Out Cold (12 page)

“What's that?”

“It's a fertility drug,” she said. “It stimulates hormones so the brain sends messages to the ovaries, instructing them to produce eggs.” She cleared her throat. “That's what I got from the M.E. I might not've explained it right, but you get the picture.”

“Would this stuff, this…what was it?”

“Clomiphene.”

“Right. Clomiphene. Would the fact that she was taking clomiphene account for the size of the fetus?”

“The M.E. didn't think so,” said Mendoza. “He said it shouldn't have any effect on the growth rate of the fetus. It might produce multiple fetuses, but that apparently wasn't the case here.”

“Okay, wait a minute,” I said. “If she was taking a fertility drug—”

“Bingo, Mr. Coyne,” said Saundra Mendoza. “She was pregnant all right, but she wasn't exactly knocked up. If she was taking clomiphene, it's pretty compelling evidence that this little girl was trying to get pregnant.”

 

I got home before Evie that evening. I figured, after a week in Arizona, her office would be a zoo, not even to mention the turmoil she had to be feeling after viewing Dana Wetherbee's body.

So I had a pitcher of martinis waiting for her, and as soon as she'd changed out of her school clothes, as she put it, and was comfortable in some baggy sweatpants and a ratty sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders—on Evie, a very sexy outfit—I led her into the living room and poured her a drink.

We sat on the sofa. She turned sideways and put her bare feet in my lap.

I kneaded and massaged her feet, which usually made her moan and mumble as if she was about to have an orgasm. But tonight she didn't react very much except to say, “That's nice. Don't stop.”

It was hard not to tell her about finding Dana's photo—the one I'd given to Sunshine—stapled on Henry's collar. Evie and I don't have many secrets. We generally share, whether it's good or bad, happy or sad, triumphant or embarrassing. But I couldn't think of a single good reason to share this with her.

“Lieutenant Mendoza dropped by this afternoon,” I said instead. “The M.E. finally did the autopsy. Dana was taking something called clomiphene.”

“That's a fertility drug,” said Evie.

“Yes.”

“Hm,” she said. She took a sip of martini.

“My sentiment exactly,” I said.

“Makes no sense,” she said. “Why would she be taking fertility medication?”

“I guess she wanted to get pregnant.”

“Is that what they think caused her miscarriage?” she said. “The clomiphene?”

“According to the M.E., no.”

Evie was shaking her head. “Dana was just this sweet, virginal child. An innocent. A serious student, went to church, took care of her little brother, very scared about her mother, wouldn't say boo to anybody.”

“People change,” I said. “After her mother died…”

Evie shrugged. “Yeah, but still.” She drained her martini glass, reached for the pitcher on the coffee table, refilled it, and took a sip. She looked at me over the rim over her glass. “I made a few calls today.”

“What calls?”

“Some old friends at Emerson.”

“About Dana?”

She nodded.

“And?”

“I talked to Barbara,” she said, “who was one of Verna Wetherbee's nurses at the time she died, and I talked to Ginny in records. I got Ben Wetherbee's old address in Westford, but it turns out he doesn't live there anymore. Searched the Massachusetts White Pages on the Internet, couldn't find any listing for Benjamin Wetherbee. Barbara told me that Verna's parents used to visit sometimes. Ginny looked up their names for me. Richard and Shirley Arsenault. Dana's grandparents. They were living in Edson, Rhode Island. Tiny little town halfway between Woonsocket and Providence. I checked. They still live there.” She took another sip of martini.

“So did you call them?”

“No. I'm…I haven't quite figured out what to say to them.”

“Just do it, honey.”

“You mean now?”

“Well,” I said, “I suppose you could just give the information to Saundra Mendoza, let her do the dirty work.”

“I can't do that. It wouldn't be right. It should be me telling them. A friend. Not the police.”

“So why wait?”

She hugged herself. “I've got to think it through.”

“You're probably better off just playing it by ear,” I said. “Thinking things through is overrated.”

Evie was nodding. “I looked up their number,” she said. “I picked up the phone to call them half a dozen times today. But I kept thinking, what do I say? I mean, how do you tell them that their granddaughter is dead?”

“You want me to do it?”

She slapped my leg. “I most certainly do not.” She unfolded herself from the sofa, stood up, drained her martini glass, and headed for the kitchen.

I heard the mumble of her voice from two rooms away.

Five minutes later she came back into the living room.

I arched my eyebrows.

She shook her head.

“What happened?”

“Mrs. Arsenault was…cagey.”

“Cagey how?”

“I can't put my finger on it. Evasive. Distant. Mistrustful. I didn't want to just come out and tell her Dana was dead. I mean, what was she doing here in Boston, in our backyard? Why was she pregnant? I didn't know what she knew. So I told her who I was, from Emerson Hospital, and Shirley—Mrs. Arsenault—she said she remembered Dana mentioning me. I said I heard about Verna, Mrs. Arsenault's daughter, how sorry I was, and I'd been meaning to check in with Dana, see how she was doing. And Mrs. Arsenault, she interrupts me right there and says, Well, Dana's not here right now.”

“Right now?”

She nodded.

“So Dana was living with her grandparents?”

Evie nodded.

“Sounds like she was expecting Dana to return.”

“I don't know,” said Evie.

“So did you tell her Dana was dead?”

She shook her head. “No. I chickened out. It just didn't seem right, over the telephone, you know?”

“But don't you think—?”

“God
damn
it, Brady.”

“What?”

“I know you would've done it better.” Evie was glaring at me, clenching and unclenching her fists as if it was taking all of her will power not to slug me.

“I didn't mean that, honey.”

“Sure you did. You always know what to do. Sometimes you're such a…a fucking
lawyer
.”

“Ow,” I said. “That hurts.”

“Tough.”

I patted my lap. “Come on. Relax.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “I don't want to relax. And don't you dare patronize me.”

“I wasn't patronizing you.”

“Second-guessing me,” she said.

“I wasn't second-guessing you, either, honey.”

“Yeah, you were.” She blew out a long breath. “Okay, maybe you're right. Maybe I should've just flat-out told her. If I'd told her that Dana was dead, I might've gotten somewhere with her. Maybe she'd've explained it. You're right. But I didn't. I was a wimp, okay? I crapped out. It seemed as if she didn't trust me, and I felt like, if I pushed her, she'd just hang up on me and then I'd never be able to talk to her again. So I let it go.”

“You played it by ear,” I said.

“That's right.” She was still scowling at me.

“Sounds like you handled it perfectly.”

“You think?”

“This way,” I said, “she'll be comfortable talking to you again. You always know when to push, when to pull back. That's what makes you so good at your work. You've got excellent instincts.”

“I do,” she said, “don't I?”

“Absolutely.” I opened my arms. “Come here.”

“No. I'm mad at you. You're such a damned know-it-all.”

“I don't blame you,” I said. “I'm a truly bad person. But I really think you need to sit on my lap.”

“Do I have to?”

“Of course not. You can do anything you want to do. You are the architect of your own future. You are the captain of your own ship. You are the mother of your own invention. You are the sunshine of your own life.”

Evie rolled her eyes. She was trying not to smile.

“You are the tears of your own clown,” I said.

Then she did smile.

I patted my lap. “Please?”

“That's more like it,” she said.

I spent most of Tuesday morning and half of the afternoon in the courthouse in Concord, mostly waiting around in the lobby, but eventually trying to convince Judge Kolb that just because Bob Perry, my client, had gotten a hard-earned raise and an overdue promotion at the bank, it didn't entitle Nancy Perry, from whom Bob had been divorced for eleven years, to more alimony.

After all that, the judge ended up sending us home to work it out, and by the time I left my car in the Copley Square parking garage and strolled across the plaza to my office, it was approaching five o'clock in the afternoon. The rush-hour cars and taxis on Boylston Street were puffing thin clouds of exhaust into the chilly air, and the streetlights were winking on, and the slush on the sidewalks was beginning to freeze.

Julie was talking on the telephone when I walked in. I gave her a wave, and she wiggled some fingers at me. I hung up my coat, poured myself a mug of coffee, slouched on the waiting-room sofa, and began thumbing through the November issue of
Gray's Sporting Journal
.

After a few minutes, Julie hung up. “So how'd it go?” she said.

I shrugged. “I accrued a whole bunch of billable hours, if that's what you mean.”

“Judge Kolb sent you home, told you to go back to the drawing board, huh?”

I smiled. “Right as usual. How about you?”

“Without you hanging around pestering me all day, I got a lot done. Your messages and your mail are on your desk.” She jerked her head in the direction of my office. “You ought to take a look at them before you leave.”

“That,” I said, “is exactly why I'm here. I could've gone straight home, patted Henry, kissed Evie, changed my clothes, poured myself a drink, put my feet up and relaxed, basking in the certain knowledge that I'd earned it. But even after a full and exhausting day in court, a dedicated attorney's work is never done.”

Julie rolled her eyes.

I took my coffee into my office and sat at my desk. In her usual fastidious fashion, Julie had printed out a log of the day's calls, annotating each entry with the phone number, the caller's name, the time of the call, and the message, plus Julie's own commentary: “Ignore this one;” “I took care of it;” “He'll get back to you;” “Beware: This one's a nutcase;” “She sounds neurotic;” “Can't afford us.” Like that.

I'd learned to heed Julie's instincts. In the years we'd been together, she'd proved to be an uncanny judge of potential clients and the merits of their cases.

As I ran my finger down the list, I stopped at a 617-area-code number with no name beside it. The call had come at 10:35 in the morning. Julie's comment: “Cell phone. Wouldn't leave her name. Wants you to call.”

At 2:57, the same number. This time Julie noted: “Accused me of not delivering her message. Tried to question her and she hung up.”

At 3:41, again the same number. “Sounds somewhat stressed,” Julie wrote. “You better call her.”

I took the list out to her desk. “What can you tell me about this call?” I said, pointing at the number.

She shrugged. “Not much more than I wrote down. She insisted on talking to you. Wouldn't tell me her name, wouldn't say what she wanted. She's never called us before. Sounded…young. Not a child, exactly. A young adult. I didn't recognize her voice. She called those three times, and each time she sounded more anxious than the previous one.”

“How did you know she was using a cell phone?”

“It came from the same number, but there were different background noises each call. The first time, it was from inside a restaurant. The second time she was outdoors. I heard traffic. Next time, no background sounds at all. Different places, same phone each time.” Julie shrugged.

I smiled. “You're brilliant.”

“That's true,” she said.

I went back into my office and called the number.

After two rings, a female voice said, “Hello,” making it three syllables. Her tone suggested she was trying to sound outgoing and friendly and having a hard time carrying it off. In the background, I heard muffled voices and the clink and clatter of glass-ware and crockery.

“It's Brady Coyne,” I said. “You've been trying to reach me?”

“Oh, jeez,” she said. “I'm glad it's you.”

“Who is this?” I said.

“Huh? Oh, sorry. It's Misty. Remember me?”

I remembered. Black hair. Red beret. Slash of lipstick to match. Short skirt, fake fur jacket. A few nights earlier I'd given her sixty dollars and my business card.

“Sure,” I said. “What's up? Everything okay?”

“You're a lawyer, right?”

“Yes.”

“So I can talk to you without…”

“If you were my client, it would be confidential.”

“Can I be your client?”

“Misty,” I said, “is everything all right?”

“Not really, no. I—hang on a minute.”

I had the sense that she'd covered her phone. When she came back on, her voice was soft and guarded. “I have some information.”

“About what?”

“Remember that van?”

“The one with the bear logo.”

“Yes. Well, not the van. The guy in the van. He…it's about Kayla. I'm—look. I can't…not on the phone.”

“Tell me where you are,” I said, “and I'll be there.”

“I can be your client?”

“It'll cost you a dollar to retain me.”

“Then you can't tell anybody what I say?”

“It's a little more complicated than that, but basically, yes. Anything you tell me will be privileged. I can't tell anybody unless you give me permission.”

“Where are you?” she said.

“Me? In my office.”

“Where's that?”

“Copley Square. Where are you?”

“You don't want to come all the way down here. I'll meet you halfway.”

“Chinatown, right?” I said. “Didn't you tell me you liked to hang in Chinatown?”

“Right,” she said. “Beach Street. Look, there's a Dunkin' on the corner. Boylston and Tremont? You know where I mean?”

“Sure.”

“Let's meet there,” she said. “At the Dunkin'. You say when.”

I looked at my watch. It was few minutes after five. I'd have to ransom my car from the parking garage across the plaza from my office, negotiate the traffic to my regular garage at the far end of Charles Street, then from there walk the length of Charles and diagonally across the Common to the Dunkin' Donuts.

“Six,” I said. “I'll be there around six. Whoever gets there first, grab a table.”

“Six,” Misty said. “Good.” She paused. “Hey?”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I'll tell you then.” She hesitated a moment. “I'm kinda worried about Kayla, that's all.”

 

By the time I bumper-to-bumpered my way to my slot in the parking garage near the end of Charles Street, it was ten minutes of six. It's a brisk fifteen-minute hike from the garage to the Dunkin' Donuts on the corner of Boylston and Tremont, so it was about five past six when I walked through the door.

Seven or eight people were lined up at the counter ordering their coffees. This time on a Tuesday night, most of them would be to-go orders, a coffee or a cappucino or a hot chocolate for the walk to the T station or the parking garage.

Misty wasn't in the line. I looked around at the tables, and she wasn't sitting at any of them.

This time I was a little late, but I had tried to be on time. I always try to be on time. Some people are constitutionally unable to be where they say they'll be at the time they agree to be there. I supposed Misty was one of them. It was no more than a ten-or fifteen-minute walk even from the Atlantic Avenue end of Beach Street in Chinatown to this Dunkin'. Or maybe, streetwise girl that she seemed to be, she was lurking outside somewhere, waiting to see me come in before making her own appearance.

I got a medium black coffee, house blend, and took it to a table-for-two near the window. I draped my topcoat over the back of my chair, popped the top off the cardboard coffee cup, took a sip, and watched the people and the traffic go by on the other side of the window.

I'd had the foresight to copy Misty's cell-phone number into the little notebook I always carry in the inside pocket of my jacket. After sitting there for about ten minutes, I tried to call it from my own cell phone. It rang five or six times. Then her breathy recorded voice said, “It's Misty. Please leave a message.”

I said, “It's Brady Coyne, and it's, um, twenty after six, and I'm here, at the Dunkin'. Where are you?”

I tried to rationalize the bad vibes I was beginning to feel, but it wasn't going well. Misty had said she was worried. She'd sounded nervous. Maybe frightened. She had information about the man who drove the van with the bear logo—the man who might have been looking for Dana the night I saw the van.

Now she'd connected the man in the van and her friend Kayla. She said she was worried about Kayla.

I told myself I shouldn't worry about Misty, but it didn't work.

Six-thirty came and went. No Misty. No phone call.

Okay. I'd give her until seven. If she hadn't made an appearance by then, or at least called, I was going home.

As the minutes ticked away, the vibes got worse.

At ten of seven I called her cell number again, and again her voice mail answered, inviting me to leave a message.

I said, “It's Brady again. Now it's ten of seven. I'm still here at Dunkin'. I'll wait another fifteen minutes. If you can't make it, give me a call, okay? Or you can call me at home.” I gave her the number. Then I said, “You got me worried. I hope everything's okay. Let me know, please.”

I snapped my phone shut and shoved it into my pocket. I noticed that for the moment there was no line at the counter, so I went up and got myself another cup of coffee.

If she hadn't shown up by the time I finished the coffee, I decided, I'd leave.

Come on, Misty. Where the hell are you?

I nursed that cup of coffee until seven-twenty. We'd agreed to meet at six.

She wasn't coming.

I tried her cell number again. When her message came on, I told her I was going home and she could call me any time to reschedule our meeting. I said I'd meet her any time, any place.

Then I stood up, put on my topcoat, and walked outside onto the Boylston Street sidewalk.

I waited for a gap in the one-way traffic, then trotted across Boylston. I stopped there at the head of the diagonal pathway that would take me across the Common to my home on Beacon Hill. There were a lot of Tuesday-evening folks milling around, crowding the sidewalks, heading for the restaurants and the theaters and the MBTA stations.

I looked all around, studied each of the faces.

Misty's was not among them.

 

I tried calling Misty's cell phone when I got home. I tried again after dinner, and a couple of times after that. I kept getting her voice mail.

It was around midnight when I went up to the bedroom. Evie had gone up an hour earlier, and now she was mounded under the blankets. The lights were off, and she was breathing rhythmically.

I slid in beside her and lay there on my back looking up at the streetlight shadows flickering on the ceiling.

After a few minutes, she sighed and rolled onto her side. Her hand slithered under my T-shirt and rested lightly my chest. “What's up?” she whispered.

I turned to her and kissed her forehead. “Nothing, babe. Go back to sleep.”

“You're worried about that girl, huh?”

“I am, yes.”

“She was probably just trying to get some money out of you.”

“That's not what it sounded like. She sounded worried. Scared, maybe.”

“She's a streetwalker, Brady.”

“She's not what you'd expect.”

“The hooker with a heart of gold?”

“I don't know about that,” I said. “But she's smart and interesting. I think she's the kind of kid, she'll save her money and stay off drugs, and in a few years she'll quit the business and go to college.”

“How well do you know her, anyway?”

“Not well at all. You're right.”

Evie snuggled against me and buried her face against my shoulder. “You are such a lovely idealist.”

“I am not.”

“You are too,” she said. “It's really quite endearing.” She pushed me onto my back, slid her long bare leg over mine, and then she was straddling me.

I watched her lift her arms and peel off her nightgown. Her skin was silvery in the ambient light from the streetlights outside. I touched her naked breasts, and she shivered. She bent to me so that her hair curtained our faces, and she kissed me deeply.

I moved my hands down her back, over her hips, then back up along her spine.

She reached down and put me into her.

I held her hips as we moved together. Then she took in a sharp breath, and I felt all of her muscles harden, and then mine did, too.

She sprawled on top of me while we got our breathing under control. We dozed that way for a while.

Sometime later, she kissed my cheek, whispered, “I love you,” slid off me, and laid her cheek on my shoulder.

I had my arm around her, and she kept her bare leg hooked possessively over mine as she went to sleep.