Void in Hearts

by William G. Tapply

  Barney’s could be found only if you knew where to look, which was down a narrow alley off Boylston Street opposite the Common. It was favored by lawyers and Republicans for the privacy it guaranteed. Barney’s was a prime battlefield for the civilized jousting and feinting of the political and legal warriors who battled there. At Barney’s no one rushed patrons through a meal. Lawyers commonly spent entire afternoons there, huddling with clients or adversaries, plotting, conniving, giving and taking, advancing and retreating, until the law’s work could be done. Waiters seemed to possess a sixth sense that enabled them to materialize tableside at the precise moment when a fresh martini was needed. We lawyers often showed up in midmorning and, allowing ourselves to be deceived by the perpetual dusk in the cellar dining room, began immediately to consume the offbeat variety of beers that Barney’s specialized in. At some point, my adversary or I would ask for the Oysters Rockefeller. Later perhaps a bowl of the fresh fish chowder, washed down by a Riesling of Lucas’s choice.

  And much later we would stumble up those stairs, blink at the afternoon sunlight, and congratulate each other on a day’s work well done.

  It was a leisurely, discreet sort of place. It was very expensive.

  It was where I chose to meet Arthur Concannon.

  A few days after I was released from the hospital, I had gone to Concannon’s office. Melanie Walther greeted me warmly, calling me by my first name. I was vaguely surprised that she remembered me. I asked if she had heard from Derek Hayden, and she shrugged and shook her head.

  “I have something for Concannon,” I told her.

  “He’s in his office, if you want to wait a minute.”

  “Don’t bother him. Just give him this.” I handed her a sealed envelope.

  “Is that it?”

  “It? What?”

  “What you came here for?”

  There was a mischievous query in her voice. I nodded. “Yes. That’s it.”

  The note that was sealed inside the envelope said: “I am Lester and Rebecca Katz’s attorney. I have a business proposition. If you would care to hear it, please meet me downstairs in Barney’s at four Thursday afternoon. If you do not appear, I will take my business elsewhere.” I stapled my business card to the note.

  Lucas seated me at the table at the end of the room. “A beer, sir?”

  “What is the beer du jour?”

  “A nice dark from Israel. We serve it warm.”

  I rubbed my neck and grimaced. “I’ll try it. Keep an eye out for my guest, please. I’m expecting him at four-thirty.”

  I had mentioned four in my note. I assumed he’d be late. He wouldn’t want to appear too eager.

  Lucas returned with my beer. It was bitter and heavy and I knew too many of them would set the steel drums to beating inside my head.

  I wondered if Concannon would show up. My guess was that he wouldn’t—unless he was as guilty as Sharon Bell deduced. If he had done all she thought—committed fiscal felonies, hired Les to follow his partner, killed said partner, killed Les Katz, beat up Becca, run me down—he might be unable to resist the bait I had trolled in front of him.

  On the other hand, he might figure the best way to gain his end would be simpler: He might decide to try again to kill me.

  At four-fifteen Lucas returned to my table. “Another, sir?”

  “I didn’t enjoy that one very much. I think I’ll switch to my usual.”

  Lucas nodded. “A little heavy for my taste, too.”

  He was back in about a minute with a double shot of Jack Daniel’s on ice with a side of branch water.

  I sipped and smoked and tried not to play out scenarios. The truth was, I didn’t know what I’d say to Concannon if he did show up. Sharon Bell had tried to coach me. But it made my head hurt and my neck ache. I told her that my doctor had instructed me to avoid tension and that I’d just have to play Concannon by ear. This did not seem to fill her with confidence. I didn’t let on that it didn’t inspire me, either.

  It was close to five when I looked up to see Lucas leading Concannon along the length of the room toward my table. He stood beside me for a moment, looking uncertainly at me. I neither stood nor offered my hand. Finally he shrugged and sat across from me.

  “Sir?” said Lucas. “Something to drink?”

  “Bring him one of those beers,” I said.

  “I want Scotch,” said Concannon. “Dewars. No ice, no water, no soda.”

  Lucas nodded and left. Concannon and I stared at each other until Lucas returned and placed a glass on the table in front of Concannon, who lifted it and allowed himself the tiniest of sips.

  “Okay,” he said. “Here I am. You probably find that enormously significant.”

  “I suppose I’d find your failure to appear significant, too.”

  He shrugged, sipped, and allowed his mouth to twitch in what I assumed was an expression of amusement. “You mentioned a business proposition. What is it?”

  “I’m not very good at obfuscation and misdirection. Pussyfooting. Beating around bushes.”

  Concannon nodded. “Generally a waste of time.”

  “I’ve got those photos you want so bad. They’re for sale.” So much for Sharon Bell’s coaching.

  His expression didn’t change. “Photos, Mr. Coyne?”

  “The ones Les Katz took the night you killed him. The ones you beat up Becca and ran me down to get.” I smiled. “Those photos.”

  His grin broadened. “I have a word of advice for you, Mr. Coyne.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it. This is the deal—”

  Concannon held up a hand. “Before you make your pitch, I want you to know something. Okay?”

  “Shoot.”

  “You are going to offer me some sort of bargain. I am neither going to accept nor reject it. I will wait until you’re done. Then I will thank you for the drink and leave. You’ll hear from me—if you hear from me at all—some other time. Satisfactory?”

  I nodded. “Satisfactory.”

  He took a healthier swig of his Dewars and waved his hand. “Let’s have it, then.”

  “Okay. Les got pictures. Becca gave the film to me. I got it developed. I know what’s on it. It’s what you wanted when you went to her house and when you ran me over later that night. Technically, the film belongs to Becca. She’d rather sell it than turn it over to the police. She asked me to try to arrange it.” I hesitated.

  “Continue,” said Concannon.

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars for the negatives and the prints. If the deal isn’t made within one week, it all goes to the cops.”

  He nodded. “Twenty-five grand. One week.”

  “The film is in a safe place,” I added. “If anything happens to me—”

  “Sure, sure.” He waved his hand as if a fly were bothering him. “Is that your pitch, Mr. Coyne?”

  “That’s it.”

  He studied me with what appeared to be mild amusement for a moment. He lifted his glass and drained it. Then he stood up. “In that case, thank you for the drink, Mr. Coyne,” he said. And without offering me his hand, he turned and left.

  I rubbed my neck. Avoid tension-producing situations, the doctor had said.

  Lucas brought me another Jack Daniel’s without being asked.

  I stopped at a pay phone near the Park Street subway entrance. Using a pay phone was a precaution I thought unnecessary but that Sharon Bell had insisted on. She was staying at a fancy hotel in Brookline. I figured Uncle Sam would end up spending more on this operation than he could hope to recover by prosecuting an investment company. But justice, of course, has value beyond measure.

  She answered on the first ring. “Bell,” she said, businesslike.

  “Coyne.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “I couldn’t tell.”

  “Did he go for it?”

  “I couldn’t tell that, either.”

 
; “So where does it stand?” She sounded impatient.

  “Look,” I said. “I offered him the deal. He neither accepted it nor rejected it. He’s too smart for that. He didn’t give himself away at all. He’ll let me know within one week if he wants to buy the film.”

  “Or else he’ll come after you.”

  “Yes. There is that possibility, as you seem to enjoy reminding me.”

  “I’m having second thoughts about having talked you into this.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m having second thoughts about allowing you to talk me into it. But it’s too late to think about that now.”

  “Be careful. Please.”

  “I know. You’ve already got Les Katz’s blood on your hands.”

  She was silent for a moment. “That’s not entirely fair,” she said finally. “But don’t think I’m not fully aware of it. Did you tell Concannon you’d taken precautions?”

  “Sure. I’m no hero. Actually, with all the film and stuff at my ex-wife’s place, I’m wondering if there’s any way Concannon could figure that out.”

  “Look,” she said, “if you’re worried—”

  “Hell, of course I’m worried. But I figure, based on what we know of his style, his first move would normally be to beat the shit out of me. Hopefully, our little tête-à-tête this afternoon has preempted the necessity for that.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Brady, I really think—”

  “I am not going to lug that gun around with me. It’s uncomfortable. It makes my suits hang wrong.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed what a fashion plate you are.”

  “Look, Sharon. The last time I took that thing out of my safe, I ended up blowing a hole in a man’s chest. He died.”

  “You told me. He was an evil man. You probably saved two lives by doing it.”

  “A moot point. I’ll take my chances without the gun.”

  “I’d feel a lot better—”

  “Your feelings, dear lady, have nothing to do with this. If you think I’m playing this charade out of patriotism, or some peculiar fondness for the Securities and Exchange Commission—or because you are a sexy wench—you’re quite thoroughly mistaken. This is for me and Les Katz and Becca. This is personal. It happens that just now your needs and my drives intersect, so I’m cooperating with you. If I want to do it without a weapon, and without a bunch of agents shadowing me everywhere I go, then that’s my choice.”

  She was quiet for a moment. Then I heard her chuckle. “A pretty speech, sir.” A loud, rhythmic noise echoed in the telephone receiver. She was applauding.

  “Sneer if you must,” I said: “But look. I’m a careful person most of the time. This time I’m forewarned. I’m looking over my shoulder a lot. Anyway, I don’t think Concannon wants to kill me. At least not right away. He might like to torture me some. It comforts me to think about it that way.”

  “You are a most peculiar man.”

  “Thank you,” I said humbly.

  She sighed. “So we wait.”

  “Yes. We wait for him to call.”

  “We hope he does call.”

  “Because if he doesn’t, it means we have misjudged him.”

  “Or,” she said, “it means I have misread the entire situation.”

  “Which would blemish your otherwise pristine record.”

  Another chuckle. “Exactly. Take care of yourself, Brady.”

  “Believe me, I intend to.”

  15

  TWO DAYS PASSED WITH no word from Arthur Concannon. I used a pay phone each evening to report to Sharon Bell. She did not seem concerned. “He’s checking you out,” she said. “He’s a cautious, careful man. He knows how to play these games. We’ve got to play better, that’s all. Patience.”

  “What’s he looking for?”

  “A connection to me. He found out Hayden was meeting me, we assume. That’s why we’ve got to be careful.”

  “Supposing he learned that you and I are in cahoots?”

  “In cahoots!” she fairly roared. “Oh, my God. In cahoots, he says. You been watching Gunsmoke or Bonanza or something?”

  “What’s wrong with ‘in cahoots’?”

  “Nothing. It sounds just like something you’d say, actually. Okay, so what if Concannon figured we were in, as you say, cahoots? I don’t know. He still needs the film. It would certainly make him even more careful. And—”

  “And more dangerous,” I finished for her.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “That’s what I was going to say.”

  What I didn’t tell Sharon Bell was that it contradicted my nature to sit around waiting for the other guy’s moves. It’s what makes me a lousy chess player. The longer my opponent takes before he moves, the quicker I want to go. It’s why I’m better at physical games than cerebral ones.

  So the longer I had to wait for Concannon, the more I itched to do something.

  I temporized by making a couple of phone calls. The first was to Kerrigan, the Somerville cop, whom I caught at the station just as he was going off duty.

  “Do you remember me telling you about that Audi that was parked in the garage at the Alewife T station?” I said to him. “The one belonging to Derek Hayden?”

  “Sure I remember.”

  “Whatever happened to it, do you know?”

  “It’s still right there. We ran it through the registry computer, verified it belongs to Hayden. Had the lab boys go over it inside and out. They found nothing special. Been hoping Hayden was going to show up, but so far no go. I tried to get the chief to stake it out, but he didn’t feel we could swing it manpowerwise, given the thinness of our evidence that it was connected to a crime. I talked with the guys in the booths who take the money when you drive out, Promised them an easy twenty bucks if the Audi with the license plate TARZ pulled up to the window and they stalled him and called me within two minutes. They work eight-hour shifts, different guys on weekends, one spare for sick-outs—seven contacts I made. None of ’em has called me yet. At this point, I figure Hayden’s Audi is a dead end. I was back there a few days ago, matter of fact. It was still there, collecting dust and a big fee.”

  “It’s still there because Hayden is probably dead,” I said, and I proceeded to tell him how Sharon Bell and the Securities and Exchange Commission figured into the picture, and that Les Katz had probably been killed because he witnessed Hayden’s murder.

  “I just had this awful thought,” said Kerrigan.

  “I’ve been having my share recently.”

  “I wonder if the lab guys prybarred open the trunk of that Audi.”

  “You said you were there recently.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you get out of your cruiser?”

  “Sure. Wanted to see if there were any smudges on the dust.”

  “Smell anything?”

  He laughed thinly. “No. And we’ve had some warm days lately, too. Okay. Scratch that idea. It’s a relief, I admit.”

  “You going to continue to spy on the Audi?”

  “Not much sense, I guess. Assuming Hayden is dead.”

  “I assume he is.”

  “I suppose I ought to call his wife, then, tell her she can come and pick it up,” said Kerrigan.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take care of that. I want to talk to her anyway.”

  “You’re kind of a nosy son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

  “Les Katz was a friend of mine,” I said. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Nah. Good luck to you. I’m going home, get my supper.”

  The other phone call I made was to a state cop named Horowitz, who owed me a minor favor. When his switchboard put me through to him, he growled, “Yeah, Horowitz.”

  “Dear, dear,” I said. “Did we arise from the wrong side of the bed this morning? Do we have a hair across our ass?”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “Coyne.”

  I heard him p
op his ever-present bubble gum. “Okay. So hello, all that shit. Whaddya want?”

  “Come on, Horowitz. Be nice. You owe me.”

  He sighed. “I beg your humble pardon, sir. In what way may I be of service?”

  “Better. That is much better.”

  “Don’t push it, Coyne.”

  “Sorry,” I said quickly. “I’d like to give you a chance to discharge your debt.”

  “It’s been keeping me awake nights. You have no idea.” He paused. “You mean, then I wouldn’t have to be polite to you?”

  “Absolutely. You could be your normal unpleasant self.”

  “And we’d be even?”

  “Right.”

  “So what is it?”

  “I just want to know if a certain person has been reported missing.”

  “State?”

  “Huh?”

  “Jesus,” he muttered. “Where’s this person from, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Oh. Harvard. The town. Harvard, Massachusetts.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “You need his Social Security number?”

  “No. I mean, if I tell you this person’s on my missing list, we’re even?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. Good. What’s his name?”

  “Hayden. First name of Derek.” I spelled it for him.

  “Hang on. Lemme punch it up on my little computer here…”

  In the time it took me to fish a Winston out of a pack, light it, and take one drag, Horowitz was back on the phone. “Yep. Hayden, Derek. Reported missing by his wife, Brenda Hayden, on January fifteen. Last seen January six. There’s some other stuff here. Want it?”

  “Like what?”

  “What he was wearing, physical description, automobile registration, presumed destination, like that.”

  “I don’t need any of that. Thanks. The slate is hereby wiped clean. Tabula rasa, my friend.”

  “What do you want this for?” said Horowitz.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “And why the hell not?”

  “Because if I told you, then you’d owe me again.”