“Of course not.”
“Or me?”
“Shit, no, Charlie. I didn’t intend that at all. I just don’t know what to think. I know what I’m supposed to think. I’m supposed to think I better stop trying to figure out who killed Daniel.”
“You should, you know.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you’re right.”
“Well, good. It’s about time you got some sense.” Charlie let out a long breath. “Did they take anything?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe it was all just to make an impression. Rip up the place, stick an arrow into the bed where I could’ve been. Just a message.”
“A pretty blatant message, at that,” he said.
“Charlie, I don’t know what to do. Jesus…”
“You could have been lying in that bed, Brady.”
“Don’t think for one minute that hasn’t occurred to me.”
“Next time, then.”
“I know. Thanks for the sympathy.”
“That why you called? For sympathy?”
“I don’t know why I called. You’re acting weird lately.”
“Me? Me weird? Check the mirror, Coyne.”
“I did. I saw this guy who just had the wee-wee scared out of him.”
“That’s better than seeing someone with an arrow in him.”
“He’s also pretty mad, this guy in the mirror,” I said.
“Listen to the scared part, Brady. That’s the part that makes sense.”
“I know.”
“Look,” he said. “I don’t know anything about this, and yes, I’m concerned. I’m frightened, too, okay? I don’t want to lose you, buddy, and I’m glad you called me. But exactly what do you want?”
I laughed quickly. “I don’t know. Not advice, because you already gave me that, and it’s sounding more and more sensible all the time. Not sympathy, because that’s useless. Your friendship doesn’t need confirming. Maybe I hoped you’d have some insights, but I suppose I didn’t really think you would. I guess I just wanted to vent.”
“Vent away.”
“I already did.”
“Lemme think about it,” said Charlie.
“Okay.”
“I’m a little confused myself,” he said.
“Those names disappearing from your computer’s memory.”
“Yeah. That’s strange.” He hesitated, then said, “Hey, Brady?”
“What?”
“You called the cops, didn’t you?”
“Why?”
“Jesus! To tell them about the burglary, the arrow in your bed.”
“And what would the cops do?”
Charlie hesitated; then he chuckled. “They’ll ask you if anybody is hurt. You’ll say no. And about four hours later they’ll arrive, glance around, ask if anything’s missing, drop some cigar ashes onto your carpet, and you’ll end up feeling as if you’re the criminal. That’s if they show up at all.”
“Exactly. I talked to the security guy. That’s as much as the cops would do. He didn’t know anything.”
“You should still call them. Report the crime. Be a good citizen.”
“Yeah, well, I probably won’t.”
“Listen,” he said.
“I know what you’re going to say.”
“I’m gonna say it anyway. Please. Stop. Cease and desist. Trust me on this.”
“I trust you, Charlie.”
“So what’re you gonna do?”
“I don’t know. Sleep on the sofa, I guess.”
And after I cleaned up my apartment and made sure the chain was secured and the deadbolt thrown, that’s what I did, although I didn’t do much actual sleeping. Mostly I stared up into the darkness. I keep a .38 in the safe in my office. I decided to remove it the next day and bring it home with me.
Otherwise, I didn’t come up with any helpful ideas.
I dozed off, then abruptly awoke. It could have been ten minutes later. Or several hours. I didn’t check the time. I thought I had heard something. I lay there in the darkness, trying not to move. I felt a vise around my chest. My breaths came quickly. I darted my eyes around the shadowy corners of my living room. I heard nothing, saw nothing.
My heart was tripping along like a snare drum.
I switched on the lights and padded barefoot through all my rooms, wishing I had my .38 in my hand.
Nobody was there but me.
I retrieved my briefcase from the floor by the door and opened it. I found the envelope with the photos and index cards, and the printout Charlie had given me, and the two photocopied pages from Al Coleman’s notebook. I brought them to the sofa and looked at them. I didn’t know what I expected to find. I picked up the photos and fanned them out like a poker hand. I studied the six black-and-white faces as if they might speak to me. Six ordinary-looking American men gazed blankly back at me. They said nothing. I put them down and took up the index cards. William Johnson. Carmine Repucci. Two minor-league crooks who ended up violently murdered, the way most of them do. No faces. Just two names.
After a while I became sleepy. Those eight names and a faceless man with an arrow in his hand all swirled through my brain as I drifted off for the second time that night, and when I awakened the sun was streaming into my living room, and if I’d had dreams of arrows being rammed into me, I’d blissfully forgotten them.
23
I DIALED CAMMIE’S NUMBER standing up while sipping my second cup of coffee, and Daniel’s voice startled me for an instant before I realized it was his answering machine.
“I’m not here. Say who you are and I’ll get back to you” was all he said.
After the beep, I said, “You should get the message on the machine changed, Cammie. It’s Brady. About nine Monday morning. Please call me at the office right away.” I left the number, hung up, grabbed my jacket, and headed out.
Julie was on the phone and Rita Nathanson was waiting for me. I smiled at both of them, and neither smiled back. Rita’s appointment was at nine. I was half an hour late.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “Come on in, Rita.”
Rita’s ex-husband had stopped sending child-support checks from Boise, Idaho, where he had retreated upon their separation. When she called me the previous week, I told her that it would take a while but I’d handle it. She insisted on a meeting. I knew what she wanted. She wanted to cuss the bastard out to a sympathetic ear. That’s one of the things I offer my clients. A sympathetic ear. Maybe not a sympathetic soul, but at least an ear.
It’s billable time, and a good deal for all concerned. I charge a little less for an hour of ear-lending than do most of my psychoanalyst friends. When my clients run out of useful cusses, I’m generally able to supplement their repertoire.
For that half hour with Rita, I almost forgot Daniel and Al Coleman and my ransacked apartment and that arrow sticking out of my mattress.
After Rita left, Julie stormed my portal. She was intolerant of my haphazard office hours, especially when we had a busy week facing us. I pretended to be properly chagrined, and finally I made her smile. Then she sat down and laid out the week’s schedule of appointments, conferences, and court appearances for me. I murmured during her pauses, and after a few minutes, she stopped and said, “Brady, what’s eating you?”
I shook my head. “It’s too complicated to explain. I’m okay.”
“You’re… different. This isn’t woman problems. Something wrong with one of the boys?”
“No. It’s nothing. Go ahead.”
She shrugged and finished giving me my instructions. I paid closer attention. And after she left, I tried to focus on all the projects she had left with me. It was slow going.
Cammie called a little before noon. When Julie put her through, I said, “Hi, Cammie.”
“Gee, hi. I just came up from the studio and saw the machine blinking. I gotta get a phone down there, I guess. What’s up?”
“We need to talk.”
“Boy, sounds ominous.�
�
I tried to laugh. “Not ominous. Some things have happened, but mainly I want you to look at these photos. I’ve given you the names, but you haven’t seen the faces.” I hesitated. “And I’ve got some thoughts I want to share with you.”
“Sure. Okay. When?”
“The sooner the better. How’s tonight?”
“Tonight’s good. What time?”
“I’ll come right from the office. I’ll try to get away by five. I can hit the pike and be there in two hours. Say seven?
“I’ll cook something for us, then.”
“Don’t do anything special.” I paused. “See if Brian and Roscoe and Vinnie can be there, too. They can help. We can all put our heads together.”
“Sure. Okay.”
I failed to take into account five o’clock outbound traffic on the Mass Pike, and it was after seven-thirty when I pulled up in front of Daniel’s house in Wilson Falls.
I grabbed my briefcase from the backseat, climbed the front steps, and rang the bell. Cammie pulled the door open. She was wearing a short black skirt over black tights and a bulky orange sweater and a tentative smile.
She grabbed my hand and led me to the living room. Brian Sweeney was sitting on the sofa. He had a drink in his hand and the stub of a cigar in his mouth. He stood up and we shook hands.
“How ya been?” he said.
“I’m okay. You?”
He shrugged.
“Drink?” said Cammie.
“Sure.”
“Bourbon, right?”
I nodded. I sat on the sofa beside Sweeney while Cammie went into the kitchen. “Are Roscoe and Vinnie coming?” I said.
“I guess not,” he said. “Cammie said she tried to call them. Nobody home.”
Cammie came back with my drink. “I tried several times,” she said. “I guess they’re away. If you want, I’ll try again after we eat.”
“Good idea,” I said.
“I’m going to broil some fish,” she said. “It’ll take about fifteen minutes. Everything else is ready. I thought we could have a drink first.”
“Fine,” I said.
Cammie looked at me over the rim of her glass. “Do you want to talk now or later, Brady?”
“Later, I think. Maybe Roscoe and Vinnie can make it.”
“All right.”
I told Cammie and Sweeney about climbing Mount Monadnock with my son and his girlfriend, and all of us carefully avoided mentioning Daniel or the circumstances of his death or Sergeant Oakley or anything unpleasant. When we finished our drinks Cammie got up and brought me and Sweeney refills then she went into the kitchen.
“You got it figured out, Brady?” said Sweeney.
“No,” I said. “I’ve got some new questions, that’s all. And I’ve got these photos I wanted you guys to see.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Let’s hold it till we’ve eaten. I want Cammie in on it, too.
The broiled swordfish was garnished with sprigs of fresh parsley. The little golf ball red-skinned potatoes had been boiled, then drenched in butter. Green beans and slivered almonds, avocado salad, a smooth white wine.
Sweeney and I cleared the dishes from the table. Cammie tried Roscoe and Vinnie again, and again got no answer.
We took coffee back into the living room. Cammie and Brian sat beside each other on the sofa. I took the chair across from them. I had my briefcase on my lap.
“Okay, Brady,” said Cammie. “Now. What’s up?”
I reached into my briefcase and took out the envelope with the photos in it. I laid them on the coffee table so Cammie and Brian could see them.
“These are what you found in Daniel’s papers, huh?” said Sweeney.
“Yes. Recognize any of them?”
He picked them up one by one, looked at them closely, turned each of them over to read the name and address, then handed them to Cammie, who did the same thing. When they were both done they looked at me. “Nothing,” said Brian.
“Me, neither,” said Cammie. She frowned at me. “You said there were eight photos…”
“Six photos. There were two index cards with names and addresses on them in with the photos. The names were William Johnson and Carmine Repucci.”
Cammie and Brian both shrugged.
I leaned across the coffee table and touched Cammie’s hand. “What was Boomer’s name?” I said.
She frowned. “Boomer?” She shook her head. “I don’t know. Everybody called him Boomer.”
“When you were… with him, with Boomer—you never heard the names William Johnson or Carmine Repucci, then?”
“No. I—” Her hand went to her mouth and her eyes widened.
“What is it?”
“Pooch,” she whispered.
“Huh?”
“Pooch. Repucci.” She turned to Brian. “Those two names…”
“You knew Repucci?” I said.
She turned back to face me. “If Pooch was Repucci, then Boomer was…”
“William Johnson,” I finished for her.
“I don’t get it,” said Brian.
“They were both murdered,” I said. “I think Daniel killed them both.”
Cammie stared at me for a minute, then nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, that fits.”
“Tell me,” I said.
Her dark eyes stared into mine for a moment. Then she sighed and nodded. “Okay. There’s not much to tell. Brian’s heard most of it. Boomer picked me up one night in Springfield. I was just at rock bottom, Brady. I didn’t know who I was, where I came from, what I was doing, how I got there. I was in a bar, trying to hustle coke money. He took me home, gave me a couple of lines, made love to me. Told me he loved me, he wanted to take care of me. It’s what I thought I needed. I had lost my soul. He filled in the empty place. He became my soul, do you see? And he had a supply. He gave me everything I needed. After a while he put me out on the streets. I had to work for it. Pooch was a friend of his, his supplier, I think. I was frightened of Pooch. I thought I loved Boomer. But what did I know? I was a junkie. A cokehead. I didn’t know either of their real names. They just called each other ‘Boomer’ and ‘Pooch.’ I didn’t care what their names were. Anyway, Daniel came along. He found me on the street and brought me here and straightened me out. Then he became my soul. It was different. He did love me. I lived in fear of Boomer for years. He had always made it clear that if I tried to get away he’d cut my face. But I never saw him. It was several years later when I saw Pooch. After Daniel saved me, after I got off the coke, after I started painting and loving Daniel, after I had finally stopped being afraid of Boomer. I saw Pooch sitting in a car in the parking lot outside the Star Market in Wilson Falls. Parked right next to my car. I was petrified. I dropped my groceries on the ground and just got out of there. I had to get back to Daniel. Pooch, he—he just smiled at me. Sitting there in his car smiling at me through the tinted window, and I thought if I just get back to Daniel everything will be okay.”
“Did Repucci ever bother you after that?”
“No. I never saw him again.”
“Because Daniel killed him.”
She shrugged, then nodded. “I guess so. It makes sense now.” She stared at me for a moment. “Daniel killed them for me. Boomer and Pooch… I never knew their real names.”
“So if he killed those two,” said Sweeney. “You think…?”
I nodded. “It fits.”
Cammie shook her head. “You think he killed those others, too?” She frowned. “But why? Who were they, anyway? Jesus, Brady. Who killed Daniel, then?”
“At first I thought it was in the book,” I said. “It was a book about those eight men in Daniel’s insurance file. Somebody killed them, and in the book Daniel named the killer, so that man killed Daniel, too, and ransacked his office looking for the book. The book was the evidence. And the same man killed Al Coleman, because he had the book, and he’d read it, so he knew. That’s what I thought at first. Then it occurred to me
that William Johnson was your Boomer. His profile fit what you told me about him. He and Repucci were together in prison, both ended up in Springfield, where Daniel found you. You and Daniel both had good reason to kill them. Truthfully, my first thought was that you did it. But that would mean you’d killed all eight of them, and Daniel and Al Coleman, too, and I didn’t believe that. That left Daniel. Now, if Daniel himself was the killer of Johnson and Repucci and the other six, these here”—I touched the six photographs on the coffee table—“then we’ve got another killer to think about. Somebody who, for some reason, didn’t want Daniel to publish his confession. So this other person killed Daniel and he killed Al to make sure the secret in that book would never get out.”
Cammie was frowning at me. “What secret?” she said. “Who’d want to keep it a secret besides Daniel?” I’m not sure.
“I’m confused,” said Sweeney.
I nodded. “It’s complicated. I need your help in sorting it out.”
The two of them slumped back on the sofa. “Wow,” whispered Cammie.
“Wow is right,” said Sweeney. “Listen, do you want more coffee?”
“Sure,” I said.
Cammie started to get up, but Sweeney touched her arm. “Sit tight,” he said. “I’ll get it.” He stood up and went to the kitchen.
“I wish Roscoe and Vinnie were here,” said Cammie. “Daniel was closer to Brian, but he saw Roscoe and Vinnie about every day. They might be able to help.”
“We’ll catch up to them,” I said.
Cammie reached over and put her hand on my arm. “Something’s bothering you, Brady.”
I shrugged and nodded.
“What is it?”
“I had an uninvited visitor yesterday.”
“A what?”
“I was away for most of the day. When I got back, my place had been ransacked. And I found an arrow sticking into my mattress.”
“An arrow?”
“Yes. The mate to the one that killed Daniel.”
Her fingernails dug into my arm. “Oh, God. Who—?”
Sweeney came back into the room. At first I didn’t notice it. Then he raised his arm and I saw what he was holding. It wasn’t a coffeepot. It was an autoloading shotgun with the barrel cut back to about twelve inches. He waved it at me. “Whyn’t you sit over there beside her,” he said.
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