Spotted Cats

by William G. Tapply

  At one-thirty that afternoon Charlie and I parked side by side in the gravel lot outside Gert’s, my favourite North Shore restaurant. Gert’s has thus far miraculously escaped printed evaluation by Boston magazine and the Globe and other nosy media. It remains a popular secret among local folks and a few others who have, like me, been taken there only after uttering a vow of silence. Those of us who know Gert’s want to keep it the way we know it—unpretentious, straightforward, and as honest as the only sign outside, which promises, simply, ‘Good Food’.

  The first time I took Charlie to Gert’s, I told him, ‘Pretend this is a trout brook I’m showing you, a place that no one else fishes. It’s that kind of secret.’

  And Charlie had nodded. That analogy he could understand.

  We got out of our cars and went inside. The noontime crowd had thinned out. The usual mix of locals lingered, some men in suits and some in work shirts and jeans, women in suits, others in T-shirts and shorts. The tables were covered with red and white checked oilcloths. The flatware came wrapped in an oversized linen napkin. The music over the speakers was Rossini.

  Our hostess, a local college girl, I guessed, led us to a table by the window overlooking the parking lot where twin Dumpsters overflowed at the far corner. Gert’s lacks the ambiance of the Gloucester restaurants on stilts over the harbour, one of the secrets of the place’s continued anonymity. I suppose the Globe restaurant critics frown on a view that features Dumpsters.

  Charlie and I ordered ale and giant bowls of Gert’s fish chowder. We talked about the fishing while we waited the short time it took for our lunches to arrive, complaining with grins about the fish-fighting aches in our arms and the tooth scratches on our hands and the sunburn on our necks.

  Only after the big chowder bowls were cleared away and we were sipping coffee did Charlie remove the computer printouts from his pocket. He held the paper against his chest and arched his eyebrows at me.

  ‘Yeah, I said I was paying,’ I assured him.

  He plucked his reading glasses from his shirt pocket, hooked them over his ears, and peered at the paper. ‘OK. Lillian Robbins. Nothing from the criminal files. Picked her up from the tax computers. Filed regularly for six or seven years in Connecticut. Occupation listed as a waitress. Nothing amiss. She declared her tips. Then she didn’t file for two years. I got her back through her Social Security number, filing separately as a married person. She used the name Lodi.’

  Charlie arched his eyebrows at me.

  ‘Married, huh?’

  ‘Yes. Married.’

  I nodded. ‘Martin Lodi. You looked him up, right?’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Anyway, couple years later she began to file as a single in Massachusetts, still using her married name. Occupation housekeeper. That’s how she filed last year. You want the dates, list of deductions, and so forth, it’s all here,’ he said, shaking the computer paper. He peered at me over the tops of his glasses. ‘Really, though, Brady. Nothing of remote interest here that I can see. At least, nothing to ring any alarms for the IRS or the Commonwealth’s tax people. You probably ought to tell me what you’re after.’

  I nodded, and proceeded to tell him about my weekend adventures at Jeff Newton’s place in Orleans. Charlie is a good listener. He doesn’t interrupt, but he watches me closely while I’m talking and he lifts his eyebrows or purses his lips when he needs clarification or elaboration.

  When I finished, Charlie said, ‘How’s Newton doing?’

  ‘I talked to the hospital yesterday. They called him stable. Meaning, as near as I can tell, he has neither died nor regained consciousness. The prognosis is pretty straightforward. He’ll lie in a coma until something kills him.’

  ‘So you’ve got a potential murder here, not just a theft.’

  I nodded. ‘Yeah. Right now, though, it’s being treated as a burglary and assault.’

  ‘Which means,’ said Charlie, ‘that it’s not high priority with the cops.’

  ‘And by the time Jeff dies, the trail will be cold.’

  ‘And you suspect one of these people.’ He tapped the computer printouts.

  ‘Or all three, for that matter.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s all I’ve got right now.’

  ‘So you’re off sleuthing again.’

  ‘Not really. Just banging around.’

  Charlie gazed out towards the Dumpsters. ‘Sounds like you had a fun weekend, Did you really catch seventeen rainbows on dry flies?’

  I nodded emphatically. ‘Yes. We counted them.’

  ‘Anything you want to add about the lady that might help me understand why you want data on her?’

  I had not told Charlie about Lily’s visit to my bedroom. Locker-room stuff. I like to think I have outgrown that. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Nothing to add. Just that she could have planned it. What about Sauerman?’

  ‘I found nothing criminal on the doctor. He’s gotten two speeding tickets on Route 6 in the last three years. Paid promptly. Never sued for malpractice or anything. His tax reports were all prompt and seemed in order. He doesn’t earn that much compared to city doctors, if that’s of interest.’

  I shrugged. ‘What about Martin Lodi?’

  He shuffled the computer printouts, then grinned at me. ‘I like this one best.’

  ‘You gonna drag it out?’

  ‘No. Martin Lodi has filed very few income tax returns. But there’s a reason for it.’ Charlie reached for his coffee cup.

  ‘Come on,’ I said.

  He sipped his coffee, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and cleared his throat. ‘OK. Martin Lodi. aka Martin Lawrence, Lawrence Martin, Lawrence Martini, Martin Levi, Levi Morton.’ Charlie arched his eyebrows at me.

  ‘Aha,’ I said.

  Charlie grinned. ‘Aha, indeed. Eleven arrests. Two convictions. Assault, aggravated assault two times, possession of a controlled substance twice, resisting arrest, assault on a police officer, three B and Es, one battery. First conviction was for the assault on the cop. Served four months of a sixteen-month sentence. That was’—Charlie squinted at the sheet—‘fifteen years ago. In Wyoming.’

  ‘Fifteen years ago,’ I mumbled. ‘That was when Lily went to work for Jeff. When was his second conviction?’

  ‘Last September.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Possession of a class I controlled substance with intent to sell. Cocaine. Sentenced to eight years.’

  ‘Where’d this happen?’

  ‘Missoula, Montana.’

  I stared at Charlie. I remembered Jeff’s collect phone calls from West Yellowstone, and the motorcycle with the Montana plates. ‘This Lodi,’ I said. ‘You mean he’s in prison now?’

  Charlie nodded.

  ‘He’s not out on parole or something?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘He didn’t escape?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  I flapped my hands. ‘Just something I’ve got to figure out. So is that it?’

  ‘That’s it, friend.’

  Charlie handed the papers to me. I accepted them, folded them, and stuffed them into my pocket.

  Charlie cocked his head and frowned at me. ‘Brady?’ he said.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Want some advice?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  He looked at me for a minute, then smiled. ‘I didn’t think so.’

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I am still very angry. I don’t like to have my sleep disturbed. I don’t like being frightened, made to think I’m going to die. I don’t like criminals in general, and ones that tease me with knives in particular. I despise anybody who’d slice open the throat of a dog, even a Doberman. I especially don’t like having my clients rendered comatose by blows to the head. I’d sure like to get a line on those jaguars.’

  He was frowning.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ I said.

  ‘I know you, buddy. You’ve got that look. I don’t like it.’

  ‘What look?’

  ‘You’re go
nna get yourself in trouble again.’

  CHAPTER 9

  PATIENCE IS NOT ONE of my virtues. If pressed, I’d probably have a hard time coming up with a virtue, but I know it wouldn’t be patience. So that evening, after eating a microwaved beef Stroganoff frozen dinner from its own plastic tray in front of the television, I called Jeff Newton’s house in Orleans.

  ‘It’s Brady,’ I said, when Lily answered.

  ‘Oh, gee. How are you?’

  ‘Good, aside from some residual complaints from my shoulder muscles.’

  ‘From being tied up like that.’

  ‘No, from hauling in bluefish this morning.’

  I heard her chuckle. ‘I swear you’d rather fish than…’

  ‘It would be a tough choice, if I could only do one.’ I hesitated. ‘How’s Jeff?’

  ‘He’s the same. I saw him yesterday. He’s—all hooked up on machines. Tubes going in and out everywhere. It doesn’t look like anything’s going to change for a while. They’re saying they may have to transfer him to Boston.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess they’re better equipped to handle cases like his up there.’

  ‘Probably true.’ I paused. ‘You wouldn’t like to have dinner with me Saturday, would you?’

  ‘You shouldn’t ask negative questions, Brady. But I’ll let you off the hook. I’d love to have dinner with you Saturday.’

  ‘Sure you’re up for it?’

  ‘You kidding? Look, are you positive you want to drive all the way down here just to have dinner with little old me?’

  ‘I thought we could meet halfway, actually.’

  ‘Oh. I was hoping you’d say you’d jog to the top of Mount Washington, swim across Cape Cod Bay, something like that, just to see my face. But I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with meeting halfway from an out-of-shape and undemonstrative middle-aged lawyer. Like where?’

  ‘How about Scituate? There’s a nice restaurant right on the wharf in Scituate Harbour. The Old Mill. Less than an hour for each of us, assuming no traffic on a Saturday evening.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ she said promptly.

  ‘About seven? I’ll call for reservations. They’ll be in my name if you get there first.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll get there first, all right. I can’t wait.’

  I lit a cigarette. ‘So how have you been doing, Lily?’

  ‘OK, I guess. It’s not like I’m not used to being alone here. All those years when he was in Africa. Hell, lately even when he was here it was like being alone. Still, it’s kinda weird, knowing he’s in the hospital, practically dead. I mean, it feels lonelier, if you know what I mean. I even miss those dumb dogs.’

  ‘I know a little about lonely,’ I said.

  ‘A man was here today,’ she said. ‘An insurance adjuster. Name of Patrick Hoskins, a sickly little man who looked as if he had been abused as a child. He tended to cringe. I took him on a tour of the grounds. He examined the fence and the gate. He had a clipboard. Made lots of notes. I had the distinct impression that he was just going through certain motions, but I’m not so sure. He did ask a lot of questions about the dogs, and what happened that night. I gather he had already talked to the police. He wanted to know all about you, although it seemed as if he already knew just about everything. He hinted that there’d be no problem collecting the insurance. Not that it’ll do Jeff much good.’

  ‘Won’t do any harm,’ I said. ‘Getting the insurance is a good thing, I guess. But it doesn’t exactly nail the bad guys.’

  ‘That’s not an insurance adjuster’s job, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, I get it. It’s a lawyer’s job, huh?’

  I laughed. ‘No, it’s not a lawyer’s job, either. Look, I’ll see you Saturday.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘’Bye, Lily.’

  I hung up.

  I wandered out on to my balcony and slouched in one of the aluminium chairs. I lit a cigarette and tilted back until I could rest my heels on the railing. I studied the darkening summer sky. I thought about the feel of Lily’s thighs against mine and the smell of her hair. It confused me.

  Patrick Hoskins reminded me of a sick fox I once met on a path while walking through the woods to a trout stream in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. Most of the animal’s hair had fallen out, and what was left sprouted randomly in tangled grey tufts on its poor emaciated body. What I remembered about that fox most was its eyes—large, rheumy, and sad. They seemed to beg me to put the poor critter out of its misery.

  Unfortunately, I was armed only with a little Orvis two-weight fly rod, a weapon unsuited to the task. So the fox and I studied each other for several minutes before it seemed to shrug. Then it turned and skulked into the brush, its ratty tail dragging along the ground.

  Patrick Hoskins had those same eyes. He also sported an untrimmed beard and a head of hair that had once been red, but now was mostly slush grey. He had called Thursday afternoon to set up an appointment for ten Friday morning. He arrived fifteen minutes early, and even though I was free, Julie made him wait, on her unshakable theory that it was always good for people to have to wait for me. It put them on the defensive and made me appear to be busier and more important that I was.

  She brought him in at ten after ten, having first buzzed to remind me that Mr Hoskins was waiting and to inquire if I could see him yet. ‘I’m twiddling my thumbs in here, Julie,’ I said to her, ‘and you don’t need to play this game with him. He’s not a client.’

  ‘I’ll remind him he only has half an hour,’ she said, for the benefit of Mr Hoskins who, I knew, was sitting across from her listening to her end of the conversation.

  He was, like my sick fox, undersized for his eyes, and like the fox, he seemed to slink rather than walk, with his tail, figuratively, dragging behind him, as if he was used to regarding the world as hostile and the people in it as enemies.

  I stood behind my desk and, in my best lawyerly manner, extended my hand and said, ‘Mr Hoskins, come in.’

  He took my hand. His grip was surprisingly firm. I nodded to the chair in front of my desk and he sat down primly, back straight, knees together. He was carrying a slender briefcase, which he held with both hands on his lap in the defensive way a matron clings to her purse when seated on a city bus.

  ‘Mr Coyne, about the Newton theft…’

  I waved my hand. ‘I remember our phone conversation. How can I help you?’

  He unzipped his briefcase and extracted a clipboard. I could see a printed form snapped on to it. He studied the form for a moment, shrugged almost imperceptibly, then looked up at me. ‘I am an independent insurance adjuster, Mr Coyne. Insurance firms retain me to investigate claims. Mr Newton filed a claim through his agency with Lloyd’s of London, with whom he had insured certain art objects.’

  ‘Actually, I filed the claim,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘Of course. I understand Mr Newton has had an accident.’

  ‘He was slugged on the head when the jaguars were stolen.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Yes.’ He cleared his throat and peered at me to see if I was finished interrupting. I smiled at him.

  ‘Mr Newton’s claim,’ he continued, ‘states that on Friday last those objects were stolen from his home in Orleans, Massachusetts. Lloyd’s contacted me on Tuesday to investigate Mr Newton’s claim. My job, sir, is a simple one. My job is to verify that a theft has occurred. You have Mr Newton’s power of attorney, given his, ah, unfortunate condition. And I understand that you were a witness to this theft.’

  ‘Yes. I was.’

  A ballpoint pen had materialized in his hand. He held it poised over the printed form. ‘Very well, then, Mr Coyne. As to the events of Friday last—’

  ‘Would you like some coffee, Mr Hoskins?’ I said.

  His eyes darted up at me. ‘What? Oh, coffee. No. No, thank you.’

  ‘A Coke or something?’

  He frowned.

  ‘Mr Ho
skins,’ I said. ‘Relax.’

  He smiled quickly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not much for small talk, I’m afraid. Time is money in my business.’

  ‘Mine, too. It’s still good to relax. He stared at me, waiting. I shrugged. ‘I didn’t exactly witness the theft,’ I said. ‘I was in bed. Two men came into my room. They bound and gagged me, threatened me with a knife, and hit me on the head. The next morning when I was unbound and ungagged, the jaguars were gone, the dogs had been shot and their throats slashed, and we found Jeff Newton outside barely breathing from a blow to the head. My own head continued to hurt.’

  ‘The objects were there before you retired that night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the watchdogs were, ah, on duty?’

  ‘The dogs were always on duty.’

  ‘You heard no barking or any unusual noises prior to the appearance of the two men?’

  ‘Those dogs never barked. They whined. And, no, I heard nothing. I didn’t hear the gunshots. I was sleeping.’

  ‘Why do you suppose the two men came into your room?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ I lit a cigarette and held my pack to Hoskins. ‘Smoke?’

  He waved his hand. ‘Oh, no. You go ahead.’

  ‘I already did.’

  ‘How frequently do you spend the weekend with Mr Newton, sir?’ he said.

  ‘Maybe twice, three times a year.’

  He peered at me out of those large wet eyes. ‘Why do you suppose the thieves chose that particular weekend to steal the jaguars, Mr Coyne?’

  I shrugged. ‘They didn’t confide in me.’

  He smiled.