A Fine Line

by William G. Tapply

  “Detective Mendoza?”

  Saundra Mendoza had been looking at her fingernails. When Randall spoke her name, she looked up and said, “I have nothing to add.”

  Randall looked at Agent Elliot, who shook his head.

  She turned back to me. “Any questions, Mr. Coyne?”

  “You just want me to let you know if I have another phone call,” I said. “Is that it?”

  “Anything at all,” she said. “We’ve shared some highly confidential information with you here today. Our intention was to bring you in on this, to elicit your help. If you hear anything, see anything, remember anything, think of anything—anything at all, however unlikely, that might be connected to SOLF or these fires and murders—I expect you to share it with us right away.”

  “Of course I will,” I said. “It’s my duty. I’m an officer of the court.” I hesitated. “I’m surprised you don’t want to tap my telephone or something.”

  “We discussed it.” She smiled. “We didn’t think you’d like it.”

  “You’d have to get my permission,” I said, “and I wouldn’t give it to you. My clients sometimes call me at home. I would never compromise their privacy.”

  “Oh,” she said, “under the circumstances, I think we could go ahead without your permission.”

  “No judge would agree to it,” I said. “You’d have to convince him that I’m engaged in some criminal activity.”

  Randall smiled. “We could probably do that.”

  “Now listen—”

  She raised her hand. “Relax, Mr. Coyne. Nobody’s accusing you of anything. Your phone’s not tapped, and it won’t be.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “We did do some checking with the phone company, however.”

  “Oh?”

  “Both of those calls from the arsonist were made from a cellular phone.”

  “Did you get the number?”

  She nodded. “The phone belonged to Walter Duffy.”

  I thought about that. “Walt’s phone was stolen when he was killed. So the person who’s calling me and setting those fires is the same guy who killed Walt.”

  Randall nodded. “So it would seem.”

  I looked at her. “Why me?”

  “I wish you could tell us, Mr. Coyne.”

  EIGHTEEN

  When Horowitz and I walked out of the building, I glanced at my watch. It was nearly two in the afternoon.

  “Jesus,” I said. “I’ve got to find a phone. Julie will be going batshit.”

  “Here,” he said. “Use this.” He handed me his cell phone.

  I dialed my office number. “You told her it would be a couple hours,” I said to him as it rang. “It was closer to four.”

  “Tell her it was the FBI,” he said.

  When Julie answered, I said, “The good news is, the FBI let me go.”

  “No,” she said. “The good news is, I haven’t quit yet.”

  “I couldn’t get to a phone,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “You’ve got responsibilities, Brady.”

  “Tell that to Special Agent Randall.”

  “I’m not impressed.”

  “I didn’t think you would be,” I said. “How’s Henry?”

  “That dog sure does love to pee, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s a guy,” I said. “It’s a testosterone thing.”

  “As if I didn’t get enough of that,” she said. “Are you planning to do any work today?”

  “I’m on my way. I’ll probably pick up something to eat on the way. Want anything?”

  “I’m all set,” she said coolly. “Thank you.”

  I snapped the phone shut and handed it to Horowitz.

  “Julie’s pissed, I bet,” he said.

  “Of course she is,” I said. “That’s her job.”

  He smiled.

  I lit a cigarette and squinted up at the sky. “Another glorious June day,” I said. “Reminds me of a couple weeks I spent in San Diego back when I was with my wife, the boys were little. Every day was perfect. Same ideal temperature, same low humidity, same cloudless sky, same soft breeze wafting in off the Pacific. The people we were staying with, they kept saying, ‘Oh, it’s another beautiful California day.’ I asked them if it ever rained or anything, and they said, ‘Oh, no, hardly ever.’ Proud as hell of their damn boring weather. After about two days of it I was climbing the walls. All I wanted was a cloud on the horizon or a shift in the breeze. Anything to remind me that time was passing. With that monotonous weather, years could go by and you wouldn’t even notice.”

  Horowitz was shaking his head, whether in sympathy or irritation I couldn’t tell.

  “These last couple of weeks remind me of San Diego,” I said. “Same beautiful damn weather, day after day. It’s driving me nuts.”

  He shrugged. “It rained last weekend, didn’t it?”

  “Yes. Briefly. Wasn’t it glorious?”

  “I don’t generally notice the weather,” said Horowitz. “Weather doesn’t interest me.”

  We started walking across the brick courtyard behind Central Plaza to where the state police cruiser was waiting. “That Randall,” I said. “I’d hate to oppose her in court.”

  “Tough cookie, all right.”

  “So where do you fit in, Roger?”

  “Me?” Horowitz shrugged. “They’ve got to touch all their jurisdictional bases, that’s all. Local, state, federal. I’m state.”

  “But why you?”

  “Because I’m good, of course.” He looked sideways at me. “Also, I know you.”

  “Am I that important?”

  He shrugged. “You were Duffy’s lawyer. You’re the one who found his body, and you were the last person to see the other murder victim alive. You’re the one this firebug keeps calling. You’re the one who’s been snooping around. What do you think?”

  “Snooping?” I snapped my fingers. “Ethan Duffy,” I said. “Agent Randall never mentioned Ethan.”

  “Is that a question?” said Horowitz.

  “An observation,” I said. “She pumped me on everything except Ethan. She was waiting to see if I’d mention him, I’ll bet. And she probably found vast significance in the fact that I didn’t. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re probably supposed to catch me with my guard down, right? Encourage me to talk. Report back to Randall anything I might let slip.”

  “Don’t be so fucking paranoid, Coyne. We’re just trying to solve some crimes here.”

  “You are looking for Ethan, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “Of course we are.”

  “I talked to him last night.”

  He turned and narrowed his eyes at me. “He’s okay?”

  “So he says.”

  He blew out an exasperated breath. “So you know where he is, right? We’re gonna go there now and grab him, right? What the fuck were you waiting for? We should’ve done this last night.”

  “I don’t know where he is, Roger. He wouldn’t tell me. He just called to say he was okay.”

  Horowitz rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Coyne.”

  “It was the best I could do. I tried to put pressure on him, but he sounded . . . skittish. I was afraid I’d lose him.”

  “Lose him?” Horowitz gave me one of his cynical Nicholson grins. “You can’t lose somebody that you never had in the first place.”

  “He said he’d call again,” I said. “I’ll do better next time.”

  “Oh, good,” said Horowitz. “I am enormously comforted.”

  Around seven-thirty the next morning Henry and I, having returned from our first stroll of the day, were having coffee on my balcony. It was yet another glorious June morning in New England, and Henry was watching the gulls and terns wheel and glide on the thermals over the harbor when he suddenly darted back inside and began barking.

  “Hey,” I yelled. “Cut it out. You’ll wake up the neighbors. Come back here.”

  When he didn’t come, I got up and went in. Henry was pressing his n
ose against the door and growling.

  “Sit,” I told him.

  He sat.

  “Shut up.”

  He kept growling.

  “I didn’t know you were a damn watchdog,” I told him.

  He took that as permission to stand up again. He prodded the door with his nose and growled some more.

  I opened the door. Nobody was there. Henry slipped out around my legs and trotted down the corridor with his nose vacuuming back and forth across the carpet. I snapped my fingers and hissed, “Come.” He stopped, looked at me, thought about it, then sauntered back.

  That’s when I noticed the envelope at my feet. It was one of those padded ten-by-thirteen manila mailers. It must have been leaning against the door when I opened it.

  I picked it up. The words “Brady Coyne” were printed on it with a black Magic Marker. Nothing else.

  The phrase “letter bomb” passed through my mind.

  The question “Who’d want to blow the hands off an inoffensive fellow such as I?” immediately followed.

  I ran down a mental list of people who I figured didn’t like me. It was a fairly long list, comprised mainly of some lawyers I had opposed and their clients. A couple of my own clients, too, come to think of it. I thought of a few women who might misguidedly believe I’d wronged them, though none recently, and a couple of guys who believed I cheated at golf, guys I hadn’t been in touch with for a long time.

  I gave up golf several years ago, and I believed I was a better man for it.

  Not a likely Unabomber in the bunch.

  I picked up the envelope. There was an object inside it. I took it inside, put it on the kitchen table, picked up the phone, and called the doorman downstairs. “Frankie,” I said, “it’s Brady Coyne in 6-E.”

  “Good morning, sir.” Francisco Martinez was a thirtyish man who somehow supported four children and a pregnant wife on what he earned as a doorman and a part-time waiter. He was from the Dominican Republic, but no relation to Pedro Martinez. “Everybody named Martinez in the Dominican,” he once told me. He was very popular among the tenants, because he was unfailingly polite and always smiling. He was a big Red Sox fan.

  “Frankie,” I said, “did you just send somebody up to my apartment?”

  “Oh, no, sir. Never send anybody up without buzzing.”

  “Maybe somebody came in with another tenant?”

  “No, sir. Only person come in so far this morning was you and your dog.”

  “Well,” I said, “did anybody you didn’t recognize leave within the past five minutes?”

  “Nobody leave in last half hour, Mr. Coyne. Something wrong?”

  “No, it’s okay. Thanks, Frankie.”

  The underground parking garage, of course. Anybody—including muggers and burglars and slippery delivery people—could walk in and squeeze around the place where the bar automatically went up if you had the electronic device on your dashboard. Then you had the option of entering the building via the elevator or the stairwell. Once inside, you had the choice of several fire exits for getting back out without being detected.

  I picked up the envelope again. I shook it gently. Something solid moved inside.

  The hell with it. I held my breath and tore open the envelope.

  It did not explode in my face.

  I reached in and removed what was inside. It was a cellular telephone. I tipped the envelope upside down, and a plug and cord fell out. For keeping the batteries charged.

  There was no note or any indication whatsoever of where the phone had come from.

  It was one of those super-tiny models with a soft leather cover and a little lid you flipped open when you wanted to talk and a light that blinked green when it was turned on. I flipped it open, looked at it front and back, shut it, put it back on the table . . . and nearly jumped through the ceiling when it beeped.

  I opened it, hit the “talk” button, and said, “Yes? Hello?”

  “Mr. Coyne.” It was that same voice. The voice that had said “Beau Marc, Pier Seven” and “Fore River” to me. Growly and muffled, as if he were trying to disguise it, but unmistakable.

  A quick thought flashed in my mind: If he feels he needs to disguise his voice, he must be afraid I’ll recognize it.

  “If you want to say something to me,” I said, “you’ve got to speak more clearly.”

  “Do you like your gift?”

  “I hate cell phones.”

  “You’ll like this one,” he said. “Keep it with you at all times. You will be receiving important calls on it. It would be disastrous to miss a call. Be sure to keep the batteries charged. We wouldn’t want your phone to go dead.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?” I said.

  “All will become clear in good time, Mr. Coyne. Meanwhile, I must advise you not to contact any law enforcement agencies about your new cellular phone or about our communications on it, as you have about our previous exchanges.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” I said.

  “You’re going to have to trust me on that for the time being. If you don’t do exactly as I tell you, you will, I promise you, profoundly regret it.”

  It occurred to me that if this man knew where I lived and how to get into my building, he probably knew where Evie lived, and Julie, too. “You’re threatening me,” I said.

  “Of course I am.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You’ve got my attention.”

  “You won’t be able to trace my calls,” he said, “so don’t bother trying. It will probably occur to you to turn your new phone over to your law-enforcement friends, have their forensics experts dust it and trace it and take it apart. That would be a very bad idea. If they’re at all competent, they will determine that it was stolen, they will find no incriminating fingerprints, and then they will refuse to give it back to you. So don’t do it. You need to have it with you.”

  “Why?”

  “This is between you and me, Mr. Coyne. Just the two of us. Understand?”

  “It’s not that complicated,” I said. “Do I know you?”

  “I’ll be calling you again,” he said. “You better answer.”

  “I wish you’d speak more clearly,” I said. “I have trouble understanding you.”

  “Remember,” he said. “Keep it with you twenty-four/seven. And be sure those batteries are charged up.”

  “All right,” I said, “but—”

  “Your new phone,” said the voice, “formerly belonged to Walter Duffy. Bear that in mind if you’re tempted to ignore my instructions.” Then he disconnected.

  NINETEEN

  I got up, refilled my coffee mug, took it back to the kitchen table. Sat down. Lit a cigarette.

  I looked at the cell phone. It was about the size of a halfempty pack of cigarettes. Its green eye kept winking at me. I wanted to poke it with a stick.

  This was the phone that the voice had used to call me about the fires he was going to set. The phone he’d taken from Walt Duffy when he killed him.

  His threat had been unmistakable. He’d murdered Walt Duffy and Ben Frye, not even to mention burned down at least two buildings. He was connected, unquestionably, to the Spotted Owl Liberation Front which, if this voice on the phone was to be believed, were not just a bunch of wayward, idealistic eco-freaks who thought they were the second coming of the Boston Tea Party.

  I figured I had better take him seriously. But I had no idea what he wanted from me.

  My first impulse, as a law-abiding citizen, a member of the bar, and a dutiful officer of the court—not to mention a man who’d been interrogated at length by an FBI agent and had promised to cooperate with her—was to call Roger Horowitz and turn the cell phone and the envelope it came in and the entire problem over to him.

  My second, even stronger instinct was to take a deep breath and do nothing until I could give the entire situation some serious analysis.

  I smoked another cigarette. Drained my coffee mug. Refilled it. Lit another ciga
rette.

  Serious, focused analytical thought wasn’t coming that easy to me. There was a tight, acidic ache in my stomach that kept getting in the way.

  So I called J.W.

  J.W. Jackson was a former Boston cop who got shot, retired young, took his pension, and went to live on Martha’s Vineyard. He was a no-bullshit kind of guy, a Red Sox and Hemingway fan, a lover of the sea—everything I like and trust in a friend.

  Once or twice every summer I fished the Vineyard beaches and jetties for striped bass and bluefish with J.W., and we got along well, even if he sneered at my little fly rod, called it a “toy,” and disapproved of my practice of using sporting tackle and putting back the fish I caught. “Fish,” he liked to say, “are the bounty of the sea. They should be respected. You disrespect them if you play with them after you hook them, because there’s no reason to think they consider it play. If they can be caught, they should be killed and eaten, not thrown back. Throwing them back makes it a game that they don’t participate in voluntarily. It’s disrespectful. Eating them shows respect. Take me. I really enjoy shellfishing. But you don’t see me throwing back a bushel of oysters after I’ve had all that fun gathering them, do you?”

  We didn’t agree on some things. But J.W. was a pretty smart man.

  Zee, his gorgeous wife, answered the phone, and after I begged her to divorce J.W., abandon her children, and run off with me, and after she declined in such a gracious way that I almost believed she was tempted, she gave J.W. a holler.

  A minute later he came on the line. “What’s up? You comin’ down? Blues have headed out to sea for the hot months, but the stripers have been hitting pretty good around Cape Pogue and Lobsterville. The kids keep asking when Uncle Brady’s coming back. They expect you to sleep in their treehouse with them. They claim you promised last time you were here.”

  “I’d like to,” I said. “Believe me. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  He hesitated. “What’s this I’m hearing in your voice?”

  “I got a problem.”

  “And you’re calling me?” He laughed. “You call me with a problem, you got a real problem.”

  “I need a cop’s perspective here.”