Charlie McDevitt and I were in the same class at Yale Law School. For a year we shared a ramshackle house on the water in New Haven, where we ate clams we dug ourselves and drank beer and entertained women. We sometimes even studied lawbooks. After graduation, I pursued my quixotic goal of becoming a truly independent lawyer in Boston. Charlie became a prosecutor with the United States Department of Justice, which he insisted was a logical stepping-stone toward his ultimate objective.
Charlie wanted to become a Supreme Court justice. In the nearly twenty years since we got out of law school, Charlie had not lowered his sights.
Several years ago he seized the opportunity to head up the Boston office for the Justice Department. “One step closer,” he told me.
It was good to have him in town. We tried to coordinate our days off so we could fish and play golf together.
And we did each other favors, as friends do. In truth, he helped me far more often than I helped him. But he knew I was willing. And to keep our slates clear, we repaid favors with dinners at Boston restaurants. That way, neither of us ever felt indebted. It enabled us to ask for help more freely.
So when I called Charlie on Tuesday morning, I had no compunction about asking him to do something for me that I couldn’t do for myself. “I need something out of your computer,” I told him.
“You think all the data in the world are stored in government computers,” he said.
“It seems to be.”
“You think all I gotta do is poke a couple keys and I can tell you anything you want to know.”
“You’ve always come through, Charlie.”
“You think you can take me to Legal Seafoods for lunch and I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Maybe you’d prefer a trip to the North Shore. I’ve found some good spots up in Newburyport.”
I heard him sigh. “Legal will be fine. What do you want?”
“If I give you a Social Security number, what can you give me?”
“Shoe size, whether or not they take cream and sugar, toothpaste brand.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously, if I could access Defense and CIA and IRS computers, you’d be surprised. Scared, actually. It’s kinda frightening.”
“Can you?”
“What, access those computers? Naw. Not without a hassle. But we got pretty good stuff in our data bank. What do you want to know?”
I told Charlie about Maggie, her connection with my client Desmond Winter, and how I suspected that Lanie Horton was her biological daughter and that Nathan Greenberg’s search for Maggie had somehow resulted in both of them getting murdered. “If I could just track down her family, I could take it from there,” I concluded.
“I love the mahi mahi at Legal Seafoods,” said Charlie.
“Good. A deal.”
“So give me that number.”
I read it to him.
He repeated it to me. “I’ll get back to you.”
I humored Julie for the rest of the morning, catching up on my paperwork and answering the accumulation of phone messages. I took her to lunch at Marie’s, a little Italian place just outside Kenmore Square, where we split an enormous antipasto and a half-carafe of house wine. I offered her a raise. She accepted with a shrug, as if it was her due. She had a point. I still made more than she did, and she worked much harder.
Charlie had left a message on the machine while we were gone. “Got it,” was the complete, unexpurgated text.
When Shirley, his round, grandmotherly secretary, put me through to him, Charlie said, “I ever introduce you to Artie Sheehan?”
“No. I don’t recall the name.”
“Good guy to know, Artie. Plumber who actually comes to the house and fixes things. As you know, water pipes and electric wires scare the shit out of me. We had a leak in the shower last week, so I called Artie. He came out on Saturday. He was telling me how he’s trying to get over his divorce. He went to this restaurant in Wellesley one night, decided to have a drink at the bar before he ate. He says he couldn’t believe how many great-lookin’ women were in there. ‘Charlie,’ he says to me, ‘it made me feel rejuvenated, just seeing them.’”
“Wait a minute,” I said.
“What’s the matter?”
“Is this gonna be one of your stories, Charlie?”
“This,” he said, making the hurt drip from his voice, “is just something my plumber told me that I thought would interest you. If all you want out of this friendship is data from my computer, just say the word.”
“Please accept my apology.”
“Okay. Granted. So Artie gets up his courage and he takes an empty barstool next to a gorgeous blonde. ‘Can I buy you a drink, miss?’ he says. She turns and looks him up and down. Artie’s not a bad-looking guy, actually, when he shaves and combs his hair. ‘What do you do for a living?’ says the girl. ‘I’m a plumber,’ says Artie. ‘Get lost,’ says the girl.”
“Charlie—”
“So,” he continued, ignoring me, “Artie’s a little taken aback, but his ego’s in decent shape. So he goes back to this place the next night and spots a brunette, also lovely. He sits beside her. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he says, because he figures that part of his line is okay. She takes a look at him. ‘May I ask what you do for a living?’ says the broad. ‘Sure,’ says Artie. ‘I own my own business. I’m a plumber.’ ‘Buzz off,’ says the woman. Artie gives all this some thought, so the next night when he returns to this joint, he finds a seat and gets the ear of the bartender. ‘I been in two nights,’ he says. ‘Both times I try to start up a conversation with a couple ladies I get the brushoff. I use mouthwash, spray my armpits. I’m not really stupid, not totally ugly. What’m I doing wrong?’ The bartender says, ‘They ask you what you do for a living?’ ‘Yeah,’ says Artie. ‘What did you tell them?’ ‘I told ’em I was a plumber, mainly because that’s what I am.’ ‘Aha,’ says the bartender. ‘That’s your problem. See, the broads that come in here, well, stuff like that matters to them. You gotta tell ’em you’re a doctor or lawyer or novelist or something. That’ll impress ’em. After that, you’re on your own.’”
I lit a cigarette and sighed into the telephone.
“Am I keeping you up?” said Charlie.
“I’m on tenterhooks,” I said. “The suspense is killing me. Alfred Hitchcock could’ve taken lessons from you. What happened next? Huh? Huh?”
“Okay. That’s better,” said Charlie. “The next night Artie goes back. Spots a most attractive girl. A redhead, he told me. He sits next to her, offers to buy her a drink. She asks what he does for a living. ‘I’m an attorney,’ he says. And, sure enough, she nods. ‘I’d love a drink,’ she says. So Artie buys her a couple drinks. Then she looks at her watch. ‘It’s getting a little late,’ she says. ‘Want a lift home?’ says Artie. She says she’d love a ride. So Artie drives her to her apartment. ‘Want to come up for a nightcap?’ says the girl. Artie’s about pissing his pants, he’s feeling so lucky. So he goes up to the girl’s apartment, and she, you know how it goes, she slips into something comfortable, and the next thing Artie knows he’s in the sack with this gorgeous young redhead. Sometime later, they’re lying there smoking cigarettes, Artie starts laughing. The girl says, ‘What’s so funny? Why’re you laughing?’ And Artie turns to her, and he says, ‘You won’t believe this. But I’ve only been a lawyer for three hours, and already I’ve managed to screw somebody.’”
“Another lawyer joke,” I said.
“Ask Artie, you don’t believe me.”
“Okay, I believe you. What about that Social Security number, Charlie?”
“Got it right here. That’s why I called you. The name that goes with that number is Margaret Gallatin Borowski.”
“Birthplace?”
“White River Junction, Vermont.”
“Parents?”
“Peter Charles and Josephine Katherine Borowski. Both currently residing in Bradford, Vermont.”
“Siblings?”
“None.”
“What about Maggie? What’ve you got on her?”
“She has never been arrested, that’s really all I can tell you. You want more on her, it’ll take some doing. I mean, I can try to pull some strings with Commerce or IRS, if it’s worth it to you.”
“What you gave me is a help,” I said. “Appreciate it. Worth listening to your story for.”
“Mahi mahi.”
“Next week.”
After I hung up with Charlie, I called Kat Winter’s office. Her new administrative assistant answered with a snotty “May I help you?”
“It’s Brady Coyne. Let me talk to Kat.”
“I’ll see if she has time for you.”
Jesus Christ!
“Oh, Brady,” said Kat in a moment. She sounded breathless.
“I get you out of the loo again?”
“No. I wasn’t sure I’d hear from you again.”
“I’m still your lawyer, Kat.”
She laughed quickly. “Sure. Of course.”
“Anyhow,” I added, “the other night was interesting. Different. Intriguing.”
“Intriguing?”
“Yes. Fascinating.”
She snorted. “What kind of line is this, anyway?”
“No line,” I said. “Look, Kat. Forget it, okay? The fishing was fun.”
“Yeah. It was. You’re not mad, then?”
“Nope. Course not.”
“Well. Good.”
“So want to come to Vermont with me?”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Hang on a second.”
I lit a cigarette. I smoked it. I stared out my office window at Copley Square, buried under a smog inversion. The sun burned dimly through, the color of urine. I smoked another cigarette. Julie came in, saw me with the phone to my ear, and arched her eyebrows. I lifted one finger. She nodded and left.
Kat came back on the line about fifteen minutes after I lit that first cigarette. “Oh, I’m really sorry, Brady. I had a call on the other line, and then I had to get a couple things cleared off my calendar. So I’m all set for tomorrow. What time will you pick me up?”
“Hey, great,” I said. “Nine okay with you?”
“Nine is fine. What’ll I wear?”
“Dress casual. I never go to Vermont without stopping to look at the trout streams.”
“Sounds like fun,” she said. “Is that why we’re going? To explore trout streams?”
“I’ll tell you all about it on the way up.”
14
AFTER I HUNG UP with Kat, I put through a call to Horowitz at state police headquarters at 1010 Commonwealth Avenue. I figured his secretary might be under strict instructions to chill me, since the last time I had talked to the detective he had been decidedly hostile, but she took my name and asked what my business was.
“Tell Horowitz I have information for him on three North Shore murders,” I said.
She did not seem especially impressed with the importance of all this, but after holding for several bars of “Moon River,” I heard Horowitz’s voice on the phone. He sounded as if he was eating corn on the cob.
“You’re back on bubble gum, aren’t you,” I said.
“No willpower,” he mumbled. “Whaddya got?”
“Maggie Winter in Newburyport, Nathan Greenberg in Danvers, Andrea Pavelich in Salisbury. Ring any bells?”
“Come off it, Coyne. Play parlor games with your adoring old clients. I know about the three killings, okay? I even remember that you think Winter and Greenberg were connected.”
“All three were connected, somehow,” I said.
He paused. “How’s Pavelich fit in?”
“She was Marc Winter’s alibi.”
“So you think—?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “They’re holding the husband, I understand.”
He paused again. I heard his gum pop. Finally he said, “Last I heard, they had a good suspect for the Winter case.”
“Her husband. Marc Winter. He didn’t do it. The Pavelich girl could’ve explained it. I told you he had an alibi. She was it. She explained it to me.”
“Yeah, yeah. I remember you told me he was covered. The Pavelich girl, huh?” He paused. “Interesting that she got killed,” he said.
“Makes it tough for Marc to explain himself.” I lit a cigarette. “Anyway, there’s another piece of this I thought you should know.”
“Goodie,” said Horowitz.
I told him about Nathan Greenberg’s mission from Lanie Horton in Asheville, North Carolina, how he had tracked down Maggie Winter, who I deduced was Lanie’s biological mother. “That’s the connection,” I concluded.
“So who killed who?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I figure one killed the other, then a third party killed the first one.”
“Like Marc Winter.”
“Except he has an alibi.”
“Had,” said Horowitz. “He ain’t got one now.”
“I’m just trying to help,” I said. “Do you know anything more about Andrea Pavelich’s killing?”
He sighed. “The state police investigate all murders in the Commonwealth. We detectives are assigned our own cases, but we’re expected to be familiar with all ongoing investigations. Okay? So we get copies of all the paperwork, which consists of big stacks of this extra-wide computer paper which doesn’t fit into old-fashioned file cabinets, so it ends up all over the desk and jammed into drawers. So to answer your question, I haven’t been assigned to any of these three cases that interest you, but, yeah, I know about them, more or less, and I got the paperwork here somewhere, and because I’m gonna switch you over to my colleague Moran in a couple minutes so you can repeat what you told me, I’ll read you the paperwork on the Pavelich thing. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay. Hang on.” I heard the shuffle of papers. I heard Horowitz mutter, “Shitfuck.” Then he said. “I hate how this paper is all connected together and you gotta fold it right. Like a roadmap. I can never get roadmaps folded right. This goddam thing spilled all over my desk. Okay. What we got on Pavelich is this. Local cops got a call about eleven Saturday night from this Albert Pavelich in Salisbury. Says his wife is dead. They hustle out there and find this big guy on the back deck of their house. The guy’s drooling, stumbling drunk, and the lady’s quite dead. She was shot three times. Ballistics got two of the slugs out of her chest. A third one went through her throat, got a big artery, probably the one that killed her. A .22, which they haven’t recovered. Automatic, they think. This Pavelich, the husband, they take him in. They aren’t going to question him, the condition he’s in, so they lock him up, get him sober, then they read him his Miranda. He refuses counsel and proceeds to deny doing it. Now the M.E. finds this dead gal has got old bruises on her neck, arms, and chest. Doesn’t take too much checking around to discover that her old man, this Albert, used to beat on her pretty regular. Salisbury cops had answered more than a couple complaints over the years. Plus the husband has a little sheet. Mostly minor stuff. Driving under the influence, drunk and disorderly, battery on a police officer, stuff like that. Not your upstanding citizen. But not exactly a criminal, either. Just a big stupid asshole who drinks too much and has a bad temper. Statistically, your perfect wife killer. Likewise, they got it on good authority that the dead lady had boyfriends—”
“Marc Winter, for one,” I said.
“Mm,” said Horowitz. “Anyhow, finally Pavelich decided to get himself counsel, and the lawyer got him released, and he wasn’t arrested, since they’ve got neither a witness nor a weapon.”
“But they’ve got motive and opportunity.”
“Yep. They figure he’s the boy, and even though they’ve kinda botched the investigation so far, they’re pretty confident.”
“I talked with Andy Pavelich a couple weeks ago,” I said. “Her husband saw us together and attacked me in the parking lot. I can vouch for the fact that he was a jeal
ous and violent guy.”
Horowitz was silent for a minute. “You don’t suppose—?”
“He killed her because of me? Don’t think I haven’t thought of that.”
“Hate to have that on my conscience.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Look,” said Horowitz. “This is enlightening and all, but none of these are my cases. I’m gonna get Moran on the line, who’s handling the Maggie Winter case.” And without waiting to exchange polite good-byes, he put me back on hold.
The telephone played “Bridge Over Troubled Water” while I waited, a schlocky rendition with lots of violins and no words, then segued directly into “Just Like a Woman,” which used to be a good Bob Dylan tune before the Reader’s Digest Orchestra got hold of it. Finally I heard a click, and a soft female voice said, “Mr. Coyne?”
“Yes. I’m still holding here.”
“This is Detective Moran. What’ve you got for me?”
I repeated to her the connection between Maggie’s murder and Nathan Greenberg and Andrea Pavelich. She listened to my recitation without interrupting. When I was done, she said, “That is really interesting. It doesn’t help figure out who killed them, though, does it?”
“I suppose not.”
“My best suspect on the Winter kill is still the husband.”
“He’s a better suspect now that his alibi is dead.”
“His alibi might’ve been an accomplice.”
“I talked to her. I don’t think so.”
“You think Maggie Winter was the mother, though, and Greenberg was tracking her down?”
“I’m planning on finding out,” I said.
“Well, good for you. Let me know, okay?”
“Okay.”
I hung up, more confused than ever, and impressed with the way police detectives avoided confusion. They simply zeroed in on a scenario and made it work for them, conveniently ignoring complications such as conflicting evidence. Jealous husbands tend to kill wayward wives. Ergo, Marc killed Maggie and Al killed Andrea. Hookers killed guys like Greenberg in motels.
These things were all generally true. They are the common things, and as medical and legal folks all agree, the commonest things most commonly do happen. A cliché, trite and obvious. But clichés achieve their stature by containing big chunks of mundane truth, as much as people like me hate to admit it.
Dead Winter Page 15