with the birds. Right, dear?”

Herb nodded. “We saw her drive out of our driveway a few times shortly after sunrise. She’s got a yellow Volkswagen Beetle. Hard to mistake it. The way I look at it, Gus was separated, in the process of getting a divorce, and if it made him happy, allowed him to relax a little, good for him.”

“Oh,” said Beth, “I completely agree. None of our business anyway. I just don’t know, technically, if he was still married …”

“Legally,” I said, “as far as the divorce was concerned, it would make no difference. What about other visitors?”

Herb glanced at Beth, then said, “There was somebody in a dark SUV. He came by a few times that I know of.”

“Day or night?” I said.

“Both. He made no effort to sneak around.”

“It was a man?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I assumed it was.”

“But you don’t know who it was?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Was he alone in the car?”

Herb frowned, then looked at Beth.

“The couple of times I saw that SUV,” she said, “he was alone, I think.”

“Can you describe the vehicle?”

“Black or dark blue,” Herb said. “I couldn’t tell you the make or model. One of those big ones. Like a Lincoln Navigator, maybe. It looked pretty new.”

“I don’t know anything about cars,” said Beth. She looked at Herb. “There was a pickup truck that went in there a few times, too, remember, dear?”

Herb turned to her and frowned. “I don’t recall any pickup truck.”

She shrugged. “Maybe you weren’t here.” She looked at me. “I’m afraid I can’t give you much of a description. The truck looked old and battered. I don’t even recall what color it was, and I have no recollection of who was driving it. I’m sorry.”

I nodded. “Did either of you ever meet a friend of Gus’s named Pete?”

They looked at each other. Then Herb said, “We didn’t meet any of his friends.”

“How about the two of you?” I said. “Did you folks socialize with Gus?”

“No,” said Herb. “He kept to himself. It was pretty clear that he wasn’t looking for friends. The path down to the river goes past the carriage house, and once or twice he walked down there with me and Gracie, threw sticks into the water for her to fetch. He liked Gracie. Otherwise, we didn’t see much of him.”

I looked at Beth. She shook her head. “If he was walking up
the driveway and I was out in the yard, we waved to each other,” she said. “He didn’t stop to chat or anything.”

“He didn’t have a car,” I said.

“No,” she said. “Not even a bike, and I never noticed anybody picking him up or dropping him off. He walked everywhere, I think.”

“So Ms. Jones in her yellow VW and somebody driving a dark SUV and somebody else in an old pickup,” I said. “Any other visitors that you can remember?”

Herb shook his head.

Beth narrowed her eyes, then nodded. “Yes, of course. There was a woman in a small SUV-type car, come to think of it. A Subaru, I think. She came by a couple of times recently.”

“Maine plates on the Subaru?” I said.

She shrugged. “Didn’t notice.”

“That was probably Gus’s sister,” I said. I took a sip of coffee. “Look,” I said, “to tell you the truth, I’m just wondering if there’s anything you folks can think of that might cause you to question what the police have concluded.”

“That he killed himself, you mean?” said Herb.

I nodded.

He looked at his wife. They both shook their heads.

“You never think anybody you know is going to do something like that,” he said. “There’s no doubt that poor Gus was pretty depressed, though. He didn’t seem to have much to live for, did he?” He frowned for a moment. “Anyway, the alternative is what? That somebody murdered him? That’s even more unthinkable than suicide, if you ask me.”

Beth was nodding. “We talked about this,” she said, “when we heard what the police said. It’s a terrible shock, of course. But from what we knew about Gus …”

Herb leaned forward and looked at me. “You don’t agree, Mr. Coyne?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t really have an opinion. I didn’t know Gus that well. I would like to talk to the man in that dark SUV you mentioned. And the person in the pickup, too. If either of them should come by again, would you see if you can talk to them, get their names for me, or at least copy down their license plates?”

The Croydens both nodded.

I drained my coffee mug and stood up. “Will you show me Gus’s apartment now?”

Herb stood up. “I’ll do it,” he said to Beth.

“Good,” she said. “You go. I’m never going to set foot in there again.” She hugged herself and shivered.

Herb and I started walking down the driveway to the carriage house, which was about fifty yards beyond the main house and hidden from view behind a screen of hemlocks. Gracie led the way, prancing and bounding along the driveway, sniffing the bushes, and turning often to be sure that we were following her.

“How did Gus hear that you had a place to rent?” I said to Herb.

“A friend of mine called me up,” he said. “He knew I was renovating the place, said he knew a guy whose marriage was falling apart and needed an apartment. I told him to have the guy call me. It was Gus. He came over and met us, we showed him the place, and he took it. It was pretty obvious that the poor guy’s life was a mess, but we liked him very much. We were happy to do what we could.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Gus?” Herb shook his head. “Nothing, really. Just that he needed an apartment, preferably within walking distance of
Concord center. The friend who contacted me was from a support group I used to be in. I lost my son in Iraq a little over two years ago.” He hesitated for a moment, then waved his hand, dismissing that topic. “Anyhow, this friend is still in the group, and Gus had been in it for a while, too.”

“I’m sorry about your son,” I said. I was remembering that Jemma Jones had lost her husband over there. And there was Gus, who had survived, but minus his hand and his sanity, though one could now say that the war had killed him, too. And now the Croydens’ son.

“I wonder if you could tell me your friend’s name,” I said. “I’d like to talk to him and maybe some of the others in the group.”

Herb shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t do that. It’s our code. There’s a lot of prejudice out there, you know?”

“I do,” I said. “Maybe you could give your friend my name and number, see if he’d be willing to talk to me?”

He nodded. “I could do that. Sure. No harm in that, I guess.”

I gave Herb my business card. He tucked it into his shirt pocket.

When we arrived at the carriage house, Herb stopped. “I feel the same as Beth,” he said. “I have no desire to go in there where Gus …”

“You don’t need to,” I said. “Just let me in.”

“I don’t know what you expect to see,” he said.

“Me, neither.” I started up the outside stairs.

Herb came along behind me. “I’ve got to face it sooner or later,” he said. “We had it cleaned as soon as the police gave us the okay.” When we reached the landing, Herb produced a key and unlocked the door.

I stepped inside. Herb remained standing in the doorway. I walked slowly through the apartment. It smelled of Lysol and
emptiness. Everything had been scrubbed and disinfected. The bottle of Early Times in its rumpled paper bag was gone. So was Gus’s laptop computer. Probably locked up in a police evidence vault somewhere. Property of the medical examiner.

The walls and ceiling and floor where his blood had splattered and pooled were clean. So was the carpet under the chair where he’d been sitting when he pulled the trigger.

I opened and closed every kitchen drawer and went through all the kitchen cabinets. I found pots and pans, dishes and glasses, silverware and cooking utensils.

The medicine cabinet in the bathroom was empty. I figured the police took all of Gus’s pills for when they did his blood work.

There was only one small closet in the place. Some clothes hung in it. Shirts and pants and a couple of jackets. I fished through the pockets. They were all empty.

The small bureau beside the bed held socks and underwear and some sweaters. There was a handful of change in one of the top drawers. No business cards, no address books. Anything like that the crime-scene investigators would have taken.

There was one drawer in the table where Gus kept his laptop computer. The table where he’d been sitting when he shot himself. The drawer held some blank envelopes, a few pencils, a box of paper clips. That was all.

I took another circuit of the apartment and noticed nothing. Then I went outside, shut the door, and descended the stairway.

I found Herb sitting on the bottom step. Gracie was lying beside him.

“Find what you were looking for?” said Herb.

“Didn’t find anything,” I said. “I guess the police took anything they thought might be a clue. Whoever cleaned it did a good job.”

“Professional cleaning service from Littleton,” he said. “They do office buildings, commercial establishments mostly. One of the local cops recommended them. They charged an arm and a leg, but it was worth it. We have a cleaning lady, but I couldn’t ask her to do something like that.”

We started to walk up the driveway back to Herb’s house. “I noticed that there was only one small closet in the apartment.”

“Bad planning,” said Herb. “Should’ve had them add more closet space when they were renovating the place. Storage is an issue. Didn’t seem to bother Gus, though.”

“He didn’t bring much stuff with him?”

Herb shook his head. “It was like he didn’t expect to stay long.”

I nodded. “He didn’t.”

A
lex was hunched over her laptop at the kitchen table when I got home on Saturday afternoon, and when I said hello, she lifted a forefinger without looking up and kept on typing.

“Sorry,” I said.

Henry was glad to see me, anyway. I snagged a bottle of Samuel Adams Boston Lager from the refrigerator, and he and I went out back. While he sniffed the shrubbery, I sprawled in one of my comfortable wooden Adirondack chairs. I took a swig of beer, then used my cell phone to call Patriot Spirits, the package store in Concord.

I asked to speak to Mike, the owner, and he said that’s who I was talking to.

“It’s Brady Coyne,” I said. “We talked earlier today about Gus Shaw?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Mike said. “The lawyer. You wanted to know if Mr. Shaw bought a pint of Early Times a week ago Friday, right?”

“That’s right. You said there were a couple of other people working there that day.”

“I didn’t forget,” he said. “I was gonna call you. Joey came in a little while ago. He’s got no memory of Gus Shaw. I described him, and he said no, he thought he’d remember him. Danny’s off today, but I called him for you like I said I would. Danny said he’s been in the camera store a few times, said he knew who Gus Shaw was. He didn’t sell the man a bottle, either. Said he’d never seen him in our store.”

“And nobody remembers who they did sell those two pints to that day?”

“Sorry, man,” said Mike. “Somebody puts a couple bottles on the counter in front of you, you check him out just to make sure you don’t need to card him, then you ring it up, and it’s on to the next customer. We try to be friendly and helpful. People sometimes want to talk to you about wine. Otherwise, except for the regulars or folks you know from around town, we don’t pay much attention.”

I thanked Mike, snapped my phone shut, put it in my shirt pocket, tilted my head back, and shut my eyes. I hadn’t slept much the previous night. The daybed in my office was narrow, and Alex’s body was warm and curvy and unfamiliar. We’d ended up like spoons, which, after several years of sleeping only with Evie, and then several months of sleeping with nobody, was distracting and interesting enough to keep me awake much of the night.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, Alex was kissing my ear. I reached up, hooked my arm around her neck, and steered her mouth to mine.

“Um,” she said after a minute. “Nice.” She pulled away and sat in the chair beside me. “Sorry I didn’t stop when you came home. I had a whole plot thread I needed to get down before it went away.”

“You probably don’t want to talk about it.”

“I definitely don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “My muse is a fickle girl, and I’m afraid she’ll abandon me if I don’t respect her whims.” She picked up my beer bottle and took a sip. “So what did you learn today?”

I shook my head. “In a word, nothing. I haven’t come up with one shred of evidence to suggest that Gus did not kill himself. I’m sorry.”

Alex shrugged. “You just haven’t found it yet, that’s all. You will.”

“You’re the only one who believes that.”

“What about you?” she said.

“I have no belief,” I said.

She looked at me for a minute. “So who did you talk to?”

I shook my head. “Our deal was that I’d do it my way. I told you I didn’t want to be debriefed every day. I don’t want to be second-guessed. I don’t want to have to explain everything or account for my decisions or defend my moves. Right?”

Alex was looking at me out of narrowed eyes. “If you think that this is just a big fat waste of your precious time …”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Don’t do me any favors, Brady Coyne. Forget it. I can hire some private eye.”

“All I said was, I don’t feel like recapitulating every conversation I have. I talked to a lot of people today. Based on what I know now, I’d be inclined to conclude that Gus killed himself the way the police said, but I’m resisting conclusions. I’m not done yet. For example, I want to talk to Claudia, and I need you to set that up for tomorrow.”