Scar Tissue

by William G. Tapply

  Nash waved his hand. “Forget it, Brady. There’s bad blood between the two of them. They used to be partners, you know.”

  I nodded. “Yes, I know. Horowitz is a good cop. He and Stone were therefore incompatible.”

  Stone’s hands bunched into fists. “Goddamn it, Mr. Nash, so help me—”

  Gus reached out and grabbed the sleeve of Stone’s jacket. “Lieutenant, why don’t you go back out there to the reception area, read a magazine or something.”

  Stone glowered at me, then looked at Nash. “He’s playing games with us,” he said.

  “Go on,” said Nash.

  Stone turned and headed for the door.

  “Don’t steal any of my magazines,” I said to him.

  He narrowed his eyes at me for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed.

  After Stone left, I said to Nash, “You guys’ve got the good-cop bad-cop thing down pat. Very impressive.”

  “You got it wrong, Brady,” he said. “Chris isn’t playing any role. He really and truly doesn’t like you.”

  “Because I’m friends with Horowitz?”

  “Because he knows you don’t respect him.”

  I nodded. “I didn’t realize he was smart enough to figure that out.”

  Nash smiled. “You don’t have to antagonize him.”

  “It’s not that difficult,” I said.

  He leaned back, propped an ankle over a knee, and fingered the crease on his pants. “Here’s how we figure it,” he said. “Klemm tortured Professor Gold before he killed him. We believe Gold told Klemm something that brought him here, to you. It has to be either something you know—maybe something about the professor—or something you have, like some kind of documents. Whatever it is, he wanted it. We figure, if you tell us what Klemm was after, we’ll be able to understand what those two murders were all about.”

  “What makes the difference?” I said. “If Klemm killed Jake and Ed Sprague, you’ve got your murderer. Case closed, right?”

  Nash shook his head.

  “I get it,” I said. “You think somebody hired Klemm. That’s who you’re after.”

  “Right. We got bigger fish to fry. That’s why I need to know what Klemm wanted.”

  I spread my hands. “I wish I could help you, Gus. But if Klemm was after something other than my money and Julie’s jewelry, he didn’t tell us what it was.”

  “You saying you shot him before he had a chance to tell you?”

  I shrugged. “I’m saying, if he was after something else besides our money and jewelry, he didn’t say what it was.”

  Nash leaned forward. “The thing is, Brady,” he said, “I’m in agreement with Lieutenant Stone. I think you’re holding out on me.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I intend to find out.”

  “You gonna turn into a bad cop on me, Gus?”

  He smiled. “Did Klemm ask you any questions?”

  “No.”

  “Any hint he thought you knew something about Gold or Sprague?”

  I shook my head.

  “That he thought you had information that would incriminate somebody?”

  “Listen, Gus—”

  He waved his hand. “Yeah, I know. That sort of information could be privileged. I’d like to look in your safe.”

  “My safe?”

  “We spent all yesterday morning here in your office, Brady. We know you’ve got a wall safe behind that picture of your two boys. I figure if Professor Gold gave you something so important that somebody would send Bobby Klemm here to get it, you’d keep it there, in that safe.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “That’s where I keep my absolutely confidential stuff.”

  “So open it for me,” he said.

  I shrugged. “I’d like to do that for you, Gus. But I can’t, of course.

  “Of course you can.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t need to lecture you, Gus, of all people, on the sanctity of the attorney-client privilege.”

  “In this case,” he said, “the client in question is Professor Gold, and he happens to be dead. That changes everything.”

  “In this case,” I said, “the client’s spouse remains alive, so even if I did have something of Jake Gold’s in there, I couldn’t show it to you.”

  “Even if it meant solving a double homicide?”

  I shrugged. “Protecting my clients is my job. Solving homicides is yours.”

  “You’re going to force me to get a court order?”

  “Do what you have to do. I’m the only one who knows the combination to that safe, and I’m not going to open it, court order or not.”

  “You’d be willing to go to jail for this—this abstract principle?”

  “Sure. I’m a noble guy, Gus. You know that. Anyway, it’s hardly abstract.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know why you’re refusing to cooperate with me, Brady. All I want to do is figure out why your client was tortured and murdered and a hired gun came here to kill you. I’m on your side on this thing.”

  “Maybe you should get Stone back in here, have him knock some sense into me.”

  Nash stared at me for a minute. Then he smiled quickly and stood up. “I was hoping you’d be sensible about this,” he said. “I didn’t want to have to play hardball with you.”

  “You don’t,” I said. “All you’ve got to do is believe me.”

  “Well,” he said, “that’s the problem. I don’t.” He started for the door, then stopped. “You’ll be hearing from me, Brady.”

  I nodded. “Any time. It’s always a pleasure, Gus.”

  He shook his head, then smiled, lifted his hand, turned and left.

  After the door shut behind him, I went over to my desk, took my gun out of the drawer, and put it back into the safe where it belonged.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I worked alone in my office all day Thursday. I heard nothing from Gus Nash and Chris Stone, but I wasn’t fooled. I figured the two of them were digging around, looking for some way to confront me with a contradiction, spring an embarrassing tidbit of evidence on me, nail me in a lie.

  I didn’t hear from Horowitz, either, also no surprise. Even if he’d come up with something, it wasn’t like Roger Horowitz to think of sharing it with me. He’d get ahold of me if he needed me for something.

  The last time I’d talked to Evie, she said she’d call me, which meant that she didn’t want me to call her. So I didn’t.

  Something was bugging her. Me, I assumed. I didn’t like it, but when I tried to be objective about it, it wasn’t hard to understand. I wanted to hear it from her, get a handle on it, talk it out with her, get our lives back. I didn’t like not having a weekend with Evie to look forward to.

  But she didn’t call. Normally, I wouldn’t notice. We rarely talked much during the week. But for the past few months, our weekends together had been a given. We didn’t have to discuss them or plan them. We just assumed we’d spend them together. Before she spent that Saturday at the Museum of Fine Arts with her friend Mary, and then Sunday down at Foxwoods in Connecticut, Evie and I had spent at least one day and night of every weekend together since around Thanksgiving.

  I started to pick up the phone to call her a dozen times, and each time I resisted the impulse.

  So when my phone rang Thursday night just after I’d finished my Melville bedtime reading and turned off the light, I grabbed it fast before she could change her mind.

  “Hi, honey,” I said.

  There was a momentary silence, then a soft laugh. “Sorry to disappoint you. It’s just me.” It was Sharon.

  I propped myself up in bed and got a cigarette lit. “How are you? Are you okay?”

  She hesitated. “I guess it’s all relative. Aside from being afraid and depressed and really, really angry, sure. I’m okay.”

  “Dumb question,” I said.

  “No, it’s okay. Believe me, I’ve been dealing with a lot dumber stu
ff than that lately.”

  “Are you home?”

  “Oh, yes. Back in my haunted house.”

  “You’ve been away,” I said. “I’ve tried to call you several times.”

  “I’ve been at my mother’s in Wisconsin. It was easier to go than to argue with her. I just got back this afternoon.” She cleared her throat. “So why were you trying to call me? Is anything new?”

  I couldn’t say anything about Brian, as much as his secret was burning a hole in my heart.

  And I didn’t want to tell her about Bobby Klemm. That would raise questions I didn’t want to lie to her about. I figured the Wisconsin newspapers hadn’t carried the story.

  “Nothing’s new,” I said.

  “I’m wondering about Jake … his body …”

  “I don’t know, Sharon. I guess the police will be in touch with you when … when they’re done with him.”

  She was quiet for a minute. I stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray on my bedside table.

  “Hey, Brady?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have dinner with me tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I really need to talk about things.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Sure. I’d like that.”

  “It’s a Friday night, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Aren’t you—?”

  “I’m free,” I said. “Dinner would be great.”

  “I’ll cook,” she said.

  “You don’t have to do that. Why don’t we go to a nice restaurant, let people wait on us.”

  “No,” she said. “I’d like to cook. I’m a pretty good cook, you know.”

  “Well, if you insist.”

  She laughed. “I absolutely insist.”

  “I can be there around seven,” I said.

  “Wonderful. I’ll see you then.”

  After we disconnected, I stared up at the ceiling in my dark bedroom.

  March had come in like an angry beast. Friday was the second day of the month, and for the second day in a row, a cold, insistent wind blasted icy pellets of frozen rain against my office window.

  When my phone rang in the middle of the morning, my first thought was Evie. My second thought was that I already had a date for the evening. I couldn’t break it if I wanted to, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to.

  I grabbed the phone on the second ring, cleared my throat, and said, “Brady Coyne.”

  There was a moment of hesitation. Then a male voice said, “I hope to hell you’re satisfied.”

  “Huh? Who is this?”

  “It’s Jason.”

  It took me a minute. “Oh,” I said. “Jason. Brian’s roommate.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Make that former roommate.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “What? Gone?”

  “Disappeared, man. Flown the coop. Skipped town. Outta here. Gonzo.”

  “Where—?”

  “If I knew where, you can be damn sure I wouldn’t tell you, so you could go there and scare the shit out of him again. I don’t know where he is. He left and he took all his stuff with him.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Sometime Wednesday when I was at class. The day after you were here. I didn’t think much about it at first. None of my business where Brian goes. But two days and two nights he’s been gone now, and I figure he wants to be someplace where you can’t get at him.”

  “Jason,” I said, “did Brian talk to you about any of this? Why he’s been staying with you, why he’s so upset?”

  “I know his old man got murdered, if that’s what you mean.”

  “He was with you before that happened, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah. He was.”

  “But he didn’t—”

  “No. I don’t know why he wanted to stay here. He was hiding out, that’s all I know. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t tell me. I figured it was stuff with his parents. All he said was, he needed a place to crash for a while.”

  “And you don’t have any idea where he’d go?”

  “No.”

  “You understand that he could be in danger,” I said.

  “I guess I was thinking that, yeah.”

  “So if you know where he is—”

  “I don’t know, man.”

  “If you do, or if you figure it out, you’ve got to tell me.”

  “Why? You’re the one who scared him off.”

  “I don’t think it was me,” I said. “I think it was the … the situation.”

  “Well, I don’t know where he went.”

  “Do me a favor,” I said. “No. Correct that. Do Brian a favor. If you hear from him, or if he shows up, let me know.”

  “He’s in some kind of danger, huh?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s serious stuff, Jason.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  I saw clients and conferred with attorneys for the rest of the day and tried to keep thoughts and speculations about Brian Gold’s ominous disappearance out there on the fuzzy fringes of my consciousness.

  I’d done what I thought was the right thing, I told myself, and it had apparently backfired. It was useless to second-guess myself.

  I did it anyway, of course.

  It was chaotic without Julie there to run things, get the decks cleared on a Friday afternoon, and I ended up staying late to clean up the leftover paperwork, write myself some reminders, and in general clear my conscience so that I wouldn’t feel I had to come in over the weekend or lug my briefcase home with me.

  I had more important things to do on the weekend.

  When I looked at my watch, it was nearly six-thirty. I’d never get to Reddington by seven, so I called Sharon and told her I was running a little late.

  “No problem,” she said. “Take your time. The driving might be bad.” I heard music in the background. It was The Band, singing “The Weight.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I said.

  She hesitated. “If you don’t want to …”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I stopped at a florist on Newbury Street, debated roses, decided they might imply something I didn’t intend, and bought a mixed bouquet of what they called “spring blooms.” Then I went to the gourmet wine shop next door and took the salesman’s advice on a midpriced bottle of white and one of red.

  I drove home, changed out of my office pinstripe into Dockers, shirt, sweater, and boots, and checked my answering machine.

  No messages.

  Friday evening, and Evie still hadn’t called.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The frozen rain was turning to snow and it swirled in my headlights on the Mass Pike, where the speed limit had been reduced to forty. The plows weren’t keeping up with the snow, and it was accumulating on the pavement, but the idiots still passed me going seventy. They threw slush against my windshield, blinding me while my wipers struggled to catch up, and I kept expecting to come upon a car in the median strip heading in the wrong direction with his headlights aimed at a cockeyed angle into the sky.

  Where were the speed traps when you needed them?

  I pulled up in front of Sharon’s house in Reddington a few minutes before eight. I lugged the flowers and wine to the front door and rang the bell.

  She opened the door a moment later. She was wearing a red sweater and blue jeans. Her feet were bare. She had her black hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and tied with a red-and-black silk kerchief. She wore pale pink lipstick and had done some subtle things to her eyes that didn’t quite disguise the dark circles under them.

  She smiled when she saw me, but the sadness showed in her eyes. She tiptoed up, kissed my cheek, and hugged me quickly. “It’s wonderful to see you,” she said.

  I was holding the flowers in one hand and the bag with the wine bottles in the other. My return hug was awkward
.

  When she stepped away from me, I held out the flowers. “Spring blooms,” I said. “Pushing the season a bit optimistically.”

  She smiled and poked her nose into them. “They’re beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “And wine,” I said, holding up the bag.

  “Nice,” she said. She blinked several times.

  Please don’t cry, I thought. This is going to be hard enough for me.

  I lifted my nose and ostentatiously sniffed the air. “Umm, yum,” I said. “Apple pie, huh? Smells good. I’m hungry.”

  She smiled. “Me, too.” She turned and headed for the kitchen.

  I took off my coat, hung it in the hall closet, and followed her.

  She was standing at the counter cutting the ends off the flowers and fitting them into a vase. “You know,” she said softly, “I can’t remember Jake ever bringing me flowers.”

  I had nothing to say about that. I sat on a stool and watched her. She took her time arranging the flowers.

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” she said after a minute. “About Jake. He tried.”

  “He loved you,” I said stupidly.

  She looked up at me. “I know. Why don’t you open the wine, let it breathe.”

  “Which one?”

  “We’re having shrimp. I hope—”

  “I love shrimp,” I said. “The white, I guess.”

  I got the wine open, and Sharon finished arranging the flowers. She put them on the dining room table, and then we went into the living room.

  “How about a drink?” she said.

  “I gave up booze the other night,” I said. “Fell off the wagon about an hour later. I think next time I might make it for two hours. Bourbon and a handful of ice cubes would be great.”

  She went over to a sideboard and poured drinks. “Want some music?”

  “Wasn’t that The Band you were playing when I called?”

  “Yes.”

  “Play it again.”

  She put my drink on a napkin on the coffee table in front of me, then went to the corner and turned on her stereo. The Band started singing “Up on Cripple Creek.”

  Sharon came over and sat at the opposite end of the sofa from me. She tucked her bare feet under her and held up her drink. I picked mine up, leaned over, and clinked glasses with her.