A Fine Line

by William G. Tapply

  “What would you do? I mean, if you were me.”

  “I guess if I were you I’d be agonizing just the way you are.”

  “I mean, if you were getting married, would you insist on a prenup?”

  “I’m not you, Herm. And I’m not getting married.”

  “When you were married, did you have one?”

  “No. But that was a long time ago, and I didn’t have any assets.”

  He was quiet for a minute. “You’re not going to advise me on this, are you?”

  “I’m not a marriage counselor. I’m just a lawyer. I want you to understand your options. It’s your decision.”

  “A marriage counselor,” he said. “We’re not even married yet, and we should go to a marriage counselor?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Screw it,” he said after a minute. “I know exactly what my heart’s saying to me.” He hesitated. “Who is this wise person you mentioned?”

  “Zee Jackson.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “It’s a her, actually,” I said. “Let me know what you decide.”

  “I already know. I don’t want any damn prenup.”

  “You’ve got time to change your mind,” I said. “Think it over.”

  “No thinking required,” he said. “I feel better already. In fact, I feel terrific. Thank you, Brady.”

  I hung up smiling.

  The instant I hung up with Herm, my intercom buzzed. I pressed the button and picked up the phone. “What’s up?”

  “The police officers are here,” said Julie. “Can you see them now?”

  Julie knew perfectly well I could see them now. Promoting the illusion that I was always busy had become a knee-jerk reaction for her.

  “I think I can squeeze them in,” I told her.

  A minute later, Julie opened the door and Saundra Mendoza and Matthew Keeler came in. Neither of them looked happy to see me. I wondered if Horowitz had decided to bring them into it, tell them about Ethan and my cell phone. “Julie offer you coffee?” I said.

  “We’re okay,” said Keeler. “I know you’re busy. We’ll try to keep it short.”

  I nodded and gestured at the sofa in my sitting area.

  The two cops sat beside each other, and I took the chair across from them.

  Keeler glanced at Mendoza, then leaned forward. “I thought you agreed to let us know if you got any more phone calls.”

  I hesitated. The last time I’d seen these cops had been at One Central Plaza with the FBI agents. That was the day before my cell phone arrived. Before I knew about Ethan. It seemed as if it was months ago. “You mean calls that mention places where fires are going to happen?” I said.

  “What other kind of calls are you getting?” said Keeler.

  I shook my head. “I didn’t get any calls about a fire. Why? Was there one?”

  He nodded. “Last night in Southie. A warehouse. Wholesaler that imports electronic stuff from Japan.”

  “The spotted owl people again?”

  He nodded. “Channel 7 got a tape this morning.”

  “Why that place?”

  “Japan’s a big polluter, I guess.”

  I shrugged. “Well, I didn’t get any phone call about it.”

  Mendoza pointed her finger at me. “You’re not holding anything back from us, are you?”

  “Why would I do that?” Did they know about Ethan?

  She glanced at Keeler, then narrowed her dark eyes at me. “You tell me.”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t get any call about any fire. What makes the difference, anyhow?”

  “We’re trying to catch him, for Christ’s sake,” said Mendoza. “You’re supposed to be helping us.”

  “If he didn’t call you,” said Keeler, “it means he’s changing his pattern.”

  “And?”

  “And if he keeps changing his pattern, he’s going to be harder to catch.”

  I nodded. “I told you I’d cooperate.”

  Keeler and Mendoza exchanged glances. Then Mendoza leaned toward me and said, “There was a body.”

  “In the fire?”

  She nodded.

  I looked at her. I blew out a breath. Ethan. “Who was it?”

  She shook her head. “It’s gonna take a while to ID him.” She hesitated. “You want to hear this?”

  “Yes.”

  “You explain it,” she said to Keeler. “You’re the arson expert.”

  Keeler cleared his throat. “It’s not that sophisticated. He uses gasoline for his accelerant. A couple sticks of dynamite, a primer, a battery, remote electronic detonation. He sets it all up, then moves away, gets his video camera going, and flicks his ignition switch. Last night, as near as we can figure, his victim was in the same room as the dynamite. Judging by the, um, the condition of the body, he had probably been doused with accelerant. No way to ID him visually. They’re going to have to go to dental records, bone X-rays. We’ll be lucky if they get anything definitive in a week.”

  “Jesus,” I whispered. I looked up at him. “You said ‘he.’ This victim, it was a man?”

  Keeler nodded.

  “Old? Young? Short? Tall? Fat? Skinny?”

  Mendoza narrowed her eyes at me. “Why? You got somebody in mind?”

  Either they didn’t know about Ethan, or they were waiting to see if I’d mention him. Maybe I should tell them. If he was the one who’d died in that fire . . .

  No. The voice on the phone had been very clear. And Horowitz had agreed. I should tell nobody. I just had to hope that Ethan was not the corpse they’d found in the South Boston warehouse.

  So I just shrugged. “After Walt Duffy and Ben Frye,” I said, “I don’t even want to imagine that it could be somebody else that I know. How did he die?” I patted the back of my head. “Like the others?”

  “No,” said Mendoza. “Worse.”

  “In the fire?”

  She nodded.

  I should’ve told them, I thought. I should’ve gone straight to Randall, given her the damn cell phone, told her about the phone calls and the apartment above the record store and the videotape. Dumped it on her lap.

  Would that have saved Ethan? Maybe.

  Maybe not.

  And maybe this dead body wasn’t Ethan. Maybe he was still alive.

  I had to believe that. I had to play it out. At this point, I didn’t see that I had any other choice.

  “Mr. Coyne,” said Keeler. “You okay?”

  “No,” I said. “Of course not. That’s horrible.”

  “You can’t help us with this?”

  “I don’t see how,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “What’re you holding back?” said Mendoza.

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “I don’t believe you.”

  I shrugged.

  “He’s holding out on us,” she said to Keeler. “I know damn well he is.”

  Keeler looked at me, then shrugged.

  “We should take him to Randall,” she said to him. “The sonofabitch knows something. She’ll get it out of him.”

  “Don’t play bad cop with me, Detective,” I said.

  “You ain’t seen nothing,” she growled.

  “Are you telling us everything?” said Keeler.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  He peered at me for a minute. Then he turned to Mendoza. “I believe him,” he said. “We know where to find him if we need him. You’re not going to disappear on us, are you, Mr. Coyne?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  Keeler nodded. “Okay. Good.” He stood up. “Come on,” he said to Mendoza. “Let’s get on with it, let Mr. Coyne get back to work.”

  Mendoza glared at me. “I know you’re holding out on us,” she said.

  Keeler touched her shoulder. “Leave it, Sandy,” he said softly.

  Mendoza stood up, shook her head, and walked out of my office.

  “It’s her sister,” said Keeler
. “Poor kid. She’s convinced she’s going to die.”

  “Maybe they should make her take a leave of absence or something,” I said. “She shouldn’t be on the loose, harassing law-abiding citizens.”

  “Ah, she’d go crazy without the job.” He held out his hand. “I apologize for her.”

  I shook his hand. “Forget about it.”

  “We’ll be in touch.”

  I nodded.

  I waited for five minutes, then called Horowitz on his cell phone. “Mendoza and Keeler were just here,” I told him.

  “That fire in Southie last night,” he said. “I knew they were headed your way. What’d you tell them?”

  “Nothing. They wanted to know if I got a call about the fire. I didn’t. That’s what I told them.”

  “Nothing about that videotape or the cell phone or Ethan Duffy?”

  “I didn’t say anything about any of that. Did you?”

  “Me?” he said.

  “I had the feeling they knew more than they were saying,” I said.

  “They didn’t hear anything from me,” said Horowitz.

  “Roger,” I said, “if that was Ethan’s body they found in that fire . . .”

  “If it ain’t,” he said, “and if you went ahead and told the cops everything and that fruitcake figured it out, he’d kill the Duffy kid, for sure.”

  I blew out a breath. “I’m trusting you on this.”

  “He’s gonna call you,” said Horowitz. “He’s holding that boy because he wants something out of you. Hang in there.”

  “So you think Ethan’s still alive?”

  He laughed quickly. “Let’s hope so.”

  “That’s not very reassuring.”

  “Look at it this way,” he said. “If you had told the damn FBI about that videotape and your cell phone and everything, Ethan would sure as hell be dead by now.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I got some ideas on this, Coyne.”

  “What—?”

  “Not now. Gotta go. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

  And he hung up.

  Around noon Julie volunteered to take Henry for a walk. She said she’d pick up lunch for the three of us.

  Ten minutes after she left, the cell phone rang.

  “What?” I said.

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Who?”

  “Those detectives.”

  “Nothing. I told them nothing. Let me speak to Ethan.”

  He laughed.

  “If that was Ethan in that fire . . .”

  “You’re in no position to threaten me, Mr. Coyne.”

  “He better still be alive.”

  “He is,” said the voice.

  “Who was it, then? In the fire.”

  “Come on, Mr. Coyne.”

  “Let me talk to Ethan.”

  “Later,” he said. Then he was gone.

  I stared at the damned cell phone, with its evil green winking eye, for the length of time it took me to smoke a cigarette. Then I called Horowitz.

  “He just called me,” I said.

  “The guy on the cell phone?”

  “Yes. Him.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He said it wasn’t Ethan in that fire.”

  “Good.”

  “Are we supposed to believe him?”

  “If the kid was already dead, he wouldn’t have called.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Like I told you, Coyne. I’m trying to work on it. Unfortunately, I keep getting interrupted by phone calls.”

  “Gotcha,” I said, and I hung up.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Henry and I had just gotten back to my apartment after our last walk of the evening when the cell phone beeped.

  I snatched it up, flipped open the lid, and said, “I want to speak to Ethan.”

  “Be patient, Mr. Coyne.” He was still distorting his voice. Even so, I felt as if I should be able to identify it. There was something familiar in it. I was certain I’d heard that voice.

  “I need to know that Ethan’s all right,” I said.

  “You’ve been most cooperative so far, my friend. It would be tragic if you blew it now. Do as I say and you shall speak to young Mr. Duffy.”

  “Do I have your word?”

  “Does my word really mean anything to you?”

  “It’s got to,” I said.

  He laughed.

  I needed to find a way to get ahold of Horowitz. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Okay,” I said. “You’re the boss. What do you want me to do?”

  “Do not disconnect unless I tell you to. Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Excellent. Now, first I want you to get your briefcase. Do it now. Keep the phone to your ear.”

  I went to the door where I always left my briefcase. “I’ve got it,” I said.

  “Empty it.”

  I took out all the documents and letters and piled them on the sofa in the living room. “It’s empty.”

  “Now go to your car, Mr. Coyne. Bring that antique briefcase with you. As you go, tell me what you’re doing. I want to hear your voice continually. Leave right now.”

  “All right. First I have to put on my shoes.” I picked up my .38. “Okay. Now I’m getting my windbreaker out of the closet.” I slipped the gun into one pocket. “Now I’ve got to fill my dog’s water dish.”

  “Make it quick,” he said. “Keep talking.”

  I told him I was heading for the kitchen, but I didn’t tell him I was taking my wall phone with its extra-long cord off the hook and putting it face up on the counter. I turned on the faucet in the sink, held the cell phone close to the sound of running water, and pecked out Horowitz’s number on the corded phone.

  I heard Horowitz’s voicemail answer. Damn.

  I put the cell phone at my ear and bent close to the other phone. “Okay,” I said. “My dog’s got his water. Now I’m leaving my apartment. I’m heading down to my car.” I left the other phone lying faceup on the counter. I didn’t disconnect.

  Henry followed me to the door. I held up my hand to him. He sat down and cocked his head. I gave him a quick pat, then went out and closed the door behind me. “I’m heading for the elevator,” I said into the cell phone.

  “Keep talking,” he said.

  Our connection got fuzzy in the elevator. If he spoke to me, I couldn’t hear him. I kept talking anyway.

  When I stepped out of the elevator into the parking garage, I paused with the cell phone against my ear, tucked the briefcase under my arm, slipped my empty hand into the pocket with the gun, and looked around the garage. This man had been here before. For all I knew, he was waiting for me behind a parked car.

  “Are you still there?” I said into the phone.

  “I didn’t like that,” he said.

  “It was the elevator,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “What are you doing now?” he said.

  “Headed for my car.”

  “You’ve got to keep talking, Mr. Coyne.”

  The parking garage was eerily silent, the way it always was late at night. Somewhere the slow rhythmic plink of water dripping on wet concrete echoed softly. I saw nothing except dim orange light and dark shadows.

  I went to my car, unlocked it, and slid in behind the wheel, narrating my progress all the way. I put the briefcase and the revolver on the seat beside me. “I’m in my car,” I said. “Now I want to hear Ethan’s voice.”

  “Why not?” he said. “Hold on.”

  I pressed the phone against my ear, and a moment later, a soft voice said, “Brady?”

  “Ethan? Is that you.”

  “It’s me.” I recognized his voice.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m . . . yes, I’m okay.”

  “What’s—?”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Coyne,” said the voice. “Satisfied?”

  “I’ll be satisfied when you let him go.�
��

  “Just do as I tell you,” he said. “Are you ready?”

  “Of course I’m ready.”

  “Then let us begin. Do not doubt this, Mr. Coyne. If you do precisely as I tell you, you shall see the boy very soon. If you fail to obey me in any way, however small, you will hear him die. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Where are we going?”

  He chuckled. “You’ll see when you get there. Don’t think, Mr. Coyne. Keep your head free of distracting scenarios. Just drive. Now. Start your car, pull out of your parking slot, exit the garage, and turn right on Commercial Street. Talk to me as you go. Give me a sightseeing tour. Boston after dark, eh?”

  He directed me around the loop of Commercial Street that bordered Boston’s Italian North End and merged onto Causeway Street near the North Station. Where Causeway butted onto Cambridge Street by Government Center, he told me to turn right. All along the way I named the restaurants and bars and nightclubs I passed, described the traffic lights I went through, and read the neon signs that were still lit at one o’clock on a Tuesday morning.

  Once I put the cell phone down to fish out a cigarette and light it. When I picked up the phone and resumed my narration, he said, “What are you doing?”

  “I just lit a cigarette.”

  “Keep talking, Mr. Coyne. I don’t like to hear those silences. They make me nervous. You don’t want me to feel nervous, I assure you.”

  So I kept talking. I did not tell him about the tantalizing public phone booths I saw on the street corners or the two Boston PD cruisers I passed that were idling at the curb on Cambridge Street.

  I had to keep trying to get in touch with Horowitz.

  Precisely to prevent my doing that, I realized, was why he insisted on keeping me on the line.

  At the rotary where Cambridge Street intersected with Charles he directed me onto Storrow Drive.

  “Are we headed back to the record store?” I said.

  He chuckled. “I told you, Mr. Coyne. Don’t think. You lawyers think too much. That’s your problem. Too much thinking, not enough feeling. Just drive.”

  “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  “You can certainly ask,” he said. “Don’t expect an honest answer.”

  “Fair enough. My question is: Why me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why’d you pick me to call about those fires? Why am I the one with this damn cell phone?”