Void in Hearts

by William G. Tapply

  But why visit at seven in the morning? And why bring Melanie along in her Farrah Fawcett wig? And what about those suitcases?

  I calculated quickly. It would take me fifteen minutes to tromp back to my car through the woods. If Concannon should begin to tote Brenda’s luggage out of the house and stack it in the trunk of his Mercedes, I’d have time to get back to my car and follow them. I suspected they’d head for Logan International Airport. It would satisfy my curiosity, if nothing else, to learn their destination. If I were clever, I might be able to persuade a ticket seller to tell me if they were flying on round-trip tickets, and if so, when they were expected to return.

  I had no idea what good any of that information would do. But I would relate it to Sharon Bell. She’d know how to use it.

  In spite of my clothing, my inability to move around was increasingly causing me to suffer from the cold. My toes were already numb. I made fists inside my mittens to try to restore circulation to my fingers.

  I poured another mug of coffee and cradled its warmth in my bare hands as I sipped it. Nothing seemed to be happening below me. I decided to risk a cigarette, even though I knew it would contract the capillaries in my extremities and accelerate the effects of the cold. I had never been one to pay much attention to such details.

  The smoke burned harshly in my lungs. I doused the butt in the snow, half smoked, and huddled there miserably. For all I knew, Concannon and Melanie were planning to spend a leisurely day visiting Brenda, in which case I had every reason to expect to end up as a piece of ice sculpture by the evening.

  My coffee was gone and I was beginning to shiver inside my long johns when the black Lincoln pulled into the driveway. I checked my watch. Eight-thirty. I fumbled for the binoculars that hung around my neck. My hands obeyed reluctantly. They felt like hunks of wood.

  When I focused on the face of the man who climbed out the passenger side of the Lincoln, a new warmth suffused my body.

  He wore a gray topcoat that looked several sizes too large for him. He was bareheaded, revealing a dramatic thatch of snow-white hair. His deeply lined face, his grand beak of a nose, that big outsized head perched atop the emaciated body, the giant cigar clenched between his teeth—all belonged to Vincent Tremali of Providence, Rhode Island. That face, cigar and all, had snarled from the cover of Time magazine six months earlier. “Underworld Kingpin Takes the Fifth” was the lead story’s headline for that issue. Every afternoon for four weeks Vincent Tremali’s surprisingly deep, well-modulated voice had growled, “No comment” to the bevies of television reporters who accosted him, while behind the heavy doors of the Federal District Court a grand jury fumed in helpless frustration.

  Their first prize witness failed to appear to give testimony, and while it was rumored that a man of his general description was seen lounging on the beach in St. Maarten at about that time, his identity was never confirmed.

  The second prize witness was found in the basement of an abandoned warehouse in Holyoke, Massachusetts, tied to a chair, with a single bullet hole in the back of his neck.

  The third, fourth, and fifth prize witnesses pleaded failed memory. Threats of contempt citations failed to stimulate them.

  The sixth prize witness offered testimony that reddened the face of the prosecuting attorney. A subsequent perjury charge did not persuade the dapper young man to alter his view of the truth.

  Observers reported that Vincent Tremali, when his turn finally came, was calm, almost regal in his aloof response to the badgering of federal prosecutors. He chose to exercise his constitutional rights as an American citizen. He sounded more like John Barrymore than Marlon Brando. And he continued to assert that right as the lawyers played a game of tag team with him for four weeks, bombarding him with questions about loan-sharking, prostitution, toxic waste contracts, numbers, dope, extortion, arson, and just about every other form of criminal activity imaginable.

  After a while the cartoonists and pundits began to depict the United States government as the bad guy. Tremali became a kind of perverse folk hero.

  It was, most agreed, a magnificent performance by a seasoned pro, and Vincent Tremali was reluctantly excused by the grand jury. Indictments were not forthcoming.

  This shriveled-up little guy was probably the most powerful man on the East Coast. He was now standing in Derek Hayden’s farmyard in Harvard, Massachusetts, at eight-thirty in the morning, hunching his shoulders against the frigid air, puffing his cigar, and looking around the property as if he were a prospective buyer.

  From the driver’s side of the Lincoln emerged a second man, approximately twice the size of Tremali. This guy wore a plaid sport coat over a white turtleneck. He was constructed like an offensive tackle. I found his face in the binoculars. He, too, looked familiar, although I couldn’t recall his name. One of the prize witnesses whose memory had repeatedly failed him.

  As I watched, Tremali spoke to his driver, who went to the back door of the farmhouse. He hit the door with the side of his fist. The door opened halfway for a moment. Then it closed and Tremali’s driver returned to the Lincoln. The two hoods stood there stamping their feet for a couple of minutes. Then Tremali leaned close to his driver, who nodded, opened the door of the Lincoln on the driver’s side, and hit the horn. The loud, sudden honk struck me as a violation of the pastoral silence of the farmyard. A moment later Arthur Concannon hurried out of the farmhouse, buttoning up his topcoat as he hastened, hand outstretched, to greet Vincent Tremali. I was disappointed that the two men did not kiss each other on both cheeks.

  Their breaths came in little puffs as they stood by the Lincoln and talked. Tremali’s cigar bobbed as he spoke. The big driver stood deferentially aside, looking away as if intent on studying the woods where I hid, the snow-blanketed meadows, and the spectacular distant view of Mount Wachusett.

  After conferring with Concannon for a couple of minutes, Tremali removed his cigar from his mouth and gestured with it to his driver. The big man opened the trunk of the Lincoln, reached in, and pulled out a large suitcase. He lugged it to Concannon’s Mercedes and set it heavily down on the icy driveway. Then Concannon opened the trunk of his car and wrestled the suitcase into it.

  The driver got back to the Lincoln. Concannon and Tremali talked for another few minutes, their heads close together. Tremali seemed to be doing most of the talking. Concannon kept nodding. From my vantage point a little more than a hundred yards distant, I could hear the low murmur of their voices. I could not make out any of their words.

  Finally Concannon and Tremali shook hands. Concannon opened the door of the Lincoln and held Tremali’s elbow as the old man climbed in. The Lincoln backed out of the driveway and crept away at a sedate pace.

  Concannon remained standing in the driveway until the Lincoln disappeared from sight. I held my binoculars on him and saw his private smile before he turned and went back into the house.

  I glanced at my watch. The entire transaction had taken less than ten minutes.

  I shivered. I was cold. I was also struck with the realization that I seemed to have stumbled onto something way out of my league. I had no desire to become involved in anything remotely related to Vincent Tremali. The newspaper descriptions of the witness with the bullet hole in the back of his neck remained vivid in my mind. He had deep cigar burns on his face and neck. His bare toes were sodden, bloody pulps. The papers speculated that someone had smashed them, one by one, with the round end of a ball peen hammer.

  I had been hidden in that copse of pin oaks for a little more than three hours. I doubted if the temperature had yet made it to double figures. The chill had penetrated to my kidneys. I realized I had to give serious thought to hypothermia.

  I rumbled for my binoculars and thermos. I looked forward to turning on the heater in my BMW. I would skedaddle back to Boston. Then I’d tell Sharon Bell what I’d seen and leave it on her lap. I was ready to devote my full attention to the divorce settlements and estate plans of my loyal clients, and leave the Conca
nnons and Tremalis of the world to the proper authorities.

  I was out of my league. I was proud of myself for acknowledging it, for once.

  The voice that came from behind me was soft and polite. “Don’t bother turning around, my friend. Place both hands behind your head, if you don’t mind terribly,” it said.

  “Ah, shit,” I said as I obeyed.

  17

  HE APPROACHED ME FROM behind, patted my pockets, and removed my revolver.

  “My, my,” he said, chuckling. “A weapon. And what, my good man, are you doing?”

  I still hadn’t seen his face. I had never heard his voice before. Yet I thought I knew who he was.

  “Deer hunting,” I said. “I’m looking for deer.”

  “This is private property, and the deer season has been closed for two months. You are in serious trouble.”

  “I’ll leave. I’m sorry.”

  He chuckled again. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple. Why don’t you stand up now.”

  It was awkward. I was stiff and numb. I hoisted myself to my feet and turned. At his side the man held a lever-action rifle pointed at my navel. It looked like a .30/30, the kind of gun cowboys always carried, short-barreled and deadly. He was tall, with a thin face and a high forehead. He wore dark-rimmed glasses. He was smiling good-naturedly.

  “You know me, don’t you?” he said.

  “I suppose I do. Derek Hayden.”

  He bowed politely. “At your service. And you, of course, have to be the ubiquitous Mr. Coyne.”

  “The same. How—?”

  “Did I find you? Not that difficult. Vincent Tremali is a careful man. Your automobile was observed. Your footprints in the snow. Freshly made. They went away from the car and did not appear to return. Rather a primitive exercise in logic to conclude that the creator of those footprints was still lurking in the forest. Which Mr. Tremali reported to us. I went out the back door, around behind the trees, and lo, here we are.”

  “I’m not breaking any law,” I said.

  “Deer hunting with a pistol indeed,” he said, pretending to enjoy the joke. “They said you had a bit of a wit about you. Why don’t you come to the house and join us for hot chocolate.”

  “Aw, thanks just the same, but I think I’ll get going—”

  “Let’s go,” he said, in a decidedly less friendly tone. He gestured with his rifle, and I began to slog through the snow, down the slope. “Keep your hands behind your head,” said Hayden. “If you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind. I feel like a prisoner of war.”

  This amused him. “Yes. Well put. That is approximately what you are, Mr. Coyne. A prisoner of war. Very apt.”

  I stumbled several times in the deep snow. My legs responded tardily to the instructions my brain was barking at them. By the time we arrived at the back door of the Hayden farmhouse, I was once again drenched in perspiration.

  A warm blast of air greeted me inside the kitchen. Arthur Concannon, Melanie Walther, and Brenda Hayden were seated around the table, sipping from mugs. Melanie, I noticed, had removed her blond wig.

  “Greetings, greetings,” said Concannon heartily, smiling and gesturing for me to take an empty chair at the table. “Join us, please. Cocoa for Mr. Coyne.”

  I sat. “Do you mind if I remove a few layers of clothing?” I said.

  “Slowly. Carefully,” said Hayden.

  I stepped out of the jumpsuit and shrugged off the heavy sweater. Then I bent and unlaced my boots.

  Brenda Hayden placed a mug in front of me. I looked up at her. “Thanks, Brenda,” I said.

  She avoided meeting my eyes.

  Hayden remained standing, leaning carelessly back against the wall, his .30/30 slung under his arm. Concannon, Brenda, Melanie, and I were seated at the table. A cozy little suburban gathering on a crisp winter’s morning.

  Concannon leaned toward me. “What brings you around, Mr. Coyne?”

  I shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. I love these winter days, you know? Wondered if I might spot some deer in the fields.”

  Concannon’s mouth smile remained fixed. His eyes glittered dangerously. “No bullshit,” he said softly. “Remember? Now tell me. I want to know what you know.”

  I have always admired the men in television melodramas who, strapped into the electric chair, offered wisecracks before the death jolt. I envied those who chose to make eye contact with their firing squad, refusing the blindfold. I valued a particular image of myself, I didn’t want to be a man who shit his pants before he died.

  I figured I had nothing to lose by telling Concannon what I knew. It would be better than sniveling and groveling. Maybe it would put him in the mood to talk to me, although I was hard-pressed to see how that would help.

  “What I know is this,” I said. “I know you guys are mixed up with Vincent Tremali. I know who and what he is, which gives me an idea of what and who you might be. I know Tremali just delivered a heavy suitcase to you. I know Derek, here, has been talking with an agent from the Securities and Exchange Commission—”

  Concannon’s head snapped around to glare at Hayden. “Is this true?” he hissed.

  “Now, wait a minute, Arthur—”

  “Shut up.”

  “But you asked—”

  “I got my answer.” Concannon turned back to me. “Go ahead, Mr. Coyne,” he said softly. “Tell me more.”

  “I know that one of you ran down and killed a friend of mine. I know that one of you beat up Becca Katz, another friend of mine. I know that one of you tried to run me down, too. I know I have some interesting photographs that Les Katz took. I know that if something should happen to me—”

  Concannon raised his hand imperiously. “Enough,” he said. “No bullshit, remember?” He stared at me. I returned his gaze steadily. I hoped I looked calmer than I felt. “Okay, then Mr. Coyne,” he said. “Let’s hear the rest of it.”

  I shrugged. “That’s what I know.” I emphasized the word “know.”

  “So what do you think, then?”

  I looked around at the faces of the people in that room. Hayden’s finger was resting on the trigger of his rifle. He was staring at me, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses. Melanie Walther and Brenda Hayden were studiously gazing out the kitchen window toward the barn out back.

  “I think I’d like some more cocoa,” I said.

  Concannon jerked his head at Brenda. She hopped up as if she had been bitten by a snake. She took my mug, refilled it from a saucepan on the stove, and placed it in front of me. I sipped from it.

  “This is what I think,” I began. “I have told most of it to Sharon Bell, who is heading up the team of investigators from the SEC. They are on to you guys. You are laundering money for Vincent Tremali. They may not know that yet, but they’re pretty close. Sharon Bell approached Hayden, here. She knew he was the weak one. They met a number of times. You,” I said, thrusting my chin at Concannon, “must’ve suspected something. You had Melanie dress up like Farrah Fawcett, pose as Mrs. Hayden, and hire my friend Les Katz to follow Derek. Les saw him meet Sharon Bell. Took photos of them. Then, for reasons peculiar to himself, Les lied when he talked to Melanie and told her that Hayden was clean. He also approached Derek with what he thought was evidence of his marital indiscretions. In any case, he continued to follow Hayden after that. He stumbled onto a transaction. Took more photos. It’s all on film. I’ve seen it.” This was a lie, but I didn’t see how it could hurt. “You guys,” I went on, gesturing at Concannon and Hayden, “spotted Les. One of you followed him and ran him over outside his house. I’d guess it was Hayden. How’m I doing so far?”

  Concannon had been staring at Hayden. Now he slowly turned his head to look at me. “You’re doing just fine, Mr. Coyne. Why don’t you keep going.”

  I shrugged. “After you killed Les, Hayden hopped a plane. Where do you do your business? Switzerland?”

  “Nassau,” said Concannon.

  “Whatever,” I said. “By the time Hayden returned, I
had already showed up at your office and had visited Brenda. So you decided it would be a good idea for Derek to lay low. I thought you had killed him.”

  Concannon smiled. He twisted his head around and spoke over his shoulder to Hayden. “Derek,” he said, “let me see that gun for a second.”

  Hayden frowned and passed the rifle to Concannon. Concannon held it in his hands as if he were examining it. Then he pushed himself back from the table and stood up. With the rifle he gestured to Hayden. “Derek, have a seat.”

  “Now, just a minute, Arthur.”

  “Sit!” commanded Concannon.

  Hayden looked at him, then at Brenda and Melanie, as if asking for their help. They looked away. Hayden shook his head back and forth. With a small shrug of his shoulders, he sat in the seat Concannon had vacated.

  Concannon spoke to me. “I should have killed him,” he said conversationally. “If I had known about the SEC broad I would have.”

  “I told her nothing,” said Hayden quickly. “Honest to God, Arthur. I was putting her off the track. It was working out. If it hadn’t been for that Katz following us that night—”

  “Shut up.” Concannon’s voice was weary. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “But we shouldn’t even be discussing this with him here,” said Hayden, jerking his head at me.

  “Oh, that won’t matter.” Concannon smiled pleasantly at me. “You understand, of course, Mr. Coyne.”

  I nodded. “Sure. Win a few, lose a few.”

  “I like your spirit. Too bad we didn’t meet each other a long time ago.”

  “Pity,” I said. “Can I ask a couple of questions?”

  Concannon spread his arms magnanimously. “Be my guest.”

  “How do you do it? What you do for Tremali, I mean.”

  “Oh, it’s really a model of simplicity, Mr. Coyne. Very efficient, very profitable. If I do say so myself. Vincent, of course, manages a number of extremely lucrative businesses. Some are perfectly legitimate. Others—well, I suspect you can figure that out.”