Deep Pockets (Carlotta Carlyle Mysteries Book 10)

by Linda Barnes

  “I heard he was a rower. You know anything about that?”

  “Like rowin’ boats? Nah. He’s in good shape, though. Weight lifter. Prison athlete. Gotta be strong, protect yourself from the ass-grabbers.”

  I was waiting for him to make a move. If he tried to pat my ass, I was going to plant my knee in his jewels.

  “Known associates besides Church?”

  “Really, Carlotta, what’s it matter?”

  “Hey, I’m buying you lunch, aren’t I, Jake?”

  “He did something, right?”

  “That would be telling.”

  “You don’t have to. People don’t change. Trust me on that. When I started out, I was like idealistic. Really, I fuckin’ was. But people don’t change. Same old, same old. They come around in a big revolving door, and Benjy’ll waltz right through my door again. You’ll see.”

  Benjy wouldn’t, but I didn’t want to disturb the man’s worldview. We finished our cheeseburgers. I got him to promise he’d leave Freddie Church’s last known address on my answering machine. He urged me to have another beer or two, on him, really. He hadn’t spent time with a woman as good-looking as me in a long, long time.

  I wanted to tell him that with breath like his, it was no fucking wonder, but a source is a source, so I smiled and told him I had to run. I fed the coins I hadn’t fed the meter into a vending machine and grabbed a Herald.

  A meter maid was fast approaching my car when I retrieved it. You’re not supposed to park at a broken meter. It’s a ticketing offense, one of the many gotchas of Boston driving. I mean, where’s the logic? There aren’t enough meters, and most existing meters are broken; therefore, let’s make it illegal to park at broken meters. I pulled into a loading zone to escape the rampant meter maid, spread the newspaper across the steering wheel.

  The Herald had dug up some stuff on Dowling, unearthing both the mother in South Easton and his criminal record. The mother said, “He was a good boy,” with predictable lack of originality. What are you supposed to say when some cop comes to the door in the middle of the night and tells you your kid’s dead? The words the reporter chose to paint Dowling made him a working-class hero, a man who’d paid his debt to society and was well on the road to rehabilitation when tragedy, in the form of a dark blue van, struck him down. The article made much of the grieving mom, but it didn’t name the van’s owner.

  A van seemed an odd choice of vehicle for Chaney. I was banking on his innocence, and I didn’t know him well enough to predict what kind of car he’d drive. I didn’t want to go home because I didn’t want to be there if Officer Burkett stopped by. Instead, I parked four streets away from Dowling’s apartment and figured out how to approach the garage from the street behind Chestnut. I wasn’t planning to do anything in daylight, but a full-light reconnaissance seemed advisable. I reconfirmed that the garage had no windows.

  Leon didn’t call and I didn’t call him. I phoned Gloria and gave her the plate on the black TransAm. She’d hear if it had been towed or reported stolen. Probably it was parked in the damned locked garage, with the kayak still perched on top. But if it was, how had Benjy Dowling gotten from his place to Birmingham Parkway?

  All day, I felt like the shoe was poised to drop. When it finally fell, it didn’t land with a thud, but with a shrill ring. It wasn’t Chaney’s voice on the line this time. This time, the call came from a lawyer. Todd Geary, Wilson Chaney’s attorney, would appreciate it if I would be at his office on Monday morning at nine o’clock. It sounded more like a summons than a request.

  CHAPTER 16

  I knew Todd Geary by reputation. He used to work for one of the hotshot firms in the financial district, until he made the fateful decision to divorce his wife, aka the boss’s daughter. Now he toiled at a smaller firm, of which he was sole proprietor, located in Kendall Square. He wasn’t a criminal lawyer, never had been, more of a financial wheeler-dealer.

  At nine o’clock, I found a parking place on Binney Street and hiked toward the river, pushing against a chilly wind. Geary’s Cambridge Parkway building seemed to have no security, just a board in the dismal lobby, giving the names of tenants and their office numbers. The elevator was empty and slow, a private cubicle, so I took advantage and tugged my panty hose higher at the waist. I was wearing my best Filene’s Basement black meet-a-lawyer suit, sleek lightweight wool. The suit was comfortable enough, but the damned panty hose were coming off the minute the meeting ended.

  Geary’s furniture outclassed his surroundings, which made me wonder whether he’d lifted the rosewood desk and credenza from his previous office. There was no receptionist, although there was a reception desk, so it was possible he’d timed our get-together for a moment when his receptionist was taking a break. Also possible that he had no receptionist. He rose to greet me, a man in his thirties with the spare look of a long-distance runner. He wore a crisp blue shirt with a sharp white collar, Turnbull & Asser quality. His slacks were charcoal and matched the jacket neatly arranged on a wooden hanger behind the door. When he resumed his seat, I noticed that his expensive shoes were worn at the heel.

  “I hear you do good work,” he said with forced cheerfulness.

  There are people in town who say nice things about me, but I’m not sure they outnumber those who voice complaints. He didn’t volunteer his source, so I waited.

  “I suppose you know Dr. Chaney from Harvard?” He smiled engagingly. He had very even white teeth, a longish nose, opaque gray eyes.

  “No.” I displayed some teeth, as well.

  “Wilson hasn’t told me a great deal.”

  I stayed silent. I like to stand mute around lawyers, and most of the time they enjoy the sound of their own voices so much, they hardly notice. So far, the meeting appeared to be a fishing expedition with Geary trying to find out exactly why I was sitting in his office chair.

  “Does he know you from Harvard?” I asked when the conversation showed signs of grinding to a complete stop.

  “No.”

  An impasse. I was debating whether to ask if we might send out for coffee when he decided to continue.

  “I represent Dr. Chaney vis-à-vis his interests in Improvisational Technologies. The commercialization of academic research in 1999 alone resulted in more than forty billion dollars in economic activity, supporting more than two hundred and seventy thousand jobs. That’s from the AUTM, just out.”

  “AUTM?”

  “Association of University Technology Managers.”

  “Are you a member?”

  “No.” Geary looked as if he was enjoying our conversation about as much as he’d enjoy sitting on shards of glass. His restless fingers tapped the desktop. “Um, there are potential areas of conflict whenever a university and a private enterprise are involved in a joint venture. I represent Dr. Chaney’s interests, both with Harvard’s Office of Technology and Trademark Licensing and with outside firms, venture capital, so forth. Ah, good, here he is. I was getting a little worried; it’s not like Wilson to be late.”

  Chaney wore a lightweight navy suit over a sky blue T-shirt. He’d pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head and carried a slim black attach’ case.

  “Everything okay?” Geary asked intently as he shook hands and waved him into the chair next to mine.

  “If you mean, have I been arrested yet, the answer is no, I haven’t. Fording told me to take a few days off, but don’t worry, I’ll still be at the lab.”

  “But not teaching?”

  “No.” Chaney turned to me, nodded, then focused on the attorney. “Have you given her the money?”

  “I was waiting for—”

  “Do it.”

  Geary’s lips tightened. “Ms. Carlyle, I have been instructed to hire you, and to pay you a retainer of one thousand dollars. Unfortunately, I cannot tell you what services you are expected to perform for that fee, or for any other monies you may receive.”

  Using a tiny gold key, he unlocked the top drawer of the rosewood desk, then
removed a thick envelope and passed it to me. It wasn’t sealed. The ten one-hundred-dollar bills were crisp.

  Chaney said, “Now go for a walk, Todd.”

  The attorney bristled. “That’s not necessary. If she’s working for me, and I’m working for you, I ought to know what this is about.”

  “What you ought to do is keep my name out of the papers, Todd. And keep your ears open.”

  “Well, I have. Kept them open, I mean. Is she allowed to know what I’ve heard?”

  “Yes.”

  The attorney lowered his voice. “The police haven’t found whoever stole your car. But they have found a witness to the accident.” He shuffled through a pile of papers on his desk until he located a folded yellow square. “Here it is. An elderly woman pulled into a parking lot along Soldiers Field Road to change from her reading glasses to her regular lenses. Woman named Myra Crump. Looked up when she heard a loud noise. Says the victim was carried on the front of the van for almost two hundred yards. According to her, the driver must have known he hit someone.”

  “Unless he was drunk out of his mind,” I offered.

  “She felt certain he hit the man on purpose.”

  “Why?”

  “Something about the movement and speed of the van.”

  “That’s no good,” I said, “not if she says she looked up when she heard the thump.”

  “I agree.”

  “Plus, it doesn’t speak to Dr. Chaney’s involvement. His car was stolen.”

  The lawyer said, “But he hadn’t reported it.”

  I said, “Look, I live in Cambridge, too. My car’s been stolen twice and I do everything but chain the damn thing to a tree. Professor Chaney didn’t realize it had been stolen yet. Thieves don’t ring your bell and tell you it’s gone.”

  “Exactly,” the lawyer said. “I agree. I think the police are overstepping themselves on this.”

  “So they don’t have anything else?”

  He pressed his lips together and rechecked the small slip of paper. “Well, they may. The Brighton station got a phone call early this morning. The caller described the driver as a black man in his forties, well dressed.”

  “Shit,” Chaney muttered under his breath.

  “Have they asked you to participate in a lineup?” I asked Chaney. “Did they take your photo?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Wilson,” Geary said, “I’d seriously advise you to hire a criminal attorney. I can recommend some very good people.”

  “No, Todd.”

  “In fact, at this point, I’d advise you to hire a lawyer you trust.”

  “I do trust you, Todd. You know that; you’re the best.”

  “But—”

  “Why don’t you take that walk?”

  “Wilson, if I didn’t consider you a friend, I’d—”

  “I know. I appreciate it. Someday I’ll tell you all about it, but right now—”

  “Fifteen minutes.” The lawyer clipped off the phrase, shrugged into his suit coat, and abandoned his office.

  “Have the police come to see you?” Chaney asked as soon as the door closed.

  “Think he’s running a tape?”

  “No.”

  “I haven’t heard from them.”

  “Good.”

  “I expect to,” I said.

  “My letters?”

  “They’re safe.”

  “You won’t destroy them? Or return them?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You don’t trust me,” he said reproachfully.

  “I haven’t given them to the police,” I said.

  “Yes, well, listen, we don’t have much time. Friday, when I came to see you—was it Friday?”

  “Yes. The middle of the night.”

  “I haven’t slept for so—”

  “What?” I tried to keep my impatience in check.

  “I told you I’d been at home, asleep, when the accident occurred.”

  “And then you said your wife wouldn’t confirm your alibi.”

  “Couldn’t. Because I wasn’t there.”

  I settled back into my chair and crossed my legs, taking care not to display my new underwear.

  “I got a phone call,” he went on. “On my cell. Very few people know my private line.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I thought it was, um, a student of mine, Sarah Bigelow. She said she needed help. She asked me to meet her on the Weeks Bridge. You know where that is?”

  The Midnight Tango Bridge.

  “She sounded confused and worried. Desperate. If someone you knew had killed herself recently, and then you got a call from a woman rambling almost incoherently, well, you’d have gone, too. But now, I think I—”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. It got me out of the house.”

  “You’re telling me you think you were set up for the hit-and-run.”

  “I’m telling you she didn’t show up.”

  “Did anyone? Is there anyone who can alibi you?”

  “I didn’t see anyone I know. And now I’m not even sure there is a Sarah Bigelow in my class. I know there’s a Sarah, but the intro classes are so big and I’ve taught for so many years.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police about the call?”

  “Well, first of all, I hadn’t told Margo I was going. I knew it would upset her. She’s a—she’s been ill.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I thought she’d back me up. I didn’t realize she’d heard me leave. And frankly, does it sound likely to you?”

  I could see his point.

  “Do you think I should tell them now?” he asked.

  It’s not like I’ve never lied to a cop.

  I said, “I’d leave it. There will be plenty of time to spring it on them, and in the meantime, they might find something to exonerate you.”

  Chaney expelled a breath. “I don’t think they’re looking to exonerate me. I think they’re looking to prove I did it. And if I’m not mistaken, the evidence will turn up.”

  “You mean someone will provide it?”

  “Yes. The same way they got me out of my house. I want you to find out who is doing this to me. I mean, isn’t it reasonable that Dowling was blackmailing more than one person? Don’t blackmailers tend to do that?”

  “You’re saying somebody else Dowling was blackmailing decided to kill him—and that person knew Dowling was blackmailing you as well.”

  “So he used my car. Yes. Exactly.”

  I hadn’t found anything in Dowling’s apartment that indicated he was blackmailing anyone else. On the other hand, it had been too easy altogether to find Chaney’s love letters. After my meeting with Garnowski, I was wondering whether Dowling might have had a partner in the blackmail, a partner who’d tired of him.

  I said, “They won’t arrest you unless they have more than an old woman and a phone call saying the driver was black.”

  “Something will be provided,” he said. “Some type of trumped-up evidence.”

  “You need to hire a criminal attorney.”

  “Geary’s qualified to arrange bail if it comes to that. And he’s good. He can keep my name out of the papers.”

  “And that’s more important than hiring somebody who knows the game?”

  “Right now, yes.”

  “Todd Geary used to specialize in companies going public. This is the same man, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s he doing for you? Is Improvisational Technologies going public?”

  “This is a bad time for public offerings.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “Improvisational Technologies has been looking for an outside partner, someone with considerable funds to invest. Several meetings have been set up, and my presence at those meetings is imperative. I need to be totally focused on presenting our findings to potential investors.”

  “I thought Improvisational Technologies was partnered with Harvard.”

  “We are.”


  “Harvard has more money than God.”

  “But the more money Harvard puts in, the more money Harvard expects to take out.”

  “What does Improvisational Technologies do?”

  “The major thrust is research.” He stared at his wristwatch. “I have one of those meetings in fifteen minutes.”

  “Research in what area?”

  “In alternative therapies to methylphenidate.”

  “You’re developing something new for ADHD?” Methylphenidate is the generic name for Ritalin. If he thought he could shut me down by using the chemical name, he was wrong.

  His mouth twitched. “You must know someone with ADHD.”

  “Yes. Or I should say possibly. One psychologist thought my little sister might have it.”

  “Not surprising. There’s a huge potential market, particularly for a substance with fewer side effects than CNS stimulants, like Ritalin, Concerta, and Adderall. How old is your sister?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Was she younger when it was diagnosed?”

  “It was five years ago.”

  “CNS stimulants can have a very different effect, depending on the age when the drug is first given. Is she medicated?”

  “No.”

  “At fifteen, I would probably advise against it. There are so many variables when dealing with the brain. We’re only now seeing lasting neurological changes, elevated levels of certain proteins like CREB. That’s why a new approach, a unique approach to the disease—or rather, to the symptoms—would be invaluable.”

  “Unique meaning patentable?”

  “Yes.”

  When Chaney’d walked into the lawyer’s office, he’d looked exhausted and worn-out, but as he spoke about his research, his eyes brightened and his back straightened. I remembered Denali’s roommate, Jeannie, describing Chaney as a vital, exciting lecturer. In the lecture she’d recalled, he’d issued a warning against educational medicalization. Now it sounded as though the man who’d preached against the overuse of drugs was developing his own.