Seventh Enemy

by William G. Tapply

  On the back wall a large window with tiny panes overlooked a small courtyard. Senator Marlon Swift sat in a leather chair gazing out at the tidy gardens.

  “Senator?” said the butler.

  He looked up, saw me. and pushed himself to his feet. “Mr. Coyne,” he said, extending his hand. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. What will you drink?”

  I shook his hand. I was tempted to ask for a Bud, no glass necessary, but decided I had no reason to offend. “Jack Daniels on the rocks, please,” I said.

  The old butler made a tiny bow and left. The senator gestured to the chair opposite his. I sat, and he did, too. “Another beautiful spring day,” he said.

  I smiled and nodded.

  “Sox are off to a good start this year.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “How’s Walt doing?”

  “He seems to be out of danger. It was touch and go for a while.”

  He nodded. “Good. Nice guy, Walt. I’ve fished with him, you know. His friend Ms. West worked with me on some legislation a while back. His testimony last week was courageous. Didn’t really surprise me, though. Walt’s a straight shooter.” Swift glanced at me and grinned. “Poor figure of speech, I guess.”

  I smiled and waited.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was, I guessed, about my age. He didn’t look particularly senatorial. His sandy hair was thinning on top, and he wore dark-rimmed glasses. He was a little shorter than me, on the thin side. “Um, Brady,” he began. “Can I call you Brady?”

  “Sure.”

  He grinned shyly “My friends call me Chip.”

  “Okay”

  “This is difficult,” he said.

  I shrugged and waited.

  “I live in Marshfield, and—oh, thank you, Albert.”

  The old butler set my drink on the table beside me. I looked up at him. “Thanks,” I said.

  “Sir?” he said to Swift.

  “Not now, thanks.”

  After Albeit had slid away the senator leaned back in his chair and stared out the window. Without looking at me, he said, “You and I have some mutual friends, Brady. They speak highly of you. They say you’re a man of your word. You can be trusted.”

  I said nothing.

  “Discreet,” he said. “That’s the word they all use. ‘Brady Coyne is discreet,’ they tell me.”

  “I’m also a pretty good lawyer.”

  “Um.” He turned his head. “They say that, too. Brady, I want to share something with you.”

  “And you want me to give you my word that I won’t tell anybody what you’re going to tell me.”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “You’re not my client, Senator. Privilege is not operative.”

  “I know. Your word is good enough.”

  “I think I know what you’re going to tell me,” I said. “You’re putting me on the spot.”

  He shrugged. “I understand that. My choice is not to tell you. I just figure that you’re the one person who can use what I have to say—”

  “Without involving you,” I finished.

  “That’s it.”

  “Okay.” I nodded. “You’ve got my word.”

  He held his hand out to me and I shook it. Then he returned his gaze to the courtyard outside the window. “I commute from Marshfield,” he said quietly. “I own a real estate office down there. My brother runs it. My, um, my Senate duties occupy me. But I drive up and back every day, because I love the peacefulness of the country.” He shrugged. “It’s not exactly rural, but the air smells of salt and you can see the stars at night. I have several acres that abut conservation land, and every evening, regardless of what time I get home, I change into my running togs and take my two setters out for a slow jog through the fields and woods.” He smiled, still looking out at the courtyard. “I don’t pretend that it really keeps me in shape. But it cleans out my head.”

  “Senator—”

  “Chip,” he said. “Please. Anyway, it was after sundown before I got out with the dogs last night, and we had nearly finished our run, when…”

  He turned and looked at me, and I saw the fear in his eyes.

  “They tried to shoot you,” I said.

  “Christ, yes,” he said. “I was in the Army, Brady. I know a gunshot when I hear it, and my reflexes took over. I fell to the ground and flattened myself out. It was only an instant, and then it was over. There were several rapid shots. I heard them zipping through the trees over my head. Then I heard someone running through the woods. I lay there a long time after I couldn’t hear him anymore.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Don’t you think you should have?”

  He nodded. “Of course I should have. But I didn’t. And I won’t. That’s why I’m telling you. I’m not sure I can explain it to you.”

  “You really don’t have to explain anything to me, Chip. But if somebody took a potshot at you…”

  “I know. You’re on that list, too.”

  I shrugged.

  He smiled. “Politics is a complicated business, Brady. I have nothing to gain, and much to lose, if this—this assassination attempt were to become known.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Like I said. It’s complicated. My subcommittee reported favorably on that assault-weapon bill. Mine was the deciding vote. My record on gun control remains unblemished.”

  “You support it?”

  “Yes. Always. My constituents support gun control. So, therefore, do I. I’m in a powerful position. Chairman of the Senate Subcommittee on Public Safety.” He shrugged. “SAFE is more powerful than me, though. As I mentioned to you on the phone the other night, I work with them. Their influence is very important to many of the public safety issues that come before my subcommittee. On the subject of gun control, however, I’ve been at odds with them for years. They always get their way.”

  “I still don’t see—”

  “I had a phone call on my machine yesterday when I got home.”

  “Just one?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve had plenty of phone calls in my career. Many of them hostile. But yesterday’s was—it was different.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, it was a death threat. He mentioned SAFE. But it wasn’t so much the content of it. It was the tone and the syntax.”

  “Calm,” I said. “Cool. Intelligent. Articulate. Not what you’d expect from a gun-crazy fanatic.”

  “Why, yes,” he said. He arched his eyebrows and peered at me for a moment. Then he smiled and nodded. “Exactly. Cool and articulate. Which made it sound—more frightening.”

  “I hope you saved the tape.”

  The senator rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Walt Kinnick had a message like the one you describe the night before he was shot,” I said. “He didn’t save that one, either.”

  He nodded. “We both blew it. Too bad. Anyway, I don’t want any publicity on this. I’m telling you because—well, you were thoughtful enough to call and warn me, and you already know what’s going on, and you might be able to use the information. And you’ve given me your word. I’ve got plenty of enemies, Brady. I guess every politician does. As far as I’m concerned, SAFE is just one of them. Listen. There isn’t a politician alive—even an insignificant state senator—who doesn’t think about assassination. It’s a disease. A communicable disease. The virus is spread through the newspapers, on television. I’m not just concerned about myself—though God knows I’m frightened. Two United States senators, others, are on that list.”

  “I’m on that list,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s why you wanted to see me?”

  “Yes. To tell you that it would appear your fears are well founded. Walt Kinnick, now me. Number one. then number two. To warn you to be careful.”

  “You should have told the police.”

  He shrugged. “Mayb
e. It was a judgment call. If the police know, the newspapers will pick it up the way they did with the Kinnick thing. With no witnesses, no suspect, no evidence at all…”

  “Your image, huh?” I said.

  “Yes, I suppose so. My image. The war hero. The man who stands up to powerful special interests such as SAFE. The man with the balls to say no. The man of courage and conviction. The man who—figuratively, of course—dares his enemies to take their best shot. That’s my image.” He smiled. “It’s not necessarily me, mind you. But I’ve got an election coming up next fall. The polls are okay. I don’t want to upset them.”

  “Appearances,” I said. “Machiavelli. You don’t actually need to be brave. But it must appear that you are.”

  He nodded. “Yes. That’s politics. Do you understand?”

  I shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter if I understand. Personally, I’d just as soon see that our shooter gets nailed. The sooner the better.”

  “I know. That’s why I feel I must apologize to you. I’d like to see him nailed, too. I didn’t like lying there with my face in the dirt. It did not conjure up pleasant memories.”

  “But your image…”

  “Yes. No politician wants to come across as frightened, or panicky, or overreacting, or vulnerable. All of which,” he said with a small smile, “happen to describe me perfectly right now.” He waved his hand. “Anyway, I went out to the woods this morning to look around.” He reached into his pocket. “I found these.”

  He opened his fist. It hold two empty brass rifle cartridges. “Take them,” he said. He spilled them into my hand. “I don’t want them.”

  I looked at them. They were .223 Remington. They looked identical to the three I had found near Walt’s cabin. “How did you—?”

  “Prudence,” he said, “is one of those important qualities that Machiavelli mentions. I have friends at Ten-Ten Commonwealth Avenue, Brady. After I talked to you on the phone. I inquired about the Kinnick shooting. My contact at Ten-Ten told me you had dug up some evidence.” He shrugged. “Now you have some more evidence. Please. Do not tell anybody where they came from.”

  “Christ, I’m supposed to lie to the state cops?”

  He waved his hands. “Or do nothing, if you prefer. It would be helpful, I think, to know for certain that we’re dealing with the same man with the same gun. But my name must be kept out of it. I have your word on it.”

  I shrugged. “Yes. You do.”

  “Thanks.” He glanced around the room. “Want another drink?”

  “No, I guess not.” I leaned toward him. “Look, Chip,” I said. “Do us both a favor, huh?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Talk to Lieutenant Horowitz.”

  He gave his head a small shake.

  “Horowitz is discreet,” I said, “and maybe you can convince him that the state cops should be involved in this thing. Right now it’s just a hillbilly sheriff out in Fenwick.”

  “I don’t know,” said Swift. “I’d like to help you out, but…”

  “Help us all out,” I said. “He missed you last night. He might try again.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I thought of that.”

  The senator invited me to have dinner with him at the Commonwealth Club. Poached salmon. I declined. I told him I’d made other plans for dinner.

  My plan—which I had made at the precise moment that Albert admitted me into the club—was to stroll over to Skeeter’s Infield down the alley off State Street, climb onto a barstool, yank off my necktie, roll up my shirtsleeves, and have one of Skeeter’s big burgers and a couple of draft beers. The Sox would be on the tube and I could argue speed versus power with a banker or a broker or an electrician or an auto mechanic who had seen Ted Williams launch one into the bleachers and who would remember Billy Klaus and Al Zarilla.

  I like poached salmon. But I couldn’t wait to get out of the Commonwealth Club.

  It was after eleven when I got back to my apartment. I undressed my way to my bedroom. I pulled on a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt, then went into the living room. I eyed my answering machine cautiously. A steady red eye stared back at me. No messages.

  It felt like a stay of execution.

  I made myself a mug of Sleepytime in the microwave and took it to the table. I found the SAFE newsletter and sat there with it, sipping my herb tea and trying to read between the lines.

  Walt Kinnick was alive, but he was lucky. All but one shot missed him. But that one bullet could have hit him an inch to one side or the other, ripped open a big artery and minced a vital organ or two, and he’d have been dead in three minutes.

  Senator Swift had not been hit at all. He had his Army-tuned reflexes to thank for his life, and now he was too scared to talk to the police.

  Maybe our assassin was a lousy shot. I found scant consolation in that possibility.

  24

  HOROWITZ WASN’T AT HIS desk when I called the next morning. It was nearly noontime when he got back to me.

  “What now?” he said.

  “I got a couple more empty rifle cartridges for you. They’re .223 Remington.”

  “Our shooter again?”

  “Yes, I’d say so.”

  “Where’d you get ’em?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “What the fuck do you mean, you can’t tell me? I’m a cop, for Christ sake.”

  “I’m a lawyer, for Christ sake.

  “Well, why don’t you take your cartridges and pretend they’re suppositories for your hemorrhoids, then, Coyne. I ain’t got time for games. You trying to pull some kind of privilege shit on me?”

  “Yes.” I took a deep breath. “No. Listen. I gave my word. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have gotten the cartridges.”

  “You think you’ve got evidence about a felony?”

  “Yes. I know I do.”

  He was silent for a moment, except for the sounds of gum chewing. I waited for him.

  “Okay,” he said. “What can you tell me?”

  “These cartridges were fired at a different place and at a different time from those that came from the woods in Fenwick.”

  “And at a different person, huh?”

  I said nothing.

  “If the lab tells us they were fired by the same gun, you know what that means, Coyne?”

  “It means you guys would have jurisdiction on the case.”

  “Correction,” he said. “It means we could have jurisdiction. We need more than some fucking cartridges.”

  “I know. You need evidence of where they came from and that they are linked to attempted assassinations.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Lawyer. And without that evidence—say, in the form of reliable testimony—hell, I could get by with hearsay testimony—we can’t do squat.”

  “I gave my word.”

  “So it’s your ass, Coyne.”

  “I know. I’d feel better if you guys were on the case. But at least you could take a look at these cartridges.”

  He sighed. “Fine. Okay. Someone’ll be over.” And he hung up.

  A young female state police detective arrived less than an hour later. I handed her the two empty cartridges. I made sure that I had smudged Senator Swift’s fingerprints on them.

  I tossed the last of the day’s paperwork into the Out box a minute before three. Alex Shaw would be over, and I was eager to get out of the office. So when my console buzzed, I assumed that Julie would tell me Alex had arrived. But she said, “You got a call on line two, Brady.”

  “Shit,” I said. “Who is it?”

  “It’s your wife.”

  “My ex-wife, Julie. Gloria’s my ex-wife.”

  “I know that,” she said sweetly.

  I depressed the button and said into the phone, “Hi, hon.”

  “Brady,” she said, “why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “I saw that article in the Globe. It said you witnessed a shooting. Is that true?”

  “Well
, more or less. I—”

  “So you called me Sunday night and never even mentioned it?”

  “You didn’t seem exactly—”

  “Brady, I do care about you, you know.”

  “Sometimes I don’t know that,” I said. “Sometimes I can’t tell.”

  She was silent for a moment. I lit a cigarette.

  “I know,” she finally said. “I teased you about checking in and out with me. You’ve got to understand, though. You seem much more conscientious about doing that now than you ever did when we were married. It makes me angry. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “As much as anything makes sense, I guess.”

  “Then when I have to read in the paper that you—you might’ve been killed, that makes me angry, too.”

  “I wasn’t really in any danger, Gloria. They were after Wally.”

  “What makes me angry is that I had to read it in the paper. Brady, I worry. It’s my nature. I imagine bad things. I worry about William and Joseph all the time. And I try to imagine what would become of them if…”

  “If something happened to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’d be fine. Gloria. They’re strong young men.”

  “Or me.”

  “Huh?”

  “What would become of me?” she said. “I mean, if something…”

  “To quote you, we’re divorced, remember?”

  “Does that mean we’re no longer—connected?”

  “I never thought it meant that,” I said. “No.”

  “That I can’t still care about you?”

  “No.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t think you cared.”

  “Really?” she said. “You really didn’t think I cared?”

  “Actually,” I said, “I thought you did care. I was going to tell you when I called. I wanted to tell you. To talk to you about it. But when we started talking…”

  “I was bitchy.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you know me,” she said. “You know that doesn’t mean anything.”

  I sighed. “Gloria, listen.”

  “What?”

  “I know you, yes. I guess I understand your—your moods. Just like you understand mine. But if you recall, we don’t like them. Each other’s moods. They upset us, make us angry. They make us not want to communicate with each other. It’s the way we’ve always been. It’s why we’re divorced.”