I remember thinking, That which does not kill us makes us stronger.
Usually the running paths are crowded on Saturdays, the yuppies realizing they've been drinking the micro-brewed beer and eating the high-test food all week, neither counting the calories nor countering them with a little exercise. But the cold snap probably encouraged most sane people to hit the snooze button and roll over till the next morning. Except for a man in a ski mask bicycling, a woman in a Gore-Tex suit Rollerblading with her malamute, and two jail trustees in yellow parkas bundling cut branches, I was the only fool out there.
In fact, the weather must have been affecting my brain as well. Because after the bicyclist and the Rollerblader went by, it took a full minute for me to register that the jail van was
nowhere in sight.
Too slow by too many seconds.
The bulkier of the men in yellow was already running toward me from the water's edge, covering ground obliquely a lot faster than I was jogging straight ahead. My head was barely turning toward him when one of his feet, lashing up in a wicked arc, caught me on the right cheekbone, and I started going down face first. As I got my left hand out of the muffler to break my fall, another kick was delivered to my upper right arm and a third to my lower right torso. I felt a couple of ribs cave from that last one, the cold air burning when I exhaled, scalding when I tried to breathe again. And I didn't like the noise I made trying.
It sounded like a child, whimpering.
Above me, Oscar Huong's gravelly voice called out, "He's down."
From a distance, but closing at the rate a person strolls, Nguyen Trinh said, "Get comfortable, Mr. Private Eye. This gonna take a while."
Lying on my stomach and facing left, I tried to make the fingers of my right hand work inside the muffler. However, the kick to that arm had made me feel like I was wearing a boxing glove.
The toes of Trinh's cowboy boots stopped two feet from my face. "You come on like a real knight on the white horse, man." He kicked me in the left shoulder, the pointed toe piercing the muscles, making them spasm.
But I could feel my right pinky and ring finger wiggling a little inside the muffler beneath me.
"Only thing is," continued Trinh, "you just a piece of shit like everybody else." He moved around to my right side, out of sight. Then another kick, a little more juice behind it, to the ribcage where Huong had already done some damage.
I must have blacked out, because the next thing I remember is Huong saying ". . . coming around."
Now Trinh again. "What's the matter, Mr. Private Eye? A little tender down there? How you think Deborah feel when you choking her out, huh?"
I got as far as "Trinh, that wasn't—" before another boot to the ribs made me feel like I'd been kicked by a horse.
But now I had all the fingers on my right hand flexing except for the thumb.
"You don't talk to me, you piece of shit. You listen." Trinh walked back around to my left side. "Roll him over."
Huong kicked me once in the right hip, the blow vibrating all the way through my body. Then he planted a heel on the hip, and pushed hard.
As I flopped over, I had to hold onto the inside fleece of the sweatshirt to keep my right arm from sliding my hand and gun out of the muffler pocket. But now my thumb was working, and I could feel it close around the butt of the revolver. Trinh's face loomed into view from standing height above mine, the blue sky as backdrop giving the eerie sensation of being in a domed chapel, staring up at one of Lucifer's failed angels.
He said, "You don't like me calling you 'Mr. Private Eye', right? I can tell that, the first day Oscar and me in your office, the address where you live on the fucking bills I'm reading, waiting for you. Then you shining on about 'jogging the river every morning,' tell me where we can find you. Well, Mr. Private Eye, I want you looking at me when we take your fucking 'private eyes,' man. I'm the last thing you gonna see, just like you the last thing my Deborah see."
Trinh's face swung toward Huong, and I let my head loll that way, too. Huong grinned at me as he stepped hard on my left elbow, pinning that arm to the ground. When I felt Trinh's cowboy boot begin to come down on my right elbow, I bent my right wrist inside the muffler to bring the muzzle up against the cloth. As Huong came down with his thumbs set for gouging out eyes, I shot him twice in the chest, little puffs of fleece wafting into the air as my ears rang from the reports.
Huong rocked back and over, and Trinh jumped back, too. I rolled away from Trinh as I cleared my gun hand from the sweatshirt, probably bellowing from the pain I caused myself in the ribs. Trinh had a nine-millimeter just about coming to bear on me when I pulled the trigger three times more, two slugs lifting his feet off the ground like somebody had lassoed him from behind, the semiautomatic clattering to the macadam as his back hit the path. There was no third shot because I'd had only four bullets in the five-shot cylinder.
I turned, looking back at Huong. No movement I could see or noises I could hear.
Trinh began wheezing. On hands and knees, I crawled over to him.
"You . . . fucking . . . white . . ."
"Nugey?"
"You piece . . . of fucking—"
"Nugey! Can you hear me?"
More wheezing on the way in, but a burbling sound on the way out, the blood at the bullet hole in his parka frothing pink from underneath. In the Army we were taught to call that a “sucking chest wound."
Which meant no hope.
Trinh's eyes rolled a little before focusing on me.
For a third time, I said, "Nugey?"
"Hear . . . you .... "
"I didn't kill Deborah Ling."
A smile, almost, blood at first trickling, then running down from the left, and lower, corner of his mouth. "Tell it . . . to a priest . . . you piece—"
"I didn't kill her, Nugey. Why do you think I did?"
"Call . . ." A cough that sounded like something a plumber does to a clogged pipe.
"Call who?" I said quickly, feeling him going.
The head rolled left—right—left in slow motion, like Trinh wanted to shake it. "No . . . call me .... "
"Who called you?"
"Gro . . . ver .... "
"Grover Gant?"
"Try . . . to make . . . his voice . . . all funny." The eyes started to rotate back into the skull.
"Nugey, what did he say?"
The eyes came down again, but the left one wouldn't focus on me. "Said . . . 'Cuddy . . . done . . . your lady.' "
"I didn't."
"Fuck you . . . white .... Fuck . . . you . . . all .... "
Then Nguyen Trinh made a gurgling sound like the plumbing pipe had broken, and he was gone.
As I used my left thumb and index finger to close Trinh's eyes, I heard a scuffling noise behind me. I was turning back when something like a battering ram hit my right cheekbone again, and the running path opened up into a long, deep tunnel that swallowed me whole before closing in over my head.
* * *
Once, after I'd been shot, my first conscious impression was that polar bears were pawing and poking at me while I lay helpless on my back. For a minute, I thought I'd been dreaming about that scene, then I realized my left eye was open, and the man and woman in white were pretty clearly defined.
"What time . . . is it?" my lips not working quite right.
The woman said, "Maybe we should start with what day it is."
Great. "You first."
The man didn't see the heroic humor in that. To me, he said, "Don't move." To the woman, "You can call them in."
* * *
Nancy Meagher was frowning. Robert Murphy, just behind her, was grinning, his eyes hooded into slits.
She said, "The doctor didn't tell you?"
"No."
I was looking up at her, but I didn't move. And not just because the doctor said so. Every time I breathed, it felt like hot knives were twisting inside my right side, scraping against the cartilage.
Nancy shook her head. "It's Sund
ay night."
"Sunday?"
"Yes. And if a woman hadn't called it in yesterday morning, you would have frozen to death out there and joined the other two in the morgue."
Other two. "Trinh and . . . Huong?"
Murphy said, "Both dead. Statics responding from the old MDC station by the Science Museum said Huong was on top of you." A broader grin. "Like you were Jack London, and he was your sled dog."
Over her shoulder, Nancy said, "Lieutenant, please?"
Sled dog. "I want to . . . thank the lady . . . with the malamute."
Murphy said, "Who?"
"Rollerblader . . . with her malamute or husky .... She must be . . . the one who phoned . . . the State Police, right?"
A shrug. "Beats me. Headquarters just got an anonymous tip from some woman on the nine-one-one tape. We called the Staties, then got over there ourselves?
Well, Thank you, anyway, I thought.
Nancy said, “Even without the arctic temperature, you're lucky to be alive."
"What's the . . . damage?"
"Two ribs, cracked but not broken." She pointed toward my face. “‘A shot you took to the right cheekbone closed your eye pretty well, but thank God didn't shatter the bone or get the pupil. I won't even ask how you feel because the doctor said the rest of your body looks like it went tumbling down a staircase."
"Close enough."
Murphy was grinning broader behind her. "Let me get this straight, Cuddy. You had a gun, and they still beat you up?"
Nancy said, "Lieutenant?" again, but never stopped watching my one good eye. "John, is it over now?"
I didn't even think about shaking my head. "Not quite."
"Meaning?"
My tongue was doing a lousy job of wetting my lips, not to mention stringing together words. "Trinh told me . . . Grover Gant called him . . . saying I was the one . . . who killed Deborah Ling."
Murphy stopped grinning. "Nugey tried to take you out for that?"
"In his office . . . Trinh said he loved her ..,. But before Trinh died . . . he also said Grover . . . talked 'funny' on the phone."
Murphy gave me a hard look. " 'Funny'?"
"Yeah."
"So?"
"So maybe it . . . wasn't Grover . . . who called him."
Nancy canted her head at me. "But who else would have?"
"I'd count it a real favor . . . if one of you could find out."
Murphy laughed, Nancy muttering something under her breath.
* * *
"Sorry," she said, wrestling with the steering wheel of her Civic hatchback after hitting a pothole neither of us spotted. "It . . . happens."
Nancy glanced toward me. "You okay?"
"Breathing just takes . . . a little concentration, that's all."
I'd cracked a rib during the last week of ROTC Basic Training the summer after my junior year at Holy Cross. In those days, you had to complete a Physical Combat Proficiency Test that final weekend, or else effectively "flunk" and have to be "left back" in boot camp. The PCPT included among its six "events" a fifty-yard low crawl, a hundred-and-fifty-yard fireman's carry of another cadet, and a mile run in combat boots. I wasn't about to repeat Basic, thank you very much, so I did the test with the rib screaming at me. But I passed.
Of course, I was also twenty-one at the time.
"John?"
"Believe me . . . it's okay."
Nancy went back to watching the light Sunday night traffic in front of us. "I didn't mean so much being in pain as . . . zoning out on me?"
"Don't worry, no . . . concussion. I was just . . . thinking back to the . . . last time I took a hit to the ribcage."
She nodded.
I said, "I'll be fine."
Nancy nodded again. "The Statics making you come down to sign a statement?"
"Tomorrow."
Since the scene with Nguyen Trinh and Oscar Huong had taken place on Metropolitan District Commission land along the river, technically the State Police had jurisdiction. A plainclothes investigator and one of the troopers responding to the emergency call talked with me back at the hospital, Murphy shortening the interrogation to half an hour by saying he thought the incident might be tied into one of his homicides. The Staties happily ceded me over to him as a connected case, but they still wanted a formal statement to cover themselves.
And they also confiscated my Smith & Wesson as a weapon involved in a shooting, allowing as how I wouldn't be seeing it for a while.
Nancy changed her tone. "I can't believe nobody at the hospital even taped your ribs."
"They used to."
I thought back to the Basic Training incident. After the PCPT, I finally went to the Infirmary, where two reservist medics wanted to wrap Ace bandages around me. When they were a little awkward doing it, I asked them what hospital they worked at in civilian life. One said, "Actually, I'm a social worker," and the other chimed in with "hearing aid salesman." I told them if they tried to touch me again, I'd knock their teeth out.
Nancy said, "But they don't anymore?"
"What?"
She spoke more slowly. "The hospital doesn't tape cracked ribs anymore?"
"Oh." Maybe Oscar Huong did leave me with a concussion.
"No. No, the doctor . . . said today that studies . . . showed it didn't help the healing."
A coy smile as she glanced at me again. “So you'll have trouble with any . . . vigorous movements?"
It took me a moment to realize what she meant. "Well, maybe not . . . if I was less the mover and . . . more the movee."
"I think waiting until after the Spaeth case is resolved still makes sense. Did Steve Rothenberg ever call you?"
"No, but then he might not have . . . heard about it yet."
"John?"
"Yes?"
"For most of the last thirty-six hours, you were probably in no condition to notice, but what happened was all over the news, especially TV and radio."
"Then there'll probably be a message . . . for me with the answering service."
* * *
Nancy dropped me at the curb outside my condo building on Beacon Street. Before closing the Civic's door, I assured her I'd be all right and would call as soon as anything changed officially in the Spaeth case. Until she pulled away, I walked steadily up the front stoop, but I took the interior stairs a lot slower. Once in the apartment, I popped a couple of aspirin and telephoned my service. The nice woman with the silky voice wasn't working Sunday nights, but a guy covering the line said there'd been two calls from a Mr. Rothenberg, who'd left his home number and would appreciate hearing from me at my earliest convenience.
After dialing, I got a little girl's tentative, "Hello?"
"Hi. Can I speak with . . . Steve Rothenberg, please?"
"Just a second." There was a dull, thudding noise, as though she'd dropped the phone, followed by a "Daddy, daddy, daddy." mantra that faded more with each repetition.
Then I heard what sounded like adult shoes on a non-carpeted floor. "Yes?"
"Steve, John Cuddy."
"John! Great to hear from you."
"I just picked up . . . your messages."
A hesitation. "Your voice is—are you okay?"
"A little worse than black and blue . . . , but I'm functioning. Any news about . . . Spaeth?"
"From the D.A., you mean?"
"Yes."
"I tried calling him, too. Gone for the weekend, with instructions for no forwarded messages. So I'm going to try again in the morning. But I can't see you doing anything else for Alan until I get the new lay of the land."
"Good."
"Will you be in the office tomorrow or at home?"
"I'll see how I feel, but I have . . . to visit the State Police, so I may as well . . . go into downtown from there."
"How about if I try you after two?"
"Fine, Steve."
"And John, thanks for everything you've done. It's all been in a good cause."
I was having a hard time still believin
g that, but I told Steve Rothenberg his sentiment was appreciated.
Chapter 21
SUNDAY INTO MONDAY, I got at most three hours of sleep. Partly that was because my brain had been turned off for so long in the hospital, even though my body probably thought a little more rest might help the cause. But I don't tend to lie on my back in bed, so the main problem was that throughout the night I'd awaken in breath-taking pain whenever some reflex in the subconscious made my legs roll me over onto the ribcage.
The next morning, my right cheekbone was pretty tender, and the face in my mirror looked a lot like Alan Spaeth's after his adventure in the Nashua Street shower. Breakfast tasted awfully good, even if the entire meal consisted of ice water and the softest bread in the fridge for toast.
My landlord has cable TV, and I watched the repeat of a local college football game, thinking it seemed more like a high school event, including the apparent age of the players when they took off their helmets. At noontime, I risked some tuna fish on more of the soft bread, and after lunch I felt recovered enough to call a cab and visit the State Police near the Museum of Science.
They were pretty gentle with me, so I decided to walk to my office. The half a mile took half an hour, but the body parts other than my ribcage started to loosen up and let me feel human again, at least until I stepped down off a curb or got jostled by another citizen in a hurry to make that next appointment.
Inside the lobby of my building, I treated myself to the slow elevator instead of the stairs. Opening the office door, some envelopes had come through the mail slot along with the junk circulars. Not surprisingly, the envelopes had canceled stamps or postage-meter markings on them.
All except one, that is.
I processed the regular mail and pitched the circulars, then turned the maverick around and over a few times. Just a plain white, business-sized envelope. No address—or return address—but sealed and very light in weight.
I opened it. There was a single sheet of photocopy paper, folded perfectly in threes, an image centered on one side when I smoothed the paper out. The image was of a xeroxed phone message from a pad like the one I'd seen at the reception desk of Epstein & Neely, the generic information printed, the specific in precise handwriting. It read:
The Only Good Lawyer - Jeremiah Healy Page 25