When I started to put the papers back, I saw that my wallet was in the bottom of the briefcase. I opened it. There was cash in it. I didn’t bother counting it, since I didn’t know how much had been there in the first place. Credit cards, membership cards, other cards—all there.
Hm.
Henry and I took the elevator up to my apartment. I dropped my briefcase in its usual spot just inside the door, and went directly to the kitchen, where I poured a double shot of Rebel Yell into a square glass. I added two ice cubes and took it into my bedroom.
Henry came along behind me and flopped down on the floor.
I put the cell phone and the revolver and the glass on my bedside table, peeled off my office clothes, and pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
Then I lit a cigarette, bunched up the pillows, and lay back on my bed. I balanced my drink on my chest and alternated sipping and smoking until I decided what I had to do.
I picked up my regular plug-in portable phone and hit the speed-dial number for Evie.
She answered on the fourth ring. She sounded a little breathless.
“Hi, baby,” I said.
“Oh, Brady. You caught me just stepping into the shower. I’m gonna be all clean and squeaky and sweet-smelling. You’re on your way, I hope?”
“I’ve got to call off our weekend, honey.”
She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Well, okay.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You mean the whole weekend?”
“Yes.”
“What’s wrong, Brady?”
“I can’t explain it right now.”
“It’s not that you—that you don’t want to see me, is it?”
“Not hardly. I want desperately to see you.”
“Because,” she said, “if that’s it, you’ve got to tell me. We’ve agreed about that.”
“That’s not it. I love you.”
She laughed softly. “Well, me, too.”
“I’m really sorry,” I said again.
“I know.”
I hung up the phone, drained my glass, picked up the cell phone, hefted it in my hand. I had to fight the urge to fling it against the wall.
God damn him.
I took my glass to the kitchen, hesitated, and put it in the sink. I figured that was enough booze for one evening. I wanted to remain alert.
I was eating a fried-egg sandwich out on my balcony, watching darkness gather over the harbor and feeling lonely and angry and frustrated and altogether sorry for myself, when Henry, who was sitting beside me making eyes at my sandwich, started growling. I told him to shush, and when he did, I thought I heard a soft scratching sound coming from the front door.
I went in, paused to listen, then picked up my .38 from the kitchen table where I’d left it and tiptoed to the door.
Henry poked it with his nose and growled. I told him to go lie down, which he did, reluctantly.
There it was again. The scratching sound. It was coming from the other side of my door.
Someone was trying to get in. Picking my lock.
I held the revolver behind my back with my right hand. With my left, I slowly turned the knob.
Then I yanked the door open.
Evie was standing there with her key in her hand. She had a big carryall slung over her shoulder, and she was wrapped in a trenchcoat.
“Hi,” she whispered.
“Honey,” I said, “I thought I told you—”
“Banyon’s Escorts, at your service.” She gave me a halflidded smile and opened her coat.
She appeared to be clean and squeaky and sweet-smelling all over.
TWENTY-ONE
I glanced up and down the hallway, then grabbed Evie’s arm and tugged her inside.
She leaned back against the door with her trenchcoat hanging open.
“Jesus,” I said. “You’re naked.”
“Yes,” she said. “But I am discreet.” She saw Henry sitting there and closed her coat. “Stop peeking,” she said to him.
“You shouldn’t be here, honey,” I said. “I told you that.”
“It sounded to me like you had a problem.”
I shrugged.
“You’ve got to share it with me,” she said. “That’s our deal.” She reached out her hand, then jerked it back and pointed. “What the hell is that?”
I realized I had my .38 dangling from my hand. “It’s my gun.”
She frowned at me. “That bad, huh?”
“I don’t want you involved.”
“I am involved,” she said. “I’m involved with you. Put the gun down, okay?”
“I thought you were somebody trying to break in.” I went into the living room, put the gun on the coffee table, and sat on the sofa.
Evie sat beside me. “It wasn’t that long ago,” she said, “when I was the one with the problem. I kept telling you to stay out of it. You refused, if you recall. You said my problems were your problems. Share the good stuff, share the problems, you said. That’s what loving each other means. Remember?”
I nodded. “But this is different.”
“Why, because you’re a big strong independent man and I’m just a weak flighty girl? Girls need help but men don’t? Is that it?”
I shook my head. “It’s dangerous.”
“Most problems are dangerous in one way or another.” She leaned her head on my shoulder and put her hand on my leg. “I do believe you’re frightened,” she said.
“I’m not sure that’s the word for it.”
“Anxious?”
“Definitely.”
She put her arms around my neck and kissed me on the mouth. “I bet you could use a nice massage, hm?”
“I don’t remember calling for an escort,” I said.
She was nuzzling my throat. “A friend sent me,” she murmured.
“How much?”
“It’s on the house, baby. You couldn’t afford me.” She leaned back and looked into my eyes. “Leave the gun, though, huh? I don’t do kinky.”
An hour or so later, Evie and I were lying on my bed passing a cigarette back and forth. Henry was curled up on the pile of clothes I’d left on the floor.
“I’m sorry, honey,” I said.
She kissed my bare shoulder. “Nothing to apologize for.”
“I’m a dud.”
“You’re my sexy man.”
“Usually, the minute I see you . . .”
“It happens,” she said. “Really. Forget about it.”
“You think I’m getting old?”
She chuckled. “I think you’ve got something on your mind. You’re holding it in.”
“Holding it in, huh?” I said. “Thank you, Dr. Freud.”
“You’ve got to let it out. Come on, sweetie. What is it?”
“I don’t want to involve you.”
“I’m already involved,” she said. “I’m with you, and I’m not going away. Talk to me.”
So I took a deep breath and told Evie about the man with the muffled voice, the murders and the fires, my hunt for Ethan Duffy, my encounters with Detective Mendoza and Lieutenant Keeler, my session with the FBI, the Spotted Owl Liberation Front, the mysterious appearance of the cell phone, and my conversation with J.W. Jackson. I told her how the cell phone rang while I was walking across the Common, how the voice knew where I was, and how he was the one who’d mugged me, taken my wallet and my briefcase, and then returned them.
“See,” I said, “he’s watching me. He knows what I’m doing. Like J.W. said, he’s toying with me. He gets off on it. He probably knows you’re here now. That’s why I wanted to keep you out of it. He’s dangerous, unpredictable, probably psychotic. I don’t want anybody else to get drawn into this. Especially you.” I hesitated. “I feel like he’s watching us right now. Maybe that’s why . . .”
“That’s impossible,” said Evie.
“I know,” I said. “But it’s how I feel.”
Evie took my cigarette from my fingers,
dragged on it, and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling. “J.W. was wrong,” she said softly. “You should turn the whole thing over to the police.”
“No,” I said, “I think J.W. was right. Somehow, this guy would know it the minute I talked to the cops. He’d certainly know if I didn’t have that damn cell phone with me. If he called and I didn’t answer? It would infuriate him, and there’s no telling what he’d do. This way at least he feels like he’s in control. He’s having fun with it. He’s bound to make some kind of slip. That’s what I’m waiting for. Meanwhile, I’m trying to be really careful.”
“Like canceling our weekend together,” she said.
“It seemed prudent, yes. It still does. You should leave.”
“No way,” said Evie.
We lay there quietly for a few minutes, looking up at the ceiling.
Then Evie said, “We really are all alone here, you know. Just big strong you and little old bare-naked me.”
“And Henry,” I said. “Don’t forget Henry.”
“We’ve been alone with Henry before,” she said. “His presence has not deterred us. Do you feel any better?”
“I guess so,” I said. “Telling you about it, sharing it with you, getting it off my chest, it’s kind of a relief. I don’t like holding things back from you.”
Her hand slid up the inside of my bare leg. “Oh, my,” she whispered. “You do feel better.”
I was slogging through the murk of a bleak senseless dream about rain and mud when Evie prodded me. “Hey,” she said. “Hey, wake up.”
“What?”
“Your phone.”
“Huh?”
“Your cell phone. It’s ringing.”
“Shit. I don’t hear anything. Where is it?”
“You left it on the coffee table to recharge it, remember?”
“What time is it?”
“Quarter of six.”
“Let it fuckin’ ring,” I grumbled.
She poked me again. “You better get it.”
I squeezed my eyes shut for a minute, then blinked them open. “Yeah, okay.”
I stumbled my way into the living room. The phone’s green light was a beacon. It beeped again.
I picked it up, flipped the lid, and said, “What do you want?”
“Rise and shine,” he said.
“I’m up.”
“I’m waiting for you to thank me.”
“What’m I supposed to thank you for?” I said.
“Returning your wallet and your briefcase.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re entirely welcome,” he said. “Now get dressed and go down to your car.”
Then he was gone.
I put the phone down and went back into the bedroom. Evie was sitting up in bed rubbing her eyes. Henry opened his eyes, but didn’t bother uncurling.
“I’ve got to go out for a little while,” I said.
“What’s going on?”
“Go back to sleep. I won’t be long.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m supposed to go to my car. That’s all I know.”
“I’m coming with you.”
I kissed her. “Absolutely not. You stay here. I’ll be all right.”
“That man again?”
“Yes.”
She brushed her hair off her face. “I’m not going to let you go by yourself.”
“Please don’t argue with me,” I said. “Stay with Henry.”
“Brady, damn it—”
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll leave Horowitz’s number with you. If I’m not back in—” I glanced at my watch “—in four hours, and if you haven’t heard from me, call him. That would be about ten-thirty. Okay?”
“I don’t like this,” she said.
“Me, neither. I’d rather snuggle back in beside you. I’ll be all right. Don’t worry.”
“Of course I’ll worry.”
“I know you will. That’s why I wish you’d stayed home this weekend.” I kissed her again. “Make sure to lock up behind me.”
Evie watched while I pulled on my jeans and a T-shirt and my sneakers, then followed me out into the living room. I wrote Horowitz’s cell phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to her. I found my windbreaker in the closet and put the phone in one pocket and the .38 in the other. Then I poured some of yesterday’s coffee into a car mug, gave it a minute in the microwave, made sure I had a full pack of cigarettes, and turned to Evie. “I’ll be back.”
She nodded.
“Don’t worry, okay?”
“Fat chance,” she said.
I kissed her, went out, waited to hear her lock the door behind me, then took the elevator down to the parking garage.
I went to my car, unlocked it, and slid into the front seat.
Now what?
I’d smoked half a cigarette and taken a few sips of coffee when the cell phone beeped. “You in your car?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Can you find your way to Storrow Drive by yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Do it, then.” And he disconnected.
There were virtually no other cars on the streets at seven on this Saturday morning. I swung around Commercial Street to Causeway, took Cambridge to the rotary, and less than fifteen minutes after I’d pulled out of my garage I was heading outbound on Storrow Drive with the Charles River on my right. A few carefree little sailboats were skidding across the water, and swarms of early-bird joggers were bouncing along the paths that traced the shoreline.
The phone beeped.
“You’re at the Esplanade,” he said, not as if it were a question, but something he knew.
“Passing it now.”
“Take the Harvard Bridge across the river.” He clicked off.
Was he tailing me? I glanced in my rearview mirror. I saw just one car, a dark SUV about fifty yards behind me. I slowed down to see what it would do.
It passed me, moving fast, and kept going. A newish Explorer, dark green, Massachusetts plates. I caught only the first two numbers and got just a quick glimpse of the driver. He was wearing a baseball cap. It could have been a shorthaired woman.
Up ahead was the Harvard Bridge. The Explorer didn’t turn onto it.
I did, and just as I was crossing the river, the phone beeped again. “Don’t hang up ’til I tell you to,” he said. “Stay on Mass. Ave.”
“Okay,” I said.
He said nothing. I kept the phone to my ear, trying to hear something significant in his silence—ambulance sirens, church bells, train whistles, construction noises, music from a car radio, some telling background sound that in a spy movie would turn out to be a plot-turning clue. But all that came through the phone was soft ambient static.
“You still there?” I said.
The voice chuckled. “I’m here.” Another minute of silence, then, “Up ahead on the right you can see a Dunkin’ Donuts.”
“I see it.”
“Take the drive-through. Buy yourself a large black coffee and a donut. What kind of donuts do you like?”
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
“Plain, I’ll bet. You strike me as a plain donut kind of guy. Get yourself a plain donut, too. We want you strong and alert. Disconnect now.”
I did as I was told, and just as I was pulling away from the drive-through window, the phone beeped.
“Did you eat your donut?”
“Not yet.”
“Eat it while you drive,” said the voice. “Pull back onto Mass. Ave. Go right. Check your odometer. In one-pointfour miles you’ll come to a brick Catholic church on your right. St. Lucia’s. After you pass it, find a place on the street to park. Now disconnect.”
I put the phone on the seat beside me, took a bite of my donut, and continued on Mass. Ave.
When I
came to the church, I realized where we were going. Vintage Vinyl, Conrad Henshall’s record shop, was almost directly across the street from St. Lucia’s Catholic church.
I found an empty space on the street, pulled into it, and turned off the engine. I finished my donut, lit a cigarette, sipped some coffee.
The phone beeped.
“I’m here,” I said.
“It should look familiar to you. Keep me on the line while I tell you what I want you to do. Get out of the car and cross the street.”
The voice was still too muffled and distorted to recognize. I wondered if it belonged to Conrad Henshall himself.
I felt ridiculous, crossing Massachusetts Avenue near Central Square in Cambridge early on a Saturday morning with a cell phone pressed against my ear.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ve crossed the street.”
“You’re in front of the record store?”
“Yes.”
“To the left of it you see an alley. Walk down there. At the end, go right. In back of the store you’ll see a door. Stop there. Don’t disconnect.”
It was a narrow alley, barely wide enough for me to pass around the trash barrels. I kept one hand in my pocket, gripping my .38. Where the alley ended, it intersected with another somewhat wider alley. I turned right onto it and came upon a doorway with a little wooden stoop under a small overhang.
“I’m here at the door,” I said into the phone.
“Enter, Mr. Coyne. It’s not locked. Ascend the stairs, open the door at the top, and go ahead inside. Don’t disconnect.”
I turned the knob on the door and went in. The stairway was steep and lit only by the dirty glass window on the door. It smelled faintly of cat piss. As near as I could tell, it led to a room directly over the record shop.
I took my gun out of my pocket, cocked the hammer, and climbed the stairs. At the top, I pushed open the door, held my gun at my hip pointing ahead of me, and went in. I was standing in a kitchen. Peeling brick-red linoleum floor, refrigerator that had once been white but now was yellowish, matching gas stove, sink with some pots and pans in it, rickety wooden table with four spindly wooden chairs around it.
A Fine Line Page 17
