Client Privilege

by William G. Tapply

  I tried to console myself with the thought that cops were trained to deal with everyone as if he were a suspect. Wayne Churchill probably had plenty of enemies. Everybody does. I had happened to cross his path at an unfortunate time.

  But I didn’t kill him. Someone else did.

  None of this succeeded in consoling me very much.

  Skeeter’s was crowded, and it was several minutes before he noticed me. He came at me with a grin, brandishing his rag. “Hey, Mr. Coyne. Two nights in a row, huh?”

  “How are you, Skeets?”

  “Good. Busy. More of that Rebel Yell?”

  I nodded.

  “Can’t talk you into trying an Early Wynn?”

  “I hesitate to ask,” I said.

  “Old Early was one tough son of a bitch,” said Skeeter. “I faced him plenty of times. Felt lucky if I fouled off a couple. Actually, I had it easy, being as how I wasn’t much of a hitter. The good hitters he always knocked on their ass. He’d give ’em this high-riding fastball. It’d explode inside on you. Whoosh! Old Early’s fastball, you could hear the seams hissing when it went under your chin. Loosen you up quick. Set you back on your heels, believe me. Then he’d tuck that curve over the outside corner. Most hitters, though they wouldn’t admit it, were scared to face Early Wynn in a close game with somebody on base. Early used to say, ‘I got the right to knock down anybody holding a bat.’”

  “So what’s in an Early Wynn?”

  “Blackberry brandy, champagne, and vodka,” he said. “Knock down anybody holding a glass.”

  I smiled. “I’ll stick with a shot of Rebel Yell, I think.”

  He was back in a minute with my drink. He watched me while I sipped it. Then he said, “I hope I didn’t get you in trouble, Mr. Coyne.”

  “How’s that?”

  “There were a couple cops in here this morning. I wasn’t even opened up. They pounded on the door while I was out back working on my accounts. They showed me a picture of that guy you were with last night.”

  “You recognized him?”

  “Sure. That fake mustache fooled me last night when he was here. Like I told you then, I couldn’t place him. But when they showed me that picture, I remembered the guy that was with you. Knew it was him right off. I seen Wayne Churchill on the tube plenty of times. They had a picture of you, too.”

  “They did?”

  “Yup.” Skeeter shrugged apologetically. “I had to tell them the truth.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “I told them it looked like you and Churchill had planned to meet here. I mean, I didn’t know that, but that’s how it looked.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “I told them you had some kind of argument.”

  I nodded. “I guess that’s accurate too.”

  “They wanted to know when he left, and when you left. I was able to pin down the times pretty close, because of the hockey game. I told them that Churchill left at nine twenty-five. You had another drink and left about fifteen minutes later.” Skeeter arched his eyebrows at me. “You got a problem, Mr. Coyne?”

  “Nothing I can’t work out.”

  “That guy got murdered, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Channel Eight did a big thing on it on the six o’clock news. They’re saying the police have a suspect.”

  “Suspect? Did they say suspect, singular? Or did they say suspects?”

  “They said suspect, Mr. Coyne. Singular. Actually, I think they said possible suspect. Or maybe alleged possible suspect.” He smiled. “You know how they think they gotta talk.”

  I nodded. “That’s how they have to do it.”

  “From what I hear, the suspect is the girl who phoned it in.”

  “I heard that too.”

  “Hope I didn’t get you in trouble, Mr. Coyne.”

  “Nah. You did what you’re supposed to do. No problem.”

  “Well, hell,” said Skeeter. “Man like you. Lawyer and all. Christ, they can’t suspect you, can they?”

  “No, I don’t think they suspect me. I’m not worried about that.”

  “I mean,” persisted Skeeter, leaning toward me on his forearms, “they talked to me, too.”

  I sipped my bourbon. “They were just backtracking his movements, that’s all. That’s why they talked to both of us.”

  Skeeter leaned across the bar to me. “Looked like the guy was giving you a hard time.”

  I shrugged. “We had a little disagreement.”

  “I had to mention that to the cops. Felt bad, but I had to.”

  I nodded.

  “They already knew,” he said.

  “Knew what?”

  “They knew that you were here with him. I mean, even before I told them anything, they already had his picture and your picture. They didn’t even ask if you were here together. Just, did I know who the two of you were, whether you came in and left together; what you had to drink, did I know what you talked about. They knew you were here, and they knew you were here with each other.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” I told him.

  “I didn’t tell them that I heard anything you said to each other, though.”

  “Did you?”

  “What, hear anything?”

  “Yes.”

  He grinned. “Not me. Bartenders only hear what they’re supposed to hear.”

  When I got back from Skeeter’s, the red light on my answering machine was winking. I played the tape. “This is Gloria,” she said. “Please call me.”

  She answered on the second ring. “It’s me,” I said.

  “Brady, what the hell is going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Two cops showed up on my doorstep just about suppertime.”

  “Sylvestro and Finnigan.”

  “Yes. And aside from that Finnigan practically raping me with his eyes—”

  “He did?”

  “He sure as hell did,”

  “He hardly glanced at Julie.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet.”

  “What’d they want, hon?” I said.

  “They started asking me all about our phone conversation last night. I mean, wasn’t that about the most innocuous conversation you can imagine?”

  “I don’t think they cared about the content of it.”

  “No. You’re right. They wanted to know the times.”

  “So what did you tell them?”

  “Well, in spite of the way that Finnigan kept running his eyes over my body, Mr. Sylvestro was really quite nice and polite. Of course I told them the truth. I know enough to do that. Besides, I had no idea what they were getting at.” I heard her take a deep breath and let it out with a nervous whoosh. “Brady, are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “Nah,” I said, with more conviction than I was beginning to feel. “Not to worry. I didn’t do anything. It probably just looks different to the police from the way it is right now. It’ll get straightened out. Tell me what they asked you.”

  “They asked if I talked to you on the phone last night. I told them that I did. They asked if you called me or if I called you. I told them that I called first, but you weren’t in, so—”

  “I was in,” I said. “I was in the shower.”

  “Whatever,” said Gloria. “I didn’t know that. I just said that I called and left a message on your machine, and that you called me back about half an hour later.”

  “What times did you tell them?”

  “I called you at eleven. It was right before the news came on, and I was hassling Joey to go to bed but he said he had to watch the news for something he was doing in his history class. You called me back at eleven thirty-five. The news had ended and Joey thought he was going to watch Johnny Carson and I told him like hell he was. So he said okay and turned off the set. I went upstairs. He was having a piece of cake and a glass of milk. Promised he’d be right up. That’s when you called. He answered it in the kitchen, then I took it upstairs in the bedroom.” />
  “You’re sure of those times?”

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  “I had them wrong,” I said, more to myself than her. “It probably looks like I didn’t get home until eleven-thirty or so, and I was lying about it.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I think I said we talked at around eleven. I didn’t say you called and left a message and I called you back. Just that we talked at eleven.”

  “Brady,” said Gloria, “what is this all about?”

  “You heard about Wayne Churchill?”

  “Well, sure. He was murdered.”

  “I was with him last night. Right before he got killed.”

  “You mean, if you weren’t home when you said you were…?”

  “Right, hon.”

  There was a long pause. “My God, Brady,” said Gloria finally.

  “Nothing to worry about.”

  “But when you told them you talked to me at eleven…?”

  “Sure. Contradiction there. I’ll clear that up.”

  “Well, there’s one thing,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I did tell them I left a message on your machine. And I did tell them that when you called me you mentioned the message. So at least they know you were home when you called me.”

  “There you go,” I said. “No problem.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Just tell the truth, Gloria. Don’t worry about this.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Well, it’s nice to know you’re worried, I guess.”

  “Nothing ever really changes, does it?”

  “Not really. Anyway, we’ve got a date Friday. If I’m not behind bars by then.”

  “Don’t make jokes, Brady.”

  “I should know better,” I said. “Our senses of humor never meshed very well.”

  I was brushing my teeth when the phone rang. I caught it on the third ring. My answering machine kicks in after the fourth.

  “Mr. Brady L. Coyne, please,” came a man’s voice.

  “This is he,” I said, trying to match his formality.

  “My name is Rodney Dennis, sir. I tried to reach you in your office today.”

  “I don’t make speeches.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I give lots of money to Trout Unlimited, the Nature Conservancy. That’s it for charity. I am taking on no new clients.”

  I heard him chuckle. “I’m sorry. Let me explain. I’m the station manager at Channel Eight.” He paused. He wanted me to say something. I didn’t.

  After an awkward moment he said, “You know about Wayne Churchill, of course.”

  “I heard, yes.”

  “Well, Mr. Coyne, you, I understand, were the last person to see Wayne alive.”

  Damn those cops! Less than twenty-four hours, and already the media had gotten hold of my name. “Look,” I said, “maybe you’d better tell me what you want, Mr. Dennis.”

  “An exclusive interview, Mr. Coyne,” he said promptly. “Give you a chance to tell your story in your own way. What do you say?”

  “I say: Fuck you. And you can quote me.”

  He laughed. “I’m afraid the FCC might not approve.” He cleared his throat. “You should give this some serious thought, Mr. Coyne. It could do both of us a lot of good, you know.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Please think about it, Mr. Coyne. The Wayne Churchill murder is a very big story for us, naturally. Big story for you, too.”

  “Let me correct you on one thing.”

  “Please.”

  “I wasn’t the last person to see Churchill alive. Somebody killed him, you know.”

  He chuckled again. “The one doesn’t exclude the other, Mr. Coyne.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Dennis,” I said. Then I hung up.

  SIX

  THE SKY OVER THE harbor was changing from soot to pewter. I dropped an English muffin into the toaster and retrieved my Globe from outside the door. Then I retrieved my muffin, spread it with peanut butter, and took it and the paper to the table. The story was on the front page, beside the same picture of Wayne Churchill that Sylvestro had showed me. NEWSMAN FOUND MURDERED, read the headline.

  I skimmed the story. My name was not mentioned, nor, for that matter, was the fact that Churchill had visited Skeeter’s Infield shortly before his death. Rodney Dennis, the Channel 8 station manager, evidently had better sources than the Globe. Still, it seemed to me a matter of time before the rest of the media would catch on. And then, inevitably, someone would connect me to Pops. And then… I went back and read the article more closely.

  Drugs had not been discounted as a possible motive. There was no evidence of theft, although that wasn’t discounted either, nor did the police find evidence of a forced entry into Churchill’s condominium. He had been shot twice with a .32-caliber handgun, according to preliminary reports from the state police ballistics laboratory. The first shot, according to a spokesman from the Medical Examiner’s office, was to the chest, and had probably killed him instantly. The second shot had come from the muzzle of the same gun placed directly against the dead man’s forehead.

  Gretchen Warde, the young lady who found Churchill’s body, was quoted as saying, “Everybody liked Wayne. He was a down-to-earth guy. He didn’t fool around with drugs. And he was a very good newsman.”

  She didn’t mention that this down-to-earth guy dabbled in blackmail.

  My friend Rodney Dennis said in a prepared statement, “Wayne Churchill was one of the best investigative reporters in the country. He was working on a big story when he was killed. We are all shocked and saddened by his sudden and violent death.”

  Boston homicide detective Jack Sylvestro was quoted as saying, “We have some good leads in this case.”

  I wondered if that meant me.

  The story was continued on page six. Beside it was a sidebar outlining Wayne Churchill’s career. BA from Stanford in 1980, where he was graduated cum laude in English Literature and was honorable mention on the Associated Press All-American soccer team. Master’s from Northwestern in communications two years later. Brief stint with a radio station in Omaha. Then he took a job with the Miami Herald as a political reporter. A year later he was in Cleveland, reporting political news for a television station. Shortly thereafter he became news anchor. And a little over a year ago, he came to Boston’s Channel 8 as a reporter.

  He had won an award from the Florida Press Club for a story on illegal Cuban immigration in Miami. He had been nominated Newscaster of the Year in Cleveland.

  A handsome, talented young man with a bright past and a brilliant future. Except now he was dead.

  Why the hell would this guy try to blackmail a Superior Court judge for a paltry ten thousand dollars? The Globe offered me no answer to that one.

  I got to the office early, around eight-thirty, as I often do. Julie doesn’t get in until nine. She is never early. Never late, either.

  Boston homicide detective Sylvestro and state police detective Finnigan were leaning against the wall in the corridor, waiting for me. Sylvestro was wearing the same brown wool topcoat he had worn on our previous get-together. Finnigan had dressed up for the occasion. He had on a beige trench coat affair, with epaulets and a belt and the collar turned up around his neck, looking like someone out of a Ludlum novel.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” I said, shaking hands with each of them.

  Sylvestro shrugged apologetically. “Sorry about this, Mr. Coyne. We’ve got to go over some things again with you.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I’m glad to see you. I’ve been expecting you.” I unlocked the door to the office suite and stood aside. “Enter, please.”

  They went in and I followed them. I hung up my coat and got the coffee started. Then I showed them into my inner office. They unbuttoned their coats but didn’t take them off.

  “Sorry, but the coffee won’t be ready for a few minutes,” I said
.

  “Thanks, Mr. Coyne,” said Sylvestro. “Don’t worry about coffee. I hope this isn’t a bad time. We figured we’d try to catch you before you got started.”

  “This is fine.”

  “Hate to bother you. Few odds and ends…”

  I gestured to the sofa where they had sat before. They sat down. I took the same chair across from them that I had sat in during their first visit. “You want to talk about the other night again.”

  Sylvestro nodded. “Appreciate your cooperation. We got a few questions.”

  “Me first,” I said. “I’ve got a couple questions.”

  Sylvestro frowned. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Number one, why the hell did you give my name to Channel Eight? You’ve got no right—”

  “Whoa,” said Sylvestro, holding up his hand like a traffic cop. “What are you talking about?”

  “This guy, this Rodney Dennis, called me. Twice. Once, for God’s sake, while you two were here with me yesterday. Then again at home last night. Why’d you tell him I was at Skeeter’s with Churchill?”

  Sylvestro looked at Finnigan, who shook his head. Then he frowned at me. “We didn’t. We didn’t mention your name to anybody.”

  “One of your colleagues did, then. Because he sure as hell got it from somebody.”

  “Not the cops,” said Sylvestro. “Guaranteed. No way. Look, Mr. Coyne. I won’t say our operation doesn’t get leaky sometimes. Sometime down the line, sure, maybe your name might dribble out. But not yet. We’ve got a good lid on this so far. I promise you. Dennis got nothing out of us.”

  I stared at him. “He got it from somebody.”

  “Well, seems to me,” said Sylvestro, “Churchill worked for Dennis. Probably told him what he was doing. Whatever it was, which we wish you’d tell us, but if you won’t we still got a chance of getting it out of Dennis. Though he’d probably rather keep it for himself, get a big exclusive story, which Channel Eight could certainly use.”

  “I don’t like being pursued by the media any more than I like being interrogated by the police,” I said.

  “Nobody does.”

  I sighed. “Another question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Am I a suspect here?”