I sipped coffee and smoked cigarettes and tried to sort out the assault of negative emotions I was feeling. Betrayal was one of them. Betrayal by that treacherous groundhog, who had promised springtime, not more endless winter. Betrayal by Gloria. She had arisen early, jotted me a note, and slipped away without waking me up. She had deprived me of the delicious pleasure of waking up with her beside me. It made me feel vaguely used.
I smiled to myself. I had done the same thing more than once, and had never understood why it upset women. In one way or another, the important women in my life usually managed to find a way to make me see things their way.
And I was forced to admit that I felt lonely. My apartment, usually a haven, seemed silent, cold, dreary. I knew that if Gloria hadn’t been there and then left, I wouldn’t miss her.
I went to the kitchen and dumped a can of Hormel corned beef hash into a skillet. I let it brown on the bottom, turned it over with a spatula, pushed it into a pile, and fried three eggs. I slid the hash onto a plate and the eggs on top of the hash, and took the whole mess to the table. I ate and watched it storm and tried to decide whether I should spend some of this miserable Saturday at the office.
The decision was easy. Who the hell worked on Saturday?
I slid Wagner’s Götterdämmerung into the tape deck and turned up the volume, counterpoint to the howl of the storm. Then I sat at my fly-tying desk. I tied a batch of weighted Pheasant Tail nymphs. It was finicky work on little sixteen and eighteen hooks. It demanded my full attention, as I knew it would. It reminded me of all the nymphs I had broken off the previous summer in the jaws of large trout and in streamside brush, and of some of the trout I had caught, too, and those memories washed away the depression I was feeling. After all, New England and nor’easters and a deceitful groundhog to the contrary notwithstanding, spring was less than six weeks away.
I had lived without Gloria for a decade. Nothing had changed.
In the middle of the afternoon I went to the phone and pecked out the Lavoie number. Mrs. Lavoie answered.
“This is Brady Coyne calling again, Mrs. Lavoie,” I said.
“Yes?”
“The lawyer? Who dropped in yesterday?”
“I remember you, Mr. Coyne.”
“I was just wondering if you’d changed your mind about giving me your daughter’s address.”
“No. No, we haven’t. I thought we made it clear—”
“You did,” I said quickly, “and I’m sorry to bother you. I just hope you understand that I intend Karen no harm, but it’s extremely important that I talk with her. I was hoping you would help me.”
I heard her sigh. “You’ll probably find some way to find her. You lawyers…”
“I’m going to try,” I said. “I wanted you to know that. I’d rather have your permission.”
“You don’t need our permission.”
“No. You’re right. Your approval, maybe. Your understanding. Your cooperation.”
She was silent for a long moment. “At first,” she said finally, “I suspected you were a policeman, or a private detective, or something.”
“No. I really am a lawyer.”
“Then,” she went on, “I looked you up in the phone book. I guess you’re a lawyer, like you said.”
“Yes.”
“So then I got to wondering what you really wanted.”
“I need to talk to your daughter, just as I said.”
“My husband and I, we figure there’s something strange going on. I mean, first that man—”
“What man?”
“Why can’t you all just leave us alone?” This burst from her suddenly, harsh and desperate.
“Mrs. Lavoie—”
“I mean it. Please, Mr. Coyne.”
I hesitated. “What man?”
“That television man.”
“Wayne Churchill.”
“Yes. Him.”
“He was there?”
“Well, of course he was here. I assumed you knew that.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“He was here, yes.”
“When?”
“A couple days before…”
“Before he was killed,” I said.
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“I’m begging all of you to leave us alone. We don’t want to talk about it.”
“It’s very important,” I said.
I heard her sigh. “I don’t know what he wanted. All I know is he came here and he and John—that’s my husband, you remember—they went out. They were gone for about an hour. John didn’t tell me what they talked about. I figured if he wanted me to know, he’d’ve told me. Then you called, asking about Karen. So I figure it can’t just be coincidence. That reporter, then you. I don’t know why all of a sudden everyone’s interested in my daughter. We’re quiet people. Just ordinary folks. We mind our own business. There’s no reason why reporters and lawyers should want to talk to us. But I know that Churchill man was murdered. We don’t want to be involved. We aren’t involved. We just want to be left alone. Do I have to beg you, Mr. Coyne?”
“I just would like to talk to Karen.”
“No, no, no. Please. No. Just let us be. We are quiet, simple people. We like it that way.”
“I hear you, Mrs. Lavoie.”
“You have no business interfering in our lives. None of you.”
“Okay.”
She paused. “Well, thank you, then. Does that mean you won’t try to find Karen?”
“I can’t promise you that.”
“In the name of God—”
“Mrs. Lavoie,” I said quickly, “did you tell the police about Churchill’s visit?”
“Of course not. I told you. We don’t like to be involved in things that don’t concern us.”
“But his conversation with your husband—”
“I don’t know what they talked about. John didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask.”
“It could be relevant.”
“I really don’t see how.”
“Please, Mrs. Lavoie. Your husband should talk to the police.”
“My husband makes his own decisions, Mr. Coyne. I do appreciate your advice.”
“Except—” I began. But she had hung up.
The storm assaulted the city all day Saturday, slush from the skies. I spent the rest of the afternoon tying flies. Gold-ribbed Hare’s Ears, some tiny Pale Morning Dun emergers, a few Zug Bugs. Then I fashioned a dozen spent-wing Adams on eighteen and twenty hooks, which gave me a stiff neck. I heated up a can of Campbell’s split-pea and ham soup for supper and sipped it from a mug. I watched a Charles Bronson movie on Channel 56. Then I switched over to Saturday Night Live, which turned out to be a taped rerun that I had already seen. I watched it anyway.
The wind was still howling late at night when I went to bed.
Sunday morning a brilliant winter sun blazed from a cloudless sky. The slush on my balcony had frozen solid. Little icicles had formed on the undersides of the railings, and they were dripping slowly, glittering in the sun like little gems as they fell. I slid open the doors and stepped outside. The air was thin and frigid. I thought of Phil, the Pennsylvania groundhog, curled snugly in his lair under the earth. That rascal had the right idea.
In the middle of the afternoon my phone rang. My pulse quickened for an instant. I thought it might be Gloria.
“Coyne,” I said.
“It’s Rodney Dennis, Mr. Coyne.”
I sighed. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“I hoped you might’ve reconsidered my offer.”
“I’m not interested in what you call your offer.”
“Sir—”
“Furthermore,” I said, “if your own lawyers haven’t properly advised you, I will. One of my specialties is libel.” This wasn’t, of course, true. I doubted if Rodney Dennis knew that. “I suggest you be very discreet, just in case you were contemplating associating my name with Churchill.”
/> “Please hear me out.”
I lit a cigarette. “I’m listening.”
“I was hoping we could work together. We both have reasons to want to see this case resolved. It’s my impression that the police are dragging their feet. You’re a suspect, Mr. Coyne. I’ve done a little investigating myself. I don’t think you did it. But I think you know something about the case. If we could pool our resources—”
“I don’t know anything, and if I did I’d share it with the police, not you. Can I make myself any clearer, Mr. Dennis?”
“If you could just tell me what Wayne said to you the night he died—”
“No.”
“What have you got to hide?”
“I am about to hang up. Good evening, Mr. Dennis.”
“Check the eleven o’clock news, Mr. Coyne.”
I held the receiver away from my face. As it descended onto its cradle, I heard Rodney Dennis say, “Please, Mr. Coyne. You’re making a big—”
I spent the rest of the day with the Sunday Times. I discovered that the Wayne Churchill murder was not news fit to print in New York. I tried to watch some golf on television. The golfers were wearing polo shirts in Palm Springs. The women in the galleries were uniformly young and beautiful. They wore shorts.
I had a peanut butter sandwich and an apple for supper. I wasn’t very hungry. I thought of calling Gloria, but I didn’t. I thought of Pops, on a yacht somewhere in the Gulf.
I spent the evening working the crossword. I left several blanks on it.
Before I went to bed, I turned on my television. I switched it to Channel 8. The lead story on the eleven o’clock evening news was the weather. The suburbs were still trying to push twelve inches of wet snow off their streets. There were many school cancellations. The list scrolled across the screen against a backdrop of pastoral snow scenes while Nat King Cole sang “Winter Wonderland.”
When the reporter’s face reappeared, he painted on a grim smile and said, “Now a message from Rodney Dennis, the Channel Eight station manager.”
Rodney Dennis was gazing sternly into the camera lens. “Six days ago,” he said, “one of the best television newsmen in the nation was brutally murdered. He was gunned down in his own home. You have seen Wayne Churchill on this station. You know he was a young man, a vigorous reporter, full of enthusiasm and energy. This is a tragedy for all of us who knew him—we here at Channel Eight, who worked with him, and you, whose homes you invited him to enter via your television sets.”
Dennis turned his head, anticipating the shift of cameras. “In the time that has elapsed since Wayne’s murder,” he continued, “we at Channel Eight have done our best to keep you updated on the progress of the police investigation. We have reported faithfully to you all that we have learned. And that, as you know, has been very little. The police investigators have refused to be interviewed. They tell us only that they are pursuing promising leads.”
His mouth twisted into a sneer at the words promising leads.
The camera zoomed in close on Dennis’s face. “We are not satisfied. We at Channel Eight do not intend to allow Wayne Churchill’s murder to suffer the fate of too many homicide cases in this city. We will not let you or the police forget Wayne Churchill. I have therefore been authorized to announce that Channel Eight is offering a reward of five thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for the murder of Wayne Churchill. We will continue to pursue this case with the same vigor, the same relentless investigative energy that was the trademark of Wayne himself.”
Dennis’s face on the screen was replaced by a telephone number, which Dennis’s voice read to us. When he returned, he said, “Naturally, we guarantee absolute anonymity. Operators are standing by at this number, and will be standing by twenty-four hours a day for as many days as it takes until Wayne Churchill’s murderer is safely behind bars and cannot kill again.”
The anchorman reappeared. “Thank you, Mr. Dennis,” he said. “And in other news, a spokesman for—”
I snapped off my set. I’d heard enough news for one night.
Later I lay on my back staring up into the darkness of my bedroom and tried to understand Rodney Dennis’s persistence in pursuing me. Was he on to Pops? It was possible. If Dennis knew about Churchill’s rendezvous with me at Skeeter’s, he might know more. Except if that were the case, he wouldn’t need me as desperately as he seemed to.
Most likely, it was what Mickey Gillis had said. Wayne Churchill had bequeathed to Channel 8 the ultimate newsman’s legacy: His murder was a blockbuster story. Dennis was doing his job. He was bloodhounding that story.
As I drifted off to sleep, however, the question continued to nag me. What was Rodney Dennis’s agenda?
FOURTEEN
I TRIED TO CALL Pops first thing Monday morning. Robert reminded me, with all the courtesy that comes of a Harvard education, that he had promised to have Judge Popowski call me as soon as he returned from his vacation. I was supposed to infer from this that Pops had not returned.
“So when do you expect him?”
“I believe he’s due back sometime today, Mr. Coyne. If he checks in at the office, I will remind him to call you.”
“Well, okay.”
I hung up and swiveled around to look out of my office window. The new snow that draped the city buildings was still so white it looked fake. Smoke, smog, and automobile exhaust would fix that before the sun set. Still, even for an unreconstructed country boy, it looked pretty.
Julie came a-scratching at my door.
“Enter,” I called without turning around.
“Brady, there are three men—”
“Have a seat, Julie.”
I rotated around to face her. She was standing in front of my desk. “Go ahead. Have a seat,” I said.
“It’s those two policemen. There’s a third guy with them.”
“Please sit.”
She shrugged and sat.
“You’re a woman,” I said. “Tell me. Why can’t a woman be more like a man?”
She grinned. “That’s from My Fair Lady.”
“I need an answer.”
“Your Hungarian lady again?”
“No,” I said. “Forget it.”
She reached over the desk and put her hand on top of mine. “Poor baby.”
I took my hand away. “Christ,” I mumbled. “Now this one patronizes me.”
Julie tossed her head and stood up. “Well, these three are all men, so you should enjoy them. Ready?”
“Send in the clowns.”
She left and returned a minute later, followed by Sylvestro, Finnigan, and a third man I hadn’t seen before. He was tall and very thin with a squirrel face and close-cropped mouse-colored hair. Sylvestro wore the same brown topcoat. Finnigan was back in his black leather jacket with the fake fur collar. He was carrying a bulky briefcase.
“I see the police have been galvanized by Channel Eight’s reward,” I said.
Sylvestro gave me his shy smile. “Galvanized might be an exaggeration, Mr. Coyne. But we are grinding along in our own fashion.”
“Well, come on in and have a seat.”
I gestured toward the sitting area in the corner of my office. Sylvestro and Finnigan sat on the sofa. The other man took the soft chair beside them. They left the straight-backed wooden chair facing them for me.
I took the seat. “Did Julie offer you coffee?” I said.
Sylvestro nodded. “We declined. This,” he said, jerking his head sideways at the thin man, “is District Attorney Alan Woodruff.”
“Assistant D.A., actually,” said Woodruff. His small, round mouth was full of protruding teeth that got in the way of the words as they came out. I wondered how his lisp affected juries. “There’s only one D.A. There’s about a hundred A.D.A.’s.”
“Woody, here, prosecutes homicides,” continued Sylvestro, as if Woodruff had not spoken. “He’s on the Churchill thing.”
It was
a ploy I was familiar with. Ostensibly, the ADA’s function at sessions such as this one was to make sure that the police followed the proper forms during their interrogation of a suspect, lest a procedural error result in inadmissible evidence at trial. The message, which Sylvestro and Finnigan knew a lawyer such as I would easily read, was this: I had become a suspect; they had the goods on me; they expected to take me to trial; they expected to win, barring a screwup with my rights; and this Woodruff, who would likely prosecute the case, would watch over today’s proceedings and head off a screwup.
None of those things was necessarily true, I knew, and I supposed they knew that I knew it. Nevertheless, Woodruff’s presence symbolized the fact that I had graduated from witness to suspect.
Woodruff, in other words, would serve as the cops’ attorney.
I held my hand out to Woodruff. He frowned at it for an instant, then gripped it quickly.
“Now, then,” said Sylvestro. He glanced at Finnigan, who nodded, opened up his briefcase, and produced a little Sony tape recorder. He placed it on the table between us and pressed a button. A tiny red light went on.
“Testing this thing,” said Finnigan into the tiny micro phone. “One, two, three.” He turned it off, rewound it, and played it back. It sounded okay. He looked at Sylvestro and nodded.
“We’d like to record this, Mr. Coyne, if you don’t mind,” said Sylvestro.
“For my own protection,” I said.
He smiled. “Sure. Right.”
I shrugged. “I guess it’s all right.”
“Good. Appreciate it.”
Finnigan flicked on the recorder. Sylvestro cleared his throat. “February the ninth, ah, nine-forty A.M. In the office of Brady L. Coyne.” He peered up at me. “Mr. Coyne, before we ask you any questions, you should understand your rights.”
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