“Dalt and Jess are my clients,” I said. “You aren’t.”
“My grandson has been kidnapped, Attorney Coyne. I am putting up a quarter of a million dollars to get him back. I have a right to know.”
I thought for a minute, then nodded. “You’re right.” I hesitated. “Robert has a gambling problem, Judge. He got in over his head.”
“Like father, like son,” she said.
I shrugged.
“The Russo family?”
I nodded. “I talked with Paulie Russo. He led me to believe that he’d let it go if you, um, took it into consideration.”
“That case,” she said.
“They sucked him in,” I said, “because they knew he was your grandson. They figured having him indebted to them was a way of influencing you.”
Judge Lancaster looked at me with narrowed eyes. “But you suggested I recuse myself. You didn’t suggest I allow myself to be influenced. They wanted me on the case. They had leverage. They expected me to be influenced.”
“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
She looked at me for a minute, then nodded. “No, of course you couldn’t. So now they’ve decided to go after my money.”
“I think you’re making a mistake,” I said, “not going to the police.”
“Yes,” she said. “You already said that. Thank you. We’ll see whether it was a mistake or not. Meanwhile, I’m comfortable taking responsibility for that decision.”
“Well,” I said, “it is your money.”
Her head snapped around. She fixed me with that famous Lancaster glare. “It is,” she said, “isn’t it? And it’s my grandson, too.”
“So it is,” I said. “Okay. I’ll follow the kidnappers’ instructions. I’ll do whatever I can to get Robert back.”
“Thank you.” She pointed her elegant finger at me. “So why you, Attorney Coyne?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you suppose they chose to involve you, to designate you to be the intermediary in all of this?”
“I guess,” I said, “they just figured that Dalt would be too, um, emotional, and that you…”
“I am too old,” said the judge.
“Maybe Robert told them,” I said. “Maybe they asked him who he trusted to handle it, understanding that screwing it up would mean they’d kill him.”
The judge nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. So don’t screw it up, Attorney Coyne.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“I know you’ll do it right.” She smiled. “My other question is, how did they arrive at the number two hundred and fifty thousand? Does Robert owe them that much, for heaven’s sake?”
“I don’t know what he owes them,” I said. “He mentioned fifty thousand to me, but I had the feeling he didn’t really know. A quarter of a million makes it worth their effort, a reward commensurate with the risk.” I shrugged. “It’s a nice round number.”
She smiled. “It used to be a fortune.”
“Maybe they just figured it’s what you could come up with in a couple of days,” I said.
“In fact,” she said, “that’s exactly what it is. I can get two hundred and fifty thousand in a day. Half a million would take a week.”
“Well, lucky you,” I said.
“Lucky Robert, too. Lucky all of us. I will have it tomorrow afternoon. How shall we handle it? They said they would be dealing with you.”
“Call me when you have the money,” I said. “I’ll pick it up. Then when they call to arrange the exchange, I’ll be ready to go.”
She had her head cocked and was peering at me. After a moment, she nodded. “I know why they chose you.”
“Why?”
“Because I trust you,” she said. “They must know that. I tend not to trust people. I know I have the reputation of not trusting anybody, and it’s not far off. But I have no qualms about handing over a big pile of my cash to you, and I find myself believing that if anybody can do this the right way and get my only grandson back, it’s you.” She shook her head. “Can you explain that, Attorney Coyne?”
“Nope,” I said.
She smiled. “Neither can I.” She looked at me for a long moment, then said, “You must think I’m some kind of coldhearted old witch, not to be wailing and gnashing my teeth about this.”
I shrugged. “Wailing and teeth-gnashing aren’t all that helpful.”
“I love my grandson, you know.”
“I never doubted it,” I said. “Somebody has to take charge.”
She stood up and went to a sideboard, where two decanters and some wineglasses sat on a silver tray. “Now that we’ve got all that settled,” she said, “will you join me in a drop of port?”
I nodded. “Why not.”
We sipped some smoky old port while the judge told me about a case she had recently heard that involved a class-action lawsuit against a Boston investment company, and about fifteen minutes later we went back out to the living room. Dalt and Jess and Teresa and Kimmie Warner were still sitting there. Mike was in the kitchen. I picked up the kidnappers’ CD from the coffee table, patted my pocket to make sure the Motorola cell phone was there, and said, “I’m going home now. Anybody wants to talk to me, you all have my numbers.”
I leaned down and exchanged air kisses with the women. When I held out my hand to Dalt, he said, “I’ll walk you out.”
Mike Warner came out of the kitchen. “You leaving?” he said. “I just put on some coffee. It’ll be ready in a minute.”
“No,” I said. “Thanks.”
He held out his hand. “Well, good luck. I hope, if there’s anything I can do…”
I nodded.
“Dalt’s not just my brother-in-law,” he said. “He’s my best friend. Robert’s like a son to me. This whole thing is unbelievable.”
“We’ll do our best,” I said.
The judge was standing in the foyer near the door. She held out her hand. “Attorney Coyne,” she said, “we do appreciate your efforts.” Her hand was dry and bony, but her handshake was strong.
“We’ll be talking, Judge,” I said.
“Bet your ass we will,” she said.
Dalt and I went outside and walked over to my car. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“What?”
“Any of it. Why those thugs beat me up. Why they’ve kidnapped my son. It is them, right?”
“I assume so,” I said. “Did Robert contact you anytime in the past few days?”
He shook his head. “Last time I talked to him was that night at the hospital. Why?”
“He promised me he would.”
“What for?”
“Look,” I said, “he didn’t want you to know, but I made him promise to tell you. To tell all of you. Since he didn’t, I guess I should.” I hesitated. “He’s got a gambling problem. He’s into the Russo family for a lot of money. They set him up.”
“Jesus,” said Dalt. “You saying those goons beat me up because my son owes them money?”
“Something like that. They hoped to influence your mother. She had a case involving them. That’s why they fronted Robert the money. That was their leverage. When she recused herself, they lost their leverage, and then I guess they figured all they could do was go after the money.”
“It’s my fault,” said Dalt. “I wish they’d kidnapped me.”
“Your fault?”
“Sure. Robert got it from me.”
“You think it’s genetic?”
“I don’t know. It seems like it, doesn’t it? Some strand on the Lancaster DNA? I taught Robert and Jimmy—that’s my nephew, Mike and Kimmie’s boy—how to play poker. This was after I quit the casinos. We played for matchsticks and pennies, that’s all. I just figured every boy should know how to play poker. It’s like throwing and catching and kissing girls. But both of those boys were really into it. They played against each other all the time, taught their friends, organized games.”
“Robert told me about what
happened to Jimmy,” I said.
He shook his head. “Maybe I should blame myself for what happened to him, too. An awful, terrible thing. Kimmie’s never been the same. It just clobbered Mike. You’ve got sons, Brady. You can imagine.”
“I really can’t,” I said. “It’s unimaginable.”
“It’s been almost six years since Jimmy went missing,” Dalt said. “They still jump whenever the phone rings.”
“All kids learn how to gamble sometime or other,” I said. “You can’t blame yourself.”
“Easier said than done.” He shrugged. “So now it’s Robert. You think they’ll kill him?”
“Sometimes they do,” I said, “sometimes they don’t.”
Dalt shook his head. “Thanks for sugarcoating it. Makes me feel a lot better.”
“If you don’t want the answer, don’t ask the question.”
“Sure.” He smiled quickly. “We’re doing the right thing, giving them the money, aren’t we?”
“I don’t know.”
He shook his head. “Why didn’t he come to me? He should’ve come to me. I would have helped him. That’s what fathers are for.”
“You’ll have to ask him when you see him,” I said.
“If they kill my son,” Dalt said, “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
Thirteen
I GOT HOME FROM JUDGE Lancaster’s house a little after ten-thirty. Henry was glad to see me, and I was glad to see him. He filled the house with his happiness and made the hole Evie had left behind feel smaller.
I let him out into the yard, then checked the phone for messages.
There were none.
Ten-thirty was only seven-thirty in California. I imagined Evie and her father sitting on the deck of his houseboat watching the sun go down, drinking margaritas, getting reacquainted with each other. They’d talk about old times, and they’d have some laughs, I hoped, retelling family stories, conjuring up happy memories from Evie’s childhood. They’d avoid the subject of Ed’s illness. He’d feel better with her there to keep him company. She was doing the right thing.
I wondered if Evie would talk about me and our life together, or if Ed would ask.
I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since half a granola bar—Henry got the other half—and a bottle of water in the car on the way home from the Swift River. I found some leftover chicken in the refrigerator, another memento of an earlier dinner with Evie. I sliced it up and made a sandwich, and after I let Henry in and rewarded him with a slice of chicken, I took my sandwich and a can of Coke into my office.
I slipped the kidnappers’ CD into my computer and watched it again. This time I wasn’t interested in the message, which was pretty straightforward. Instead, I tried to pay attention to the medium. I studied Robert’s face and body language, and I listened to the syntax and vocabulary of the speech that had been written for him.
I couldn’t read much from Robert’s appearance. He had those old yellow bruises around his eye, and he had that new cut on his cheekbone, but he seemed pretty composed and calm for a young man who’d found himself wrapped in duct tape and being held hostage. He didn’t blink excessively, nor did he lick his lips or stumble over the words he read. I saw no sweat on his brow or upper lip. His hands and chin didn’t tremble. If Robert Lancaster was frightened for his life, he was doing a good job of controlling it.
He had a good poker face. Hard to read.
The words he read were bland and simple and precise. The absence of contractions made it sound a little stilted and contrived, and it struck me that whoever wrote it was trying hard to preclude misinterpretations.
I guessed it was Paulie who wrote Robert’s speech. In spite of the dese-and-dem language Paulie affected for the benefit of the goons who worked for him, I happened to know that he had graduated from Lawrence Academy and been accepted at Boston College. It was a great disappointment for Vincent Russo when his only son decided to go to work in the family business rather than attend college.
I played the disc again. It occurred to me that Robert might have been Morse-coding us a message with his fingers or eyes, or that he’d tried some other method of secretly communicating with us. If he had, I failed to catch on.
I was ejecting the disc when the phone beside my computer rang.
My heart bloomed in my chest. Evie.
I snatched up the phone and said, “Yes? Hi.”
“Well, hi yourself.” It was Charlie McDevitt.
“Oh,” I said.
“Well, I’m sorry,” he said. “Clearly I am a disappointment. You pissed that I didn’t go fishing with you?”
“You’re never a disappointment,” I said, “and I’m not pissed. I had a grand time today fishing all by myself. Landed five nice rainbows. One went about seventeen inches. Henry came along and didn’t argue politics or baseball with me. When the phone rang, I thought you were Evie.”
“Easy to tell us apart,” said Charlie. “Her hair’s longer than mine.”
“She’s in California,” I said. “I was kind of expecting her to call.”
“It’s only me,” he said. “You called, remember? I just got your message. We were in Connecticut for the week, only got back a few minutes ago.” He hesitated. “Is everything okay? With you and Evie, I mean?”
“Oh, sure. Her father’s sick, so she went out there to stay with him for a while.”
“I’m hearing something else in your voice, old friend.”
“I miss her,” I said. “It’s empty around here without her, that’s all. I’m not sure when she’ll be back.” I hesitated. “I’ve got a peculiar question for you.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” he said. “You’re a peculiar person. What is it?”
Charlie had been my law school roommate back in New Haven. He joined the U.S. Department of Justice when he graduated, and he’d been an attorney in the Boston office for most of his career. We’d been best friends all that time. There had been a couple of occasions when he didn’t mind bending some bureaucratic regulations to dig up information that I needed. I’d done him a few favors, too. That, we told each other, was what friends were for.
“I was just wondering,” I said, “what the FBI’s solve rate is on kidnapping cases.”
“Kidnapping, huh?” he said. “Where’d that come from?”
“Just idle curiosity.”
“Idle? Jesus, Brady. I hope to hell—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
I heard him blow out a breath. “Okay,” he said. “If by solve rate you mean how often do they catch the bad guys, it’s pretty good. I don’t have a statistic for you, but it’s way over fifty percent. Sixty or seventy, I’d say. On the other hand, most of these cases are amateur hour. Mr. Magoo could solve them.”
“Thinking about the, um, nonamateur cases,” I said, “do you have any idea how frequently the hostage is released or rescued unharmed?”
“Listen,” he said, “the Feebs are better at that sort of thing than anybody. They’ve got the technology and the training and the experience. That’s all you need to know. And you should tell me what the hell is going on.”
“I wish I could.”
“Well, shit,” he said. “If I’d gone fishing with you—”
“I wouldn’t even have raised the subject,” I said. “That wasn’t why I called you. I wanted to go fishing, just like I said, and anyway, this afternoon I didn’t know what I know now.”
“I’m still sorry I wasn’t with you,” he said. “It would’ve been fun. You caught five rainbows, huh?”
“Rising fish, all of them,” I said. “They ate a little deerhair beetle imitation. Henry was with me. He was quite impressed with my skill.”
“Your dog’s never seen me in action is why. So, listen. About this kidnapping.”
“I didn’t say anything about any kidnapping,” I said.
“Okay. So you didn’t. Be careful, will you?”
“Always.”
“Tell Evie hi for me
when you talk to her.”
“I sure will.”
“You’ve got my cell phone number,” he said. “Don’t hesitate to use it.”
“Next time I want to go fishing,” I said.
“Any time,” he said.
Melville had no problem putting me to sleep that night, and it wasn’t until I woke up Monday morning in an empty bed that I realized Evie had never called.
I called Julie at the office a little after nine. She reluctantly confirmed what I thought I remembered—that my first appointment of the day wasn’t until eleven. I told her that’s when I’d be there, and before she could launch her predictable speech about my responsibilities to my clients and the necessity of accruing billable hours and all the paperwork we had to do, I said, “I’ve got something important that can’t wait. Gotta go right now. Thanks.” And I hung up.
Henry was sitting there watching me. “You stay here and guard the house,” I told him. “Don’t forget to bark at that shifty UPS guy if he tries to leave a parcel on the front porch.”
Henry lay down and dropped his chin onto his paws.
I squatted beside him and scratched that magic place on his forehead. “I know you miss Evie,” I said to him. “I do, too. Looks like it’s going to be just us two bachelors for a while, so we’ll have to make the best of it. Okay?”
He rolled his eyes and looked up at me without lifting his head. Then he sighed and closed them. Henry would handle the situation in his own way. He’d sleep through it.
I put the kidnappers’ CD in one jacket pocket and their cell phone in another one, made sure Henry’s water dish was full, gave him a new rawhide bone for company, and left the house.
I picked up a dozen donuts at the bakery on Newbury Street—six glazed, six jelly-filled—and walked into Gordon Cahill’s PI office on Exeter Street around quarter of ten.
His wife had designed the space. It was open and airy, with bright abstract paintings and big potted plants and modern furniture. The areas were defined with movable partitions rather than walls, so I could see Gordie’s office space from the doorway.
When I stepped inside, he looked up and frowned. He was on the phone. Then he noticed the donut box in my hand, and he smiled and pointed to the chair across from his desk.
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