Close to the Bone

by William G. Tapply

  “It was his idea, Brady. I didn’t stop loving him or wanting to be with him. But he felt it was the only thing left to do. I don’t know, maybe he thought it was just the only way left that would protect me. I never felt he didn’t love me. But he was tortured, and he knew I was miserable. Even the fishing didn’t help him anymore. He was desperate. I think part of it was that he put a lot of pressure on himself, trying to be admirable for me. He figured if he despised himself, I must despise him, too. I didn’t. I loved him. But if we got divorced, he could stop worrying about how I felt about him. Does that make any sense?”

  I shrugged. “I guess so. As much as anything makes sense.” I took a sip of coffee, then said, “Did you ever go out on the boat with him?”

  She frowned. “What…? Oh. You mean, did I know how to operate it? Did I know his routines?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could I have gone out with him last night, you mean.”

  I nodded.

  “I could have. I mean, I’ve got nobody to say I didn’t. But I didn’t. But, yes, I went out with him a few times, especially… before. Before he changed jobs. It was sort of fun, but I knew he really liked it best when he was by himself. I could drive a boat, yes, and I could stun an eel and rig it on a line, and I knew how to read the currents and the tides and how to get a good drift through a rip. I didn’t much care about the actual fishing. But I liked being on a boat with Paul at night. And I guess I could’ve been there last night, and I could’ve picked him up and thrown him overboard and then swam to shore and…”

  I took both of her hands in mine. “Hey,” I said softly.

  “I know. I’m sorry, Brady.”

  “Just as long as you’re telling me the truth.”

  She nodded. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s talk to the police. Maybe they’ve learned something.”

  9

  OLIVIA LEFT HER CAR in the Friendly’s lot and rode with me into the business center of Newburyport. We parked in the municipal lot and headed for the police station. Newburyport, like most of the cities along the New England coastline, began as an old seafaring town because of its sheltered harbor. It was a fishing town and a trading town that grew and flourished inside the mouth of the Merrimack River. During the Industrial Revolution in the second half of the nineteenth century, factories were built along the riverbanks. Then, inevitably, the factories shut down and the merchant shipping industry faltered and Newburyport went through the predictable stages of decline.

  During the past decade or two the city has been revitalized. The old factories have been converted into contemporary office buildings and condominiums. The downtown area features brick-fronted shops that sell books and candles and chocolates and antiques. There are a dozen restaurants and taverns within a few blocks of each other, and all of them seem to be profitable.

  Politically, Newburyport is a city. But it feels like a quaint old New England seaport town, just the way it’s supposed to.

  On this perfect Saturday morning in June, the twisting streets and the wide sidewalks were thronged with shoppers and tourists. Seagulls sailed overhead, and beyond the shops and restaurants the masts of schooners poked into the sky. The air tasted salty and clean.

  “Where was Paul’s house?” I asked Olivia as we crossed a brick-paved plaza.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Somewhere out on Plum Island.”

  “You’ve never been there?”

  “No. He called it a shack. It’s on some back road overlooking the marsh.”

  “He wouldn’t let anybody borrow his boat?”

  She laughed quickly. “Absolutely not.”

  “But he might’ve invited somebody along with him.”

  “Sure.”

  At the station, Olivia told the female desk cop that Lieutenant Kirschenbaum was expecting her, and a few minutes later a lanky, stoop-shouldered guy wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and baggy chino pants came out. “Mrs. Cizek?” he said.

  “Yes. This is Mr. Coyne.”

  “Oh?” He had a thick mop of curly gray-blond hair. A pair of steel-rimmed glasses perched atop his head.

  “He’s my—our lawyer. Mine and Paul’s.”

  Kirschenbaum looked at me and shrugged. “Sure, okay. You folks want to come on in here?”

  He turned and slouched down a corridor, and we followed him into a small office. He folded himself into the swivel chair behind his desk, and Olivia and I took the straight-backed wooden chairs across from him.

  Olivia put her forearms on the desk. “Do you know anything?”

  “Nothing since we talked this morning,” he said. “Someone radioed the Coast Guard that there was a boat adrift. That was around two in the morning. So they went out and towed it in. Nobody was aboard. They’ve got it at the Lifeboat Station on Water Street. There’s a vehicle registered to Paul Cizek of Lynnfield parked at the public landing. It’s got a boat trailer hooked to it.” He poked at his hair, found his glasses, and placed them on the desk in front of him. “That’s really all I can tell you. I was hoping you could shed some more light on it.”

  “You didn’t find…?”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t see how I can help you,” she said.

  “You two were, um, living apart.”

  She looked at him sharply. “Yes, we were. We separated at the end of March.”

  “Right,” he said. He picked up his glasses and fitted them onto his ears, then rummaged around on his desk and found a manila folder. He opened it and bent to study the papers it held. Then he looked up at us. “He was renting the house at the end of Meadowridge Road, out on the island?”

  She nodded. “That’s right.”

  “He liked to fish,” he said, still peering at the papers he was holding.

  “He went out whenever he could. That’s why when he moved out, he came up here. So he’d be near the ocean. He liked to go in the river and around Plum Island.”

  “And he fished at night?”

  “Mostly at night, yes. He preferred to fish at night. He felt that’s when the stripers bit the best. Anyway, he worked long hours during the day.”

  Kirschenbaum removed his glasses, folded them, and pointed them at Olivia. “He was pretty well known for defending some unsavory types.”

  “It’s what he did.”

  “Yes. And he was very good at it, I understand. Was your husband suicidal, Mrs. Cizek?”

  “Paul?” She frowned. “He was not happy. In fact, he’s been quite depressed lately. But suicide?” She shook her head. “I don’t think so. No. That wasn’t Paul.”

  “Would you say he was a careful man?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In his boat. Did he take risks?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t…”

  “He never wore a life jacket,” I said. “At least not when I was with him.”

  Kirschenbaum glanced at me, then turned back to Olivia. “There was a bad storm last night. We had big seas outside. Wind, heavy rain, lightning. Some pretty violent squalls. But he was out there in his boat.”

  “He had a lot of confidence in himself,” she said. “He used to say that the fish bit best in the rain. He liked weather.”

  The cop turned to me. “Mr. Coyne, you were friends with Mr. Cizek, is that right?”

  I nodded.

  “Good friends?”

  I shrugged. “Yes, I’d say we were good friends. We used to fish together. I was his family lawyer.” I glanced at Olivia. She was peering at Kirschenbaum. “I did the Cizek’s will and a few other legal odds and ends for them. Paul and I haven’t been out fishing for a couple of years. We ran into each other now and then. Professionally, I mean. We threw business each other’s way.”

  “You knew him pretty well, then?”

  “I felt I knew him better a few years ago. Since he went private, we saw less of each other.”

  “What about recently?”


  “I referred a client of mine to him, so I saw him several times this past fall and winter.”

  “That would be Falconer?”

  “Yes. He defended Glen Falconer. Actually, Roger Falconer, Glen’s father, is my client.”

  “And Mr. Cizek was successful in his defense of Mr. Falconer, as I remember.”

  I nodded.

  “How did Cizek seem to you recently?”

  “I haven’t seen him since February. He was depressed. Confused.”

  Kirschenbaum arched his eyebrows.

  “I recommended he get some counseling. I got some names for him, but I don’t know if he ever followed up on it.”

  He turned to Olivia. “What about enemies, ma’am?”

  She shrugged and looked at me.

  “Lawyers make enemies,” I said. “Paul had high-profile cases. He defended people who were accused of serious crimes, and he was often successful. There are always victims of serious crimes. He was threatened in court last winter. The husband of the woman who was killed by the drunk driver Paul defended.”

  Kirschenbaum nodded. “I remember hearing about that.” He turned to Olivia. “Where were you last night, Mrs. Cizek?”

  Olivia glanced at me, then turned to Kirschenbaum and smiled quickly. “After about eight o’clock, I don’t have an alibi.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t looking for an alibi,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I was just wondering where you were.”

  “Home alone.”

  “When was the last time you talked to your husband?”

  “A few days ago. Wednesday, I think it was. We talked on the phone for about an hour that evening. We were working out the terms of our separation.”

  “How did your husband seem?”

  “Stressed out. Sad. Depressed.”

  “Did you argue?”

  “No. We never argued. In all the time we’ve known each other, we haven’t argued.”

  Kirschenbaum leaned forward. “Mrs. Cizek, I want to ask you a hard question.”

  She nodded. “All right.”

  “Was your husband involved with somebody else?”

  “A woman, you mean?”

  He spread his hands.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “Then that’s not what caused…?”

  “Our separation?” She shrugged. “No. Not as far as I know.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe. He’d grown awfully distant over the past couple of years.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Were you—”

  “No. I wasn’t involved with anybody. I was still involved with Paul.”

  Kirschenbaum glanced at his papers for a moment, then took off his glasses and stuck them on top of his head. “I guess you understand what we’re looking at here,” he said to Olivia.

  “You think Paul’s dead,” she said.

  He glanced at me, then nodded. “It’s the logical assumption. The Coast Guard is searching for a body. The problem is, we don’t know where he was when he—if he went over. The tide was running, there were heavy winds, we don’t know how long the boat had been adrift before it was spotted. A few boats broke away from their moorings in the storm last night. But your husband trailered his, so that’s out. He’s not at his house. You haven’t heard from him.” He flapped his hands. “We try not to jump to conclusions, but…”

  Olivia nodded. I could see her jaw muscles bunch and clench. “You’ll keep me informed?” she said in a low voice.

  “Of course,” said Kirschenbaum. “And if you hear anything, you’ll tell me.”

  “Yes.”

  “You too, Mr. Coyne.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “You’ll be available, then?” he said to Olivia.

  “Don’t leave town, right?” she said, trying to smile.

  “I’ve got your number,” he said.

  Outside the police station, Olivia stopped, turned to me, and pressed her face against my chest. I put my arms around her and held her against me.

  “I tried to keep it together in there,” she mumbled.

  “You did fine,” I said.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “We can only wait.”

  “That’s the hardest thing.”

  I patted her shoulders. “I know.”

  10

  I FULLY AGREED WITH Olivia. Waiting is hard. It’s always better to do something, no matter what it is.

  I drove her back to the Friendly’s parking lot and gave her a hug. She climbed into her red Saab, and I waved to her as she headed home to Lynnfield. Then I turned around and drove back into Newburyport.

  On my first try I went right past the Cashman Park boat ramp, the municipal launch area. I’d met Paul there a few times for fishing excursions, but that had been a couple of years earlier and at night. I remembered it was just before you cross Route 1 into town, so I turned around, drove back along the narrow street that paralleled the river, and found the entrance tucked alongside a big brick factory building.

  The parking area was crowded with vehicles on this Saturday noon in June. Most of them had boat trailers attached. I found a slot near the entrance, wedged into it, and climbed out of my car.

  I meandered down to the concrete ramp that slanted into the Merrimack. An elderly guy wearing baggy blue shorts and a plain white T-shirt was taking money from a young couple who were launching a small motorboat.

  When they finished their transaction, I approached the man. He was wearing a cap that advertised Surfland Bait &Tackle. Tufts of white hair poked out from under it. “Excuse me,” I said.

  He turned to me, and I saw that his sun-browned face was patched with large, irregularly shaped freckles. “Hiya,” he said. “You launching?”

  “No. Can I ask you a couple questions?”

  He shrugged. “About what?”

  “Do you know Paul Cizek?”

  He cocked his head and squinted at me. “Who’re you?”

  “I’m Paul’s lawyer.”

  He nodded as if that made perfect sense. “Cops was already here. I told ’em everything.”

  “Did you see Paul last night?”

  He smiled, and a maze of wrinkles spread over his face like a sudden breeze on a glassy pond. “Cops asked that. Told ’em I got off at seven. Mr. Cizek, he usually launches later, just around sunset. Night fisherman. He’s got a season pass, see, so he don’t need to do business with me. And usually he takes out before I get here in the morning. I bump into him once in a while. Usually, he’s in and out when I’m not here.” He shrugged. “I didn’t see him last night. Nope.”

  “So you wouldn’t know if he had anybody with him.”

  He shook his head. “Usually when I see him he’s alone. Except for the fish. Often as not, he brings a keeper back with him. Good fisherman, Mr. Cizek. He can find ’em. Guess something happened to him, huh?”

  I nodded. “The Coast Guard found his boat last night. He wasn’t on it.”

  “Wish I could help you,” he said. “Nice guy, Mr. Cizek. Friendly, you know? Treats a man like a man, if you understand me. Not like some of ’em.” He jerked his shoulder at the parked cars. “I mean, I s’pose I’m just the guy they give their money to. But still…”

  “Mr.—” I began.

  “Randolph,” he said.

  “Mr. Randolph—”

  “No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Randolph’s my first name. They call me Dolph, mostly.”

  I held out my hand. “I’m Brady. That’s my first name, too.” We shook hands. “Dolph,” I said, “I’m trying to figure out what happened last night.”

  “I sure don’t know.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Me?” He smiled. “Cops didn’t ask me that. Guess they didn’t figure I could think.” He jabbed his forefinger at my shoulder. “Tell you what, though. They think Mr. Cizek went over in the storm. I don’t buy it. Not him. Not in that Whaler of his. No, sir.”


  “Why not?”

  “Mr. Cizek’s a good sailor. Knows this river, knows the tides, knows how the winds work. He goes out last night, he knows where to go. Big seas like that, he’s got his spots. Night like we had, he knows the bait gets blowed close to shore, in on the beaches, near the rocks. He fishes in weather all the time. Ain’t gone over before, no reason he would last night.” He paused. “Tell you what else. Say something did happen. What’d happen would be, he gets blowed onto the rocks, maybe, or onto some beach. See, that’s where Mr. Cizek’d be. Where the bait is, which is where the fish are. Where’d they find that Whaler of his?”

  “Adrift,” I said. “Out past Plum Island.”

  Randolph shook his head. “Don’t make sense. He wouldn’t of been fishin’ outside. He’d of been inside, workin’ the rocks and jetties. Was it bunged up?”

  “Huh?”

  “You know. The boat. Was it bunged up? Like it got blowed against the rocks.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You might maybe want to find out.”

  I nodded. “Good idea.”

  “I don’t buy it,” he said again. “Not Mr. Cizek.”

  He pointed out Paul’s car, a Jeep Cherokee with a trailer hitched behind it, and I went over and looked at it. But I didn’t see anything that told me what had happened that night.

  So I waved at Randolph, climbed back into my car, and drove through town and out Water Street to the Coast Guard station. I found a parking spot across the street. A long, double-wide driveway led past a hangar-shaped garage down to the water, and I followed it, half expecting to be halted by an armed sentry. But nobody seemed to notice me.

  On the left was what I took to be the administration building, a low, rambling structure with a well-manicured lawn and flower gardens ablaze with marigolds and impatiens. Out back on a basketball court a gang of young men in shorts and T-shirts were playing volleyball. There were lots of shouts and curses and good-natured laughter, and I stopped to watch. They played with vast youthful energy and enthusiasm. One young fellow with a blond ponytail dove for a spectacular save, and I figured he’d have scabby knees for a month.

  When he stood up, his teammates slapped his bottom, and I saw that he was a woman. In fact, several of the players were women.