“He said nothing to me about it,” I said.
Horowitz looked at me for a minute. “There was one little piece of evidence at the crime scene that you might find interesting.”
“You going to share it with me?”
“Benetti wouldn’t like it, but, hey. Disclosure, right? Gotta disclose sooner or later. Anyway, I wondered if you might have a take on it.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“A hotel matchbook,” he said. “One of the techs found it, photographed it, tagged it, and bagged it. It was lying on the floor just outside of the door to the murder room. It had indentations on it that exactly matched the shape of the latch on the door.”
“As if it had been wedged in there so the door wouldn’t lock,” I said. “So somebody could get in from the outside without a key.”
He nodded. “When your client pushed on the door, it opened and the matchbook fell out.”
“She was telling the truth about that,” I said.
“As far as it goes, yeah, looks that way,” Horowitz said. “Maybe, but that doesn’t exactly exonerate her. Her lover there, our vic, he could’ve jammed the latch with that matchbook so he could wait for her in his bathtub, or in his bed or something, and she could just waltz right in there with her steak knife.”
“You really think that’s what happened?” I asked.
“Benetti does,” he said. “Me, I’m trying to think about some other scenarios. The null hypothesis. Suppose the lady did not stab our vic with a steak knife in that hotel room. Suppose her story is the truth. How else could it have gone down?”
“Who put the matchbook in the latch, for example,” I said, “if you assume it wasn’t Ken?”
Horowitz looked at me and nodded. “The killer, for example.”
“Could be, huh?” I asked.
“Why would the killer do that?”
“Because he planned to come back,” I said. “Or he was leaving the room open for somebody else.”
“Somebody who was gonna pick up that bag of Special K, for example.”
“Sure,” I said, “or if he somehow knew that Sharon was expected, he could’ve left the door that way so she’d walk in and become a suspect.”
Horowitz grinned. “Which she did.”
“That guy in the hoodie,” I said. “He was heading for Ken’s room. Looking to score that ketamine, maybe. The killer left the door unlatched for him. When he saw Sharon and me, he ran.”
Horowitz shrugged. “Could be. Makes as much sense as your client doing it. Doesn’t mean she didn’t. Benetti might be right. Hell, for all I know you might be sitting there knowing how stupid this sounds, knowing what she did.” He cocked his head and looked at me.
I smiled. “What do you want me to say?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“You know I can’t—”
“Christ, Coyne. What do you think? I just wanted to relax, drink a beer, enjoy your little garden after a hard day at work, your nice little oasis of peace and calm here in the middle of the big bad city, have a little low-key conversation, share an interesting tidbit of information with you, that’s all.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
“No more shop talk,” he said. “Okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “Okay.”
“You won’t tell Marcia I was here, right?”
I shrugged.
“Come on, Coyne. She’d kill me.”
“Looks like you owe me one,” I said.
“I told you about the damn matchbook,” he said. “What do you want?”
I nodded. “You’re right. Call it even. I promise I won’t tell Marcia that you were here.”
He grinned. “So,” he said, “how about them Red Sox, huh?”
Horowitz stayed around for one more beer, and we talked baseball, with a little city politics and stock market thrown in. The subject of Ken Nichols’s murder did not come up again.
After he left, Henry and I had dinner—a bowl of Alpo for him, a ham-and-cheese sandwich for me.
After dinner we went into my downstairs home office, where I called Billy’s cell phone. It rang just once before he said, “Hey, Pop.”
“Hey yourself,” I said. “I’m calling to make a date.”
“You name it,” he said.
We decided that Billy and Gwen would come to my place for a cookout the next evening. He and Gwen would bring rib eyes and potatoes and salad fixin’s. I’d provide beer for us guys and a good Shiraz for Gwen. If our mild late-April weather persisted, we’d cook on the gas grill on my back deck and eat outside at the picnic table, and Billy and Gwen would tell me whatever it was that they came east to tell me.
When I hung up with my son, I realized I was smiling. I liked having him nearby, for a change. I looked forward to hanging out with him.
Julie had insisted I bring home the remainder of the paperwork that I hadn’t finished during the day, and I figured I better get on top of it, because she’d have more for me tomorrow.
I was making good headway on it when my phone rang. I glanced at my watch. It was a few minutes after nine o’clock.
It was Sharon Nichols. “I hope I’m not bothering you,” she said.
“Au contraire,” I said. “You’re giving me a reprieve from a pile of boring deskwork. How are you doing?”
“I’m okay, I guess,” she said. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to be. How is one supposed to feel when her ex-husband gets murdered?”
“I assume that’s a rhetorical question.”
“Sure,” she said, “but if you’ve got an answer, I’d love to hear it.”
“I guess you should just feel whatever you feel,” I said.
“Well, that’s what I’ve been doing. And I’m okay. I went to work today.”
“Where do you work?”
“I manage a leather shop in Concord center.”
“A leather shop.”
She laughed quickly. “It’s not how it sounds. Nothing kinky. Women’s apparel. Jackets, belts, vests, skirts, sandals. Lots of boots. Hand-tooled stuff.”
“Sounds classy,” I said.
“It’s nice,” she said, “and I like it. Different from being a vet’s assistant. I miss the animals, but I like the people. So, yes, I worked all day, and it was fine, and I guess I’m fine, and I’ll be even finer if you can tell me they’re not going to arrest me.”
“I don’t know that for sure,” I said, “but every day that goes by, the odds get better. You should just try not to think about it.”
“Easier said than done.” She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “You met Ellen today, I understand?”
“She dropped by my office. We had a good chat. She seems like a mature young woman.”
“Can I ask you what she wanted to talk about?”
“She’ll probably tell you if you ask.”
“Oh,” she said. “I get it. It’s a lawyer confidentiality thing.”
“Not really,” I said. “It’s just a human being confidentiality thing. Ellen’s not my client, so I don’t have a professional obligation to her. I wouldn’t tell her things you said to me, either, whether or not you were my client.”
“Okay,” she said after a minute. “That’s okay. That’s good. I just…” She blew out a breath.
“What?” I asked.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I just wondered if Ellen was blaming me. For what happened to Ken, I mean. I’ve always felt she blamed me for the divorce. She was always Daddy’s little girl.”
“Talk to her,” I said. “If you want, I can set you up with a good counselor. That might not be a bad idea in any case. I know a homicide counselor. She specializes in helping the relatives and friends of people who are murdered. Her name is Tally Whyte. She works out of the medical examiner’s office here in the city. If you and Ellen saw her together, you might…”
“Yes, hmm, maybe,” she said. “Interesting. I’ll think about it.” She hesitated. “The other thi
ng is, I haven’t been able to get hold of Wayne. I don’t quite know what to do.”
“You’ve tried calling him?”
“A dozen times,” she said. “He doesn’t answer.”
“His phone’s turned on?”
“It rings five or six times, and then this recorded voice answers and invites me to leave a message. Which I have done.”
“Is it Wayne’s voice?”
“The recording, you mean? No. It’s the phone company. A woman’s voice. She just says, ‘The person you are trying to reach is not available at this time. At the tone, please leave a message.’ Or something like that.”
“Is this unusual?”
“What do you mean?”
“Not being able to get hold of Wayne?”
“Truthfully,” she said, “I don’t try to get in touch with him very often anymore. He never answers his phone, never returns a call when you leave a message. Wayne’s kind of off on his own. He has been for a while. We’ve been shaky ever since the divorce. Lately, the past few years, we’ve just drifted apart.” She hesitated. “I haven’t talked to him for a long time.”
“Ellen gave me his number,” I said. “I’ll try.”
“That would be great,” Sharon said, “though I don’t know what you can do that I can’t do. He’ll either answer or he won’t.”
“Maybe he’s screening his calls.”
“Because he doesn’t want to talk to his mother?” she asked. “I suppose that’s possible. Well, I hope you can catch up with him. He needs to know what happened.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Brady. For everything. You put my mind at ease.”
“Shall I make an appointment with Tally Whyte for you?” I asked.
“Let me think about it,” she said.
After I hung up with Sharon, I tried Wayne’s cell phone number. Just as Sharon had reported, a recorded voice answered after about six rings, informing me that the person I was calling was not available and inviting me to leave a message. I declined that invitation.
I would persist.
I finished my paperwork a little after eleven. Henry and I went out back so he could pee and I could look at the stars. Alex loved the night sky. When she and her brother, Gus, were kids, they’d identified their own private set of constellations up there—Elvis and Snoopy and Marilyn Monroe. There were several others. When I was with Alex right after Gus was killed, she tried to teach them to me, and when she pointed them out, I could see them—Elvis’s guitar, Snoopy’s ears, Marilyn’s bosom.
I could see nothing but a sky full of random, disconnected stars. She liked to say that it was one of the big differences between us—she saw order where I saw chaos. She said that I needed her to bring some coherence into my life, and I thought maybe she was right, although I doubted she’d ever convince me that life was orderly.
Standing out on my back deck looking at the starry sky made me feel closer to Alex. I knew that she always stepped out back behind her house up there in Garrison, Maine, before bedtime to check out her constellations. She said it was almost like being kids with Gus again. I knew that she missed him all the time. She said that it helped, knowing I was looking at the same sky she was, even if I was in Boston and she was in Maine, and even if I could see only randomness.
An hour later I was lying in my bed. Henry was curled up on the rug beside me. I picked up the telephone from my bedside table, rested it on my chest, and dialed Alex’s number in Maine.
It rang four or five times before she picked up. “Hello?” she said. She sounded a little breathless.
“You’re wide-awake, aren’t you,” I said.
“I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth. I dashed for the phone. Wanted to grab it before you hung up on me. Wait a minute.”
I heard what I guessed was the rustle of sheets and blankets, and then Alex said, “There. I’m all tucked in. Are you?”
“Yes. All tucked in.”
“I miss you.”
“Me, too. I wouldn’t have hung up.”
“Umm,” she said. “I know. Why don’t I come down to you this weekend.”
“You know how much I like to get away from the city,” I said, “and Henry loves your woods. But, yes, I think it would be better if you came here.”
“Something’s going on, isn’t it?”
“I’ve got a new case that might require some attention,” I said. “Plus, Billy’s in town with his friend Gwen.”
“His girlfriend?”
“He insists on calling her his friend. Says she’s not his girlfriend. Anyway, you and Billy haven’t seen each other in years.”
“Not since our, um, first relationship,” Alex said. “He was a kid back then. He must be a man now.”
“He is.”
“I like this one,” she said softly.
“This what?”
“This relationship. Our second one. Maybe we’ll get it right this time.”
“I hope so,” I said. “I bet we will.”
“Do you really hope so?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Even if you still miss Evie.”
“I am still aware of Evie’s absence,” I said. “Which isn’t quite the same thing.”
“You shared a house with her for all those years.”
“Those years after you,” I said. “After you dumped me.”
Alex chuckled quietly. “I’m not going to rise to that bait again.”
“I shared a life with Evie,” I said. “Not just a house. But I’m not doing that anymore. Sometimes, like when I see the daffodils blooming out back, the bulbs she planted, I’m reminded of her, and sometimes that makes me a little sad. Then I look up at the night sky and try to find Snoopy and Elvis, and even when I can’t see them, I’m reminded of you. I know you can show them to me, and that makes me happy.”
“That’s nice,” she said.
“Shall I expect you at suppertime on Friday?”
“I’ll bring supper,” she said. “Your job is to be sure there’s plenty of beer in the fridge.”
“Beer. You got it.”
She was quiet for a minute. Then I heard her yawn. “I’m pretty sleepy. Gonna shut my eyes now. G’night, honey. Sleep tight, ’kay?”
“You, too, babe.”
“I didn’t dump you.”
“It was my fault,” I said.
“Mmm-hmmm,” she mumbled. “My own sweetie.” Then she disconnected.
I hung up the phone and put it back on the table beside my bed. Henry was snuffling in his sleep. I lay there for a few minutes, looking up into the darkness, and I felt happy. Then I closed my eyes and went to sleep.
Twelve
I tried calling Wayne Nichols about half a dozen times on Tuesday. I called from my landline at home while I was eating breakfast. I called from my cell phone as I walked to the office. The first time I tried him from my office phone, I accepted the recorded message’s invitation. “Wayne,” I said, “my name is Brady Coyne. I’m an old friend of both of your parents. They used to take care of my pets when I lived in Wellesley. Maybe you remember my boys, Billy and Joey. They’re about your age. Anyway, I have some news for you about your mother and father. It’s very important. Please give me a call, the sooner the better.” I left him my home, cell, and office numbers.
When he didn’t call me back after an hour or so, I tried him again, and as the day passed I called his number several more times from my office, and then again from my cell phone as I walked home. Each time, the same recorded greeting answered after five or six rings and invited me to leave a message, which I didn’t. If he wasn’t going to answer my first message, I saw no point in repeating myself.
I didn’t know how to interpret the fact that Wayne did not respond to his mother’s or his sister’s messages and did not answer mine. His phone was charged up and turned on, which seemed to mean that he was using it. I assumed that he heard it when it rang and had been collecting his messages.
I decided that on Wednesday I’d drive up to Websterville, New Hampshire, and try to track down Wayne Nichols. He needed to know that his father had been murdered.
On my way home from the office that afternoon, I stopped at the spirits store on Newbury Street, where I bought two six-packs of Long Trail Double Bag Ale, a tasty microbrew from Vermont, and a bottle of a Napa Valley Shiraz recommended by the clerk. Then at DeLuca’s on Charles Street I picked up a wedge of brie, a hunk of extra-sharp cheddar, and two boxes of crackers.
By six o’clock, when Billy and Gwen, each bearing a big paper grocery bag, banged on my front door, I had the ale on ice and the wine decanted and the cheese and crackers on plates on my kitchen table.
Billy was wearing his usual outfit—jeans, flannel shirt, and sandals. His long dark-blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail and tied with a length of rawhide. Gwen wore snug-fitting jeans and a scoop-neck peasant blouse. Her hair was short and straight and black. She wore it combed back, with long dangly silver earrings. With her big dark eyes and olive skin, she looked like a gypsy.
They both gave me a one-armed hug, set their bags on the floor, and scootched down to rub Henry’s belly. He’d rolled onto his back to make it easy for them. Then I led them through the house to the kitchen, where they stowed their provisions in the refrigerator.
Billy and I grabbed a bottle of ale, and Gwen poured herself a glass of wine, and we took the crackers and cheese and our drinks out back and sat in the Adirondack chairs.
I held up my bottle. “Cheers,” I said. “Welcome to Beacon Hill.”
Billy clicked his bottle on mine. Gwen held up her wineglass.
“This is nice,” I said. “I like having you guys around.”
“Won’t be for long,” Billy said. “We’ve got to head out in a few days. We’ve got jobs to get back to.”
“When’re you leaving?”
“Sunday,” he said. “I’ve got to help get the boats and stuff ready to go for the fishing season, and I’ve got a float trip scheduled for next Friday.”
“Alex will be down from Maine this weekend,” I said. “She’s my, um, my new girlfriend. You met her several years ago when she was my old girlfriend. She was hoping she’d get to see you.”
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