Dead Winter

by William G. Tapply

  “Okay,” I said. “Your job is to get the gear organized. Des has it all in the garage. He’ll help you put together what we need. I’ll meet you there at six. We can go over to Plum Island, try the outer beach.”

  “Really? You’ll really take me?”

  “Isn’t that what lawyers are for?”

  “And you’ll teach me how to do it?”

  “We’ll see how apt you are.”

  She reached up and put her hands on the tops of my shoulders. “You are a dear man,” she said, “and I think you will find me very apt.”

  Her mouth approached mine as if in slow motion. Her eyes were wide and inquisitive, as if she might retreat if she detected a negative clue in my face. The truth was that her pelvis pressing itself against mine more than counteracted the feeble, if sensible, “no” that came from my brain.

  She was Des’s daughter, after all. I thought of her as the college kid she had been when I first met her, not this thirty-two-year-old businesswoman. Besides, I preferred my seductions to be mutual and subtle.

  But there was her pelvis, and when she kissed me I kissed her right back, and I had the distinct feeling that kissing was an art she had practiced, an exercise more in proficiency than in spontaneous passion. A marketing tool, perhaps.

  Proficient, hell. She was truly gifted. Her tongue and her teeth and her lips all embarked on separate but neatly coordinated missions, complementing perfectly the work of her fingers at the back of my neck and that persuasive thrust and roll of her hips.

  She slid her mouth away from mine an instant before I would have—another measure of her gift. She stood away from me smiling. She rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Jesus, Kat.”

  “Something else lawyers do?”

  “Oh, yeah. We are great kissers.”

  She grinned and had the good sense to refrain from innuendo. She opened the car door and ducked inside. Then she rolled down the window. “Tomorrow at six, then,” she said.

  “At Des’s house.”

  “You will see just how apt I can be.”

  9

  I LEFT KAT AND aimed my BMW for Boston. When a sign announced that I had entered Danvers, I had an idea. So I exited Route 95 in Topsfield and got onto Route 1. I found the Sleepytime Motel on the right. It was almost eleven o’clock. I hoped the same night manager who had discovered Nathan Greenberg’s body would be on duty this evening, too.

  The motel looked like it had been built during the postwar automobile boom, forty years earlier, when U.S. Route 1 funneled vacationers from Boston and Hartford and even New York City to resorts in Hampton and Ogunquit and Kennebunkport, and truckers steamed up and down the coast, and businesses boomed everywhere. Then along came Interstate 95, all eight lanes of it, and Route 1 was left to the locals and the occasional aimless tourist. The motels and gas stations and ice cream stands that had sprouted along the roadside like goldenrod in the forties and fifties were mostly either boarded up or torn down or converted into shops selling automobile parts and carpet remnants.

  The Sleepytime Motel typified that postwar, no-non-sense, put-’em-up-quick-and-cheap school of architecture, a series of plywood boxes joined and stacked in the shape of a shallow angular horseshoe. Twenty-four units, twelve down and twelve up. A red neon sign boasted of waterbeds, telephones, and cable television. Grass grew from cracks in the concrete turnaround. The neon failed to illuminate the L in the word MOTEL on the sign. There was a half-finished swimming pool under construction in front. Judging by the way weeds sprouted from the piles of dirt, that project had been terminated.

  I parked outside the office and went in. A pale young man with a short fuzzy haircut was lounging in a swivel chair behind the counter. He wore earphones and was reading a paperback book. My “Hello” failed to capture his attention.

  I moved into his peripheral vision and waved my hands. His eyebrows jerked up and he smiled. He turned off the radio in his shirt pocket, closed his book onto his forefinger, plucked off his earphones, and stood up.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said. “Can I get you a room?”

  “Are you Bernard Tabor?”

  He frowned. “Yes, sir.”

  “You were here the night Nathan Greenberg was murdered, then?”

  He nodded eagerly. “I found the body. It was me who called the police. They quoted me in the paper.”

  His paperback was a detective story by Ed McBain. I wondered if crime fiction was a recently acquired taste of his. He leaned his forearms on the counter toward me, eager, it seemed, for an audience.

  I lit a cigarette. “I have to go over some questions with you again.”

  “Boy, you guys are thorough.”

  I gave him a stern, no-nonsense, official-business glare. “We have to be,” I said. He nodded eagerly. He wouldn’t ask me for identification. He wanted me to be some sort of official person. He had lucked into a moment of fame and would welcome every chance to milk it.

  “Tell me what happened again, Mr. Tabor.” Joe Friday had nothing on me. Just the facts.

  “Well,” he said, “I was on duty from four to midnight Sunday, okay? At midnight we close up, because there’s just not that much transient business on Route 1 these days. Not worth keeping a man on duty all night. Mr. Franklin, the day man, he was sick so he asked me to take his place Monday. Yesterday, that is. That’s how come I was here in the morning. I’m happy for the work. I mean, it’s not that hard, you know? I’m working my way through school, I can use all the money I can get. Mr. Franklin worked today. He was pissed he’d missed all the excitement. Anyway, I came back on at seven yesterday morning. Terry, the girl who cleans the rooms, she comes on at eight. So about eleven thirty she tells me number seven’s got the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. Now, I figure the man’s still got the girl in there—”

  “What girl?”

  “Like I told the papers. He had a visitor, oh, maybe nine Sunday night. I didn’t check the time. Didn’t really think about it. Girls come and go in this place, to tell you the truth. Anyhow, I didn’t notice her leave, which doesn’t mean she didn’t, just that I didn’t notice. Or she could’ve left after I closed the office. But I figured maybe she was still there, or else she stayed late and Mr. Greenberg was sleeping in. You know, not much sleep…”

  He waggled his eyebrows. I nodded and smiled appreciatively at his suggestion. “What did the girl look like?”

  “I didn’t really see her. Not so I could describe her. I just happened to glance out the window and saw the car pull up in front of seven. I wasn’t paying attention. She got out of the car and went in.” He shrugged.

  “Did you get a look at the car?”

  He shook his head. “My view was blocked by the other cars.”

  “How do you know it was a woman?”

  “She was wearing a dress. I could see her bare legs.”

  “Color of hair?”

  “It was too dark to see.” He lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “You guys asked me all this already. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “Anyway, about one Terry came by again. She’s all upset, because she still hasn’t gotten into seven, and she’s done all the rest and she wants to leave. So I went over and knocked on the door. I yelled for Mr. Greenberg. It was completely quiet in there. Thinking back, it was spooky quiet, you know what I mean?”

  I nodded.

  “At first I figured the guy just forgot to flip the sign around when he left. Then I noticed his car was still there. I knocked again. I had this weird feeling. Last winter some guy had a heart attack in his room, and when they found him he’d been dead for two days. So I unlocked the door. The curtains were closed and it was dark, so it took me a minute before my eyes adjusted. Oh, man! There was blood everywhere. I backed out and told Terry not to go in. Then I called the police.”

  “You did exactly the right thing,” I said.

  He pursed his lips. “I had to use some judgment.”


  “How did Mr. Greenberg pay for his room?”

  “Visa card. He took it for three nights.”

  “Did he make any phone calls from his room?”

  “Nope.”

  If this was the Nathan Greenberg who had tried to call me, he must have called me from a pay phone in Newburyport. It would have been at around the same time Snooker Lynch saw him talking to Maggie in front of Des’s house on High Street. Still, it would have been nice to be able to pin it down.

  “What about other visitors, Mr. Tabor?”

  He shrugged. “Not that I noticed. It’s not my business. People rent a room, they can do what they want in it. Most of the people who take rooms here are local, if you catch my drift.”

  “I catch your drift. Did you talk to Mr. Greenberg at all?”

  “Uh uh. Like I said, I came on at four. He had checked in by then and he was gone. I didn’t notice when he came back.”

  “But he was here when the girl came?”

  “I assume he was. His car was there. The girl parked beside it.”

  “But you don’t know what she was driving.”

  “No. She parked on the opposite side of his car from here. Not that I was paying that much attention.”

  “Is there anything you forgot to tell us before,” I said, “that you’ve remembered since then?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve been over and over it in my head. Wish I could picture that girl. She probably did it, right? Anyhow, I can’t. Don’t you sometimes—you know—hypnotize important witnesses? Get them to recall something that’s in their subconscious?”

  “We do that sometimes,” I said. “It’s a good idea. I’ll pass it along.”

  “I’m happy to help, you know. Anything I can do.”

  I nodded and held my hand to him. He seized it eagerly. “I appreciate your help, Mr. Tabor. We’ll be in touch.”

  He frowned. “I didn’t catch your name, sir.”

  “Horowitz,” I told him. “Detective Horowitz. State police.”

  He nodded slowly. “I figured you were a state police officer. I just put two and two together.”

  A female voice dripping cornpone and grits said, “Slavin, Jones” into the phone the next morning.

  “I’d like to speak to one of the lawyers,” I said.

  “This is one of the lawyers. It’s what we’ve got here. Lawyers. We’re an office plumb full of lawyers. Now, you just tell me what you want, I’ll hook you up with the right one. Divorce? Tax? Personal injury? Estate?”

  “I’m calling from Boston. About Nathan Greenberg.”

  “Right,” she said, as if she knew it all along. She hesitated. “You’ll have to talk to Mr. Slavin, then. He’s been handling this.”

  “I don’t care who I talk to,” I said, “but I’m not the police.”

  “Mr. Slavin’s already talked to the police.”

  “All I want to know is why Greenberg was in Boston.”

  “I’ll see if Mr. Slavin will talk to you.”

  A moment later a man’s voice said, “Who is this?”

  “My name is Brady Coyne. I’m a lawyer. I’m calling from Boston. I’m inquiring about the Greenberg case.”

  “Your police have already gone through their motions. What is your interest?” His voice lacked any discernible accent whatsoever.

  “It’s complicated,” I said. “I’m trying to establish a connection between Greenberg’s death and the death of a relative of a client of mine.”

  I heard Slavin sigh. “I spoke with a policeman on the telephone. Greenberg was in Boston for a client. What happened to him does not appear to be related to his business.”

  “How can you know that?”

  Slavin cleared his throat. “I told the police why he was in Boston and what kind of a man he was. It was they who seemed to feel his death was unrelated.”

  “What did his client want that brought him to Boston?”

  “Well, you know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Without your client’s permission.”

  “Technically.”

  “How might I get your client’s permission?”

  “I suppose I might ask for it.”

  “Would you?”

  He laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Your police,” he said. “They never asked that.”

  “What I’d like to do is talk to Greenberg’s client.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Mr. Slavin,” I said, “what kind of man was Greenberg?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You said you told the police what kind of man he was.”

  He hesitated. “That’s right. I did try to explain this to your police. It’s no great secret hereabouts.” He cleared his throat. “Let me put it this way, Mr. Coyne. Nathan Greenberg was a pretty fair country lawyer. He didn’t mind taking certain kinds of cases. You know, the sorts of cases that others might find, ah, distasteful. But cases that do need to be handled. In fact, he preferred them. For that reason, he was an important member of this firm. But, frankly, he was a rather unpleasant person. Most of us down here are not terribly distressed at his, ah, passing. Shocked, yes. Something like this is always a shock. But our firm will survive. And candidly, we will not miss Nathan Greenberg.”

  “Can you say more about that?”

  “His—well, his attitude toward women, actually.”

  “Sexually, you mean?”

  “Well, really, sir…”

  “Was he brutal, is that it?”

  Slavin said nothing for a long moment. Then he said, “I’ve already told you more than I should have, Mr. Coyne. I’m sure you understand.”

  I thanked Slavin and told him to have Greenberg’s client call me collect. He said he would, or else he’d get back to me himself.

  I tried Horowitz. He wasn’t in. I left my number. I tried to call Marc Winter and reached Des. He sounded depressed. Marc was out. Des said he’d ask him to return my call. I tidied up a will. I dictated a couple letters to Julie. Smoked a cigarette. Smoked another one. Called Kat at her office. Kat said she was busy but looked forward to fishing with me. She made it sound like an assignation.

  Marc called me back. “Maggie ever mention a guy named Nathan Greenberg?” I asked him.

  He hesitated, then said, “Not that I remember.”

  “This’d be a lawyer from North Carolina.”

  “Nope. Don’t think so. Why?”

  “A hunch. Can I ask you something more personal?”

  “You can ask.”

  “Maggie’s sexual preferences?”

  “Jesus, Brady.”

  “I mean, was she into sadomasochistic stuff?”

  “Chains and leather and whips, you mean?”

  “I guess that’s what I mean.”

  “Not with me she wasn’t. You think someone smashed in her head because it turned her on?”

  “Maybe it turned him on.”

  “She was healthy, Brady. Innovative, but, you know, conventional. She—”

  “Hey,” I interrupted. “I don’t want any details. You answered my question.”

  Horowitz returned my call about two thirty. “I thought of pretending I didn’t see this message,” he said.

  “Appreciate it. On Maggie Winter and Nathan Greenberg again.”

  “How’d I guess?”

  “Any chance of talking to whoever’s in charge of the cases?”

  “Look, Coyne. I have dutifully shared your insights with the two officers, okay? They told me to say thank you very much, they think they can handle it now.”

  “Did you tell them about the possible link between the two murders?”

  “How do I make this clear to you?” Horowitz paused and snapped his gum. “They thought of it all by themselves. They’ve done almost as much homicide work as you. They think your speculations are interesting. They are even taking a look at the possibility that the Winter woman stuck knives into Greenberg. They have your number. I gave it to them
, in the hopes that they might actually call you, so you would stop calling me. I gather that so far this hasn’t worked.”

  “No one has called me.”

  “Coyne,” said Horowitz, “it’s not like you and I are big buddies.”

  “We’re not? Jeez. I would’ve said we were pals.”

  “Call it what you want. You are becoming a pain in the ass, okay? I mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings. But—”

  “You already did.”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  “I guess I can take a hint.”

  “Just call us even,” he said. “You don’t owe me, I don’t owe you.”

  “But I do. I owe you lunch.”

  “Forget it. Stop calling me. I will release you from your obligation.”

  “Fuck you,” I said good-naturedly, but he had already hung up on me.

  It was getting close to four o’clock, and I had already tidied up my desk and announced to Julie my intention to leave, when the call came from North Carolina.

  I ducked back into my office and took it at my desk. “This is Victoria Jones,” said the same gone-with-the-wind female voice that had answered when I called. “Mr. Slavin asked me to call you.”

  “Victoria of Slavin, Jones?”

  “No. That would be Gregory Jones. He’s dead. No relation. Around here Jones is a pretty common name.”

  “It’s not that rare around here, actually. What did you find out?”

  “Nate Greenberg’s client has agreed to talk with you.”

  “You can’t just tell me the nature of his business in Boston?”

  “No. That’s up to his client.”

  “Give me his number, then.”

  “I can’t. In the first place, it’s a she. Second, she doesn’t have a phone. Third, she’s nervous. Willing, but nervous.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Piedmont Airlines,” she said. “Unless you’d enjoy twenty-four straight hours on a Greyhound.”

  “If I decide to go down there, will you help me set it up?”

  “Mr. Slavin said I should do whatever I could to help you.”

  “I’ll be in touch, then.”