A Fine Line

by William G. Tapply

  I told him about Walt Duffy’s murder and how Ethan had gone missing. “Does that make any sense?”

  Keeler shook his head. “Nope. But the fact that it makes no sense might only mean we’re not seeing it. If there is no logical connection, then it’s a damn strange coincidence, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “It is. That’s why I thought I should tell you about it.”

  “You did the right thing. Thank you. I expect I’ll want to talk with you some more. Right now things are pretty hectic here. How can I get ahold of you?”

  I gave him one of my business cards. He looked at it, then looked up at me. “Lawyer, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “Lawyers deal with a lot of weirdos, don’t they?”

  “Some lawyers do,” I said.

  “You ever deal with any arsonists, Mr. Coyne?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well,” he said, “there’s always a first time.” He raised his hand and touched his forefinger to his brow in what might have been a salute. “Appreciate it, sir. We’ll be in touch.”

  He fitted his hardhat back onto his head, turned, and trudged back to the rubble.

  I picked up some muffins at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way home, and when I got there I told Evie about my conversation with Lieutenant Keeler. It was her opinion that I’d misunderstood the phone call, that the caller had, in fact, been a drunk with a wrong number, just as I’d originally thought, that Walt Duffy’s death had overwrought my imagination, and that I should stop perseverating on it.

  I didn’t agree with her. But I didn’t pursue it. I figured it would only upset her.

  We ate muffins and drank coffee and read the Sunday Globe, and when the sun came out in the afternoon, we walked along the waterfront and ended up in the North End. We decided to have an early supper at one of the little restaurants there. We drank red wine and ate pasta and listened to the Italian opera they piped in through the speakers, and we didn’t talk about arson fires or the deaths of friends or missing college boys.

  When we got back to my place, Evie said she guessed she’d head for home. I went down to the parking garage with her. She climbed into her car, rolled down the window, and stuck her face up at me for a kiss, which I readily delivered.

  “Given it any more thought?” she said.

  “Shacking up, you mean?”

  She smiled. “Couldn’t we call it something else?”

  “I saw you studying the real estate section.”

  “I figured you were so engrossed in the sports you wouldn’t notice.”

  “I noticed,” I said. “See anything?”

  “I saw a lot.” She started up her car. “Maybe a picnic this week?”

  “I’d like that. I’ll probably have a dog with me.”

  “Good. I like Henry.” She reached out and touched my cheek. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll feel better when Ethan Duffy shows up.” I hesitated, then said, “I’d feel a lot better if you weren’t leaving.”

  She nodded. “Me, too. But that’s how it is right now. Call and tuck me in, okay?”

  I watched Evie pull out of the garage. Then I got into the elevator and went up to my apartment.

  I was thinking: I’d had several fairly serious relationships since I split with Gloria. For a while it seemed that Alex Shaw and I had a chance of making it. I know I loved her. But with Alex, our “weekend marriage,” as she called it, felt just right to me. She lived in southern Maine, more than a two-hour drive from Boston, and I didn’t mind being apart from her Monday through Friday. I liked spending the weekends with her, but I liked missing her during the week when we didn’t see each other, too.

  With Evie, I didn’t like missing her during the week at all. I wanted to be with her all the time.

  Scary.

  TEN

  When I got to the office Monday morning, Henry came bounding over from Julie’s desk. I squatted down to rub his ears, and he licked my face and wagged his entire hind end.

  “How’d it go?” I said to Julie.

  “Megan cried this morning when I told her I was bringing him back to you. She played with him the entire weekend. He slept on her bed.”

  “On the bed, huh?”

  “I told her he could sleep in her room provided he stayed on the floor. When I went in the next morning, he was curled up beside her with his chin on her shoulder. I bawled her out. She claimed he must have snuck up there after she went to sleep.”

  “At least he didn’t crawl under the covers.”

  She smiled.

  “You better get Megan a dog.”

  “That’s what Edward says. We’ll see.”

  When I went into my office, Henry followed me. When I sat at my desk, he slipped around my legs and curled up under them. I liked having him there by my feet while I talked on the telephone and read legal documents.

  Julie buzzed me a little before noontime. “There are two people here to see you,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Detective Mendoza and Lieutenant Keeler. I told them you only had a minute.” That was for their benefit, I knew. Julie likes to promote the illusion that I am busy and in-demand.

  “I’ve got many minutes,” I said. “Tell them to come on in.”

  A minute later, the door opened and Detective Saundra Mendoza came in, followed by Keeler, the tall redheaded arson cop I’d met Sunday morning at the scene of the fire. Keeler looked tired. Mendoza looked angry.

  Henry scrambled out from under my desk and went over to sniff them. Each of them gave him a perfunctory pat on the head.

  I told Henry to come back, and he did, reluctantly. I pointed at the floor and told him to lie down. He did that, too.

  “You got him trained,” said Mendoza. She was wearing black leather pants, black boots, and a red short-sleeved jersey.

  “The offer’s still open. You want a dog?”

  “Not me,” she said. “My sister’s cats don’t like dogs.”

  “What about you?” I said to Keeler. “You want a dog?”

  He smiled quickly and shook his head.

  I shrugged. “Too bad. He’s a nice dog. Did Julie offer you folks coffee?”

  “Yeah,” said Mendoza. “We declined. We’re pretty hassled, and you and us, we’ve got to talk.”

  “Seeing the two of you together, it makes me suspect that what I’ve been thinking isn’t far off the mark.”

  “What have you been thinking?” she said.

  “That there’s some connection between Walt Duffy’s murder and that fire the other night. Am I right?”

  She shook her head. “Not exactly. It’s about Benjamin Frye.”

  “What did Ben do?”

  “He died.”

  “What?”

  Mendoza nodded.

  I blew out a long breath, then pointed to my sofa. “Let’s sit.”

  The two cops sat on the sofa, and I took one of the chairs across from them.

  “So what happened to Ben?” I said to Mendoza.

  “That fire?” she said.

  I nodded.

  She turned to Keeler. “You tell him.”

  Keeler cleared his throat. “We found Mr. Frye’s body in there,” he said. “Took the ME’s office all day yesterday to identify him.”

  “Jesus,” I said softly. “I had dinner with Ben just the other night. He was in that building?”

  Keeler nodded.

  “What the hell was he doing there?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. We were hoping you might help us.”

  “Me?”

  “Well,” said Mendoza, “just for one thing, you might’ve been the last person to see him alive.”

  “The last time I saw Ben was Friday night,” I said. “We had dinner at Remington’s. That fire was Saturday night. I know he saw at least one person after me. He had to leave the restaurant before dessert to keep an appointment.”

  “Who was it with, did he say?”
>
  I shook my head. “He just said he had to get back to his office to meet somebody at eight o’clock. Business thing, he said. Ben was a rare-book dealer and appraiser, you know.”

  Mendoza and Keeler exchanged glances. “Well, see, Mr. Coyne,” said Mendoza, “we went to Mr. Frye’s office and we found his appointment book. His last appointment was you. Remington’s at six-thirty Friday, right?”

  “Right. But he told me—”

  “There was no appointment after you.”

  I shrugged. “So he didn’t write it down.”

  “Did Mr. Frye say anything about East Boston or Pier Seven to you?” said Keeler.

  “No.”

  “He happen to mention Beau Marc Industries?”

  “No.”

  “What was Benjamin Frye’s connection with Walter Duffy?” said Mendoza.

  “They were friends. They both collected old books and documents. Both into birds and nature stuff. Walt had some old letters that I gave Ben to authenticate for him. I think I mentioned that to you the other day. That’s why I met with Ben on Friday. He wanted to return Walt’s letters to me. He complained about you hassling him.”

  Mendoza snorted. “Hassling? Jesus Christ.”

  Keeler touched her shoulder, then turned to me. “That’s it?” he said.

  “What, their connection?” I shrugged. “Far as I know, that’s all.”

  “Not quite,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said. “They’re both dead, you mean. I don’t know anything about that, I’m afraid.”

  “Except you got that phone call.”

  I nodded. “I don’t know what to make of that.”

  Keeler frowned at me. Mendoza leaned toward him and whispered something. Keeler looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then shook his head.

  Saundra Mendoza narrowed her eyes at me. “See, you’re the connection, Mr. Coyne,” she said. “Both of these men, they meet with you, and the next thing—I mean, the next goddamn day—they’re dead. You’re the one who finds one of the bodies. The other one’s body turns up in a fire that you’re telling us you knew was going to happen. An arson fire. We can assume that it was the arsonist who called you. The arsonist most likely is also the murderer. How can you say you don’t know anything about that?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t know the fire was going to happen. I didn’t understand what that guy said on the phone until I heard about the fire on the news.”

  Mendoza rolled her dark eyes. “We’re not stupid, Mr. Coyne,” she said.

  “Are you accusing me of something?”

  “I can’t figure out what to accuse you of,” she said.

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “Look—”

  Keeler reached across the coffee table and touched my leg. “Take it easy, Mr. Coyne. We’re just trying to get a handle on this.”

  I looked at Mendoza. “And I’m trying to help.”

  Her dark eyes glared at me for a moment. Then she shrugged. “Sure. Sorry.” She didn’t sound particularly sorry.

  “What about those letters?” said Keeler.

  I glanced at Mendoza, who was studying her boots. Then I turned to Keeler. “They were apparently written by Meriwether Lewis to an eminent ornithologist named Alexander Wilson right after Lewis got back from his expedition,” I said. “They’re about the birds he saw on the voyage. They belonged to Walt Duffy. Ben Frye was going to authenticate them.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I’ve got them.”

  “With you?”

  I jerked my head in the direction of my desk. “They’re in my briefcase, actually.”

  “Let’s see them,” said Mendoza.

  “They’re just old letters,” I said. “But if they turn out to be authentic, they’re very valuable. Priceless, in fact. They’re part of Walt Duffy’s estate.” I frowned at her. “You think those two men were killed for these letters?”

  “Could be, huh?” she said.

  I shook my head. “Doesn’t make sense. First off, the only people who knew Walt had them were Ben and me. Second, whoever killed Walt had the chance to steal a lot of other priceless stuff he kept in his house. Walt had a very valuable collection of old books and documents and artwork. But they didn’t touch any of it.”

  “Just his computer and camera and cell phone,” she said. “So what about the son? Ethan? He must’ve known about those letters.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe he did. I don’t know.”

  “And you don’t know who Duffy and Frye and the son told about them, either.”

  “No. I don’t know.”

  “Could be dozens of people.”

  I nodded.

  “When did Duffy get those letters?” she said.

  “He picked them up in some little antique shop in the Poconos about ten years ago.”

  “But you didn’t know about them before the other day?”

  “No.”

  “Duffy never even mentioned them to you before that?”

  I shook my head.

  “And the truth is, we really have no idea how many people knew about them.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I said.

  Saundra Mendoza looked up at the ceiling as if she were praying for patience.

  “I’d like to look at those letters,” said Keeler.

  “Sure.” I went over to my desk, took the manila envelope out of my battered old briefcase, and handed it to him. “Don’t take them out of the plastic,” I said. “They’re two hundred years old, very delicate. The acid from your fingers would ruin them.”

  Keeler slid the plastic envelope out, held it gingerly by the corners, looked at it, shrugged, and handed it to Mendoza.

  She started to open the plastic envelope.

  “Hey,” I said. “I told you, don’t touch the letters.”

  She stared at me for a moment, then blew out an exasperated breath. “Dammit, Matt. This is evidence,” she said to Keeler.

  Keeler nodded. “Could be. If it is, though, we better not tamper with it.”

  Mendoza shrugged. “We’re going to take this envelope with us,” she said to me.

  I remembered what Ben Frye had said about police evidence rooms. “Over my dead body,” I said.

  “Very funny,” she said sourly. She turned to Keeler. “We got an arson fire and two dead people, and the lawyer here’s worried about some old letters.”

  “Those old letters are priceless and irreplaceable,” I said. “I intend to keep them safe. You want ’em, get a warrant. Which I promise you I’ll contest.”

  “Sure,” said Keeler. “That’s what I’d do if I were a lawyer.” He turned to Mendoza. “We’ve got to know a lot more than we know now before we could convince a judge. At least we know where they are if we need them.”

  Saundra Mendoza looked at him for a minute, then turned and narrowed her eyes at me. “The two men who had these letters in their possession got killed. Now you’ve got ’em. That okay with you?”

  “I guess it’ll have to be,” I said.

  She stood up. “Come on, Matt,” she said to Keeler. “Let’s get the hell out of here. We’re not getting anywhere with this damn lawyer.” She pronounced the word “lawyer” as if it were a synonym for excrement.

  Keeler looked at me, shrugged, and followed her out of my office.

  ELEVEN

  After Mendoza and Keeler left, I took the envelope with the letters in it over to my office safe, which was cleverly hidden behind a black-and-white photograph of my two sons, Billy and Joey, when they were seven and five. Gloria, my ex-wife, took the photo fifteen years ago. She had it blown up and framed, and she gave it to me for Christmas. The boys were sitting side-by-side on the bow seat of a leaky old rowboat on a lake in Maine where we’d rented a cottage for a week in August. They were both holding fishing rods. They looked sunburned and mosquito-bitten and scruffy. One of those happy times in what was, for a while, a happy family’s life.

  Even then you could see the devil in Bil
ly’s eyes and the intensity in Joey’s.

  I wondered what a photo of Gloria and me, taken back then, would have revealed in our eyes.

  The safe’s six-number combination was the boys’ two birthdays. I opened it and put the Meriwether Lewis letters inside next to the Smith & Wesson .38 revolver I kept there. Ben Frye had been right. Whether or not the letters turned out to be evidence, they were considerably more secure in my safe than they’d be on a shelf in the Boston PD evidence lockup.

  Henry, I noticed, was sitting meaningfully beside the door. I opened it, and we went out to the reception area. He waddled over to Julie, who was hunched over her computer, plopped his chin on her knee, and gazed up into her eyes.

  “I think he wants to go out,” I said to her.

  “His leash is hanging over there,” she said without looking up.

  “He’s asking you.”

  Julie patted Henry’s rump. “Go ask Brady,” she said to him.

  Henry looked at me, then came over, sat beside me, and whined.

  “Okay, okay,” I said.

  Henry and I strolled down Huntington Avenue and meandered around the grounds of the Christian Science Mother Church, where Henry lifted his leg on all the likely targets. Then we turned back up Boylston and stopped in the deli. Henry sat obediently inside the door. Manny, the counterman, didn’t object, perhaps because Julie and I got takeout from him three or four times a week. Boston is a famously dog-friendly city. I got tuna sandwiches on whole wheat and Cokes for Julie and me and a roast beef on pumpernickel for Henry. I didn’t tell Henry. It was to be a surprise.

  The three of us ate at the coffee table in my office. Henry gulped down his sandwich in about three bites, then sat there watching me and Julie, following our hands intently as they moved our food up to our mouths. Finally Julie gave him a piece of her sandwich. He gobbled it, then turned his gaze upon me. I gave him a potato chip, which he seemed to enjoy, and offered him a bite of my dill pickle. He gave the pickle a sniff, glanced at Julie, then lay down at her feet. I’d insulted him, apparently.

  “So what did those two officers want?” said Julie.

  I told her about the fire Evie and I had watched burn, and how Ben Frye’s body was found there.